Live performance of Taxi Driver with the Rhythm Kings at Crossroads Café in Antwerp!
Taxi
Driver
Calcutta, India, summer 2011
A chauffeur from the school is waiting for me in the airport lobby.
As the sliding glass doors open to let us out of the airport, the hot
and damp air of the Indian summer hits me. I am welcomed by the soon
to be familiar sounds of honking from the streets. I climb into a
grey jeep along with a little group of Italian students also here for
a 6 months exchange program at the Indian Institute of Management in
Calcutta.
This is my first time in India, or any oriental country for that
matter. I am in for the ride of my life, as our driver takes on the
City of Joy's busy maze of restless streets. The airport is on the
opposite side of the city to the campus, so we have to go all the way
accross, and I couldn't have dreamt a better introduction tour to the
city's wonders.
There's so much happening it's overwhelming. Our driver swerves
through the jungle of stray dogs, herds of sheeps, chickens, pigs and
cows, pedestrians, dog carts and push carts,bikes, mopeds, rickshaws,
cars, yellow taxis, buses and lorries of all colours. It's total
chaos out there, and I feel a sense of relief to be safe inside the
car. A dare devil green a yellow rickshaw zooms by in between the
lorries and trucks, and I tell myself I'll never get into one of
those death traps on wheels. The next day of course I'll be taking
one from the campus to the center of town.
In front of us is a bus of yellow and red with the words « Danger,
Blow Horn » written in thick black and red letters on it's
bumper. A fair warning indeed. Here it seems there are no indicators
for turning left or right, or for overtaking. If there ever was they
stopped using them a long time ago. Honking is the way to go. It's
also hard to tell whether there are any trafic rules. We take a turn
out of a little street onto a boulevard. And all of sudden, just when
you think it can't get any more complicated, trams are added to the
equation. And they don't stop for anyone or anything. Our driver
blows his horn at a couple of kids crossing ahead.
On both sides of the road life is happening. I take in the various
scenes as they come before my eyes. An old man is washing himself on
the pavement from tap water coming out of a concrete block. A bit
further down a mother surrounded by two young kids is cooking rice
and chapati from steaming pots on the sidewalk. Improvised vending
stalls take over most of the sidewalk : on offer is anything
from fish to piles of books and pieces of clothing. Colourfull shop
banners of all sorts bring life the otherwise washed down and
dirty facades. It looks like the city could use a fresh coat of
paint. But Calcutta's architecture shows fantastic heritage and
diversity. Worn out dull looking buildings share ground with
victorian style palaces and mansions of great beauty and refinement.
No two houses are the same, and there's no telling what's coming
around the bend. In the corner of my eye, a splendid red building
with white frames and columns from the british era. A bit further
down another massive colonial building has trees and plants growing
all over it. Everynow and then hindu temples of a variety of shapes
and colours pop out of nowhere.
We come to an intersection where a policeman standing outside of a
little booth seems to have the impossible task of regulating the
crossings' trafic, hopelessly waving his arms around every which way.
Dressed in a white uniform with a white round helmet, he stands out
of the crowd, which is probably a good thing. Traffic lights haven't
made it here yet it seems. We are now back on a huge boulevard and
heading to the outskirts of town when our chauffeur slows down to
make a turn left towards what appears to be the entrance of the
Indian Institute of Management, with its white and green gates. A
couple of guards are posted at the entrance. I'll later learn that
you actually have to check in and out with them anytime you leave the
campus by writing your name down on a sheet of paper. But for now
this is it : home for the next couple of months ! And
judging by that first experience, it's going to be a hell of a ride.
Sitting on a bench with my guitar
Tanguie, I am putting the final touch to the lyrics of a new song,
entitled Child of the Universe. Earlier that afternoon I
played the song for the first time while busking in Haga Nygata
street, even though it wasn't quite finished yet. Sometimes it helps
find the missing parts of the lyrics. Because I need to come up with
something on the spur of the moment, I say the first thing that comes
to mind. And sometimes it works, I find the missing piece of the
puzzle and write it down later. Nothing like working under pressure !
