Owlspotting

The end of the year is a good idea to make lists, so here’s one of albums. Yes, this is a very subjective line-up, but that doesn’t mean I don’t highly recommend every single one. You can use the trust-worthy Hype Machine to stream these bands (with the exception of #3) in case you’re not familiar with them. And you are strongly encouraged to protest and share your own personal top 10 for 2006 (or top 5 or top 3).

1. The Decemberists – The Crane Wife
When a band puts out two consecutive albums that you rank as best of the year, that’s a sign. It’s a sign that for the first time in many years I can–at least for now–answer the question: “What’s your favorite band?” The Crane Wife is a beautiful record, chock-full with the band’s trademark storytelling (the Japanase folk tale of the man who saves a crane, the ballad of a dead soldier and another saga of star-crossed lovers from rival families in the key of last year’s gorgeous “We both go down together”).
>> Must hear tracks: O Valencia, Yankee bayonet, Sons and daughters.

2. Tilly and the Wall – Bottoms of Barrels
This is not the first time Tilly and the Wall get a shout-out on this blog. I love this band. Its indie-pop is infectious, sincere and just cheesy enough to wipe any traces of the irony so prevalent in the genre. Tilly’s sophomore release continues to mix keyboards, acoustic guitars and the trademark tap-dance percussion to create a party atmosphere, occassionaly broken by a love-and-longing type slow cut with witty lyrics: “She was crazy, a downtown kind of baby.”
>> Must hear tracks: Bad education, Urgency, Coughing colors.

3. Niste Baieti – Adunate din popor si cantate din popor
A friggin’ Romanian record made the list at number 3! This album is probably as high less because of its music and more because of what it means to have a punk cover album of Romanian songs of the 1980s and early 1990s. Romania is a country where irreverence towards established cultural phenomena is still in its infancy, and nothing is more awesome that slapping fast guitar riffs and screams over songs that tortured the childhood of so many in my generation. This is a not a tribute album in the mold of the Gimmies, this is harcore mockery. And it rocks!
Must hear tracks: Un actor grabit, Daca ploaia s-ar opri, Ioane Ioane.

4. Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins – Rabbit Fur Coat
Jenny Lewis is the lead singer of indie kings Rilo Kiley and a woman songwriter with one hell of a bite. Would you want a love song from a woman that sings: “Ah fuck it, here’s your love song”? “Rabbit Fur Coat” is her first solo effort, one she described as a “sort of soul record.” Add some touches country music, great writing and Jenny’s mellow voice and you have the perfect album to listen to when day breaks.
>> Must hear tracks: You are what you love, Handle me with care, The charging sky.

5. Snow Patrol – Eyes Open
Snow Patrol is probably the most mainstream band in this line-up, but they are rockin’ guitar band (even thought many have said they are a sissy rock band). Sure they sing stuff like “It’s all clear now that you are all that I have.” but it all has the vibe out of outdoor late spring concert when you can jump and bop your head to anything. But before you label them radio-friendly rockers, take a listen. They have it.
>> Must hear tracks: Set fire to the third bar, Hands open, Chasing cars.

6. Beirut – Gulag Orkestar
Beirut, the project of 20-year-old Santa Fe native Zach Condon, nails an amazing indie-rock interpretation of Eastern European gypsy music and klezmer. It sounds and moves like a Kafka short-story and it’s definitely not your everyday musical treat. Listen for cellos, accordions, mandolins, ukuleles, trumpets and violins. This is indeed an orchestra album.
>> Must hear tracks: Mount Wroclai, Postcards from Italy, Bratislava.

7. Neko Case – Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
Yes, I’m a late adherent to the Neko Case cult, but I’m glad there was still room. A member of the New Pornographers, Case has been recording solo albums for a while. She sings similar folkie-country songs to Jenny Lewis, but with a hoarser voice and a whole lot more darkness. “I leave the party at three AM/Alone, thank God/With a Valium from the bride/It’s the devil I love/And that’s as funny as real love.”
>> Must hear songs: Hold on hold on, Maybe sparrow, Star witness.

