Nobody is throwing
cheeseburgers in the Siene river ,
but in the U.S. , we poured plenty
of red wine in the gutters and
toilets of this splendid nation
because politicians say the French
hate Americans. They don't---
mostly. French people can
separate their political distain
from cultural appetite. All the
kids in Paris dress like american
skaters. All the bands sing in
English, most of the musicians I
met want to play in the U.S., but
are scared to come because they
think people here hate 'em so bad.
There is a shitload of Americana
antique stores, rollerblade/
skateboard stores and plenty o'
Micky -D's . People allways
cheered just for saying I was
from New York City.--I thought
this would would have gotten my
ass kicked- mais au contrere mon
frere!
February 25, Le Pulp, PARIS .
Five solo performers including
Andre Herman Dune, David
Hermane Dune, and myself. All the
Musicians, aside from me were
French , and all of them sang in
English .-except for me , somebody
's got to... I got a super luvly
response afterword . And we all
danced and went crazy to Davids'
D J ing -60s Nancy Sinatra type
stuff mixed with occasional Iggy
Pop. David makes an icredible
dance party-200 or so drunk
Parisiens dancing many of them
very attractive young ladies. Solo
antifolk night with sixties music
dance party afterwords -75-125
people for antifolk part ---200 plus
for sixties dj -ing.
Febuary 26th the Pop In, PARIS
David Herman Dune set up this
night, and it was just little old fat
ass me. David also does an open mic
here, on another night, but I didn't
have achance to see it, cause David
missed it himself as we were in
Nantes...I think. Anyway, I forgot
to switch the thing on the snare
that makes things all snary-soundy
---as a result this might have been
the worst sounding, and yet the
bestest show I ever did. I don't
know what happened. Maybe cause
I new my sound was shitty, I went
totally nuts. I recognized a few
faces from the night before.
There was just tons of whooping and screaming back and forth in the funnest way imaginable . I danced around with them. I would translate a song in french, and when I didn't know a word , such as "balls" , people would yell out " les cuilles"! You see, we can work together on important issues! It was so much fun. It was the only time in my life I've been asked to do five extra songs. they wouldn,t let it end. People were yelling "go, go ,go!" super fast. It was a total party . Andre did a song with me which we ended collapsed on each other and somebody's feet. Quel splendeur!
February 27th a small pub I can't remember the name of in TOURS, FRANCE.
The brothers Herman Dune procurred their new van for the voyage. They were complaining about how uncomfortable it was. But it was huge and brand new with plenty of room to sprawl. Tours looked like a smaller version of Paris about the size of Madison Wisconson. I opened up for Herman Dune in this tiny pub on this tiny mideivel(sp.?) street that that was absolutely jammed packed with people there to see Herman Dune. My translations of sex stories in French were met with plenty of enthusiasm . Lots of fun luving whooping and yelling. people kept bobbing their heads and dancing for both me and Herman Dune . Herman Dunes set was really special. Davids' energy was really extreme and magnatizing. He passed out afterwords in the pub owners up stairs room that was filled with smiley people, giant bowl of saled, French cheese, wine and cigarrettes. The pub owner put us up in a hotel that was completely empty accept for us and a family of three that followed Herman Dune three and a half hours from Paris to witness their glory in Tours, even though they could see them any time they want in Paris without traveling 3 and a half hours to a town not many tourists go to - that's luv. They found Herman Dune the following morning in a large breakfast room , totally empty with plenty of empty tables, but they sat right next to Herman Dune. And they were so happy to talk to them The father brought his guitar, his wife, and their geogeous teenage daughter, who brought her pet rabbit with her in a cage.
