The best thing anyone's said about my music in a long time:
REECY: ... yeah, my music is kinda dirty.
REECY'S MOTHER: It's not dirty! It just has... adult themes.
I'm putting that on the cover of my next album.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
Curbside Aural Glamour
busk (b
sk)
sk)v. To play music or perform entertainment in a public place, usually while soliciting money.
 |
| Busking by the canal in Copenhagen. |
Sometimes busking feels like magic: I convert songs into currencies of the world. This summer, the cafe terraces of Berlin became what I referred to as the Bank of the People – when I had no money, I would stop and play a few songs on my way to happy fun times and make a withdrawal. Nothing greedy, never more than I needed, but I was always in awe of the process.
When I can pull the trick off I still feel like I'm getting away with something. When it doesn't work though, especially after multiple attempts, my mood generally sours – it's an emotionally taxing method of making money. For example, I once played at a large patio of an upscale restaurant near Alexanderplatz, and one person out of 30+ tipped me. I am always conscious of the fact that I am playing unbidden, and ultimately expect nothing, but I walked away from that crowd in a controlled huff. One week before, I played at two neighborhood cafes and walked away with 25 Euros (about US$35) for eight songs. That was about the best I ever did. Magic is fickle.
And now I'm relieved to say I've returned to the amateur leagues with my musical sorcery, at least for now. Though they are ultimately regenerative, it's tough when you're hawking pebble-sized bits of your soul to unsuspecting tourists. I'd much rather give them away for free.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Hostel in the Forest
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| The view out my window. |
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| My treehouse "Elmo", the original built on the property. |
Things were slowing down at the Hostel for the one night I stayed – there were seven staff members and only two guests. Yes, the hippie vibe is strong, but the staff all have a calming way about them, and we spent a lovely evening around the camp fire spinning glow toys and hula hooping after chowing down on a home-cooked vegetarian meal of stuffed portabellos. If you ask the staff where they are from they will reply, “I'm from here,” and you can absolutely tell that no matter how long or short their stay has been, they consider this tranquil place their home. The new manager's story reads like a Hollywood script: clean-cut Yankee city boy relocates to rural Georgia to whip hippie hostel into shape. Life lessons and challenges both physical and psychological ensue. In his own words, “I didn't even know I needed this place until I came here.”
I myself felt very at home here, and from the moment I arrived I felt the inclination to pick up some tools and lend a hand. The Hostel, started in 1975, requires constant upkeep, and they often rely on the skills of the guests to keep it in good nick. If I can find the time I'd love to go back down and do some work exchange for a week or two.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Persuing the Battered Suitcase
Many of you heard snippets of this story from my European trip this summer. Below you'll find the entire adventure.
September 2011
"You can turn your back on a man, but never turn your back on a train."
I took the night train from Copenhagen. I could have flown, it would have been cheaper and quicker, but I'd never done a long-haul train trip across Europe, and by all accounts it is the proper, traditional way to move about The Continent.
I was headed to my cousin's house a two-hour drive outside of Frankfurt to see his wife and five kids again before flying back to the States out of Paris. The trip itself was supposed to take around 14 hours altogether, but amazingly enough with only one transfer. That meant I had 12 hours on that night train to sleep, read and generally relax. I even had a compartment to myself for most of the trip, and managed to sleep through the four hours where I was not alone. Before I passed out I'd hopped off the train at a few stops to stretch my legs or have a smoke, always able to tell when the train was going to depart by the electronic sign on the platform, but never brave enough to let the train out of my sight just the same. I slept for a total of five hours, stretched out across three seats, cuddled into the tiny pillow and navy blue blanket I'd “borrowed” from Air Berlin on my flight over. (For the record, I was planning on returning them when I flew home.) When we arrived in a station, the lack of motion would disturb my rest, though I generally just went right back to sawing logs a moment later. Sometimes the train would only pause for a minute or two, sometimes 20.
I finally roused myself at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, a station I have been through a few times. This was the second to last stop until my transfer to a little regional train, so I wanted to be awake and watch the sun rise over the German countryside in my private compartment for this last segment. The sign on the platform said the train wasn't leaving for another 20 minutes, and I knew there would be a bakery or two at the end of the platform. I took my purse but left the rest of my things sprawled out across my side of the compartment – laptop, pillow, blanket, snacks. My ukulele, rucksack and velvet fedora that a friend had given me last time I was in Frankfurt all sat in the luggage rack above my seat.
Bleary eyed I stumbled down the steep steps of the train and onto the platform. I wandered past a Deutschebahn employee who I'd seen at every stop. She was just lighting up her cigarette. I thought about asking when we were leaving, but the sign was there, plain as day, and my brain was still full of sleepy molasses. I successfully got myself a cup of tea, and was just pouring sugar into it when I heard a conductor's whistle. I started, got a brief rush of adrenaline, but them dismissed the thought – Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof is a huge station with lots of trains, and anyhow the sign on our platform said I should have plenty of time. Just the same I made the 15 second walk back to my platform in ten.