8. Damien Rice – 9
Please don’t ever let Damien Rice write happy songs! This guy is so brilliant at being miserable that it would be a shame for him to become content and secure in a relationship. Not only that–Rice somehow manages to keep some semblance of a spine when he sings his break-up anthems. He also gets the award for best use of “fuck you” (it’s all in the repetition) on “Rootless tree.”
>> Must hear tracks: Rootless tree, 9 crimes.

9. Regina Spektor – Begin to Hope
If Tori Amos was born in Mother Russia and took her first few baths in fresh vodka, she still wouldn’t have that immigrant allure of Regina Spektor. This is one artsy singer, a rocking pianist (the songs are built around the piano) and the third woman in this line-up. “Fidelity” is arguably among the best songs I’ve heard this year and the video to it is gorgeous.
>> Must hear tracks: Fidelity, Samson, On the radio.

10. The Dresden Dolls – Yes, Virginia
The Dresden Dolls, Boston’s most beloved band at the moment, also rock the piano hard. But the dolls are not just music. They are cabaret, they are vaudeville, and they are always angry and pissed at stuff. Just hear Amanda Palmer singing about getting a sex change or telling the world to get balls and speak up. Riveting.
>> Must hear tracks: Sing, Modern moonlight, Necessary evil.

Welcome to Owlspotting v 2.0 (v 1.5. launched in March but that more to do with domain name migration).

If you couldn’t tell, the blog has been getting a face lift over the past week, complete with a neat way to display a full archive broken down my month and title post. If you are new to this blog, welcome. If you are an original reader, thanks for sticking with this and enjoying the Romerican/American schizophrenia. After all, as my good friend Romerican once remarked, I’m playing the role of the Ameroman.

While new content waits to be born (more or less following this coffee-heavy manifesto), enjoy these blasts from the past:

>> July 2005 >> The running song

>> September 2005 >> Subway masturbator (by Elle)

>> October 2005 >> That guy using the dishwasher

>> February 2006 >> The Americans are coming

>> February 2006 >> Bullshit (in Romanian)

>> April 2006 >> Romanians shoot and upload video

>> April 2006 >> Losing stories

>> June 2006 >> Romania is so NOT gay

>> September 2006 >> Big Steve brings the vodka

>> September 2006 >> I want to own a street corner

I write four hours before I am to take the (indoor) soccer field in my first competitive game in Boston.

I just joined a co-ed league and I have yet to meet my teammates. It’s apparently a series of six on six games (four guys, two girls) spread over two months, a battle of the ages for a morale-boosting trophy. Sounds exactly like the kind of challenge an Eastern European man is suited for.

As I look at my gym bag, stuffed with indoor shoes, socks and shin guards, I smile (and tremble) in anticipation.

This morning at work somebody said soccer was boring. This argument doesn’t rile me anymore because soccer in America IS boring, and I believe it’s because parents waste tons of hours watching their kids play. And their kids, well, they suck (most of the time).

Soccer is an equal opportunity sport in America. The kids that play are most likely the ones that didn’t seem destined for quarterbacking their high school team or pitching deep into the summer in little league play. They play soccer because everybody can. It’s less a game than an exercise. As long as you don’t trip while chasing the ball–and like a swarm of bees they all chase the ball–you’re a soccer player.

Growing up in Romania soccer was a dictatorship of the able. Fat? Stay inside. Scared? Play and we’ll slide tackle you into manhood. A girl? Please, don’t waste our time–go prepare for motherhood.

I wouldn’t go as far as saying soccer was survival, but it was integration. If out of the 20 boys in your class you could make the team of seven playing against the other classes, you had some sort of life. If you weren’t good enough, simply being there wouldn’t help you. Not even your gym teacher would plead your case. After all, he doesn’t want the other gym teacher (who is taller and beefier anyway) to find more reasons to mock him.

Soccer is boring in America because it’s safe. Not only physically, but socially. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I will admit the cynic in me says nothing is worse than making soccer boring.

I am not much of a player. I barely made the first seven through grade school and probably reached the status of being fourth or fifth in rank on our high school team, but we only had 10 boys in our class. Still, if I am to rank my best and worst soccer moments on the field, safety–of any kind–wasn’t part of either. And yes, of course we were playing on cement. I almost never played on something other than cement until I came to grad school in the US.

