7/19-21/08

I have my Rock Lives! moment of this particular go-round unexpectedly, as usually happens. We’re on a night of unwind in Barcelona after the long haul from Scandinavia, shown around by our aforementioned stage right tech, who lives here. We’ve had great tapas (Inopia, 104 Calle Tamarit); hung at Bar Ramon in the Sant Antoni district where there is a signed square Bo Diddley Gretsch on the wall; and sat on Andrew’s roof listening to Ennio Morricone. Now, about two in the mañana, we’re winding back to our hotel when we hear the unmistakable reverb clatter of a live band a few streets over. A Spanish rock group with distinctly Ramone-ic overtones is turning it up on a raised platform surrounded by a couple hundred revelers while the city sleeps around them. Mas, por favor.

Spain is on the ascendant, symbolized this year by their national team’s stunning triumph in the Euro-cup soccer championships, with some of the most enthusiastic fans you might encounter anywhere. We first came here in October of 1976, shortly after the death of Franco when the country was awakening from long years of cultural isolation. I remember playing in a skating rink converted for the occasion, on borrowed equipment, to a crowd hungrily liberated from repression.

This sense of ultra-new contrasting with venerated old is on display in Zaragoza, site of Catherine of Aragon’s beautiful cathedral as well as this year’s Expo 2008, where we play amidst futuristic edifices that swoop along the Ebro river like exotic aquatic bestiaries. The theme of the world’s fair is “Water and Sustainable Development,” with the participating countries musing architecturally on how best to conserve and preserve and venerate this most important element of life. For our show, they might have concentrated on another source of power, Wind, since the gusts on stage are reaching twenty or thirty miles an hour, taking the sound from the amplifiers and whirling it about so that each note has a different frequency, beats picked up and carried like Dorothy on her way to Oz. Actually, looking out over this city of things-to-come, it does feel like we’ve alighted in an Emerald City, and pay no attention to the man behind the screen.

The next night is the last of this over-all-too-soon tour, and is up in the Basque country of Spain, in Bilboa, another jarring juxtaposition of old and new, with the soaring grace of the Guggenheim museum contrasting with the winding streets of the “Casca Viejo” on the other, only a short walk in time and space separating. The venue tonight is Santana 27, and when I walk inside for the soundcheck, I am immediately familiar with its rock-dive vibe. I’ve been in joints like this my entire life; we could be anywhere, in Cleveland, Ohio or Stuttgart, Germany; Fresno, California or Sheffield, England. The crowd is pressed right up front of the stage, and you can dance with each and everyone. We’re just about at the end of our reserves of energy, not to mention sustainable development, but we – band and audience – know our parts in the ritual. We’ve all been here before, keeping the show ascending through its encore, the last chopped chord, the pick placed in a grasped hand, the scribbled autograph.

Home.

7/14-18/08

Jazz Odyssey. Our “new direction,” as Derek Smalls of Spinal Tap might have it, begins synchronously in Vienna on our night off. A friend recommends us to the Celeste Café on Hamburgerstrasse, where we might find “digital artists” and musicians, and have a bite to eat. There is food in the upstairs restaurant, though the non-English menu means we’re not sure what version of schnitzel we’re getting, but in the basement bar there is a regular Monday night free-jazz gathering. Smoky and dissonant, it reminds me of what the Five Spot must have been like when Eric Dolphy was blowing out the walls. Invited to play, I quote what I know of “Ornithology” and then have a twenty minute blast riding the sound waves with a frisky drummer, a keyboard player who provides a wall of cacophonous sludge, and a trumpeter. Bitch’s Brew, man.

A fitting warmup for next day’s Moldejazz festival in Norway. We arrive in time to see the Ornette Coleman quartet in a concert setting. The band features his son Denardo on drums, and a pair of bassists, one piccolo electric and one stand-up acoustic, with Ornette sitting centerstage in a multi-colored suit seemingly designed by Jackson Pollack. His elegance, his mastery, the band’s empathy, make it a remarkable occasion, and I treasure this moment with one of jazz’s most important innovators, one of the last of his generation and so to be exquisitely savored. My favorite album of the past month has been Sonny Rollins’ Freedom Suite, a lyrical and impassioned 50s trio performance that stands at the cusp of the harmolodic breakthroughs which Ornette would take to the next level of sound-on-sound in such works as The Shape of Jazz To Come. The shadings and dynamics which he and his musicians move through – “compositional improvisation” as he describes it – shows that “free” jazz is not just explosive energies but all musics rolled into one. Freedom sweet.