And when I returned to my platform? THERE WAS NO TRAIN THERE ANYMORE. I had not been gone five minutes. Gaping, I stood and stared at the gap where my train should be. Fortunately I'd had the good sense to bring my shoulder bag with me, which contained my wallet, phone and passport, but everything else – rucksack, computer, ukulele – were still on the missing train.
The rest of the story after the jump!
September 2011
"You can turn your back on a man, but never turn your back on a train."
I took the night train from Copenhagen. I could have flown, it would have been cheaper and quicker, but I'd never done a long-haul train trip across Europe, and by all accounts it is the proper, traditional way to move about The Continent.
I was headed to my cousin's house a two-hour drive outside of Frankfurt to see his wife and five kids again before flying back to the States out of Paris. The trip itself was supposed to take around 14 hours altogether, but amazingly enough with only one transfer. That meant I had 12 hours on that night train to sleep, read and generally relax. I even had a compartment to myself for most of the trip, and managed to sleep through the four hours where I was not alone. Before I passed out I'd hopped off the train at a few stops to stretch my legs or have a smoke, always able to tell when the train was going to depart by the electronic sign on the platform, but never brave enough to let the train out of my sight just the same. I slept for a total of five hours, stretched out across three seats, cuddled into the tiny pillow and navy blue blanket I'd “borrowed” from Air Berlin on my flight over. (For the record, I was planning on returning them when I flew home.) When we arrived in a station, the lack of motion would disturb my rest, though I generally just went right back to sawing logs a moment later. Sometimes the train would only pause for a minute or two, sometimes 20.
I finally roused myself at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, a station I have been through a few times. This was the second to last stop until my transfer to a little regional train, so I wanted to be awake and watch the sun rise over the German countryside in my private compartment for this last segment. The sign on the platform said the train wasn't leaving for another 20 minutes, and I knew there would be a bakery or two at the end of the platform. I took my purse but left the rest of my things sprawled out across my side of the compartment – laptop, pillow, blanket, snacks. My ukulele, rucksack and velvet fedora that a friend had given me last time I was in Frankfurt all sat in the luggage rack above my seat.
Bleary eyed I stumbled down the steep steps of the train and onto the platform. I wandered past a Deutschebahn employee who I'd seen at every stop. She was just lighting up her cigarette. I thought about asking when we were leaving, but the sign was there, plain as day, and my brain was still full of sleepy molasses. I successfully got myself a cup of tea, and was just pouring sugar into it when I heard a conductor's whistle. I started, got a brief rush of adrenaline, but them dismissed the thought – Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof is a huge station with lots of trains, and anyhow the sign on our platform said I should have plenty of time. Just the same I made the 15 second walk back to my platform in ten.
And when I returned to my platform? THERE WAS NO TRAIN THERE ANYMORE. I had not been gone five minutes. Gaping, I stood and stared at the gap where my train should be. Fortunately I'd had the good sense to bring my shoulder bag with me, which contained my wallet, phone and passport, but everything else – rucksack, computer, ukulele – were still on the missing train.
The rest of the story after the jump!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The Title Explained
“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life." - Jack Kerouac
The Lauderdales
Two SoFla Saturdays Explained
Ft Lauderdale Beach, FL
Left our oceanfront hotel this fine Saturday evening with two dollars and a ukulele, returned with six dollars and a wilted pink rose (the ukulele is also still intact).
But my Floridan story begins almost two weeks ago. Last week I found myself in Key West, paying upwards of $350 for the privilege of camping in what was forecast to be a weeklong torrential tropical downpour. After the lovely folks at the campground agreed to refund me the rest of the week I'd prepaid, I packed up my soaked gear, booked a cheap hotel room on the mainland, and drove northwards to Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.
For the geographically challenged, Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is just north of Ft Lauderdale, which is just north of Miami, which is just north of the Keys, which is just north of Cuba. For $50 a night I managed to get myself a room on the beach with a balcony overlooking the ocean for two nights, and though the weather was not conducive to serious use of neither balcony nor ocean, I definitely appreciated the contrast to my soggy camping hammock. I probably shouldn't have spent the money, but I needed somewhere dry to plan my next move.
Ft Lauderdale Beach, FL
Left our oceanfront hotel this fine Saturday evening with two dollars and a ukulele, returned with six dollars and a wilted pink rose (the ukulele is also still intact).
But my Floridan story begins almost two weeks ago. Last week I found myself in Key West, paying upwards of $350 for the privilege of camping in what was forecast to be a weeklong torrential tropical downpour. After the lovely folks at the campground agreed to refund me the rest of the week I'd prepaid, I packed up my soaked gear, booked a cheap hotel room on the mainland, and drove northwards to Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.
For the geographically challenged, Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is just north of Ft Lauderdale, which is just north of Miami, which is just north of the Keys, which is just north of Cuba. For $50 a night I managed to get myself a room on the beach with a balcony overlooking the ocean for two nights, and though the weather was not conducive to serious use of neither balcony nor ocean, I definitely appreciated the contrast to my soggy camping hammock. I probably shouldn't have spent the money, but I needed somewhere dry to plan my next move.
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