Great write up of Ann Arbor Soul Club at annarbor dot com in anticipaiton of the three year anniversary

Found here!

Ann Arbor Soul Club Three Year Anniversary

Magic City Soul Club - 29 October @ Cliff Bell's Detroit

Flyer by Brad

Mix by Robert


Link to mix.

Videos of when I DJed in St. Petersburg, USSR

The News. Long Post...3 seconds on Wells!

It's taken me too long to write something here about my recent experiences abroad. I apologize to you, dear reader, for this absence.

I'm traveling. I've traveled before; over the past ten years or so I've been fortunate enough to have spent time in Spain, France, Germany, the UK, Mexico, Jamaica, Canada, Peru, Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. Some places were "safer" than others, sure, but I've always felt OK about my circumstances. Obviously, it helps that I'm a male (and not necessarily a typical-looking American one at that), have now accrued enough traveling experience to, hopefully, be aware enough of where I am and how I present myself to parts and people unknown, have mostly lived with locals everywhere I've been, and, at least in Spanish-speaking countries, speak the language. All that said, this editorial/fright piece in the May, 30th, edition of the New York Times entitled "Cume Laude in Evading Bandits" (nice title, dickhead) by Nicolas D. Kristof has me incensed! Read it for yourself. It's short and not sweet and will surely scare young people (and their parents) away from traveling, as it offers such sagacious advice to would-be travelers as the following discriminating nugget: "14. If terrorists finger you, break out singing “O Canada”!" Again, I realize that not all parts of the world are safe, that traveling abroad, especially alone, can be dangerous, and that traveling as a cultural and personal practice is unfortunately, not for everyone (I'm not always so sure I'm made for it myself...), but Americans of all ages need to see the world in order to avoid the personal and cultural solipsisms and solar myths that plague our country and add to the general culture of fear that runs rampant o'er the ramparts.

For a different take on travel, I recommend this interview with Rick Steves from salon.com from a few months back. Who knew this dude was so hip?

***

I spun 45s with a friend named Javi Bayo this past Friday night here in Madrid at a place called Sala Juglar. It was cool to be able to DJ in Europe, and not have to travel all the way to Scandinavia to do it (more on that below), and even cooler that most all of my friends here in Madrid made it out to see me in DJ action. At times, in fact, the dance floor was too crowded for people to really dance. Pictures should be forthcoming! I'm not sure that I was the best selector that night, however, since I was going one-for-one/back and forth with Javi and our tastes don't exactly align, but mostly because I found myself saving all the hott schitt tracks till the end; but the end, it never came. Once we stopped spinning around 3:30am, I went for a nightcap with a friend named Álvaro to a "rockers" bar. I'm not so sure we fit in, especially since Álvaro was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Japanese-looking pants, but it was fun to see that kind of social milieu in Madrid all the same.

The next morning, another local DJ friend, DJ JADD, whose real name is José Ángel Díaz Duran (an only slightly Spanish name, especially when compared to the full name of the Spanish poet and dramatist, Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca), talked me into going with him to a DJ gig in San Sebastián in the Basque Country, in the the Northwest corner of Spain. Carpe diem, I guess. On the way there, we traveled en clase preferente.


José Ángel is an absolute character - at one point he explained to me how he loves train stations and airports because he knows he's always guaranteed to see pretty women in a hurry - so the six-hour train ride was fun enough. My energy was quite low, however, and, as the night progressed I was never really able to fully commit myself to the night. José Ángel was one of four DJs spinning and was by far the best. The others played too much "mehhh" modern soul and "quiet storm" type adult soul for my taste. Always a critic!

The little I saw of the city itself was quite impressive.


The air was fresh and I felt healthy just breathing it in, not like here in Madrid.

***

(What follows goes back about one month in time, and will be fragmentary. If you've made it this far in the post, though, you can only keep reading.)

After Sweden, I went to DJ in Helsinki, Finland as part of the "tour" that took me from Sweden to Finland to Russia.


A surprisingly unadorned city, at least in terms of its "functional" architecture, and one that is currently losing its greenness to thousands of rabbits originally let loose by a crazed pet rabbit owner, I had a fine time in Helsinki with my host, Soul Sami, aka Soul Salmon.



Dude loves his salmon soup. And his rare records. Together with Markus-Setä and Heikki H., Soul Salmon and I spun at Soul Sides on Saturday, April 25. Heikki H. was an interesting type to me, in a good way, and he actually moved to the UK for a couple years because he's that into northern soul. Anyways, I was half-deaf all night, however, due to wax buildup exacerbated by air pressure from the flight from Göteborg to Helsinky a few days before. I have a body; but sometimes it has me. The party was great fun, nevertheless, and we all seemed to get a good reaction from the crowd.

Here I am, dancing mostly with my hand, as I am wont to do.


Before the long night was over, I fell in love with a Serbian named Svetlana. Apparently a common name in the Balkans, Svetlana was not a common name to me. Her jacket was turquoise, her personality was golden. You should've seen her singing along to Pink Floyd at the after-party. "Shine On You Crazy Diamond." However long that song is, she sang the whole damn thing. I was there. The whole time, I was there. She was not to answer my call.