Moldejazz is one of the oldest festivals in Europe, begun in 1961, and though we’re there to play our version of Radio Ethiopian jazz, and Mary J. Blige will be embarking on her r&b jazz, the entire town is taken up with varieties of the form. The hotel bar features a Hammond organ groove-ensemble; there is a Japanese soul band playing up the hill. Given my recent explorations into Norwegian black metal, I am a bit disappointed that there is no Odinesque fusion on display, but perhaps Witches’ Brew is not far off.

Our next stop is Tromso, several degrees over the Arctic Circle and the farthest north I’ve ever been. The sun never sets here during the summer, though it’s damp and raining when we arrive. But once we get to the Bukta Festival site, on the shores of a sparkling fjord, the sky clears, a-dazzle at this particular top of the world. The gathering has a distinctly indie rock flavor: The Leningrad Cowboys, from Finland, featuring quiffs that look more like ships’ prows than hair, play a version of psychobilly; Woven Hand from the mile highs of Denver impresses with textured guitar effects and atmospheric sound, resolving me to find out more about them once I return home; and Ken Stringfellow, late of the Posies, has a new band, the Disciplines, that win the crowd over when he spends most of his set off-stage, singing amongst the throngs. Back at the hotel, I eat reindeer and then take a walk at midnight through streets that have the glow of late afternoon, awaiting the sun “rise” at 1:30 a.m.

Stockholm is another Jazzfest, though Stevie Klasson’s Fat Chance is fronted by an old Johnny Thunders’ mate (and mine) playing hard-edged rock amidst the more time-honored forms of jass on display, such as Deborah Brown’s stunning topsy-turvy vocals backed by the 32nd note guitar pyrotechnics of the Andreas Pettersson Quartet, winging their way through standards. There is a long tradition of respect for classic jazz here – Charlie Parker made a celebrated foray to Sweden in November, 1950 – and it shows in the audience’s concentration and enthusiasm. The future, with the Nils Petter Molvaer Group stabbing at a laptop, while one member triggers drums loops and another scratches a turntable, is received equally well. Then there’s us, betwixt and between, looking back at where we’ve been and ahead to where we go tomorrow, playing our show tonight, this road we travel.

7/11-13/08

11 hours in transit, comprised of two planes and a longish bus ride, and we arrive at the festival site in Aix-Les-Bain, France. I’m not exactly sure where I am, close to Geneva and the Swiss border, but the town looks ancient enough as we drive through. I won’t be seeing any of it, unfortunately, as showtime is only a couple of hours away, and we won’t even check into our hotel till long past midnight.

The Musilac fest provides a varied offering, headlined tonight by Vanessa Paradis, with two alternating stages on the shore of a river. As we tumble out backstage Arno, a gravel-voiced singer in the Francais music-hall tradition, is declaiming his songs, to be followed by Hocus Pocus (no relation to Focus) who mingle rap and turntable-ism. As always, it strikes me how the world melds its genres, reaching toward a global mélange of music; the lead singer makes hand motions scored off hip-hop videos, the cadences of down-homie rap translated into the soft vowels of French.

There is threatening rain, ominous black clouds against the night sky, and billowing gusts of wind, but the storm holds its’ breath until we finish our set. As the first droplets begin to strike the festival site, I run across the field to catch Babyshambles, of which I – like most others buffeted by the wind shears of the tabloids – have heard much scandal and not enough music. But Pete Doherty is a winning presence, and the band bangs out the familiar garage / punk chordings I hold so dear, once again amazing me at the resilience of rock’s traditionalist virtues, two guitars and bass and drums and a lead singer drenched in sweat standing on the monitors.

It’s the crowd’s turn to get wetter-than-wet when the skies open. By then, I’m at the hotel, listening to the pour outside and trying to slide into sleep while my body wants to keep on the move.

The rain follows us over the southern Alps into Italy, riding the bus toward Torino. When we arrive at the hotel, shortly after noon, I run into my friend Martine, who manages Fujiya and Miyagi. She tells me of the previous night at the Traffic Free Festival here, which featured the Sex Pistols and Wire. It brought out an especially punque crowd, into throwing bottles at the bands onstage. Johnny Lydon told them they were “impolite” and then carried on with a set hardly changed from the spirit of ’76. God Save the Sex Pistols.

Meeting Colin Newman from Wire, though, a few minutes later in the same lobby, shows that you don’t have to be tethered to your time. Pink Flag was one of my most-played artifacts of Then, and after exchanging mutual admirations, he gives me a copy of Wire’s 2008 release, Object 47. A quick spin reveals the same propulsive melodies amidst the minimalist front-wheel drive and ready wit.