Here’s the worst:

Sixth grade. Our team, the class of 6A were in the school final facing our arch enemies, 6D. We played 6D often in gym class and it was always war. We had two kids in our class who had been playing professionally (whatever that means in sixth grade) and the rest of us were not too bad either. We even had a great goalie, Vali. The game went to over-time and it seemed to be headed to penalties to break the tie. That’s when a long ball was lobbed towards our box. I was playing defense at the time and ran to head it out but caught it to late. What I did was give the ball a bounce further back rather than push it forward. What I didn’t know was that Vali had ran out of the goal himself. As we both turned to follow the arc of the ball, I knew I’d never forget this. I was watching the downfall of a potentially good memory. The ball landed in our open goal, and one minute later, our dream crumbled when the whistle blew. I had scored a memorable own goal and my classmates were not very happy. A couple wanted to beat me up, other cursed my mother. I thought it safe to stay home for a day.

And here’s one of the good ones (none of them can claim to be the best):

Senior year of high school. At the end of high school, each class gets to play a friendly game against a team of teachers. Since there are often not enough teachers to field a competitive team, former and current students join them. For their game against 12 F (my class) they had the best goalie in our high school, a slim and aggressive fellow that loved to come out and rough the strikers (I was now a striker after my defensive exploits years back). It wasn’t the hardest game we’d ever played and the stakes weren’t too high either. But we had a crowd and it’s always harder to play when people cheer for your team. But on that night, it all worked great. We thrashed them 8-3 and I scored five of those (or was it 5-2 and I scored three? Pffff, memory). Of those five or three, there’s one I’ll never forget. I got a pass in empty space and I was running at the goal, when all of a sudden the goalie charged like a bull. I couldn’t avoid him, but he was slick enough to slide into me, literally swiping my feet and tossing me in the air like a rag doll. I landed pretty bad and I could tell there’d be blood. I got up slowly, bones intact, and there was indeed blood from a cut on my knee and a bad bruise on the elbow. But the ball was in the net and the crowd loved it.

Update (a day later): Our indoor team won last night, resoundingly so. Final score: 13-5.

When owlspotting launched in the summer of 2005 it had little definition (which didn’t make it less funny). Over the past 16 months I often considered writing a blogging manifesto, partly because I wanted to find something to use the word “manifesto” in, partly because I believe any outlet needs a definition, even if that definition is: “This blog has no purpose.”

Looking back at this blog I have come to understand a few things:

1. This blog was always about something and that something is a search.

2. One of those searches is a search for identity, which is really a pretentious way of saying that through this blog I tried to write about the things that excite me: Romania, snapshots of today’s world, indie pop, putting people through tables etc. I love journalism and my blood races every time I talk about it, but I can’t say I have found my place in it yet. Writing about the things that make me who I am is a process of self-revelation. dbrom, which I edited for five years, gave me a similar feeling of riding the wave of the moment and jotting down as much of it as possible.

3. The other search is search for meaning. Not the meaning of life–that’s something better suited for a South Park episode or a European flick clocking in at 347 minutes. I’m more modest. One’s identity as a writer is one thing. The meaning of their work (for themselves and those around them) smells like another blend of coffee altogether. I couldn’t write solely for myself, so I am trying to balance my interests with my naïve beliefs that good journalism and storytelling can change lives or at the very least enrich them. I know that This American Life, Ira Glass’ wonderful concoction broadcast on public radio has changed mine numerous times. At this point in my career, I feel that my blog is the only platform where I can evaluate the meaning of what I write (and sometimes I like what I see).

4. Speaking of what writing means. owlspotting also taught me people care more about Coca Cola C2 than I ever believed they would. Stay tuned for a breakthrough post next week.

5. Ultimately, this blog is (or became) a search for a place. I didn’t expect Romania to play such a large role in the identity of this blog. owlspotting started in a small room in Brooklyn, NY, far from Romania and far from everything Romania meant to me. I was riding the “L” train into Manhattan every day, walking the streets of Greenpoint and gazing at the hipster zoo that is Williamsburg. But Romania seeped into my writing like caramel and after dedicating three months to it during this summer, I can’t just drain it. Today, I am in Boston, riding the “T”, seeping bitter house blends in wireless-infused coffee-shops, but my country is sitting next to me, like a Rain Man I can’t let go off.

