It’s like every day at the Sacre Coeur. In between the tourists, professional womanizers are stalking ladies from all over the world, and on Place Saint Pierre men from the Senegal are selling plastic toys from China to Americans and Japanese, while others try to snatch the wallets from unwary foreign visitors. The sun is shining, and from the top of the stairs in front of the cathedral you can see the skyscrapers of La Defense.
There is one really beautiful woman among all those people. With long, shining red hair; and wearing only black. Black coat, black trousers, black sneakers. Apparently she’s alone, as three of the womanizers try to chat her up and no Rugby-playing boyfriend appears to beat them to pulp. But she keeps her appearance, and after a while the men leave her in peace, so she can take some pictures of Paris. If someone talked to her now, not acting as crude as the locals and maybe showing some wit, and as it’s a beautiful winters day in Paris, this might actually work. It could even be like in the movies. Stranger meets stranger in Paris, she’s from Vancouver and he’s from Dortmund, but they like each other and laugh about the same jokes, so they decide to have a coffee, and dinner later. It’s the evening of Valentines Day in the City of Lights, and later that night they sleep with each other in the small hotel at Montmatre were he is staying, where there’s PVC flooring in the room and it reeks of disinfectant. The day after her plane leaves from Charles-de-Gaulle, and his train is departing from Gare du Nord. Whatever happens next, if they make plans and will meet again, and in the end he moves from Germany to Canada; or if they never see each other again – those hours in Paris will always seem like a daydream, one of those strange but beautiful occurrences that life has in store, sometimes.
I ask her for a lighter, in English, and she answers in English. She looks in my face, her blue eyes wide open, looking interested. It seems she’s waiting for me to say something. But I don’t know what, so I thank her and go down the stairs towards the merry-go-round.
That evening I bought the cheapest red wine I could get, one with a plastic screw top.
In no particular order, as all these people suck in one way or another and can spoil the joy of live concerts completely.
The “movies or it didn’t happen”-girl
Taking pictures of the band is soooo 2006. With the newest smartphone or a smart-cam you are able to record the whole show and have it up on Vimeo in no time. But what about drinking beer, rasing your horns or dancing? All this will only lead to a blurry recording, so please, stand as firm as possible and keep shooting angry gazes at those concert goers who dare to come in physical contact with you.
The guy from work whose colleagues told him that the band is cool
Probably you will be still wearing suit and tie from work. And most probably you’ll wish to be at a Tina Turner-concert as soon as the band fires the first riff. But the funky young brunette from accounting has invited you, and so you’ll pretend to like the band and stand around being the complete foreign body that you are. At least you can show off at the coffee dock tomorrow – but only if the band finishes at 10 and you can get the last bus.
Dimebag did not approve such behaviour. Image by bog_king
The uber-aloof scene guy.
Yes, you have been here before. About a million times. You wear the right clothing. You have 8 layers of tattoos all over your body, including the eyebrows. And not one sucking newcomer band in this world will be able to make you move an inch to their sound. An approving headnod is reserved for Iron Maiden and other such demi-gods. The drawback of this is that you will also not move an inch even in the first row of the show. Strategically positioned, 10 of your type in a crowd of 300 can ruin a complete show for band and audience.
The knacker from the suburbs
You know exactly one song of the band. But that one is nicely energetic and aggressive. So you saved the price of the ticket from your job as a construction worker and are here with some of your homies. And approximately after the 2nd song will you take off you shirt and start pushing the people in front of you around. Even at a Sigur Ros show. Besides the primate-like behaviour and the annoyance it causes for the people around you, flying drops of sweat from your hairy back can actually spoil all beers within a radius of 200 meters.
Today I feel like shit. Officially. Please make the weekend come quickly so I can sleep 20 hours in a row, because that’s what I need to do. To lift me and you up, here’s at least some Friday-science-fiction-awesomeness from the internets. To be more precise, a fake 80ies-intro for Firefly. Thanks, Nerdcore.
It’s the first of July. This means that the first half of this year has passed. And it was a good year so far. I did overcome my fear of flying (it seems), was finally able to make up for 3 years without carnival in Cologne, started writing for more publications than ever before in my life, and created a huge project together with a friend that I have not seen very regularly these last years. On the downside I’m basically always tired, have constant dark circles around my eyes and ruined my stomach. But who cares?
The next big thing on my list is the book. Gulp. But we collected so much interesting stuff and material in Iceland, I think I’ll be able to create something out of it. And I hope that after finishing my current writing course, I’ll be able to pitch a couple of stories to bigger (or printed) magazines. So, if you know someone who is searching for an expat writer who loves to write about music, my “about”-page has just been updated. Danke. Here’s to another great six months.
“Sure,” he says “this town is dead.” I’m sitting in a bar in Solingen, a small town in Germany, talking to a local legend. Jacob is a Punk rocker born and bred, and is representative for artists in this town.
Solingen is a rainy city in North Rhine-Westphalia. It sits on the northern edge of the region called Bergisches Land, south of the Ruhr area and east of the Rhine, and has a population of about 170,000. It is known for the manufacturing of swords and knives and not much else. It is the town I was born in. Like many smaller towns in Germany, Solingen suffers from bloodletting: it has no college, and few jobs available to young people with leaving certificates. Not very appealing to anyone who wants to become a musician – so people leave town.
“After finishing school I stayed in Berlin for a while, where I first encountered punk.” Jacob tells me, fondling his Beck’s and taking a deep sip. “From there I moved to Cologne, where I started playing in bands and still do, even making it to a couple of US-tours and a record deal. But I never had the guts to sever all the ties that connected me to Solingen.” Jacob lives a small apartment in Solingen and has also rented a room in a shared flat in Cologne, where he stays if the band rehearsal of his current combo takes longer than expected, and to prepare for tours. “The one thing about Solingen that always fascinated me is the fact that we have more bands per capita than any other city in Germany. I guess this is why we came up with the term ‘Rock City No. 1′. ”
The few people left in Solingen fighting to keep up some kind of music scene are a close bunch. With only 2 venues hosting live shows, bands and promoters have to rely on improvised shows in rehearsal spaces whenever possible. To spread the word about Solingen, Jacob (who at the time had become the manager of one of the venues in town) and other promoters came up with the above mentioned slogan. Due to its DIY-shows and -culture, Rock City Solingen made a name throughout Germany, and for a couple of years bands were flocking to town. Not that they made any money with it.
“As it always happens, people move on. You did.” He points his finger at me and smirks. “But we never lost hope in this boring town. Venues closed, new ones opened up.” From a semi-professional approach of marketing shows, the next generation of artists has moved to a much more simple principle. They opened up a members club in the run-down storage room of a disused train station. Every member can run a show or event of his or her liking, all is financed by the club fees, and visitors pay a small entrance fee that makes you a club member for the night of the event only. “It’s the same old story for this town. But I still like it here, it’s so well-arranged and you get to know everyone. Anyhow, I’m off. See you around.” He sips the last mouthful of beer and leaves me to pay for it, slowly walking to the door. As I watch him departing into the rain, the first chords of the band on stage fill the room.
When about 10 hours of your day consist of looking at a screen, having a conjunctivitis is more or less semi-productive.12:19:23 PM July 25, 2010from TweetDeck