Seeing as how I couldn't hear much of anything, I eventually went to the doctor in Helsinki a few days later to have the earwax removed. A bit of a wasted day in a foreign land, I suppose, but I had to hear.

I will tell you this, though, Finnish reggae is for real! So many dreadlocks. So much love.


From Helsinki, I took an early morning bus to St. Petersburg, Russia. I had heard from former travelers that I would need to keep some money handy in order to bribe the Russian customs police. "They prefer dollars," I was told, but I had no dollars with me. "They will get on the bus and point their automatic weapon at you and demand that you give them money." Huh? I don't know whether I just didn't believe these anecdotes or simply thought I was tougher than the 60 year-old lady that told them to me, but they turned out to be patently false anyway. (As it was, on the bus ride back from St. Petersburg to Finland, I was greeted at the entrance to the Finnish customs office by a lovely little rasta rug.)

Russia was a blur. I DJ'd three nights in a row at three different venues - the final night in Ekaterinburg. Look it up. On a map or a globe, if you have one handy. It's in the interior. The party in Ekaterinburg looked to be the coolest party I've ever been a part of (no pics, unfortunately), but when it came time for me to start my DJ set I cleared the dance floor maybe 20 minutes in. :/ How did that happen, exactly? Well, I could start off by saying that the lights were too bright - even though this didn't seem to affect the partygoers when the other DJs were spinning - but I think it had more to do with the facts that 1) I played more soul than funk* and 2) the crowd expected someone with actual DJ skills, i.e. the ability to mix and scratch, or, in other words, a DJ that did not let the songs go all the way to the end.

I wish I didn't have to say that the pictures will have to suffice to tell the Russian tale, but, for now, they will. The whistle has been blown on this one.

*Perhaps the words of a Russian I met who went by the unfortunate nickname of "Igor" because of his general unattractiveness really do ring true, then: "Funk is one of the American utopias." That is, he did not say the same about "soul."

Göteborg and Party Joel

This past Thursday night was my last night in Göteborg, Sweden, and, even though I had an 8:50am flight out the next morning, I went out Thursday night.

The evening started with a pizza dinner with my relative, (see my previous post for more info. on this) Mark, and his stepson, Jack.


It had been warm that day, but cooled off considerably into the evening. Still, we decided to eat outside because there was a heater next to our table and because the restaurant provided its customers seated outside with blankets.


I've come to understand that this is a common practice in Scandinavia - providing blankets at restaurants to people wanting to sit outside - in part because it's so cold so much of the year that people just want to be outside, so blankets and heaters allows them to eat outside even when it's chilly.

Eventually Mark went back to his home in the suburbs and Jack's best friend, Joel, met up with us and helped convince Jack and I to go out for a few drinks. This only makes sense because Joel was recently named the #3 partier in all of Göteborg! I think you can see it in his eyes. (Also, see if you can find the party pic of Jack, Joel, and me on this page here.)


As the man himself tells it, he lost his job back in January. But he's is a-ok with that, because in Sweden if you lose your job you receive 80% of your salary for the next 200 days. Thus, in Joel's case, losing his job meant a two-week trip to Thailand, a new bicycle, and nothing to do in the morning! Apart from being the #3 party-man in all of Göteborg, Joel also enjoys minimal techno, MILFs, using the affirmation "For true!," and gets laid every night he goes out, which means he gets laid every night.

Family Ties

Greetings from Göteborg, Sweden! While I understand next to nothing of the language, I know that my roots (on my mother's side) are here in this country, with the last name of Lindeman. This has always been known to me, though not in great detail. Brother Jay had to do family tree projects a number of times in grade school, though I never did. Now things are known to me on a deeper level.

I've been staying with some e x t e n d e d family here in Göteborg: first with my mother's cousin, Mark Johnson, his wife, Kacka, their daughter, Ellen, and puppy dog, Twisty, in Göteborg's country suburb of Björsared, and now with Mark's stepson, Jack, in central Göteborg. (I was forced to make the move from the countryside to the city on Tuesday night - a move that was, perhaps, made for the best as I was thus able to see the city itself - as the Johnson family cat, Cartman, had my allergies in such a state that I had trouble breathing deeply at night and thus could not sleep soundly. Cats! On Saturday night I was the guest DJ at Club Function in Malmö (about a 3-hr drive South from Göteborg). It was a fun night and cool to have Mark come along and see me do my thingthing; I really enjoyed the other DJs, especially all the other excellent and RAER modern soul the other guest DJ, Johan, spun, though found the crowd kinda hard to read and maybe even uninspired. Was it me, my records, or is it just that Swedes don't necessarily go crazy and let it all hang loose in the sweet soul breeze of the smoke-free night? All I know for sure is that I accidentally used the ladies' toilet a few times before i realized my mistake, and that I also used all my free drink cards on Gin and Tonics and glasses of Estrella Dam.