I put the blog on hiatus last month because of this realization. A horoscope said last week that my 2007 will be a decisive year. Probably what it meant is that I have to decide for a physical space: America or Romania. Not for forever but for at least a couple of years. With the exception of plastic bags, nothing is forever. And it’s not a dramatic choice. But the idea of “home,” the realization that I’ve been a nomad for more or less seven years, the pull of language and the need for more professional responsibility (read “succeed or fail on the basis of my ideas alone”) is making this choice necessary.

Bradut tagged me recently asking to recommend a book. Without much hesitation I thought of Norman Manea’s “The Hooligan’s Return” (Intoarcearea huliganului). I have used the tagging excuse to pen the words above and to come clean with my intentions. This blog, much like Manea’s book, is a chronicle of a decision and probably its aftermath.

The difference is that Manea’s book is pretty much awesome.

Manea is a Romanian writer who left the country in 1986 at the age of 50 after going through the motions of the communist regime and refusing to believe there could be a better life away from his country and more importantly, away from his language. Manea saw very well the destruction and emptiness of the communism, but wasn’t convinced exile was the choice. A Jew, he had gone through exile once before when his family was marched to the Transnistria camps by the Nazis and the Romanian soldiers during the war.

The book is a chronicle of that first return, of the communist years and of Manea’s dilemma surrounding a planned second return, in the mid-nineties, to a post-communist Romania. Manea never believed in the transformational power of exile and he never really felt at home away from the country that made him who he was. He writes (in my crude translation from Romanian):

“Exile, a rescuing disease? A to and fro towards and away from myself: trying to find myself, trying to replace myself and lose myself, and do it all over again from the beginning.”

Manea is not only weary of what he will find in post-communist Romania. There are other ghosts haunting him, not the least of which is his dead mother, who he couldn’t be there for as she closed her eyes. There are his artist friends, some of whom also died. And there is the racism and the right-leaning nature of the Romanian people. Manea is a critic of some of Romania’s most prominent intellectual figures (such as Mircea Eliade and Emil Cioran) and their support of the Romanian fascism in the 1930s. Soon after the 1989 revolution, some of Manea’s essays were branded “anti-nationalistic” and newspapers labeled him an enemy of Romania.

But he knows he has to make this 10 day trip home, and this conflict between his new life in New York and his past in Romania, is gut wrenching. He writes of his arrival in Bucharest: “I am here and I am there, neither here nor there, a passenger disputed among time zones and not just them.”

What resonated so powerfully with me is that Manea doesn’t find the answer. He doesn’t decide on which time zone is better, he doesn’t decide his friends in New York (Saul Bellow and Philip Roth among them) are better than the ones he left back home, but he throws himself in the torrent of the search. The book is a battle with the demons of the past and the present and in the end Manea seems to have made peace with them, accepting the torment of living in between two worlds.

“If you miss your homeland, you will find in exile more and more moments to miss it; but if you succeed to forget it and begin to love your new place you will be sent home, where, uprooted, you will begin a new exile.”

My search has just begun and I am not looking for a definitive answer on what “home” is. Adi cautioned me before I left Romania in October that “home” is not necessarily a place. He is, in his grumpy way, right. What I know today is that I don’t want to accumulate too many demons before launching this search. The ones I have are enough for now.

I guess I did end up writing a manifesto. owlspotting: a search. It almost makes me want to come back to this blog. Doesn’t it make you want to do the same?

Owlspotting is currently experimenting with a new design, an updated look, and it’s also looking to shake the rust off its editorial identity–the Romanian period heavily dominated this space and the blog needs to find its way again. If you have any suggestions, comments or ideas of things you’d wanna read about, drop some comments here.

The blog should be back up and active by the end of the year.

“American Hardcore” is a documentary that tells the story of the early 80s Reagan years and the rebellion embodied by the hardcore punk movement led by bands like Bad Brains, Blag Flag or Minor Threat. The anger and frustration expressed was the protest outlet of kids who couldn’t stomach the American normalcy endorsed by the Reagan regime.