So today was this Child's first
public appearance, and it got the best welcome I could have hoped
for. I had been playing for a little while by the time I sang Child
of the Universe. At the end of the song this lady stepped out of
a little shop on the opposite side of the walking street and came up
to me with a big smile : « I'm the owner of this shop, she
said. I've been listening to you for the past half hour, and I loved
every bit of it. But then I heard this song and I thought, I have to
go out and tell her ! That song just has such a happy feel,
there's something special about this one ». As a songwriter, I
am always filled with doubt when it comes to a new tune: is
this song good enough ? Is anyone going to care ? Is it
worth putting in the sweat and tears to see it through ? Because
you never know if all those hours are going to add up to anything
worthwhile. So today the lady from the little shop gave me the
biggest boost of energy.
***
It was just a couple of days ago.
I was cycling down the norwegian coast on my way back down from Oslo,
and I'd just spent the previous night in a campground in Larkollen,
right at the end of the peninsula. The place was managed by two
amazing ladies who offered me accomodation in a cosy red and white
chalet, for the same price as a tent spot! This kind gesture was more
than welcome after a solid day of cycling. The setting of the camp
at the edge of the peninsula was simply breathtakingly beautiful, so
I gathered up what little energy I had left over from the day's
effort and took a long walk through the pine forest and along the
beach, as the sun set low on the horizon behind the clouds.
After a good night sleep I woke up
early the next morning and headed for a wooden table in the middle of
the rocks by the sea. I'd spotted it during my evening walk, and
thought it would be the perfect spot to finish working on another new
song, Travelling Around with Me. This was late in the season
and most tourists were long gone already, so I felt like I was the
only one there, alone in paradise.
Upon my departure that morning I
received many gifts from my hosts, including food supplies, a blue
and red scarf and a Norway cap.We took a souvenir pic of all three of
us together before I left for Fredrikstadt.
There weren't many cars on the
road as I rolled up and down the gentle green hills, home to the
cattle of typical red and white farm houses. As I came to a road
crossing under the grey skies I paused on the side of the road to
take a look at my map. A this junction two options presented
themselves to me: the more direct route sticking to the main road, or
taking a turn to the right on a small winding road that ran in a loop
along the coast. No doubt longer and hillier but also more scenic
option. As I looked up from my map I saw a tall black guy coming my
way from the bus stop accross the road. He asked me how I was doing
with a great big smile, and whether I needed any help on some
directions. So I told him about my dilemma, and of course, him not
being the one who had to cycle up the hills, he said it's a
no-brainer and advised me to take the nicer route along the coast. I
would not regret it he said. We'll see. People are always very
helpful that way. We ended up talking for a little while. He told me
a bit about himself, how he came to Norway all the way from Togo when
he was a student, and how he ended up spending the rest of his life
here. When I asked him whether he ever felt homesick, especially
given how different the two countries could be: « I am a child of
the universe, everywhere is my home » he said. I thought that
was nice. As I prepared to leave he added: « Take it easy, ok?
You gotta take it easy ».
His words kept me company for the
remainder of the trip, and I knew I finally had the right idea for
the lyrics to that new song I had been working on. I was gonna take
it easy now.
Standing by the side of the road
outside of Kaiteriteri, I put my thumb up in the hope of catching a
ride to Takaka, a quaint little town niched in the heart of the
Golden Bay Area, on the northern part of Te Wai Ponamu, New Zealand's
south island. Anthony, the owner of a pizzeria and backpackers called
the Beach Whale back in Kaiteriteri was nice enough to drop me off
here. I met Anthony a couple of days ago as I stepped inside the
Beach Whale after hearing that there was some live music going on. Of
course I asked whether it would be ok for me to jump on stage and
join the festivities. We spent two evenings jamming on the little
stage of his restaurant, in front of a small but attentive audience.
