8 July Lisbon
Late rise. past 12:00 or so.
Tough to move out. Scorching sun.
I catch up to the others at the Timeout eatery – the heart of our gut. Stuffing up again. It’s our main or only meal of the day.
We talk a bit better as days go in. “I write about this, so you know Ari” “Oh my God!” or so. “Not so much about you guys though. Yet.”
Demystifying. D is more relaxed in his family core. As he doesn’t need to design anything new, or change anything. He has maps for people. One for each one. Simple drawn out notes or sometime complex cartographies. He rarely redraws, but merely discovers new unexplored islands in each. Claims all continents have been mapped. His closer encounters, in his words, tend to turn into mythical creatures – Bruegel like human cornucopias. His sis, niece, grandma, father, Oana, Riftu, Serge, KT, Neeku, Prk, me, are all much more normal than in his stories. A fine, even interesting experience with most of them, but people you can actually live with. Not human contraptions. While his version(s), a form of re-conception. His sacral universe. Friends. A, places too, of course.
‘R-ee for ex, a cool allure. Gluten free no more. A readiness for travels in her gaze. A version of motherhood I wd go for with kids of mine. That hip grip on life. Pe strada, just as I wondered how was it playing out now between them, she casually grasps that trace of thought and reaches for M’s back head. Caressing. Just like that, in the middle of the traffic. Like something of red grace she’d fleetingly forgotten and was glad to rediscover. Fingerblushing through his hair. One should’ve got to her on the spot. There, in the dust of time. But then again, maybe he did, just there. The venalia of fingerprints chem-changing their blood to and fro in that simple gesture between them.
There is some silence between them (.MA.) I can’t figure out yet. Quite an intimate one. Not obvious. At times I feel it in DYA also. That well behaved jingle of a girl. Is it general familial demure? La cat il stiu pe D de expansiv pare putin probabil sa vina de acolo. But then again, am vorbit la un mom dat cu el despre momente de turnura (.DA.). A venit cumva vorba in relation to Ok Computer. His and ‘r.ee’s teenage revelation si importanta momentului in relatia lui cu ea. Post a grief. And then he mentioned when does their talk become just theirs. De tipul f-s. Shoulder to shoulder. There was something in how they were before that, and maybe some grey greens in there blues even after, in that context of post-sorrow (or beyond), that spoke of the same silence. Or a similar one. So it felt to me in that mid of the night. Me nD walking at wide pace back home. All rest asleep.
At 4:00 AM when the two of us got in.. all darkness was a-hush. Just M cat walking woke up to care for DYA’s naked spirit. Calm. Silent.
We slept for nearly 2h, the guys mostly. how did that happen?, bed crashed outta street heat. In that smoked wood attic of a room.
Then a brisk wake up. By the time I’m aware of what’s goin on the others ‘au si spalat putina’ . They’re gone in a cab and I’m running for the train. Got there slightly ahead of them though.
Foals. One of the groovy discoveries of the weekend. Rock. Intense.
That’s when we meet again. me D and..? others followed thereby soon. But till then D goes teen. Jumping around like a loose kid. “You know this guy’s half greek!” de parca e ceva mai artistic in genele arhipelago-mediteraneene. mai autentic.
But these guys were good. Much better than Tamed Impala coming after. With an intermezzo in Heineken Palco with Carlão.
Eu ma uitam la o tipa inalta, spanish cut, slightly emotive lean. She had delicate toes. Fit for her feet. So checked her hands as well. Different. Slightly longer, beautiful short nails, square cut. Tender in motion. Just like Ioana’s. I remember when I met her, the first crazy days, I wanted her fingers to be like M’s, so I could fall in love with that on top of everything else she was, so I could uproot the other. But hers weren’t. Hers were a writer’s type. That’s what I decided then, puzzled to see that femininity vanish at the digital edges of her hands and leave a thoughtful ambiguity. Her father’s fit (I think she said when I asked what was going on in that design…).