Indie rock and indie pop are currently my own private form of hardcore. The past two decades have ushered in a truck load of irony, cynicism and sarcasm that gently slaughtered lyrical honesty in favor of metaphors. I went to see Tilly and the Wall last Wednesday night because they are a band that sings love songs. Not love songs with a twist. Not love songs with a sprinkle of defensive irony to protect themselves from people bullying the band. Just love songs–corny, clicheed, hummable, danceable love songs.

The Black Cat show in DC was the second time I got to see Tilly and the Wall. The first time they were the opening band to Of Montreal in a small wooden shack called MoJo’s in Columbia, Mo. As they took the stage in the spring of 2005 I didn’t know a thing about them. As they stepped down, I rushed over to the merchandise table to do something I only remember doing once since–buy their album. They were charming, energetic and beautiful. Almost everybody in the band contributed vocals and Jamie’s percussion was done by tap dancing.

Tap dancing! There was this large metal cilinder on the stage and Jamie tapped her way through the show, creating sequences of pounces that rendered drumming irrelevant. “Wild like children” (2004) was an excellent album, anchored by show stoppers like “Reckless,” “Fell down the stairs” and encore closer “Night of the living dead.” As 2005 wrapped up, I was still hooked on the album.

The Black Cat show was part of the band’s tour behind “Bottoms of Barrels” (2006), an equally poppy record featuring flamenco riffs on “Bad education” and a couple of stripped down near-acoustic gems such as “Love song” and “Coughing colors.”

Pony Up! and Love is All were the opening bands and they were good. Pony Up! is a female foursome from Montreal (how many bands exist in that city?!?) that play soft tunes with a feisty grace. The great thing about watching small bands is getting to hear cover songs. Pony Up! covered “An honest mistake” by The Bravery and turned a dancing tune into a whispered plea. The bass player also rates a solid 3.5 out of 5 on the bass player hotness meter. She would have been a four were it not for the fact that she looked better just strumming the chords rather than jumping and moving around, which she did with a noticeable jolt of self-counsciousness.

Love is All is a big Swedish hit that goes all out in packing instruments on top of each other for a symphony of armonies topped by the Karen O-like screaming of Josephine. Love is All gear includes a sax and a cowbell, but the rhythm is almost entirely built on furios guitar riffs. This is the kind of Nordic band that goes takes the buzz it carries and runs with it for a 30 minute aggressive show and then bows out quickly. Get ’em while they are hot.

And then came Tilly and the Wall.

Those of you who have seen rock shows over the years know the paradigm of stage placement. Most bands are foursomes or threesomes and they created either a diamond on stage with the lead singer in front or a triangle with the guitar player(s) on par with the singer. Not Tilly and the Wall.

Because there is no drummer, there is no one in the back of the stage so everyone is pushed forward forming a line at the front of the stage. The band from Omaha, Nebraska is a five piece and at the Black Cat they had an extra guitar player accompanying them. What’s so great about this band is that they are not one person’s band with a bunch of back-up people adding to the experience. This is a unity!

Tilly ran through most of the songs on their two albums and created memorable moments that showcased their strenght. While Love is All pilled on all the sounds, Tilly layers them. The best example is “Lost girls” that starts acoustic. Then come Kianna’s piercing vocals and Neely’s backup humming. Jamie then adds percussion, Nick busts out the keyboards half way and by the end we’re looking at a completely different song, but one that has progressed so naturally.

“Bad education” is the song that sounds most different live and that’s because the album version packs a trumpet, a violin and an accordion. The band said the song is the most elaborate on “Bottoms of Barrels” and it definitely packs the punch and storytelling.

So is it really one hour of love songs? Well, yeah. That’s pretty much what it is and it is awesome. The band made this statement of purpose clear in “The Ice Storm, The Big Gust and You,” the closing track on “Wild Like Children.”

No we won’t be scared
No we won’t back down
We will sing pretty songs about love
And we will fight if that’s what it takes
And we won’t back down
No we won’t shut our eyes and go to sleep
We will write all over your walls
And we will dance to no music at all
We will do what it takes to get through to you

And yes, I admit it. Kianna Alarid is quite something (photo from Andrew Kendall).

