How fast does ten years go? Pretty fucking fast!
I had punctuality beaten into me as a child. (Not actually beaten. I'm not accusing you of anything, mom.) So engrained in me is it that after all this time in Spain, a country where even Christmas is celebrated two weeks late, I cannot help but show up on time for things, knowing that I will inevitably be waiting for others. I always explain to the chronically late that time inexorably goes by at the rate of one minute per minute, but now I'm not so sure.
I mean, it doesn't seem that long ago that I stepped off the airplane, suitcase in hand, into a city I had never visited where I knew nobody and barely spoke the language with the vague idea of checking it out. I blinked and a decade had passed.
I woke up yesterday well rested for the first time in a week. I had spent a long weekend eating and drinking my way across southern Spain, getting up early to catch various modes of transportation or to visit some culturally relevant building (the latter to justify all the eating and drinking.) Prior to that, I had suffered a four night bout of insomnia that kept me staring at the walls and dreading the innocuous melody of my alarm. But yesterday I opened my eyes after a full eight hours of blissful sleep to begin my day, which consisted of classes with adults and children in companies and homes around Barcelona. One student, a 40 year old engineer, is leaving for Qatar next week, so we concluded our class with a relaxing cup of cafe con leche in the restaurant across the street from his office. After a year and a half of classes together, we have something approaching a friendship, or at least a cordial professional relationship, sharing personal anecdotes (and the twenty-first century equivalent thereof - funny youtube clips.)(Speaking of which, everybody on Facebook posted the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake hashtag skit, so I watched it and chuckled. #insertobvioushashtagjokehere)
In the evening, I dropped by a friend's house to borrow an amp, so that I may annoy my neighbours as I experiment with my keyboard. Les Fat Jones continues to be the most productive, best kept secret, as we jam regularly, write songs frequently and play shows hardly ever. We keep promising ourselves that will change. I also keep promising myself to get back to running in the mornings, and you will notice that wasn't included in this super fascinating glimpse into my schedule.
For dinner I had some curry and wine, and went to bed.
That was my day, the first day of my second decade here.
Despite myself, I have become a settled, semi-responsible adult. It wasn't really the plan. When I left New York, people said moving here was brave. To me, it felt like the opposite. I was running away from the end of my twenties, from the end of life as a rock star, from the reality of finding a job or going back to school, of living a normal life, something I had studiously avoided up to then. Yet here I am, with a job, living with my girlfriend in a nice apartment in a cool neighbourhood around the corner from my family and friends with whom I get together, drink too much and laugh about bullshit. It's awesome. Let's see what happens in the next ten years.
Just don't blink.
It's like running through the streets and shouting...
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
Spring?!!
This year Primavera Sound was a misnomer, as a cold front gave the concrete expanse of the Forum, where the three day festival was being held, a decidedly wintry feel.
It ran from Thursday to Saturday and was an exciting weekend of great music with highs and lows.
Worst Pre Party
I got off to an inauspicious start on Thursday when my washing machine died at the same time that a pipe in the building sprung a leak that shot water like a geyser into the utility room by the entrance hall. After ascertaining that the washer had indeed given up the ghost and calling a technician to come and perform last rites, concerned by the lack of water running from my taps, I left my apartment to investigate. I came upon neighbours, an elderly couple, staring distraughtly at the jet of water slowly flooding the ground floor of the building. Nobody else was around and their frantic gestures were doing nothing to quell the rising tide by the elevator. There was a number posted for the building superintendent which went unanswered when I called. I then tried the emergency number for the water company. I was greeted by a resolutely unhelpful woman who seemed determined to eat up my cell phone's minutes without actually taking any action. She informed me that the water, once inside the building, was no longer the water company's problem while the woman of the couple yelled disconcertingly in my ear. Finally, the alleged water company operator (for the help she was, she might as well have been an Avis agent on her break) asked to speak to her. Worried that I might be missing some crucial information getting lost in translation, I gladly obliged. The old woman snatched the phone. After a minute or so, she also came to understand the absolute lack of usefulness of the operator, told her to go fuck herself and handed me back the phone, which I hung up without bothering to continue the conversation. I called the super back, who this time answered. The sound of gushing water was clearly audible over the phone and the super sent a plumber over immediately, who quickly fixed the leak and returned water to the building.