As it turned out Anthony had his claim to fame with a couple of radio
hits in his younger days, and made a living as a musician for many
years before deciding he'd had enough and used his savings to open
the restaurant. Anthony also allowed me to stay in his caravan
outside on the parking lot for the couple of nights I spent there in
Kaiteriteri. When I told him I wanted to go over to Takaka, he kindly
warned me about that so-called Takaka Hill the town was hiding
behind, that it really was more of a mountain, and that whoever
called it a hill had quite some sense of humor! So he told me I could
leave my bike in his garage for a few days, and gave me a lift to the
main road. Takaka is known as a bit of a hippie place in the Tasman
National park. I wasn't especially planning on going there because it
is a bit out of the way of my two months cycling trip from Auckland
to Queenstown, but while I was busking in Nelson someone working at a
place called the « Roots Bar » invited me to come over
and play there, if ever I happened to pay the town a visit.
Only five minutes have gone by
when a white Toyota campervan pulls over to offer me a ride. Driving
the rented van is a young Dutch couple on a six months road trip
through this beautiful land. As we are driving up the mountainous
road I silently thank Anthony for his advice, but also try to
convince myself that I made the right call. The view of a struggling
cyclist about halfway to the top helps comfort me in my decision.
Whenever I am not the one on the bike, I always feel a sense of
relief: « Thank God that's not me ! ». But it's
always the hardest thing to leave my bike behind on such trips. I
almost never do so. You have to push yourself so hard to overcome the
challenges of cycling over thousands of kilometers in such a hilly
landscape that what keeps you going is the thought that when you've
finally made it, you'll really have surpassed yourself and
accomplished something trully special. So this feels like I'm letting
myself off the hook. I do tend to be excessive in what I do: that's
how I work, that's how I get things done. I throw myself completely
into whatever it is I have undertaken.
As they drop me off at the top of
mainstreet, I hand them one of my cds as a thank you. I head into the
first shop I see to ask for directions to the Roots Bar, and it turns
it's right next door. I also learn something interesting as the
shopkeeper and I get to talking: he used to work at a little place
called the « Dangerous Kitchen », a little further down
the road, and they have live music there too, so I could always ask.
The weather isn't looking too good this week end, with quite a bit of
rain to come, so I might not get to a lot of busking done. Indoor
options do sound good! I thank him for his help and head next door.
That's the Roots Bar indeed, but
unfortunatly the guy who invited me over back in Nelson is away for
the weekend, and the girl behind the bar has no idea who I am.
However to her knowledge no one is scheduled to play here tonight, so
I can always send an e-mail to her boss.
While waiting for a reply I decide
to explore main street in search of a nice busking spot while the
weather still holds up. Colourful painted storefronts and peace
writings on the walls definetly give the place a hippie vibe.
Restaurant menus suggest a variety of organic foods. Bohemian style
clothing, colourful patchworks and baggy trousers seem to be the
dress code. I decide to follow the sound of music as I enter a place
that's half thrift store, half tea room, and a third half live music
venue! An out of tune honkey tonk piano, guitars missing a string or
two, a couple of djembes and a washed up drum kit are the instruments
of choice. There are already three or four people playing, so I pick
up the guitar that has the most strings left, and decide to join the
jamming fun of shuffle blues and reggae.
As I head back out after a couple
of songs I find myself a perfect spot in front of a closed up nature
and fishing shop. It has a covered entrance, which is perfect given
the weather forecast for the afternoon. People of all walks of life
pass me by as I set up my busking equipment.
I
start with Utopia, as
I often do, but here more than ever, it feels like the right place to
do so. This is a song I wrote a few years ago between my two stays in
Canada, after reading a book about how the world back in the sixties
and seventies was like the carefree teenager to today's grown up
world. How the dreams and innocence of youth were now over and it's
time to face facts after decades of unbridled consumerism and brutal
exploitation of the earth's ressources.