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Must-hear Tilly songs:
* Night of the living dead
* You and I misbehaving
* Bad education
* A perfect fit

For more Tilly and the Wall:
* Stream some of their songs
* Watch Tilly videos
* Tilly on MySpace

One mid-August morning caught me on a train from Bucharest to Sighisoara. I had just spent two weeks there with my friends–going out at night and taking the first subway home, sleeping in cars in Vama Veche and getting pissed at Placebo. I was staring aimlessly out the window when the train stopped in Brasov. I perked up suddenly to watch the scene that was unfolding outside.

A young man was loading two heavy suitcases onto the train, while a small group of people watched him patiently, willing themselves to smile. It took me a second to realize what was going on. The young man had just finished high school and was jumping on a train headed for Western Europe–Vienna or beyond–where he would attend college hoping for a better education. On the platform were mom, dad and grandmother wrestling each other to hold him one last time before he boarded. Off to the side stood his two guy friends, caught with their guard down in a rare moment of vulnerability. Behind them, small, with her hands tucked deep in her pockets, stood his girlfriend.

He left his suitcases on the train and jumped off again. Mom and Dad rushed to hug him once more–they kissed him on the forehead, stroked his cheek and arranged his dark hair. They started crying and hugged him yet again as if he was heading for the end of the world alone. He broke free and walked through them to his girlfriend. They hugged and kissed shyly. The wind only knows what promises they made to each other. He shook the hands of his two friends and then jumped back on the train just as the whistle blew.

When he disappeared from sight, I got a lump in my throat. Seeing him on the platform made perfect sense. I knew the scenario. Smile, hug them, crack a few jokes and then jump on the train to start your journey. Sure you will miss them, but they shouldn’t be so sensitive about it. After all, you’ll call, write, visit… it’s not that big of a deal.

But I had never seen THEM.

As the train started moving, the group on the platform was all I saw and they weren’t what I had imagined myself three years ago. Mom and Dad were pinned to the ground crying. The wise grandmother was waving, swinging her arm wildly. The girlfriend, one hand out of her pocket waved just barely. The two friends gave up all pretense of being cool and started chasing the train, tears pouring from their eyes.

I had never seen anything this personal and it was painful because I finally understood that leaving is not only about the person taking off. It wasn’t just about me three years ago, and, as I count my last hours home, it’s not just about me now.

I have been saying goodbyes for a week and I probably broke down after each of them mostly out of being overwhelmed by the feeling that the person cared. I am at a loss for words, out of thanks and out of conclusions. I wanted to feel what returning home was like and I got a full platter of it.

I wish I could say I’m leaving a wiser man than the kid on the Brasov platform. Hopefully I am—time will tell.

What I have left is music, which always said everything better than I ever could. Here is my “Goodbye Home” playlist, a 31-track monster that I’ve been putting together for a while.

Oh yeah, Romania fucking rocks!

1. Ben Kweller – Run
2. The Decemberists – O Valencia
3. The Postal Service – Such great heights
4. Snow Patrol – Set the fire to the third bar
5. Placebo – Meds (Feat. Vv Of The Kills)
6. The Cardigans – Give me your eyes
7. Jack’s Mannequin – MFEO Pt. 1
8. The Killers – When You Were Young
9. slackstring – Stranded
10. The Mountain Goats – Half dead
11. The Decemberists – Yankee bayonet (I will be home then)
12. Tilly and the Wall – Do you dream at all
13. Rilo Kiley – It’s a hit
14. Yo La Tengo – Beanbag chair
15. The Pipettes – Judy
16. Lily Allen – LDN
17. Muse – Supermassive black hole
18. Dirty Pretty Things – You fucking love it
19. Panic! At the Disco – Only difference between martyrdom and suicide is press coverage
20. Pink – U and Ur hand
21. Meg & Dia – Indiana
22. The Postmarks – Goodbye
23. The Dresden Dolls – Sing
24. The Raconteurs – Steady As She Goes (Acoustic)
25. Tarkio – Caroline Avenue
26. Snowden – Anti-Anti
27. Niste Baieti – Daca ploaia s-ar opri
28. The Kooks – Seaside
29. Architecture in Helsinki – The owls go
30. The Walkmen – Lost in Boston
31. M. Ward – Right in the head

My black Converse All Stars have been through the best moments of the past three months. Every now and then they gotphotographed. I’m putting some of these shots together because they trigger memories.