Clearest Illustration of Results of Laziness
Over 100 000 people came from around the city and the world. I'd had my ticket since Christmas and could easily have gone to get my bracelet pass earlier in the week. I didn't, and as a result had to stand in a line that snaked around the entrance of the park to get in. Shockingly, most people respected the line (I attribute this to the high number of foreigners who may be more used to doing what they're told) and I was inside in under half an hour.
Best Daytime Performance
Rock and roll is better in the dark. It's infinitely more powerful when the atmosphere is concentrated in the light generated solely for the performance. In a festival, the earlier bands lose out to the sun and often struggle not to diffuse into the air. Despite her preternaturally powerful voice, Neko Case couldn't overcome the time slot she had been given and was underwhelming. Django Django were affable Scottish lads who reminded me of Franz Ferdinand 2.0. Tame Impala lived up to their Aussie psych vibe and serenaded the sunset like a bunch of stoners would.
Biggest Conflict
There always comes the moment when several bands that you want to see play at the same time, and choices must be made. For me, the biggest one was Bob Mould vs. the Postal Service. I love the album Copper Blue more than Give Up and Silver Age is mostly great, but I was the only one in my group who felt that way. With a heavy heart, I passed on Bob Mould and went to watch the Postal Service. Cool surprise: Jenny Lewis was in the band. Weird surprise: she was dressed like a college freshman trying to get into a stylish bar and had a cruise-ship holiday romance vibe going on with Ben Gibbard who added dancing to his singing and songwriting as proven qualifications to be named Whitest Guy on Earth. Nevertheless, they have some festival-ready hits that were fun to bounce along to, and a good time was had by all. (Except one friend who was too disturbed by the aforementioned vibe and left to see Deerhunter.)
Best Climbing into the Audience
The giant Heineken stage hosted big bands playing for huge crowds, and the singers felt compelled to bridge the gap between them and the audience, climbing the security barrier and wading into the front row. Nick Cave did it in leather pants. Damon Albarn stayed to sing a couple of anthems from Blur's hit-o-riffic set. But the clear winner was Thomas Mars of Phoenix, who came down for the hit, stayed to serenade tearful girls with an acoustic version of "Sick for the Big Sun" before surfing halfway across the crowd to sing to the rear half of the audience.
Best Throwback Band
Every year, Primavera trots out some reunited or still raging star to draw the old folks (i.e. me) to the place with the Animal Collective and the Grizzle Bear and the dubstep. This year was heavy on the past with Dinosaur Jr, Jesus and Mary Chain, Dead Can Dance, Meat Puppets, My Bloody Valentine, Blur and more. For me, it was a tie between the Breeders playing Last Splash and Wu Tang who, despite the absence of Raekwon and Method Man, rocked the Forum for over an hour without a lag in energy.
Best Time to Go Home
Eventually, the guitars are replaced with MacBooks and it turns into a rave. The Knife brought costumed dancers and Crystal Castles rocked when they weren't conducting noise experiments, but at some point, the lady and I realised that we were the only ones not on MDMA and bed was calling.
Total Time Spent: 23.5 hours
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Kindness of Strangers
Dumpster diving is a popular sport in Barcelona. Even before the crisis hit and sent a multitude of unlucky souls scurrying for the discarded remains of the more fortunate, it was common to find folks digging through the trash for hidden treasure. The day the city collected large objects was particularly awesome. I became an expert, finding several chairs, a bed frame, a couple of mirrors and other random furniture that has decorated my apartment over the years living in Barcelona.
It's been a long time since I've picked anything up, but today on the way home from work, I saw this shelf.
I moved recently and there has been a shelf-shaped void in my apartment where some things could be stored, so despite the rain, I stopped and called the lady-friend to get her opinion. She agreed that it would be a welcome addition to the household, so I stood guard, fighting off other scavengers while she came to help carry it.