Tuesday was the main event, though. Mark and I headed out for the Swedish midlands in his Prius in search of our common, Swedish roots. I was thoroughly groggy from the night before, however, since I was basically unable to sleep, so I myself was rather uninspired as we started off the day tagging along with a group of geology enthusiasts (Mark is a geology prof. at the University of Göteborg) on the lookout for natural springs. Still, we saw some interesting sites, and even came across an ancient Viking burial site in Dimbo, Sweden, before we started off in search of the rather ancient burial sites of our own kin.

Our roots tour started off at the cemetery of a church located in Frösve, where Mark showed me the grave of our oldest know relative on record, Påfvel Törsen, born 1682, died 17??.



In the same cemetery lies the grave of a man who married one of Påfvel's daughters, Sven Andersson, born 1729, died 1772, who was a one time a member of Parliament (or a Riksdagsmannen).

Only a few miles away is Herrekvarn (roughly translated as "Lordmill" or "Mastermill"), the farmland, stream, and mill that Påfvel owned way back when.



Apparently, the doorposts on this current house are the same ones Påfvel had built centuries earlier.

The next stop was a brick factory. No relation to the family here, but Mark, being the curious geologist that he is, thought maybe there would be a clay pit around somewhere. There wasn't. But I still got in a few cool photos.

After that, we went on to see the first gravestone with the actual name of Lindeman on it in the cemetery at Värsås church. (Again, Lindeman is my mom's maiden name.)



Jonas was born with the surname of Andersson, but at some point he and his brother, Anders, took on the name of Lindeman. Jonas was a pastor at the Värsås church in the mid-1800s, and apparently developed a reputation as being quite a character. (More on this later...) Jonas lived with his wife, Johanna Regina Mebius, on the parish farm called Klockaretorp. Up until this past Tuesday, there had been no information recorded regarding this farm, save its name, but Mark had a hunch that we could find out something more if he started to ask around. Unlike in the States, in Sweden many farms have names and keep these names over the years. Thus, Mark asked about Klockaretorp at a local gas station, where the attendant told him that the name rang a bell and that it was the second farm over yonder. We arrived at this spot quite excited to have possibly found something new to add to the records and started taking pictures of the house after no one answered the door. We eventually noticed, however, a little old Swedish lady coming out of a nearby woodshed; upon speaking to her she informed us that the house in front of us was hers and had never belonged to a Lindeman. She did recall the name though, along with the farm name of Klockaretorp, and pointed to a different farm about 1/2 kilometer away in the gray distance.

The first house we came to on the land turned out to be a rented home, but the couple there told us that the farmland was indeed called Klockaretorp and that the current landowners lived in the next house over. As no one seemed to be home there, we started taking photos.



As we tooled around the plot a bit, a blond farmer dirtied by the land and animals came out of a storage shed. Mark asked him the relevant questions, and the man confirmed that we were in the right spot! He even knew an anecdote about ol' Jonas Lindeman, the kooky preacher, which he related to us in broken English about the time Jonas, also a blacksmith, was doing his blacksmithing and was so caught up in his work on a Sunday morn that he lost track of time and didn't realize that church had already started and that he wasn't there to deliver the sermon. Eventually, his wife notified him of his error, and Jonas, all covered in soot, ran to the church a few kilometers away, where he delivered the Sunday sermon, dripping sweat and soot. HAHA!!

Our new-found farmer friend told us that the original house on the parish farm, built at some point in the 1850s and where Jonas and his family used to live, was still standing, though now being used as more of a shed. This is it!



The first Lindeman who made it to Kansas, Johan Rickard Lindeman, most likely lived in this house as a child and struck out from here when he left for America. Johan died in Salina, Kansas - where my mom is from - on December 6, 1907: seventy-three years and ten months before I was born.

Interview with me in Russian (with terrible English translation as well)

Not kidding. This interview is in anticipation of my DJ dates in St. Petersburg, Russia, on April 30th and May 1st.

Here is a LOL translation of the interview provided by Babel Fish.

Full English text below.

HELLO ROBERT, LET US KNOW MORE ABOUT ANN ARBOR SOUL CLUB (WHEN DID YOU STARTED, ANYTHING CHANGED NOW, HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU HAVE) ?