This shot was taken when Romerican brought himself to Targu Mures. Notice the little red sticker on the right shoe laces. It came from a pack of napkins and it’s still bright red.

Taken at the infamous Targu Mures party in mid-September.

The All Stars arrive in Bucharest.

No, washing would kill them.

The All Stars return to Targu Mures, battered, bruised and drained of color. Look at the sticker and the faded red streak still clinging to the shoe laces.

Yup, the plastic has given in a little, as well. There are major cracks on the side.

It’s cold in them these days so they’ll probably go into hibernation soon. Boy did they do a wonderful job.

Freaky Fridays have made a career over the past couple of months in Targu Mures so it was time to export a little of the magic to the nation’s capital, Bucharest.

I woke up early to be as close to spending 24 hours on the Bucharest streets as possible–thus shining a brief ray of light on Adi’s day, who wakes up every morning at 5 AM to work. Yes, dear reader, somewhere in the bowels of the Bucharest neighborhood of Militari (big up, ba!) there is a man in PJs trying to see the world in the 5 AM cold and no matter how you curl up, you will still wake up in the sound of his furious typing.

One day a few years ago when Andrei was trying to express the fact that he missed me, he said he liked waking up to the sound of me pounding the keyboard. I told him it was not the most heterosexual of things to say, but that I will accept such statements from a man who makes soup wearing nothing but boxers and dancing simultaneously.

Back to the Bucharest Friday.

It kicked off with me being nervous as I had to engage a group of journalists in a discussion about the future of online journalism in Romania and the likes. Although Lavi had promised she will bring some major embarassment to the event (by yelling “yeah!” after I uttered the words “Next Journalism,” I escaped unharmed and with my self-confidence nearly intact. All I can say is that the Romanian online news wars are going to happen in 2007 and it’s not going to be a pretty sight.

From there (12:05 PM probably), the day generated/descended into a consumerist debauchery powered by the fact that there was no way I was going to return home until Saturday. Purchases included: a frozen margarita at Amsterdam Cafe (nothing memorable), cheese pies, cofees, a shirt, a reliable 1,5 L bottle of Cappy Ice Fruit (like, sooooo many vitamins), a Poiana chocolate, two breast-shaped plum gombotzes at Villa Crose, a concert ticket and some vodka tonics.

The anchor piece of the afternoon was “Hartia va fi albastra” (The Paper Will Be Blue), the third movie about the Romanian revolution to hit the street in the last month. It closes an unrelated trilogy and certifies an important moment in the history of Romanian cinema. What could this moment be? Well, seeing three Romanian movies in a row that don’t feature agression towards women or excessive filth and consumption thereof is quite a treat.

“Hartia va fi albastra” is the weakest of the three movies. Sure, they can’t be compared in how they decided to tackle the topic, but they can be compared feeling-wise. And the predominant feeling I experienced watching this movie was sleep. No offense to director Radu Munteanu, but my eye lids were flickering heavily soon after the opening scene. It’s true that it was damn cold and deserted inside the Patria theater–things which encourage sleep–but a steadier hand wouldn’t have been bad.

The movie centers on the unanswered question of “who shot at us” (us, the freedom-hungry people) on the nights of Dec. 21-22. During those nights there were random burst of gun fights in cities across the country and we have yet to figure out who was shooting whom. Popular mythology says the people and the army joined forces to fire at an unknown enemy we call “terrorists.”

The movie doesn’t shed much light on the question and it more or less fuels the frustration. When Costi, a young police officer who leaves his patrol team to join the people defending the television building (where the message of freedom was broadcast from), starts firing at shadows without asking who he’s shooting at it becomes clear how the cover of night and the idea of the revolution was blinding enough to turn frustrated Romanians into paranoid robots.