When we picked it up, it was heavy. As fuck. For realz. We staggered down the street towards our house, only a block away. As we did, a fifty something year old woman who was coming out of her door offered to help us. Although we politely declined, she gamely grabbed a corner and walked with us the remaining 30 meters to the front door of our building.
We heaved the beast (the shelves, not the lady) through the lobby where we immediately ascertained that it would not fit in our tiny elevator, which can hold at most three slim people who are very comfortable with each other.
Our apartment is on the third floor of the building, but that's a Barcelona third floor, which comes after the bottom floor, the between floor and the main floor before you get to the numbers. I'm not kidding. In France ours would be the fifth floor, in America, the sixth. (When you see how they count, the financial crisis in this country starts coming into focus.)
We were ready to return the shelves to the street and call it a day, but our new moving buddy wasn't having it. She immediately began calling people and, despite our protests, summoned her housekeeper and son to help us get it upstairs.
Half an hour later, after some heaving, lifting, pushing, negotiating tight corners and much sweating, we triumphantly set the beast down in our dining room, where it fit perfectly.
Trashing the Catalan, especially for being stand-offish and cold, is a time honoured hobby of all those who move here, a right earned through cold stares on the street, dismissive comments in shops and abysmal service in restaurants. Tonight, however, I am deeply indebted to the selflessness of the family of a local woman who literally would not take no for an answer. Merci.
It's been a long time since I've picked anything up, but today on the way home from work, I saw this shelf.
I moved recently and there has been a shelf-shaped void in my apartment where some things could be stored, so despite the rain, I stopped and called the lady-friend to get her opinion. She agreed that it would be a welcome addition to the household, so I stood guard, fighting off other scavengers while she came to help carry it.
When we picked it up, it was heavy. As fuck. For realz. We staggered down the street towards our house, only a block away. As we did, a fifty something year old woman who was coming out of her door offered to help us. Although we politely declined, she gamely grabbed a corner and walked with us the remaining 30 meters to the front door of our building.
We heaved the beast (the shelves, not the lady) through the lobby where we immediately ascertained that it would not fit in our tiny elevator, which can hold at most three slim people who are very comfortable with each other.
Our apartment is on the third floor of the building, but that's a Barcelona third floor, which comes after the bottom floor, the between floor and the main floor before you get to the numbers. I'm not kidding. In France ours would be the fifth floor, in America, the sixth. (When you see how they count, the financial crisis in this country starts coming into focus.)
 |
| This is the view down to the lobby from the stairs of my apartment. That glow all the way down there is the entrance. |
We were ready to return the shelves to the street and call it a day, but our new moving buddy wasn't having it. She immediately began calling people and, despite our protests, summoned her housekeeper and son to help us get it upstairs.
Half an hour later, after some heaving, lifting, pushing, negotiating tight corners and much sweating, we triumphantly set the beast down in our dining room, where it fit perfectly.
Trashing the Catalan, especially for being stand-offish and cold, is a time honoured hobby of all those who move here, a right earned through cold stares on the street, dismissive comments in shops and abysmal service in restaurants. Tonight, however, I am deeply indebted to the selflessness of the family of a local woman who literally would not take no for an answer. Merci.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Rock Report April 12th 2013
Scientists have got it wrong. They were off by a whole 24 hours. All this time, we were worried about Friday the 13th, when in fact the dangerous day was Friday the 12th. (Disclosure: my understanding of what scientists actually do may be limited.) Someone tell Jason he gets to sleep in.
It all started when I was informed that I had not sufficiently contributed to the cleaning of the apartment and became determined to make up for my prior lack. Armed with paper and spray, I attacked the glass surfaces of the bathroom - the mirror and shower door. Unfortunately, they attacked me back. The metal frame of the shower sliced my finger tip open like a razor, causing me to run to the kitchen for paper towels, spewing blood and a stream of obscenities. After applying a tourniquet (ok, a bandaid - but it was promptly soaked through, needing a second bandaid. The horror!), I left for work.