Brad Hales and I started Ann Arbor Soul Club in December 2006 at what is really a rock/live music venue called The Blind Pig (http://www.blindpigmusic.com/). Ann Arbor is a college town with a huge student population that attends the University of Michigan, so there are always lots of young people looking for fun things to do on the weekends. At the time - in 2006 - there really were not that many dance parties in Ann Arbor that took place at a club/bar/disco; and those that did exist were either CD or MP3 (Serato) based and focused more on hip hop, rock and powerpop, house/techno, and electronic music in general. Thus, the Soul Club filled a void, in my opinion, as it presented the town with an all vinyl-based (more specifically, all 45-based) dance party that focused on soul music. It also filled a personal void for Brad and myself, as we both wanted to put together a real soul party somewhere where we could spin our favorite records that expressed our true musical passion - namely, soul 45s, be they northern, motown, r&b, crossover, funky soul, or modern. Brad had been collecting soul 45s for years, and had done deals and trades privately with tons of different soul collectors that often came to visit Detroit from abroad (esp. "soulies" from England and other parts of Europe) for a good while as well, but he had yet to find a real outlet for his own soul 45s as a DJ. I was definitely a novice, but had always been a big fan of the classic Motown sound. To be sure, Brad introduced me to "northern soul" proper and always gave me great tips on what records to buy whenever I would go to his record store in Detroit, People's Records. He is my Northern Guru, no doubt, and I have learned a lot under his beneficent tutelage! I can remember, for example, one afternoon early in my Detroit digging days when I bought The Falcons "Standing ON Guard"/"I Can't Help It" on Big Wheel and The Superlatives "I Don't Know How To Say I Love You"/"Lonely in a Crowd" on Westbound from Brad. Both were maybe in VG condition (it's often very hard to find clean records in Detroit, perhaps because all the Brits and Japanese came and pillaged all the stock copies of 45s in the 70s and 80s!!) and together they cost less that $10. I now know that they're both relatively common 45s that have been on the "scene" for decades, but, at the time, I couldn't believe it! I was in love with the sound and started to make the 40-minute drive in to Detroit from Ann Arbor at least once a week to go to Brad's store and buy more and more soul 45s. Sometimes I'd go home with more than 30 45s at a time, sometimes I'd come home with only 2 or 3. As I started buying rarer and more expensive 45s (though Brad's prices are always more than reasonable), I'd come home with smaller stacks, but still feel like I was building up both my collection of soul 45s and the record knowledge that came along with the material objects themselves.

Back to the Soul Club...Brad and I had tried to put together soul nights in Detroit back in 2006 on a few occasions, but those attempts were not very successful (perhaps due to the popularity of Detroit's Funk Night...see below for more info on Funk Night), so we decided to give Ann Arbor a try. It's Michigan, after all: the home of soul music!! The Ann Arbor Soul Club has been very well received since it's inception. We do it the first Friday of every month, and for the first year or so we would have around 150-250 people dancing their legs off from 11pm till 2am (the party officially starts at 9:30, but the dancing crowd doesn't usually show up till a little later on in the evenings). Our numbers used to fluctuate considerably, especially when we first started doing the night, depending on the weather or the time of year - it snows a lot in Ann Arbor, which can keep people at home, and during holidays and the summertime most of the student population leaves town. I'd say, though, that starting this past fall ('08) our numbers started increasing to were we'd usually have 300+ people in attendance on the regular. As it stands now, the Soul Club has simply 'gone massive,' to the point at which we sell out every month, which means more than 400 people through the door, a long line out the door and around the block by 11pm, an absolutely packed dance floor, etc., and our overall attendance peaked this past February at 480. At this point we are one of, if not the, biggest rare/northern soul nights in the USA - the Emerald City Soul Club in Seattle might have us beat in terms of pure attendance numbers, but it's not by much! Our guests over the past 2+ years have included (from the US) Mr. Fine Wine (he's been our special guest at both our 1 and 2 year anniversary parties, Downtown Soulville, Bump Shop, etc. NYC), Andy Noble (The Get Down, North By Midwest, LotusLand Records, Milwaukee), Ben Pirani and Aret Sakalian (Windy City Soul Club, Chicago), Juddy and Gordy (Vipers Soul Club, Pittsburgh), Kevin Jones and Marc Mueller (Emerald City Soul Club), Ron Wade (Minneapolis), Breck T. Bunce (Detroit), Asaf Segal (NYC), Aaron Anderson (Grand Rapids, MI), Joe Moorehouse (Ann Arbor, MI) Jay Wells (my brother, Chicago), and Scott Harlow (http://www.midwest45s.org, Chicago)...and from the rest of the world Dave Thorley and Malayka (SoulShakers International), Rob Moss (UK), Jörg (can't remember his last name, unfortunately, from Germany).

I believe that we have had so much success and so many DJs from across the States and the world guest at AASC because our parties are always packed with people of all ages, races, colors, and creeds who really just want to dance to soul music and have fun. It's not at all like it is in the UK or other parts of Europe where everyone knows all the words to all the northern classics and maybe some folks refuse to dance to certain songs that they don't recognize, find to be too funky, modern, disco-y, or whatever, or refuse to dance to songs they do in fact recognize but don't like. There's no social politics at work at AASC, nor any sense of elitism or militancy, and, overall, it's meant to be an inclusive party; this is a big part of why Brad and I often try to work our way through all the various soul genres throughout the course of the night.... as I said on the message board..."I think it ultimately helps our cause that we spin all types of soul - proper northern, r&b, Motown, modern (god forbid!), some funk (say it ain't so!!), etc. - and don't try to be something that we're not, i.e. British. As I see it, such attempts to rigidly recuperate or re-articulate a certain scene that never took off in the States in the first place tend to exclude the possible participation of good people who just want to go out and dance to good, soulful music and could really give a shit about talcum powder, Fred Perry, scooters, Wigan, etc. Of course these avatars are part of the Northern charm, but you shouldn't have to dress or dance a certain way to go out and have fun." We know we'll never be able to make AASC into something like Wigan Casino, Blackpool Mecca, or Stafford, but that's never been our intent. And while we certainly respect all that the British have done over the years to promote rare soul music and really provide it with an unbelievable forum for its manifestation and appreciation - indeed, there probably wouldn't be any soul clubs at all in the USA if it weren't for the British antecedents! - we've got our on scene going on now. It's a very strong scene that gets stronger every day, too, in Ann Arbor and other parts of the US.