It begins storming when we arrive in Torino’s main park. Traffic is a multi-media’d conglomeration, showing films, live dramatic Interviste Impossibili with “Kurt Cobain” and “Janis Joplin”, and late night dance-raves that go on until dawn. When it’s our turn for the stage, the deluge begins, complete with horizontal streaks of lightning across the sky, a lake flooding in front of the soundboard, water streaming and splattering us whenever we edge toward the microphones. I look to the electrical connectors surrounding my effects pedals and wonder if I’ll become human feedback, a not uninteresting proposition in one’s quest for the ultimate sound. Still, it makes the lyric “the skies split” in “Kimberly” all the more real, and by the time of “Ghost Dance,” with its “We shall live again” chorusings, the air begins to clear. We bear down even harder as the set rises to its crescendo, to let the people know we appreciate their willingness to brave the storming elements.

Another far-too-early wakeup call, another bus, another plane. The fourth night in a row will be in Vienna, and stepping off the festival circuit, we’re playing our own show at one of our favorite rock venues in the world, Arena. Built on the site of an old factory, it was a quasi-hippie encampment in the mode of Copenhagen’s Christiana or the Paradiso in Amsterdam; now most of the stalls selling hash pipes and beads are gone, but the sense of communion that you feel looking off the stage into the audience massed in front, and along levels of balconies, is incomparable.

It rains during soundcheck, but as if to make up for the Noah’s Ark of the night before, the sun steadily returns to prominence. As opposed to the catch-as-catch-can of a festival, where perhaps you’re playing to people more curious than aficionado, this is our crowd, two thousand strong, and without the time pressure of a prescribed slot, we can stretch our wings, swap songs in the set, go on instrumental excursions and even have room for the odd solo gambit. I get to take a ride on the Yardbirds’ “For Your Love.” The love of playing music, for which I would do anything.

7/10/08

I am having lunch with Opeth.

Well, not exactly. Adjacent is more likely, for they are at a nearby table at this seaside hotel where we are encamped, about twenty minutes drive to the Rockwave Festival in Athens. A big fan of their double-D duology – Deliverance and Damnation – I shake a few hands attached to tattooed arms and let them know we’re all in this together. Later I’ll see them on the beach, fresh from the water and sunning themselves before heading to the festival site; not quite your Swedish doom and gloom.

It’s harder-than-hard rawk night at the Fest, and though I long to indulge myself in Morbid Angel and Opeth and headliners “Da” Priest, this is no moment for “Living After Midnight.” After playing in Byblos, our wakeup call to get to the pair o’ planes that hop-skip-and-a-jump us from Lebanon to Greece comes at 4 ayem. Coupled with jet lag and the urge to explore Beirut which kept me on the move, I’ve hardly had any chance to reset my body clock, and am well ready for a day off eating feta cheese and drinking Mythos beer. Knowing we have four shows in as many daze coming up, I wisely opt to prioritize my energies and hearing and sleep early. Yes, I be a wuss.

But nine hours in dreamland pulls me in tandem with Euro time, and by the next day I feel ready to meet the Grecian mobs head on. Our bill sandwiches us between Locomondo and Manu Chao, two Euro-bands that straddle the cross-cultural, blending Caribbean riddims with a sense of the tropical. Locomondo bounces from ska (Andrew, our stage right tech, describes it as “polka on speed,” a not entirely abstruse comparison) to reggae to dance-hall, and the dreadlockeded lead singer has no trouble rousing the considerable crowd. Manu Chao closes the night with a riot of Gypsy groove and bonhomie, reflected in the next morning when I come down to breakfast and these Genet-like characters are still partying from the night before, mugging for each other, laughing and enjoying the road-brotherhood of a band.

As for us, we take our hour slot and powerhouse through it, feeling the first rush of tour momentum, riding the audience’s energies and our own sense of elation at watching the mob catch each phrase and toss it back, urging us to be like that bungee jumper I see off in the distance, leaping into space, skimming the ground before being whirled aloft. The adrenal of exhilaration.

For the last few years, I’ve been privileged to work with one of my personal heroes: Mr. Lenny Kaye, rock critic, compiler of the Nuggets box set and longtime guitarist for Patti Smith. A few days ago, Lenny dropped a line mentioning that he was about to start a tour of Europe and the Middle East with Patti, and asked if we’d like him to write anything about it. The answer was obvious: “of course!” So for the next few weeks Lenny is going to be submitting a tour blog, chronicling the ups and downs of life on the road and abroad – first stop: Beirut. As always, Lenny’s insights are sharp and insightful, tempered by years on the road. For those of us without a summer vacation in sight, his travels are the next best thing.

7/8 08
A crescent moon rises over the Mediterranean, shining on the ancient city of Byblos, twenty six miles north of Beirut along the coast of Lebanon. Founded some five thousand years ago, the city lays claim to being home to the invention of written language as inscribed on papyrus, whence cometh the title of that eternal bestseller, the Bible; and is even mentioned in that selfsame work ( 1 Kings 5:32) as providing the source for the lumber used in Solomon’s temple.