February 28th Ecran Sonic, Saint-Lo, France
This show is a great example of what sweethearts these Herman Dune kidz really are. Out of the five nights this was the only one that I wasn't on the bill. They hooked-up solid hour-plus slots all the other nights, and I told them I was totally cool with sitting this night out. But they gave up twenty minutes of their own set to me. Herman Dune was headlining and it was sold out, and the auditorium has at least a 450 person capacity, and there were already two bands playing before Herman Dune. It wasn't an easy or convenient time or place to squeeze an extra person, and their extra set up time into the evenings festivities. --But they did. Ecran Sonic means sonic screen, and it was a big -government subsidized - auditorium with huge sound board, big lighting system, smoke machines, security guys in fancy jackets, and an enormous staff. When we pulled in to the parking lot there was this huge , half a block long, ultra glam tour bus parked, with the driver standing outside smoking a joint. We parked a solid 15 to 20 feet away , but as soon as we did the glam-bus driver told us to park somewhere else because he was going to be hosing down their sacred mega bus. The bus was for a band from Williamsburg, Brooklyn, that I had never previously heard of called ..the Scissor Sisters. They thought they were headlining, and when they found out that they were not, their manager nervously tried to soothe their outrage by telling them "It doesn't matter, you're still the most important band". Each band had their own dressing rooms , stocked with candy, beer, chairs, and a shower, and yet the female Scissor Sisters singer was bitching .. "that's not a dressing room ..at least not what I would call a dressing room" in this total Joan Crawford way, only she wasn't joking. Apparently, they sell 60 thousand records a week, and have a top 10 hit in England. They were the most snobbed out muther fuckers I ever met. They couldn't be bothered opening their own cans of soda-pop. But the guy singer, Jake somebody was really nice and they were very generous with their magic-bus cigarrettes -- they just got back from Amsterdam... Their music is like funky euro-disco-pop. They're all whities and their fake African American soul-brotha singing accents could only work outside the U. S. where people have a harder time hearing the fakeness of it. Having said that, they did get more people dancing than any other band that night. And they were the only ones to use the infamous smoke machine. Maybe there is a connection... I was scared to follow them. Both cause of the cheesyness and their success with the audience. I started out criticizing U. S. foreign policy, cause I'm dangerous like the Dixie Chicks, and played a song about the transcaspien oil pipeline in Afghanistan. This song seemed really appreciated over there -the more colder northern towns- where life is shittier seemed hungrier for social-political things. This is a chilly, freezing ass town on the Normandy coast-it was snowing. Neman and David had x-girlfriends here, and were nervous about running into them. After a twenty minute set, Herman Dune seemed to think it went well enough to let me do another song---see...these guys... They already broke off twenty minutes of their set, and now giving a little more. People were lightly bobbing their heads and yelling back and forth with me in calland response things and clapping ...but they were not dancing and partying like they did for the Scissor Sisters. So I wasn't sure how well this was going until at the end I gave away c. d.s and they freaked and pilled in up front, pushed over the barricade with their arms outstretched, yelling and grabbing and sqeezing my fluffy slipper shoes. The security guys in the nice Tommy Hillfiger- like jackets tried to intervine, but it was too packed for them to make it. I threw some cds way back to ease things. It's totallyperverse , but it's awesome watching people squeese themselves together and mown down barricades to get your free cd---if it wasn't free I'm sure it would be a different storie. All of Herman Dunes' sound was so articulate and big. They're energy was mellow compared to the Scissor Sistors , but it was real. And they sounded Huge and ghostly beautiful in this big-ass auditorum. After the show there were a couple of girls urgantly demanding to meet David. They were cute and totally drunk. Other bands raided they Herman Dune Dressing room, periodically swiping most of their beer. They left the candy and bananas. This happened cause the whole time Herman Dune hung out in this upsairs office/lounge were the staff made everybody(all bands crew and mega-bus guardiens) the most delicious salmon, potatos, and carrot remulade. The carrot shit was a million times better than beer. As we were leaving I met and shared a cigarette - no, a regular cigarette with tobaccy, with some local kids who saw the show . they followed me back to Herman Dune in the vehicle and got really excited to see them. And there was already two guys I didn't know in the vehicle,yaking to H. Dune. They talked for a while, but eventually Neman had to start driving, slowly, away with them still hanging on to the van, drunken, screaming nice things to Herman Dune. We drank in the hotel bar, with the opening band(from Minniapolis) -- I can't remember the fucking name--they were good but kind of pricky, maybe that's why, and their promoter Howard Monk, from London - who was really cool- until almost 4a.m. They refused to makes us any more drinks. Even though I only drank orange juce , it didn't keep me from leaving my guitar leaning against the wall outside our room all night long and the better part of the morning while I snored away, totally oblivious.