1500 PEOPLE ON THE BIGGEST FUNK NIGHT IN DETROIT NOW IS THAT FOR REAL ? HAVE YOU BEEN DJED OVER THERE ?

Yes, they do now get around 1500 people at the Funk Night in Detroit. Crazy, right?! I think it is safe to say that it is the biggest funk party in the US - maybe the world, too, who knows? It's also an all-night party that starts at 11pm and goes to 6 or 7 am, which is pretty rare for the States, as most bars close between 2-3am, maybe 4am at the latest. Brad started doing the Funk Night around about 10 years ago with Scott Craig (he put together the "Searching for Soul" compilation a few years ago, now lives in L.A.), and he and his current DJ partner, Frank Raines, do the Funk Night the last Friday of every month. They have had to change venues for the party a fair amount over the last couple years, and it now usually includes a live soul/funk band as well, so it's gone through a few different permutations. I have been a guest DJ at Funk Night a couple of times, maybe 2 or 3. For a while they used to have a Soul Room at the Funk Night, and I'd spin in there w/ Brad, and Breck T. Bunce when that was going on.

ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE CAN YOU MENTION ANY SMALL SOUL/FUNK CLUB NIGHTS WITH GREAT ATMOSPHERE, NICE PEOPLE ETC (IN USA) ?

I've really enjoyed myself when I've been a guest DJ at Vipers Soul Club in Pittsburgh, Windy City Soul Club in Chicago, and Gold Label Soul in Lawrence, KS. They just celebrated their first year anniversary at Vipers, where they've got two excellent and fun-loving DJs in Juddy and Gordy, and a very dedicated following already established. The Windy City Soul Club just started a few months ago and is a real DJ collective - I think they have 7 resident DJs in all!! They have yet to find a permanent venue in Chicago, but still seem to pull an enthusiastic crowd everywhere they take the party. And it's high time they had a good soul night in Chicago, what with all the passionate DJs/collectors and, of course, all the soul music history that that city has! I'm originally from Kansas and went to college at the University of Kansas in Lawrence, so I always have a fantastic time whenever I get the opportunity to spin there at Gold Label Soul. It's a pretty small venue, but that makes it more intimate and they really pack the dancers in. Plus, they let me spin just about whatever I want at Gold Label Soul, so I don't have to limit my playlist to where it's only "proper northern," which I do appreciate!

TELL US MORE ABOUT YOUR EMPLOYEE (PEOPLES RECORDS), IS THAT YOUR MAIN SOURCE TO FIND RECORDS ?
CAN YOU MENTION ANY GOOD LOCAL FINDS ? DO YOU DIG ALOT IN USA ?

Over the past few years most of my records have come from Brad at People's Records in Detroit, private deals with various sellers and collectors, and online purchases on Ebay and message boards. I don't go out and "dig" per se in Detroit too much, really. Apart from being a DJ, I'm also currently working on a PhD in Spanish Literature at the University of Michigan, and I'm in the final stages of writing my dissertation and about to enter the academic job market as well, so my record time is ultimately limited because of my commitment to my studies. Although, I'd like to think that records are a part of my" life studies" as well!

People's Records - People's is a vinyl-only record store that specializes primarily in rare soul and funk 45s, dance and disco 12"s, and jazz and gospel LPs, but really covers all genres. Brad is the owner, and has run the place for about 5 years or so. He routinely has record collectors and DJs from all over the globe stop by his store and spend hours going through boxes, piles, and stacks of dusty wax, often finding some real gems if patient enough. After being lost in a tragic fire in March of 2008, Brad had to move his store to a new location, one that was closer to downtown Detroit on Woodward Avenue. The transition to the new store was definitely a struggle, but I'm happy to say that it's doing well at its new location. I helped in the transition with the physical labor like moving records and record bins and such and then went to work at his store about once a week starting that summer. Mostly I'd help to organize 45s or do little odd jobs around the store that Brad really didn't have time to do himself - watering the plants, taking his dog, Irma, for walks, taking Ebay records to the post office to be sent off to the winning bidders. Since the money was tight, Brad had to pay me in store credit rather than dollars for my labor, but I was ok with that!

Some of my bigger recent finds include Silky Hargraves - Keep Loving Me (Like You Do) / You're Too Good (To Me) on Dearborn, Pearl Dowell - Good Things / It's All Over on Saadia, Deep Heat - Do It Again / She's a Junkie on Cu Wu, and Tyrone Thomas - You're Hardly Gone / No Good Man on Polydor. Without a doubt, my favorite cheapie these days is David Ruffin - You Can Right Back To Me on Motown. It's an absolute monster!

