It's been five years since I last saw my fire twirling friend and journeyed through Slovenian forests together but his pixie face hasn't changed a bit. We fill in the gaps as we drive from the train station in Villach, Austria to his farmhouse 45 minutes away and once I'm there I'm amazed at how good it feels to be in a HOME again after a month of hostels and B&B's of varying qualities.
Bhak's cooking is as good as ever - we eat fresh guacamole, vegetable rice and halva at 2 a.m, my friend still a night owl. We do get come rest though, important because we both have gigs busking in a swanky tourist town the following evening - he has organised fire shows there and managed to get me a slot too. Easiest 60 Euros I've ever made, all given willingly by smiling strolling tourists staring at the beautiful lake view - beautiful that is, until an enormously ugly hired out yacht docks near me, blasting terrible techno and bearing revolving disco lights and hysterical drunk people using their money in the worst way possible - is this what we call status these days?? Can't they see they're embarrassing themselves and polluting everyone's ears, shrieking between disco thuds? They almost drown Bhak out too so he turns his own soundsystem up, something the hotel manager nearby doesn't like too much. His show is amazing, all energy and dragon fire breath resulting in a full magic hat at the end of it.
A few days later I find that my flight to London is coinciding with the riots going on there in early August. Mia, who I'm staying with for the first night, assures me not to worry and meets me at Liverpool Street station before we catch a bus to her home suburb.. of Tottenham!! (one of the areas of unrest for those not in the London know). It's all quiet here on a Tuesday night however though, the streets eerily deserted and shops shut early just for safety's sake.
She takes me around the city the next day and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the riots haven't dampened London's spirit too much - we sit in Hyde Park drinking hot chocolate (she) and wine (me, the lush), and the sun is out and everyone is smiling and happy.
I catch the tube right across town to Vauxhall, to visit my blue eyed Russian friend from India - 30 minutes from north to south all underground, it's quite amazing really - and the night that follows is huge: 3 of his friends are around playing music and it's an absolutely amazing evening. I'm at home straight away in this 5th floor apartment with a view of Battersea power station (from the Pink Floyd 'Animals' album cover) and a very cool and hyperactive cat chasing everything that moves in between songs... we sing everything we know from "Sweet Dreamas are made of this" to "Go Lassie go" to "Cum on Feel the Noize" and "Let it Be". Eclectic and so wonderful.
I end up staying four nights, visiting other friends in between but always coming back for more music and beauty. On my last day there, I walk with my Russian to Clapham. We lie on the common there to sleep off our deli lunch (and cake - there is always cake where he is concerned) and I get a strange sensation that angels are beating their wings on us - it's all very soft and floaty and magical in my half conscious state and makes me wonder at the significance of this meeting. It just feels to me like there's something more to explore here... and I leave reluctantly to spend my last night in London in my Kiwi friend's dirty squat near King's Cross before jumping on a train to Brighton the following morning. Luke and Emma are there by now and have a house to themselves to sit for three weeks, so it's perfect. They assure me the busking is great and they turn out to be right, which is lucky as it's my sole income by now.
Brighton is wonderful: stoney beach dotted with sunbathers and families, garish pier in which I discover the joys of the penny arcade, burned out memories of the old pier whose remains still stand rusting in the sea, fat seagulls eyeballing the salty vinegary chips on their way into tourist's mouths. AND the busking is better than good - it's possibly the best place I have ever played and I make 40 pounds in just over an hour in Hove, Brighton's neighbouring city (not really neighbouring, they're right next to each other and are pretty much the same thing. The city is known as 'Brighton and Hove') . I discover that Nick Cave, Paul McCartney and David Gilmour all apparently live in Hove, but try as I might I never see any of them ; ) Instead of rockstars, all the attention I get busking seems to be from the local madhatters who all seem to hang out on George Street in Hove all day long. One short man with a combover, too-high trousers and thick, thick glasses stoops along, periodically throwing pound coins into my case and spitting out such inspired advice as "not bad for a beginner" or "You're allright, but you're using too much vibrato". He starts to inch closer whenever I sing a Joni Mitchell / Dylan / Cohen number and knows all the words too, correcting me whenever I get them wrong. He comes back again and again, buying me some glucose tablets cause he thinks I look tired (!!Just tired of you, brother!!) and proclaims that he's going to write a song about me. It never appears and I never see him again in the weeks that follow, but I don't mind ; )
A man in black known as Ben sketches me twice and tries to engage me in his philosophies about withcraft. A dude with a head injury and a backpack containign everything he currently owns tells me I've stolen his spot, although the long street is empty and there is plenty of room for other buskers (who all, by the way, adhere to an unspoken busker's etiquette of not playing too close to one another). On my final outing, a heavy set man swollen with alcohol shuffles along dragging a child's toy police scooter behind him and sits behind me, producing a small djimbe drum from the depths of his black coat and begins to play along with me, in time I might add! When he introduces himself as Keith Moon I know it's time to split, particularly because the police have approached him and he proudly shows off his new wheels (the toy police car) to them. As I'm packing up, another wild eyed, big haired oddball strolls up and lets me in on a little something behind his hand when he whispers to me that "that man behind you.. is not really a busker!!! Hes a BEGGAR!!!" as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. Thanks dude, and thanks Hove, you've been kind to me - seriously, it has been; there may be a large amount of mental illness there by the looks of things but they are all harmless and I feel very protected by the punters in the local cafes.
Halfway through my stay there, our friend Ricketts drives us in his super cool 70's campervan to Small World festival about an hour out of Brighton - it's in the Kent countryside I think... Small World is a travelling festival that has a tent at bigger festivals such as Glastonbury and Bestival, and this is their own end of year knees-up. It's cooler than I ever imagined - reminds me of Luminate festival in New Zealand but in a much wilder way - these English know how to party!! Not that we Kiwis don't, just that we're not quite as...umm...outlandish (meant in the best possible way - I absolutely loved Small World and can't wait to go back one day). I love it all and meet many amazing movers and groovers there... all the 'streets' are given thoughtful names such as 'Harmony Terrace', and Small World is famous for having a mostly solar powered stage, so I'm quite at home with all the hippies. Other travelling tents are there too, 'Full Circle' sells good veggie tucker and has a hilarious sign that I have on facebook somewhere, advertising their "vegan wholegrain organic lesbian freetrade inner contemplatory probiotic ethical karmically cleansing recycled compostable alkalising carbon neutral shamanic" food in the best tongue-in-cheek way possible. Love it!
I am lucky enough to get a slot on the main stage, thanks to my friend Luke and it's an honour to be part of this institution in a small way - the audience is so receptive even though I am nervous - still not used to miked gigs. The street is where I do my best, I reckon... I discover some incredible musical acts here - a Welsh band named 'Heal the Last Stand' who look like they're right out of the 60's, singing about peace and love and stuff, and doing the coolest cover version ever of 'Grease', only changing it to 'Peace is the word, is the word, is the word..' They are unbelievably cool (groovy, even!) and I'm an instant fan.
We leave the four day festival reluctantly, although I feel I'll be back next summer somehow... it's just too good to miss! Highly recommended to all - lots of accordion jams around the bonfire, lots of playing dress-ups and other general playfulness.
With Daisy (who owns the house we're sitting) due to come back from the States, we're all left without a home once again, all three global wanderers and all teachers too interestingly enough... I plan to head up to Scotland via a small stop in London to visit the blue-eyed Russian. It's a connection worth exploring, so I mail him to see if he'll be around for the two days I'm planning to stop over there. It's a plan I think might just work, although it seems that there are other things in store for me...
No comments:
Post a Comment