News - #21 JUNE, 2001

We're back! At last we have a new newsletter. For weeks (that's a spin tactic, it's actually been months) we've been unable to get into the driver's seat here at SRMP since Yahoo "merged" with egroups. One morning David woke up early and figured out how to "merge" with yahoogroups all by himself. He is once again your fearless moderator. We wish to thank Peter Schwarz for taking time out of his busy schedule to run this thing while we were locked out and for taking care of business while we were overseas. Overseas Yes, we were overseas. Several of them. It started in Glasgow, Scotland. Sam and David went early because they like alien ambiance and because they wanted time to see more of that beautiful country than the hotel and look for something besides hamburgers. When we arrived at immigration and customs we were greeted by an old man and woman in blue uniforms whose faces were postcard-perfect Scottish, with pinkish and clear complexions that could have been greeting a frosty highland morning outside a thatch-roofed cottage. They opened their mouths and nothing came out that we could understand. We soon learned to stop and think for a moment after a Scot has spoken. Sometimes if one waits the translation will come without having to say "'Scuse me?" twenty times a day. Those two government officials were the first of the hundreds of friendly people we met in Scotland. They gave the impression that they took the job so they could meet a new person every sixty seconds. After hoteling ourselves we met up with our friend chef de cuisine Simone Cormier, from Rayne, Louisiana, who had been there for a week traveling on her own, and found a nice restaurant/bar where we sampled the excellent local fare, complemented by a few glasses of Scotland's finest. Much of the food is served with "tatties and neeps," potatoes and turnips. It was all wonderful except for the background music, which sounded like stomach noises from a hungry whale. The non-smoking section had one table. But back to whiskey. On Simone's urging, we sampled each of the six classic single-malt whiskeys chosen by the Master Distillers of Scotland to best represent each scotch-producing area of that fine, relaxed country. The six are: Glenkinchie, from the Lowlands; Dalwhinnie, from the Highlands; Cragganmore, from Speyside; Talisker, from the Isle of Skye; Oban, from West Highlands, and Lagavulin (Simone's favorite; Sam liked them all), from the Isle of Islay. We hope that those of you who care not a whit for whiskey at least enjoyed all the pretty words. We took a train ride through the snowy Highlands to Oban, then a cold, windy ferry ride to the Isle of Mull. We also went to Edinburgh Castle and trudged the streets of the old city, found some haggis, which is not too different from our Cajun delicacies, paunce or chaudin. It's stuffed stomach, anyhow. When Steve, Kevin, Blaine and Scott band got there we went back to work, which ain't bad when you have a job like ours. The Glasgow crowd at the Celtic Connections festival was new to us but they were hardcore lovers of music who filled the hall and made lots of noises as if they liked us, and we believed them. The day before that show Sam was knocked flat by some bug, probably clad in plaid. He got up there a little woozy, but the crowd response was very healing. Sam: "I mended like a champ, and thanks to all." England Saturday morning dark and early we all went downstairs to Central Station in Glasgow and boarded the train for Gloucester. The hotel clerk asked David, "Ah dyoo wa a se'o ya beow?" David: "I just looked at her speechless. Then she said,'Wi a cdedi caduh?' and I recognized 'credit card' and deduced that she had asked me, 'How do you want to settle your bill?'" It was no easier with the porters in Birmingham when we changed trains. When we reached Gloucester we were surprised to find the locals speaking clear English. We were told by a cabby that thirty miles away in the Forest of Dean the accent is incomprehensible. We played to a sellout hall in Gloucester, with a warm reception to our band and to all our new material. If anyone didn't like our songs they were ashamed to admit being traditionalist, which has perhaps become a bad word nearly everywhere. We stayed up jamming until five at the hotel bar, though Sam was a good boy and retired to his bed with his vitamins and a fresh jar of Neep Concentrate. He missed some great music and some truly unique individuals. The next day after the workshop David asked the Guildhall crew for help connecting to the internet because we had no phones at the hotel. They went all over the building till they finally found a normal phone line and while David was connecting the guy said he would be right back because he was "...going to have a splash, you know. Siphon the python." David chuckled at that while he checked his mail. That night we jammed onstage with Chris Hall's band, the Bearcats. That was wild. Chris is an animal. Hey Chris! You're an animal! Their band roared like the thunder of Empire. Fiddler Jock Tyldesley sat in, and he has a groove you can almost taste. And, and, his girlfriend, the lovely Vera, is one of the finest Cajun rhythm guitarists anywhere. It's a dying breed at her level of playing, and we appreciate her care and love for Cajun music, and Jock's, and all the Bearcats. Speaking of Jameson, the fine Irish whiskey: Jameson has a creamy, velvety texture when consumed in the UK. Back here it does not. Curious, and always intrigued by the metaphysics