THANK YOU!


P.S. ROBERT WELLS TOP 10 45s:

1. Sea Shells - A Quiet Home
2. Andrea Henry - I Need You Like A Baby
3. Silky Hargraves - Keep Loving Me (Like You Do) / You're Too Good (To Me)
4. David Ruffin - You Can Come Right Back To Me
5. Pages - Heartaches & Pain
6. Nelson Sanders - This Love Is Here To Stay
7. Betty James - I'm A Little Mixed Up
8. Pearl Dowell - Good Things / It's All Over
9. Dave Hamilton - Pisces Pace / The Deacons
10. Deep Heat - Do It Again

April 25th in Helsinki b/w May Day in St. Petersburg

Thoughts that must (mustn't) pass through the minds of adolescents

"You know, tonight I kinda just feel like going downtown with my best girl and making out with her in front of the KFC for hours and hours."

The situation in Madrid

I live with seven other people here in Madrid at calle Gravina 14, right off the Plaza Chueca. We are eight: three Italians, two Americans (including myself), one Costa Rican, one Brit, and one German. I am the oldest by a good three or four years, but everyone is nice and responsible and clean enough. Still, I seem to get along best with the Italians, especially the sweet and terribly attractive young couple of Valentina and Paolo, who are also both wonderful cooks. I have made a tentative agreement with them that if they cook dinner for me on _ occasions, that I will take them out to dinner as a means of recompense.

Last night, while walking home from a bar in nearby Malasaña, Paolo, Marco (the third Italian), and myself got to talking*:

Paolo: Who was that playmaker** that used to play for Charlotte? Very short, but fast.
Robert: Muggsy Bogues.
P: Yes, right! Muggsy Bogues!
R: And if you're Gary Payton - "The Glove" - then Marco can be Muggsy Bogues.
P: Why is Marco Muggsy Bogues?
R: Because, like Muggsy, Marco is a short man.
P: OK, OK.
R: So, then who am I?
P: You? Let's see... You're Horace Grant!
R: Horace Grant!? That doesn't make any sense!
P: Sure it does - You wear glasses sometimes, don't you?

* Trans. from the Spanish by the author.
** Actual english word used by Paolo in the course of the conversation.

I'm in Spain, but does anyone speak Swedish?

I ask because I want to know what's being said about me here at the website for the first stop on my Scandinavian DJ tour: Malmoe, Sweden!

More on Madrid - possibly the gayest, smokiest city in the world - soon...

On the eve of my departure...

...from the former colony to the former empire, I compose a list for the reader (myself) and myself.

Things I will miss about Buenos Aires: My hosts - Leo, Dani, and Piolín; todas las chicas lindas (all the pretty girls); mate; fernet and coca cola; the 15 peso lunch around the corner that includes steak or chicken, side, bread, drink, and coffee; the pizza at Pizzería Güerrin; Fernando and all the nice, helpful people at the Librería Norte; the national libray; nights out in Palermo; the accent; Leo and Dani's artwork and watching them create it; walking up and down Avenida Callao (aka Babe Avenue) on the way to and from the library; the buses; the obelisk; various conversations w/ taxi drivers late at night about cell phones, grammar, girls, fishing, Miami, megapixels, etc.; afternoons spent watching the Mexican telenovela, Tormenta en el paraíso, with Leo and Dani from 2-3pm local time; having a supermarket directly in front of my house; being in Latin America...

Things I will not miss about Buenos Aires: the cats; the dinners alone; the dog shit - EVERYWHERE; the humidity; the national library; my bed; waking up with big bug bites; the accent; my cell phone - I never figured out how to 1) access my voice messages, 2) have, let alone turn up, the ringer volume, 3) include periods in my text messages...

The hipster represents the end of Western civilization...

Interesting cultural critique here from Adbusters from July 2008 re: the role of the "hipster" in the decline of the West. Though it could be said that the Chicken Little-like critique itself is every bit as smug and self-important as its object of critique - to wit, the "hipster" - it also makes some convincing points about the vapid and vacuous nature of the cool industry today.

An afternoon at the National Library, as told in a series of brief conversations (translated from the Spanish by the author)

(On the phone, in the park, just outside of the library, with all the cats, including the one with one eye.)
R - Yes, hello. Could I please speak with the Señora Hilda regarding the status of my library card?
? - Hilda? No one named Hilda works here.
R - I think she works on Floor H, in the offices near the Hemeroteca.
? - Oh, right. Well, you've dialed the wrong floor. This is the 6th floor, and you need to call down to Floor H. Here's the number...
R - OK. Thank you.

R - Yes, hello. Could I please speak with the Señora Hilda?
H - Speaking.
R - Hello. I was just calling with respect to the status of my library card. We talked last week about all this, and I filled out the application last week--
H - Yes, OK, but you have to call up to the 6th floor. They'll know what your status is.
R - The 6th floor? But I thought--
H - Yes, THE 6TH FLOOR! You need to speak to Susana Nuñez. Here is the number...
R - OK.
H - Do you understand what I'm saying to you?
R - Uh, yes, I do.
H - Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? You have to call up to the 6th floor!
R - Right. OK. Thanks. Bye.