Fridays find me with time to kill between classes near a friendly restaurant where I go to enjoy the menú de día, a Spanish tradition that includes an appetiser, a main course, a desert and a drink for a reasonable lunchtime price. I unknowingly ordered roast pork with glass, which I discovered to my distress when something crunched in my mouth where no crunch should be. The waiter was suitably apologetic and accommodating, so my freaking out remained silent, as I imagined my intestines being shredded by undetected shards I had already swallowed. I still expect to drop dead from internal bleeding at any point.
Then on the way home, I was taken out, missile-defense-style, by a soccer ball as I rode my bike. I wish there was video footage of the event, because from another perspective, it must have been hilarious to see the ball connect with the back of my head, sending me sprawling and dazed to the pavement. From mine, however, it was merely confusing. One moment, I was riding along, glad the weekend had begun, then suddenly, all I could think was "my head hurts" as I lost control of my limbs and subsequently, my bicycle, and found myself lying at the feet of two women who observed me, unperturbed, from a bench. "He's fine", they diagnosed as I got to my feet, stunned, and a child ran over, apologising profusely.
I approached the evening's gig, surrounded by heavy lighting and sound equipment, electricity and moving musicians, with a fair degree of trepidation. I would have preferred to cower in bed for the remainder of the day, but as Les Fat Jones gig calendar has been rather sparse lately, I didn't want to miss the concert, bleeding limbs, guts and head wounds be damned!
Although we have been playing concerts with the frequency of eclipses or comets, we have maintained a faithful schedule of rehearsing, meaning we have new songs that we know how to play, so the performance went well, the crowd was small but supportive, the main act Julieta Jones were fun, but most importantly, I lived to see the dawn. Put one in the win column.
It all started when I was informed that I had not sufficiently contributed to the cleaning of the apartment and became determined to make up for my prior lack. Armed with paper and spray, I attacked the glass surfaces of the bathroom - the mirror and shower door. Unfortunately, they attacked me back. The metal frame of the shower sliced my finger tip open like a razor, causing me to run to the kitchen for paper towels, spewing blood and a stream of obscenities. After applying a tourniquet (ok, a bandaid - but it was promptly soaked through, needing a second bandaid. The horror!), I left for work.
Fridays find me with time to kill between classes near a friendly restaurant where I go to enjoy the menú de día, a Spanish tradition that includes an appetiser, a main course, a desert and a drink for a reasonable lunchtime price. I unknowingly ordered roast pork with glass, which I discovered to my distress when something crunched in my mouth where no crunch should be. The waiter was suitably apologetic and accommodating, so my freaking out remained silent, as I imagined my intestines being shredded by undetected shards I had already swallowed. I still expect to drop dead from internal bleeding at any point.
Then on the way home, I was taken out, missile-defense-style, by a soccer ball as I rode my bike. I wish there was video footage of the event, because from another perspective, it must have been hilarious to see the ball connect with the back of my head, sending me sprawling and dazed to the pavement. From mine, however, it was merely confusing. One moment, I was riding along, glad the weekend had begun, then suddenly, all I could think was "my head hurts" as I lost control of my limbs and subsequently, my bicycle, and found myself lying at the feet of two women who observed me, unperturbed, from a bench. "He's fine", they diagnosed as I got to my feet, stunned, and a child ran over, apologising profusely.
I approached the evening's gig, surrounded by heavy lighting and sound equipment, electricity and moving musicians, with a fair degree of trepidation. I would have preferred to cower in bed for the remainder of the day, but as Les Fat Jones gig calendar has been rather sparse lately, I didn't want to miss the concert, bleeding limbs, guts and head wounds be damned!
Although we have been playing concerts with the frequency of eclipses or comets, we have maintained a faithful schedule of rehearsing, meaning we have new songs that we know how to play, so the performance went well, the crowd was small but supportive, the main act Julieta Jones were fun, but most importantly, I lived to see the dawn. Put one in the win column.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Cover Letter
to: Vatican HR department
Dear Sir / Madam (Just kidding. No girls allowed. I know!)