It
turns out to be a great session. People are hanging around and
enjoying it from both sides of the road. And I have sold a few cds
too. Once I am done playing I cross over to the Dangerous Kitchen
place to ask them if they would be interested in me playing tomorrow
night. They are, and the deal is a meal, a drink, and a 50$ voucher
for the restaurant. This isn't much, especially given that I probably
won't have the time to spend much of my voucher anyway, since I'll be
leaving the day after. But I came here to play, and the place does
have a cosy vibe that will be just right for my songs. And it looks
like it's going to rain cats and dogs tomorrow, so it's a deal.
Soon after I also receive a
confirmation for the evening at the Roots Bar. And it looks like the
pay is better this time. Great!
Next up on my list is finding a
bed for the night. While I was busking there was this one lady who
offered me a room to stay at her home outside of town. But when I
told her I would most likely be playing at the bar until late this
evening we both agreed it wouldn't be possible. I am not in luck this
time. I didn't book any accomodation, and because of the bad weather
all three backpackers in town are completely full for the weekend. I
usually prefer to camp, but I had to leave all of my tenting gear
back at Anthony's along with the bike. So I finally head back towards
an Old West style hostel I had spotted earlier right on the corner
opposite the Roots Bar. With its saloon and old school furniture, it
felt just like the kind of place Lucky Luke and Jolly Jumper would
have made a stop at for the night! It's also a bit more expensive
than the other backpackers, but at least it has vacancy and the rainy
weather doesn't encourage me to take any chances elsewhere. Plus it's
conveniently situated for tonight. I'll take it.
It's now 7pm, and I am setting up
for the gig on the little stage of the Roots Bar. It's everything
you'd expect a blues bar to be: dim blue and orange lights,
beers, burgers, and lots of background noise. The boss warned me upon
my arrival: I'll be playing over the chatter of people eating at the
tables right in front. It's good for me to go back to these kinds of
gigs everynow and then, for they remind me of how good I have it out
on the streets, where I have control over my sound and I can hear
myself properly, at least most of the time (unless I am playing next
to a road busy with trafic of course). In a bar I sometimes feel
like people take live music for granted, it's there in the
background, fighting it's way over the chatter and laughter. In the
street, a good song becomes the most unexpected of gifts to people
just passing by in the rush of day.
Still I can tell I am getting the
music through to a couple of them here in the bar today, and those
are the ones I sing for. Those are the one's that might come for a
chat after the show. The owner's of the Roots Bar are cheering and
enjoying it too. I mention a couple of times that I have an album and
cds for sale, but I am not getting my hopes up: cd sales are usually
quite slow in bars. It turns out I still sell most of them my while
busking.
Every now and then people will
offer to book me gigs in proper venues, so that I won't have to play
on the street any more. While I am all for it, they should know that
I'll always come back and play on the streets for the pleasure of it,
for I trully love it here.
Both gigs today were nice ones.
One on main street, one in the Roots Bar. But if I had to pick only
one, I would choose my busking gig. Even with a bit of cold and rain,
that's the one I enjoyed most, the one that made my day. I am very
lucky to feel this way. Something about playing on a street corner
appeals to the romantic in me. To the poet. I am a dreamer, and maybe
that today, singing my songs on the streets of Takaka, I was the most
hippy of all.
*****
World we were so young
And love’s the word that told
freedom
World we knew no rules
Oh were we fools?
To live for fun knowing someday
we might grow old?
I’m a 1960’s child and I
can’t help but wonder why
The polar bear has no ice left
to stand?
I’m a flower power child, how
come I see in black and white?
When everything seemed so
colourful then
Look back on these hippie years
Setting out to write the future
When Utopia was not left to
dreamers
World land of possible
Where no’s no word, yes says
it all
World throw in some colours for
faith to blossom
From the ashes of a land once
young that’s now grown old
I’m a 1960’s child and I
can’t help but wonder why
The polar bear has no ice left
to stand?
I’m a flower power child how
come I see in black and white?