Tonight, however, it has a more post-mod distinction. Amongst the ruins of a fort along the sea, once manned by the Crusaders, it is the setting for a rock concert, attended by none other than the President of Lebanon, who, surrounded by machine-gun security, looks on bemusedly as the crowd rushes the stage. They had sung the national anthem of Lebanon when he entered the open-air theater; now they are shouting the letters of yet another anthem: G-L-O-R-I-A! And as I play the traditional three chords, much as I’ve done in some form or another for the past four decades, I thank whatever Gods endlessly tussle in this region that the music has given me the means to travel the world to make noise divine.

I have been on all manner of rock and roll tourage in my on-the-roadeo life, from get-in-the-van and sleep-four-on-the-floor tri-state specials to a private jet that dropped the band into a festival site in Switzerland before winging us back to the show we had scheduled that night in another city; ten week slogs where you forget where you are and why you’ve been and just know it’s another stage in some town or another; to a special one-off in a fancy uptown cultural institution (the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for instance) where you feel like you’ve traveled miles even though it’s only a matter of fifty blocks or so; or a stand at the local punk-rock dive across the street. But this summer’s outing has a shape and easily enclosed symmetry that lends itself to the diary form, the be of logging. And yes, I am privileged to be the host of this one-sided chat room.

For a fortnight, I’ll be bouncing from one festival to another with the band I play in, covering a territory that ranges from the Middle East (well, one star-crossed show, see above) through Europe, north and south. The festival format, with it’s catch-as-catch can and genre serendipity, places us (names withheld to protect the innocent) within a world music that is amazingly diverse, the sound of the human race in song; and the nonstop itinerary, that will take us above the Arctic Circle and below the Pyrenees, lends itself to this eMusic equivalent of a postcard, a letter from the front, a call placed late at night to the ones you love.

Much has been written about touring, mostly in songs penned afterhours in that proverbial motel room, i.e. Bob Segar’s “Turn The Page.” And usually, most people –who have “real” (as opposed to “surreal”) jobs – can rightly have an “aw, poor you” view of such bemoanments. Yet, truth be said, beyond the glamour and the glitz and those moments on stage that make the twenty two hours of Getting There (not to mention the lifelong preparation) come into focus, it is a physically and mentally draining form of mobile existence, and once the novelty wears off, it is Work. And no, I would never trade it for any other exis-dance.

The one thing that those who write the songs, or even talk about their on-the-road experiences – except for, of course, Jack Kerouac, who understood its zen pitfalls as well as pit-rises – never touch on is what I call the Eternal Present. Once in motion, away from the before and after of life, you truly get into the appreciation of the ongoing moment, for that is all we are. Our only task is getting to The Show, which has its own immersion into now-time, and it’s easy to forget that which happens fore and aft. You are the fourth dimension, moving through the third, and I second that emotion.

First, however, becomes the beginning, and the opening leg of our journey takes us to Beirut. I have savored the sound of this imminent embarkation all the preceding month when people ask where I’m heading, and coupled with an abiding fascination with this part of the world, both metaphysically and musically, I am looking forward to this special gift from the rock and roll travel agency.

Two months ago it seemed, given the sudden spurt of violent political unrest in Beirut, that our show would not happen. But the Byblos International Festival, as it is called, is an ongoing institution, this year playing host to such international artists as Mouse On Mars, Michel Legrand, and Belgium chanteuse Dani Klein, and thus it is even more important for us to give our support and encouragement to Lebanon in its effort to preserve its cultural lifeline. This is a country that sits astride many schismatic fault lines in the region. For years, Beirut was a cosmopolitan society that provided a crossroads of east and west. Looking at the photographs of Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra eating in the restaurant to which we are taken before the show, along with Arabic stars whose popularity I can only imagine, one realizes that it is necessary to preserve a dialogue not only between faiths, but arts themselves, so that we may understand each other and preserve our common humanity.

Beirut itself, despite the roadblocks and military checkpoints, is easy to explore, and remarkably free from menace. I walk alone to a promenade near the sea and eat grilled fish; I explore the area surrounding the Bourj, the aptly named Martyr’s Square, and its shrine to slain president Rafik Hariri, whose name is synonymous with the reconstruction that followed the country’s brutal civil war in the seventies, and who promised hope and a sense of national identity to a people who formerly felt themselves on one side or another of Beirut’s divisive Green Line. I take a taxi ride on streets that seem to have no rules at all, a dodge-‘em of cars and motorbikes in constant swerve.

The hope that is the future, told in the classic cadences of the music of the moment. That is our message tonight in a city that has seen civilizations come and go, empires topple, layers of archeology and rubble obscuring the detritus of history, hopes and dreams washed over by the sands of time, a crowd singing along to the exultant cry of “Gloria!” as if their very lives depending on it. And it does.