It has come to my attention that you have a vacancy in your organisation that you will no doubt be looking to fill. Please find attached my CV, and believe me when I say that not only would I be interested in the position, I think I am uniquely qualified.
Let me first draw your attention to my time spent as the Director of Studies at a language school in Barcelona. (Beautiful churches, by the way. Great job on that!) In that job, I was responsible for managing an unruly group of people from diverse backgrounds whose primary aim seemed to be avoiding a life of responsibility while vainly attempting to convince the unappreciative masses of the necessity of their particular line of work. If herding socially maladjusted semi adults through weekly get-togethers to explain the importance and intricacies of a system that fails to hold up under scrutiny is the sort of experience you require, then I'm your shepherd.
My prior time spent as the vocalist in a touring band has uniquely prepared me for being thrust into the spotlight to receive the unmerited adulation of large groups of people. Granted, my previous experience in taking advantage of such a situation has been solely with consenting adults of the opposite sex, but I think an interview, rather than a letter, is the correct forum to defend and negotiate this choice.
Of course, there are some discrepancies in my experience that you might consider roadblocks. Foremost, I'm not a Catholic, never having been baptised, confirmed, communed or forgiven. True, I am a Jew, but I think we both know who else was, and you guys literally worship the ground he walked on. In a stunning coincidence, (or is it?) I was born on December 25th to a single mother. I'm not saying I'm the messiah, but God Himself's choice to lead His flock? It seems like an apt fit.
There are a host of areas where my personal philosophy diverges from church dogma - homosexuality, birth control, abortion, stoning, and witches to name a few. However, I've been led to believe you are no longer that strict about the stoning and the witches, so maybe we could let some of the other stuff slide too. Again, I believe that in an interview, I could better discuss how to appropriately ignore the word of God when it is convenient to do so, and will be able to provide documentation from your own organisation to back this up.
I understand that I'm not the only candidate for this job, and that you will be looking at people who have spent a lifetime in the church working towards the position. Let me just say that many successful organisations have been revitalised by the injection of some fresh blood at the top, and I believe yours would not be an exception. The Lord, it is said, works in mysterious ways.
Yours faithfully,
Noah
Dear Sir / Madam (Just kidding. No girls allowed. I know!)
It has come to my attention that you have a vacancy in your organisation that you will no doubt be looking to fill. Please find attached my CV, and believe me when I say that not only would I be interested in the position, I think I am uniquely qualified.
Let me first draw your attention to my time spent as the Director of Studies at a language school in Barcelona. (Beautiful churches, by the way. Great job on that!) In that job, I was responsible for managing an unruly group of people from diverse backgrounds whose primary aim seemed to be avoiding a life of responsibility while vainly attempting to convince the unappreciative masses of the necessity of their particular line of work. If herding socially maladjusted semi adults through weekly get-togethers to explain the importance and intricacies of a system that fails to hold up under scrutiny is the sort of experience you require, then I'm your shepherd.
My prior time spent as the vocalist in a touring band has uniquely prepared me for being thrust into the spotlight to receive the unmerited adulation of large groups of people. Granted, my previous experience in taking advantage of such a situation has been solely with consenting adults of the opposite sex, but I think an interview, rather than a letter, is the correct forum to defend and negotiate this choice.
Of course, there are some discrepancies in my experience that you might consider roadblocks. Foremost, I'm not a Catholic, never having been baptised, confirmed, communed or forgiven. True, I am a Jew, but I think we both know who else was, and you guys literally worship the ground he walked on. In a stunning coincidence, (or is it?) I was born on December 25th to a single mother. I'm not saying I'm the messiah, but God Himself's choice to lead His flock? It seems like an apt fit.
There are a host of areas where my personal philosophy diverges from church dogma - homosexuality, birth control, abortion, stoning, and witches to name a few. However, I've been led to believe you are no longer that strict about the stoning and the witches, so maybe we could let some of the other stuff slide too. Again, I believe that in an interview, I could better discuss how to appropriately ignore the word of God when it is convenient to do so, and will be able to provide documentation from your own organisation to back this up.