It's a warm monday evening as I
step out of the Club Soda, a nice old cabaret theater on Saint
Laurent Boulevard, where I sometimes volunteer on National
Improvisation League game nights. Improvisation matches are quite
popular here in Quebec, for this is where it all started back in 1977
before later gaining popularity in other French speaking countries
such as France, Belgium and Switzerland. It is modeled on hockey
games and takes place in a small imitation ice-skating ring, with two
teams of six players each, a referee, and even a guy playing themes
on the organ, just like in an actual hockey game! The themes and
rules of each improvisation are drawn by lot by the referee before
each round. The audience votes for the winner by show of hands with
cardboards to the colours of the teams. Today's game opposed the
Greens to the Oranges. Although it does rather sound like a fight
between fruit and vegetables, it was another great game with no
shortage of wit and laughs.
I decide to take a walk up to Parc
Lafontaine, in the heart of the plateau Mont Royal, one of my
favourite places to go to and work on my songs in the evenings.
Photogenic twisted staircases ornament the colourful brick plexes
bordering the streets along the way. The eclectic architecture of
Montreal makes for a most interesting walk, with more hidden gems
around the corner than first meets the eye. Colourful victorian
houses, gothic revival cathedrals, castle shaped fire stations, art
deco monuments, roman catholic churches and modern glass buidling all
stand side by side, fighting for spotlight in this patchwork urban
landscape. Montreal feels like several cities superimposed into one,
and yet it does work beautifully, nothing here feels out of place,
however unlikely the mariage.
The historic park welcomes me
with a cool breeze. I am about to pick a spot in the shade of a
century old poplar tree by the side of the lake when I hear notes of
blues harmonica in the distance. That has to be Simon, I say to
myself, and so I decide to go on and follow the sound of music
through the park's winding pathways. Finally a lonesome figure
sitting on a washed up wooden bench appears from behind the hedge
around the corner, and surely enough there is Simon, giving all he
has to a Big Bill Bronzy tune, his all time favourite. We exchange a
knowing smile as I grab my guitar out of its case and sit down by his
side to join in the blues. It has been that way ever since we first
met in this very park, about four months ago ; Simon has been my
brother in soul, and we have shared many great jams under the shade
of the old trees. I then go to the first chord of one of my own
songs, Stand up Charlie, I know it is one of his favourites.
This is a song I wrote for children who are war victims of left over
landmines from conflicts, who either die or end up losing limbs when
all they were doing was playing innocently in a field. I also wrote
it with the humanitarian action of NGOs such as Handicap
International in mind. Simon once told me he simply wouldn't get it
if I didn't make it big time with that song; that song was gonna be
my big break, he was adamant about it. There is also room for an
extended harmonica solo at the end of the song, allowing him to play
away to his heart's content, with inspired solos that would lift the
song to a whole other level.
There's something about Simon. He
has a beautiful soul, one of a true poet. He works a variety of
manual jobs during the day -gardening, painting houses, construction
work-, all so that he can free his mind for his writing once the work
is done. I find this approach inspiring: many times have I noticed
that some of my best songs came out of the blue after my body and
mind had been devoted to a completely different task. Simon's best
friend died suddenly about a year ago, and I can tell how deeply
still this loss affects him. Both philosophers at heart, two kindred
souls sitting on a bench, we'd spend hours wondering about the
meaning of life and singing the blues. Other times we'd head off
towards the subway to do some busking, either at Sherbrooke or Saint
Laurent Stations, passing by Square Saint Louis and its colourful
Victorian houses of purple, red and blue. There in the subway, under
the blue lyre that marks the spot, we'd sing and play our hearts out,
our melodies riding the waves of the crowd at rush hour, hoping our
little songs could maybe ease some of that stress away.
My internship here in Montreal is
coming to an end, and I 'll be leaving Canada soon. I bought a guitar
during my stay here, a nice little parlor size acoustic from Simon
and Patrick, handmade here in Quebec. This is the guitar I have been
busking and songwriting on for the past seven months, it is really
lovely, and I am very fond of it, but I already have a guitar to take
back with me on the plane. Simon once told me he would like to learn
blues guitar someday; this little parlor would be perfect for that.
And call it destiny, she even bears his name. These two were clearly
meant for each other. So I have decided that I'll leave her here in
his company, she'll be in good hands.