February 29th, le Violin Dingue , Nantes, France
Further south from the Normandy coast is the Brittany coast, and it's warm enough to stop snowing. The Funny Violin is the name of this tiny club in Nantes, and the atmosphere felt so great cause it was real, the people were so nice, and all anyone cared about was good art and fun-- not smoke machines and security guys. People really seem to know about "Antifolk" here. It said I was Purple Organ(New York Antifolk exp.) on the poster, and I met some cute american girl who came to the show just cause she heard someone from New York was playing. Herman Dune is super popular here. They more than double sold out this show. It got so crowded inside the club had to close it's doors. And when I looked out the window, this narrow ancient street was just as packed with East Village looking people waiting for Herman Dune. Everybody is so nice, in New York someone would've gotten into a fight. There is an antifolk-esque website here called www. I.F.R.A.N.E.T.com-I think. The opening group was called Bocage, and they were great, I loved them. They are a two, sometimes three piece, and I thought they were the most interesting artists I saw in France, aside from the brothers Dune... I played after Bocage and before H. Dune. The people here were so nice and fun and bubbly sqwubbly. Lots chanting, whooping and yelling and dancing with everybody. It was maybe the most dancy interactively livlynesses, lovlynesses conversationalist luvingness type situation I was ever lucky enough to play in. Herman Dune was superistacally magical. I sang with them on a few songs as did they with me everynight, and it felt smarvelous! Now I gotta tell you about the party the club guy owner threw in this upstairs room, filled with tons of alt-rock posters, shaggy carpet, tables, chairs, coffee, tobacco, wine and a beautiful buffet(mostly vegetarien for H. Dune). It was all humble and unpretentious but lavish. And the people that worked there and their friends were so friendly and fun and kind of innocent -- I swear the way the were giggling and laughing as we feasted and drank too much wine, was a kind of laughing they don't have here in the U. S. of A. I'm not kidding, this sweet giggly(I feel uncomfertable just typing the word), bubbly funness that would in all liklyhood get your ass kicked in any of our major cities, or small towns, and or athletic associations. These were some of the sweetest people I ever met, anywhere on the planet. And they started chanting these French songs super loud, all drunk and together. I can speak French, but I couldn't understand a word they were singing. So I just tried follow the shapes and sounds of their words--I was so happy my eyes were watery. -gotta stop watching so much Oprah. Then after they finished those songs the club owner guy goes to me: "Mosieur, une chanson, s'il vous plait..." Literally it means "Sir, a song if you please..." So polite these kids they are. I tried to conceal what a vain fuck I really am and was like..."no, no, I can't.." and they were all like " yes, yes, yes..." So I did a song acapella about trying to bum a cigarrette of someone in Paris and getting completely dissed in the process. They only heard this song once acouple of hours ago, but they all chimed in singing the very ending part and then screamed and went crazy.-we were in love. An American singing a song of embarrassment and humiliation -solid gold baby. Then other people took turns doing their solo thing and somebody did an Elvis impersonation climaxing in three of his friends help the king crowd surf with his shirt ripped open singing into a cane that he was pretending was a microphone.
The club owner let us stay at his apartment, which was the most band ready apartment I've ever seen. It was like a one bedroom, with a really big living room that had a palm tree , a big ash tray, french windows, band posters, a table, stereo, and about 5 or 6 sleeping bags and just as many slender Euro futons to match,- ready at all times to put up a band of 5-6 -if you say the magic words... I was the only person without shoes at this point, cause I stepped in dog shit(which I totally thought was a message from God). Everybody insisted I leave my shoes in the hallway-no arguments from me. I din't like the smell myself. Everbody smoked their brains out on tobacco French style, and they played the Cure and Serge Gainsbourg cds all night. I had the gigantic tub all to myself until 5 am. Slept the usual 4 hours. In the morning the club owner, whos' bands name is Ichibod Crane, busted out the French bread, jam(confiture), coffee, cigarrettes and apples and oranges, and I talked to everbody in French about problems in global politics. I think everybody would have been happy with just the jam.