R - Hello. I think I talked to you earlier, but I'm wanting to know about the status of the library card that I applied for a few weeks ago.
SN - Yes. Hello. OK, what is your name?
R - Robert Wells
SN - OK, let's see, let's see... Yes, here it is! Come up to the 6th floor - we'll have it here waiting for you.
R - Great! Thank you. Bye.

(Inside the library, speaking to one of the employees at the front check-in desk, where I have to fill out a form detailing where I'm from and what I will be doing at the library, because I do not have a library card.)
Check In - Your document, please? What floor will you be going to?
R - I'll be going first to the 6th and then to H.
CI - To the 6th and then to H?
R - Yes.
CI - Hmmm. OK.

(On the 6th floor, but on the wrong side of some glass doors, so I can't get to where I need to go, so, naturally, I ask the midget wearing a leather jacket that's standing next to me if he knows what to do, because it seems like he knows what to do.)
R - Hey. Excuse me. How do I get over there, on the other side of those doors? I'm trying to get my library card.
M - Well, you have to go back down to the 5th floor and then either take the stairs or the ramp (rampa) back up here to the 6th floor.
R - Ah. OK.
M - Yeah. Either take the stairs or the ramp.
R - Right. It's so easy!
M - What?
R - Nothing

(On the 5th floor, going to take the ramp, should be fun, but the lady at the desk stops me first.)
Lady at the Desk - Excuse me? Where are you going? You have to leave your bag in one of the lockers first, please.
R - Oh. OK.

(On the way up the ramp I pass a guard at his post, but we say nothing to each other, and only acknowledge each others' existence with a slight, masculine nod.)

(On the 6th floor, on the proper side of the glass doors now, speaking to someone sitting at a desk.)
R - Hello. My name is Robert Wells and I'm here to get my library card.
? - One moment, please. Have a seat.
(Out walks Susana Nuñez.)
SN - Hello, Robert Snider?
R - Yes, that's me, Robert Snider Wells.
SN - Ah, OK, hello. You just need to sign here and here, please.
R - Sure.
SN - I'll be right back with your card and then you can be on your way.
R - Great, thanks.
(In the meantime a male desk employee missing two of his four front teeth keeps staring at me, and he doesn't seem to realize that we've talked before, down on Floor H, where he told me that he thought the rest of the world should go to war with the USA and that with Barack Obama as President the only real difference is more "dunga dunga" (seemingly a reference made to Africa, the jungle, monkeys) in the White House.)
SN - Here it is!
R - OK! Thanks! It's official!



(In the elevator on the way down to Floor H, and in walks the missing teeth man.)
MTM - What floor are you going to?
R - H.
MTM - Are you Brazilian?
R - No. I'm from the United States.
MTM - Oh, really? I lived in California for a few years.
R - Ah, nice.
MTM - Yeah, I went to the University of Southern California...This is where I get off. We'll talk later.
R - Bye.

(Floor H, in the special reading room, I have my camera and my small notebook with me, and I can see that one of the female employees who I've come to know is there at a desk in a side room.)
R - Hello!
(She doesn't respond to my greeting, nor does she come to the main desk in the room to help me, and thus my uncertainty as to whether or not this woman and I are friends increases. In walks another employee I now know. We are friends.)
R - Hey. Here is my library card!
Friend - Wow! Looks good.
R - Yeah, thanks! I'm an officially licensed investigator now.
F - Indeed you are.
R - OK, I have a few things I put on hold right over there.
F - Of course.

(After looking at these books (really, collections of old cultural/literary/philosophical/political journals from Argentina from the 1920s and 30s) at a table in the back of the room and taking pictures (some more legible than others)







of certain articles that would seem to be of interest to my project, I take them back to my friend at the front desk and ask for a few more. The process goes something like this: 1) I fill out a small sheet of paper w/ the day's date, the name of the periodical I'm looking for, the specific month and/or volume number, the year, the book code (if I don't know the code, and I never do, I have to take the slip of paper to another desk located in another room on Floor H where they look it up for me), and then sign the sheet; 2) I hand this slip to the employee who then signs and dates it; 3) The employee puts the sheet in a sort of small elevator/dumb waiter and it travels down, I think, to some other group of employees in the special collections department; 4) If I'm smart, I didn't turn in all of my materials in at once and still have something to look at and take pictures of while I wait - you're not allowed to bring books into this part of the library; 5) My name is called and I go back to the desk to retrieve what I asked for.)

F - Hey, we don't have this one, but they do have it at the Library of Congress.
R - Oh, really? That's right by where I live here, only about five or six blocks away from my house.
F - Yeah, they have a much better collection of old magazines and journals and the kind of stuff you're looking for there.
R - Oh.

Piolín and Me

Like "Marley and Me," but better.