Here’s what the website of the movie says:

The original inspiration for the film is a tragic incident which took place in the Romanian revolution in 1989, in which two armoured squads of Interior Ministry troops that went to protect a military unit were accidentally butchered. This episode received considerable media attention.

In the days following the departure of the Ceausescus, when the Romanian people had no clear enemy, over 1,000 people died in such accidents and personal vendettas.

This is not a bad movie (not like Munteanu’s “Furia” anyway), but it does fall short in conveying the drama of these accidental deaths.

Before I get to the second big moment of the day, let me just say that walking around Bucharest carrying a plant doesn’t make a man look like a sexy beast. It was Jo‘s birthday this and the second half of her gift (Luiza‘s idea) was a plant–a small bamboo to be more exact (although there were heavy fights over whether the green thingie is actually a bamboo). I had to carry the damn plant, along with its stone-infested little jar for enough streets to feel there isn’t a pick-up line in the world you can succesfully feed a woman while holding this object. Imagine the possibilities of embarrasement a sentence using the word “plant” presents.

The plant spend the night on the couch in B52 where we descended for the “Niste Baieti” show. Yes, the same “Niste Baieti” that I praised in a previous post have returned home to Bucharest to punk after a succesful tour through the country. One of the most fortunate coincidences, because as I write this, my voice is still raspy and the back of my neck is still sore. It was great, great, great and oh yeah, GREAT!

The night did have a specialness to it as it was my last one in Bucharest for a while. Parting with friends is never easy. Parting with them after three months of crazy freaky nights, of stupid conversations, of shared hopes and expectations, of sorrows, joys, regrets and happy coincidences is even harder. I feel like I am leaving home all over again, feeling about as lost as I felt three years ago. And the only thing soothing my psyche in such moments is loud, pumping guitars that have taken upon themselves to say the unsaid and do the heavy emotional lifting.

As Pitchfork said in its review of The Killers’ “Sam’s Town”:

Rock music in the 21st century has been subject to an unprecedented emotional arms race of Cold War proportions. Displaced from its traditional role of party music by dance and hip-hop, rock has focused more than ever on introspection, aiming for resonant feelings rather than escapist fun.

There is no escaping the pain and introspection you feel when you jump on the train and leave Bucharest behind. It’s not the city that breaks my heart. It’s all of them that I leave behind–smiling, crying or poking fun at me…

Coincidences are almost as good as caramel machiattos, which is why I love to indulce in them as often as possible. The latest one is being tagged by Gorgeoux just as I was packed my bags for the big city of Bucharest. Here I am in Bucharest again and here is what the mind of a former inhabitant can cook up on the subject:

3 places I like in Bucharest:
1. The Lipscani area at night. The best ideas of my early adulthood were cooked up on those streets. They also played host to memorable moments of debatable decency.
2. A window seat in any bus or trolley in late spring.
3. The apartment I used to live on Virtutii in the not-so-glam Militari neighborhood. One needs a shelter in this town and that was mine.

3 places/moments (I added the latter) I hate in Bucharest:
1. The first time after a few months of being away from Bucharest when you take public transportation from the train station (Gara de Nord) to your house. The city never looks so frightening and uninviting as it does then
2. The right side strench of the boulevard as you navigate from Unirea to Universitatii.
3. The 41 tram line on days that Steaua plays Rapid. This tram practically links the Ghencea Stadium to the Giulesti Stadium.

3 venues in Bucharest where I like going out with friends:
1. Fire–no matter how uncool, overcrowded and mainstream you call Fire today, I like to think I grew up there. And on those hardcore Tuesday nights of 2001, I probably did.
2. La Motoare–hard to beat for experience sake.
3. All places that keep us there for longer than one beer.

3 things a Westerner would not understand about Bucharest:
1. That “Bucharest is” is a more complete sentence than whatever you can come up with by adding words to it.
2. Why local authorities take so little care of the old town.
3. How thousands of people can squeeze into concrete boxes that strech for miles and miles.

Most snobbish neighbourhood: Any that’s not mine.

Ugliest neighbourhood: All the ones that are not fortunate enough to have me there.

I will torture Jo, Luiza and Lavi with this.