I understand that I'm not the only candidate for this job, and that you will be looking at people who have spent a lifetime in the church working towards the position. Let me just say that many successful organisations have been revitalised by the injection of some fresh blood at the top, and I believe yours would not be an exception. The Lord, it is said, works in mysterious ways.
Yours faithfully,
Noah
Friday, February 8, 2013
Whose Side Are You On?
Of course it rained today. In the decade i've spent in Barcelona, it has never failed to rain on Carnaval weekend. Considering it's a holiday which, being tied to Easter, moves around the calendar, this is quite a feat. But it was inevitable. Even my shitty weather app, which is wrong enough of the time to completely distrust it but not enough to rely on it for consistently incorrect forecasts, warned me. The sky was filling up with threatening clouds so I decided to forgo my bike and take the subway to work.
We all know that the nineties are back. From rock to hip hop to fashion, the world is partying like it's 1994. Barcelona, being the bad fashion idea capital west of the Urals, reached into the same bag they pulled mullets and poopy pants from a decade ago and produced this.
These specimens were sitting in the seats across from mine, ready for their Vice don't close-up. But before you assume I'm about to launch into a tirade about their obviously deeply flawed decision making process, take a quick look at this.
This was the woman sitting opposite me who wasn't even trying to hide the contemptuous gaze she would periodically cast their way, then look at me, one eyebrow slightly raised, in complicity. I smiled, amused that I have crossed a definite line in the one-of-us camps that generations have drawn.
We all know that the nineties are back. From rock to hip hop to fashion, the world is partying like it's 1994. Barcelona, being the bad fashion idea capital west of the Urals, reached into the same bag they pulled mullets and poopy pants from a decade ago and produced this.
 |
| Not pictured: the smell of stale beer and damp human |
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Sentence of the Year
It's only February and I'm convinced we have a clear winner for the best collection of words assembled in 2013. It will be hard to top.
"It's all untrue, except for some things."
This, courtesy of our fearless leader, Mariano Rajoy. The Spanish president was responding (finally) to questions about the financing scandal that has rocked his party, where the treasurer embezzled millions of euros and used them, among other things, to pay under-the-table bonuses to party hacks, including the president. Now we know for sure that none of it happened, except for some of it.
With this genius bit of linguistics, he also accomplished something I never believed possible. He made me feel sorry for Angela Merkel. The German chancellor has been riding over the european economy like the general of a Panzer division, forcing poorer countries to swallow society-choking cuts to their social nets so that the euro remains viable enough to justify producing Mercedes SUV's. She is the least sympathetic German since GODWIN'S LAW ALERT. Yet, I could not help but pity her as she stood on the podium next to Rajoy as he uttered the bestest defence/denial ever. Knowing she would appear in all the photos accompanying the quote, she must have thought "What the fuck am I doing with this clown? Get me the fuck outta here. Schnell!"
"It's all untrue, except for some things."
This, courtesy of our fearless leader, Mariano Rajoy. The Spanish president was responding (finally) to questions about the financing scandal that has rocked his party, where the treasurer embezzled millions of euros and used them, among other things, to pay under-the-table bonuses to party hacks, including the president. Now we know for sure that none of it happened, except for some of it.
With this genius bit of linguistics, he also accomplished something I never believed possible. He made me feel sorry for Angela Merkel. The German chancellor has been riding over the european economy like the general of a Panzer division, forcing poorer countries to swallow society-choking cuts to their social nets so that the euro remains viable enough to justify producing Mercedes SUV's. She is the least sympathetic German since GODWIN'S LAW ALERT. Yet, I could not help but pity her as she stood on the podium next to Rajoy as he uttered the bestest defence/denial ever. Knowing she would appear in all the photos accompanying the quote, she must have thought "What the fuck am I doing with this clown? Get me the fuck outta here. Schnell!"
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