of altered states delivered by ancient arts, Sam bought a bottle at the corner store near Chris's house, and another upon arriving home here in Louisiana. He didn't trust his unrefined palate, so Simone came over to help. In truth, that velvety texture was lacking from both bottles. They had a few more modest samplings and reminisced about the trip, recalling as much of the feeling, the ambience, as they could. Sure enough, they began to taste that ethereal creaminess. It never lit on their tongues as powerfully as it had in the UK, so what other conclusion could they come to? You had to be there. Who can explain this? A distiller? A shaman? Blah Studio We had been invited by Ann Savoy to play on a project teaming Cajun musicians with famous international artists and playing classic Cajun songs, so the next morning Scott and David got up early and rented the van and drove it over to Odiham, a tiny village south of London, where we found Blah studio hidden deep in the countryside. It was an incredible building, an old hop kiln, and we set up and waited for Nick Lowe and Ann Savoy to arrive. They did and we rehearsed Nick's song until Nick said, "Why don't we just push this one off the pier and see if it floats?" and we recorded it. He did a great job with his French. Then we cut to a tape of Linda Thompson singing the Balfa waltz and we learned Pa Janvier by Dennis McGee and did a track of that for Bryan Ferry to sing to when he recovers from the flu. Simone took Nick's Mercedes to town and bought fixin's for a fabulous coq au vin for twelve that made our day right then and there. Some day we'll tell Nick about what happened with his Mercedes on that little errand. Simone: "Nothing happened." Driving Leftist There are no freeways across London. It's a maze. The streets change names every few blocks. Going from South London to Soho is a big project. Hell, remembering to drive on the left is a big deal. Throw in some rain, narrow streets full of traffic, a boxy van with a stick on the left hand, thirty-five roundabouts and a wrong turn. When we arrived at the gig David, the driver, needed a nap. There was more rain and more gigs. Derby, Sheffield, Stockton-on-Forest, Lichfield Guild Hall. The support of the English crowds, including quite a few who went to every gig on the tour, and the enthusiastic reception for our new songs made this the best British tour ever. The only thing that made most of us anxious to leave was the relentless rain and cold, though Sam liked the rain and cold. The van was loaded by a reluctant bunch of Playboys. Not reluctant to leave, we were reluctant to load the van again. It was 4:15 pm and as always, almost dark. Three rainy motorway hours later we entered the spaghetti bowl of Heathrow Airport in search of diesel and Terminal 3. Missing it on the first pass we double-parked and were assisted by a turbaned cowboy porter with a cart. We followed the turban to the Malaysia Airlines desk and innocently tried to check our luggage. The fellow informed us that we were 150 kilos overweight (must have been all that beer we drank) and that it would cost us 1500 pounds to take the extra weight to Australia. That's around $2000 dollars to you Americans. After regaining our composure Kevin decided he had some drums he could do without, so we lockered them, and the bags went through with no problems. Australia Then the flight took off and that was the end of winter. Those who peeked out of their windows early in the morning saw the Himalayas floating like clouds high above the earth. When the lights came on we had breakfast, sort of, and looked down over the islands west of Burma with their turquoise harbors and white beaches. When we arrived in Melbourne it was 104 degrees out. It felt great. Steve and Sam and David went to an Aboriginal art gallery in hopes of finding presents. When we met Rodney Wharton he was sitting on the floor making unearthly sounds through a didjeridu. It's just a big, hollow stick with a hole at each end, yet he played it so hypnotically that we almost went into a trance. Inside the drone he created were incredibly rhythmic, naturalistic sounds. It was the music of the Outback, and the music of his family line. This was the high point, getting to know the Aboriginal culture - its joyous art and its sad history. This kind of cultural revelation is becoming one of the major reasons to continue to play music. Rodney explained the principles of Aboriginal painting. They started with landscapes in overhead view, almost like maps, and through the years the design elements began to be more abstract. It's like how Cajuns take traditional musical shapes and recombine them in new ways. It turned out to be the art gallery tour because we three spent all our spare time looking for cool and cheap paintings and prints. Australia itself, what little we saw, left an indelible impression. Melbourne in particular had such a relaxed feeling to it. A big, sprawling city it was, but with wide boulevards and older neighborhoods, perhaps like Los Angeles forty or fifty years ago. Its ethnicity was a joy. The Australian gigs were fantastic. We really got the feel of the place this time since we had a few more days there. When you hear "No worries," everywhere you go, then relaxing gets pretty easy. After the Perth Festival we weren't really ready to go home, but Mardi Gras wasn't going to wait. That's enough for now. The saga continues in a couple of weeks. By David Greely and Sam Broussard, for the Mamou Playboys. back to news