You know you recognise those hands that you can erotically fit around every inch of a man. And I’s will and charisma was often veering into that, shocking either the intellectual in you(, or conversely, the animal. With words and references.) But her hands would betray her. Neat clean bit. never painted. A writer’s, that’s it.
That’s how the Spanish girl’s were now. Almost told her that.
Father John Misty
D’s fault, again!
“Eu: Ce muzica face omu ala?
Greu de explicat
Folk cu blues cu ceva modern
Urban alternative i-ar zice Rolling Stone”
I fall for it, give up the Impala gig and transition to D’s. Only to find Jim Morrison. In person. Just a tiny bit neater. Suit on. White shirt. Pretty inoffensive initially. Then he grinds on lyrics of dereliction and soul dilapidation. scratching through the fallen glitter off the american dream:
“Bored in the USA”
(ah! just found a website with cool (h)over-text hyperlinks to a fuller sense of lyrics. At least for this song. Some of them too obvious, yeah. But still, a good idea):
Now, I’ve got all morning to obsessively accrue
A small nation of meaningful objects
And they’ve got to represent me too
By this afternoon, I’ll live in debt
By tomorrow, be replaced by children
How many people rise and think
“Oh good, the stranger’s body’s still here
Our arrangement hasn’t changed”?
Now, I’ve got a lifetime to consider all the ways
I’ve grown more disappointing to you
As my beauty warps and fades
I suspect you feel the same
When I was young, I dreamt of a passionate obligation to a roommate
Is this the part where I get all I ever wanted?
Who said that?
Can I get my money back?
Oh, just a little bored in the USA
Save me, President Jesus
I’m bored in the USA
How did it happen?
Bored in the USA
Really loved that song. And with John Misty it’s lyrics I wanna go for more. (Next morning on fresh listening I was less convinced by the melodic part of it. I guess I need that scattered mind I had when feeding on Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” to open a bit more to Misty’s sound. And was also missing that live vernal…)
While on stage he turned into a charismatic rebel monk exuding a lot more sexuality than I thought. Crowd-hugging and almost leaping onto his fans. The only guy in the fest to come out with a bra from such dives. 33 years old. Some proper stage lurching and back bending. Performance wise just a couple of shades shy of Jim’s persona. A bit more in control of himself, but nut-loose enough to tickle that anguish and eroticism of desperation response in a type of socially engaged young mind.
Briefly then Two Doors Cinema Club
No proper memory of it, just music consumerism of ok taste, dynamic, too much light effects. “It’s a fest-on-the-roll type of band. At probably €100k per show. Quite popular in US”. Why yeah, huge crowd, didn’t fit in the tent but outbracing the area in a compact mass. Why though? as they were just ok.
Actually this whole festival had groups relying a lot more on the visuals. It’s just a selling gimmick and it works in the end I know. Part of the show. But in NOLA it was not about this. Music and performer(s) did the trick.
While with 2Door the only remarkable thing was that we left them to catch a last performance of Fado and rushed into the small improvised long room to find everyone fiddling feet on a DJ set of Roxette…(?!?) we looked at each other and burst into laughs! Walked right back to 2Doors. “But I liked Roxette you know!” I tone down the run. “Were my teenage rave as well” he joins in. Our way of apologizing to our nostalgias.
The night was Radiohead‘s though.
Low note on most of main sequence songs. For most of the main 1.5h. Then came back for a six-songs encore. And once more for some overly popular three. A feast! Dan-xtatic!
Creep, Street Spirit, Everything, Karma Police just to name a few that even I knew almost by heart. There was a silent buzz in allmen’s hearts. This thing of reflection, a crowd of listeners like a chorus of hearts. All a-silent. There. when humming along. Eyes closed lots of the time. The most decent use of lights and video effects in the whole festival. Multi framed. A puzzle of stage fragments. Made sense only on that rhythm. Could barely catch glimpses of his face. It wasn’t about him. But about us and the lyric trance.
I was by myself throughout. The others hovering in their glowshell somewhere else. Unhindered.