What's the plan?
"The best plan is no plan" said know-nothing "chinese" Masanobu Fukuoka. Absolutely no parallels between his philosophy and music--especially the "broadcasting seeds" part. Not that I know anything about philosophy, what with being an americanino male out of pot pissing saxophonist.
Because, I mean, like, this is a really nice venue, and there are well put together white people here to see the singer songwriter who checks her phone between each song. Ah, no matter, they will all leave once she finishes singing about "love" and what not.
(It really was a very nice venue)
Even so, that doesn't mean I can spray my piss (play the saxophone) higgledy piggeldy! In fact, now, more than ever, I must hold my water and let it dribble out in metric, measured, repeating pattern amounts. Maybe I should sit down when I pee? Sitting down seems to be a thing in music nowadays. Isn't that great news?
Of the innumerable americanino shitter arounders who have soiled "our" beloved western culture with their know nothing boooshit antics, Charles W. Hawthorne and his little americanino book of boolshitting arounding have been constant companions while I sit on the toilet, passing americanino savage retard so-called "food" in a nearly indistinguishable state, laboriously going out as it was going in.
One of the things Mr. Hawthorne says is "never try and repeat a success".
Mind you, Mr. Hawthorne was speaking of art, and not commodities, vaudeville or that keystone of capitalism, repeatability.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hawthorn says nothing about trying or not trying to repeat failures. I for one repeat failures incessantly (unable to learn, least of all from a "girl") and as such I am personally and entirely responsible in totality for all said failures, what with my out of pot pissing and too americanino-ness and savage retardica. I'm also a man and a saxophone player, so wear your golashas when entering the toilet paper room.
Speaking of the toilet paper room, it was there that I was instructed to leave all my "free jazz americanino boolshit"--presumably in perpetuity, as there are a number of dates left in this tour and enough piss has been sprayed hither and yon to last a funky good vibe Euro lifetime. Lord knows how boring that "free jazz americanino boolshit" inevitably (invariably?) is, how it has inspired nothing and no one and inexplicably continues to be a practised expressive modality despite the unanimously boolshit results that clearly flawed approach to music make can not help but create.
Pigmy music from Africa on the other hand speaks to all of us directly; approachable by and speaking to all, it is a music for everyone, everywhere. Feel free to bang along on the breakfast table with what ever implement you wish!
Once Pigmy vibe time was over, it was off to the Subcontinent. Time to get down with Raga Mangeya Bushan.
"Indian vibe--enough of this americanino boolshit!" was the announcement before the wooden flute came out and Raga Mangeya Bushan assumed the roll of Jamey Aebersold play along.
"But I am americanino boolshit" I said. What the fuck else could I say?
"Well, leave it in the toilet paper room" (that's where that one came from)
"What, you want us to play tarantella?"
(and furthermore still)
"When you set up a tour with nice places, you can tell me what to do and you can play free jazz boolshit"
(and, moments before the gig)
"No free jazz. No American music"
This raised several questions I had the good sense to keep to myself. Questions like:
What would "people" think if the Mandolin Sisters (oooh aaah) decided "enough of this Indian boolshit...tonight we play tarantella!"
What exactly (or even vaguely) is the difference between "Improv" and "free jazz", and does that distinction have anything to do with race or class?
What makes something "art" and what makes something "stylized crap?"
When does collaboration end and employment begin?
What is American music?
What contemporary music is free from American influence?
What music has not been taken and corrupted (boolshitted arounded) by the American culture machine--to the glee and delight of the entire western world?
Oh the things know-nothing too-american male americanino shitter arounders think when not in their rubbish house made of rubbish.
Before the gig, we went for a walk in a near by wooded pond type scene. Rather than spend the time "playing the game called silence", it turned into an opportunity to try and teach me how to speak Italian. This was done by repeating the same phrase over and over and over and over again. Sometimes the phrase was repeated as if the repeater somehow managed to get a mound of shit in his mouth after having a stroke. This, I am given to understand is how the Sicilians talk.
On the one hand it will come as a surprise that listening to the same Italian phrase over and over again didn't result in me obtaining total fluency in Italian. On the other, it will come as no surprise as I am but a garden variety americanino man saxophone player out of pot pisser who doesn't speak any languages. That said, appreciation is in order for the effort made to educate me by repeating the same phrase over and over again for just about the entire walk.
I say "just about" as mid way through the walk we (along with our host) took a brief break to sit down and watch the ducks. At this time an impromptu meeting of the We Hate Marijuana because it is sooo dangerous club was brought to order. Oh the very important ground covered in that meeting! Really really deep dialectic. Experience! Strength! Hope! A wee dram 'round noon, no biggie, but oh that Marijuana! The gate way drug to masturbation, communism, and out of pot pissing americanino male saxophonia! One puff and you're a junkie! Marijuana--a society demolishing plague! Marijuana--that cripple-making cripple crutch for cripples that has benefited no one in the arts (or the cancer ward) unlike drinking, which has a long history of strengthening the artist, both in terms of their physical and mental health, their own work and their place in society.
My memory of the performance itself is eclipsed by memory of those rules and constraints placed upon my toilet paper room activities (playing of the saxophone and clarinet). Nevertheless, I do recall the sound guy (who had one heck of a sense of humour) mentioning something to one of the principals that audio (and maybe video?) had been taken. Naturally I did not get a copy of said recording. Delivering digital files is really really hard. Oh well, easy come, easy go--ideally in the pot.
Stay tuned for some pictures from dear old Stockholm. In the meantime, enjoy some shitting around by a "really fucked up" guy on saxophone "who is all surface."