Our favorite song!
(From the "Lost Tapes")


Our favorite movie!

El arte

As I believe I've mentioned before, I live with an artist couple here in BsAs: Leo Chiachio and Daniel Giannone. They have a big show coming up on March 18th at what is perhaps the most important gallery in town, Ruth Benzacar, and I'm very happy that I'll be able to be there to support them. Recently, their work comes mostly in the form of highly-detailed embroideries (as seen above), along with highly-detailed paintings on porcelain plates and jars. Almost everything they do is self-portrait-style as well, and many works also include their weiner dog, Piolín. In fact, they had a whole show a couple years back where they got all their artist friends to create pieces that featured Piolín and, accordingly, called the show Museo Piolín. In all, what impresses me the most about what Leo and Dani make is how they're able to balance incredible craftsmanship with a wonderful sense of humor.

The blog they created for Museo Piolín can be seen here. Their general blog can be seen here, and here's an interview they did (again, in Spanish) that features photos of their most recent work as well. (If you don't read Spanish, just browse the artwork and follow the links and I think you'll definitely get a sense of what Leo and Dani are and have been up to.


Also, if you can't see the entirety of any of the pieces I've posted here, above or below, just click on them and you will be able to do so.

Uruguay... And beyond!

Now back in Bs As and in library mode, I spent a couple wonderful days last weekend in Colonia, Uruguay. Despite being a hotbed for tourists from around the world, Colonia was a real treat, and I took lots of photos, which can all be seen here. I have also included a few highlights below.


The view looking back towards Bs As from the ferry headed towards Colonia.



I was very happy about the possibility of going to Uruguay!! YAY! :-)



The house where I stayed with my friend's dad (and now my friend), Jorge, which Jorge and his wife built themselves back in the early 80's.



The view from Jorge's house down to the Río de la Plata.



The beach. (It looked better than this, but I think this shot would make a great breakup album cover.)



Downtown colonial Colonia, Calle de los Suspiros.



The lighthouse.



The view out from the top of the lighthouse. Being the escala escaleras that I am, I had know problem climbing the stairs up to the top.



Colonia's coast.




Colonia's old Bull fighting ring, originally built by the Portuguese. It was only briefly in use from 1910-1912. I think they should fix it up and invite Led Zeppelin to play. That would be epic.




A final desolate beach shot.

Another Weekend Report

FRIDAY

It was Friday afternoon and I had plans to go see the Charlie Chaplin film, City Lights, at 7pm at the Centro Cultural Borges. I'd never seen the film before and, coupled with the opportunity to check out the CCB, it seemed like a pleasant cultural opportunity for a Friday eve.

The walk there took about 45 minutes, mostly down Calle Florida. Street vendors in the middle of the pedestrian pathway and stores for mid-range to fine shopping on both sides of the street for blocks and blocks. As it turns out, the CCB is located inside the Galerías Pacífico, which is a shopping mall. Now, the local porteños might tell you that my previous statement is not true, that the CCB is really next to the shopping mall, but, my friends, I'm here to tell you that that the Centro Cultural Borges in Buenos Aires, Argentina, is indeed located inside a shopping mall.

Hence, before I check out the CCB, I take advantage of the consumer-friendly circumstances and do some shopping!

Frankly, I could use another pair of jeans. I brought down two pairs of jeans, along with one pair of corduroys (of no use whatsoever due to the summer weather) and a pair of khakis, but I ruined one pair shortly upon arriving. Open ink-pen in left-hand pocket. For the second time. As luck would have it, however, the Galerías Pacífico houses a Levi's store! I walk in knowing exactly what I want - skinny style, 31 waist, 30 length - but don't know about jean sizes in Argentina. As I peruse the stock all I see are even-numbered sizes. "OK," I say to myself, "Maybe a 30-30 will work." I ask the clerk for said size, but, as it stands, he informs me of the fact that the shortest length available is a 32. This very fact vexes me, since Argentine men are not necessarily known for their height. Not that 32 length means tall person, but, you know, I mean, whatever. Nevertheless, I try on a pair of 30-32, hoping against hope that the dark, denim deities will be on my solemn side. Of course, they're way too long.

By this point, I've still got some time to kill before the show starts at 7pm, so I take the mall escalator up to the CCB. The CCB itself is not much to speak of. Mostly clever quotes and photos of Jorge Luis Borges. Still with time, I end up sitting down in a nearby cafe for an agua con gas and a piece of cake. There's an American couple nearby, and their gestures are as loud as their words, and their words are very loud.

Movie time! The modest theater is like an arctic chamber. The film will be shown off of a DVD with misspelled Spanish subtitles and onto a small projector screen. Directly, the American couple sits down right behind me. As the movie starts, I am sincerely struck by the ferocity of their hyena-like laughter. Yes, the film is very funny. Haha, very funny. Haha, it is to laugh. Despite this distraction, the film is wonderful. The boxing scene especially had me in awe (see below).



City Lights is only 81 minutes. Around the 65 minute mark, the male half of the American couple falls asleep and starts to snore, furiously.

SATURDAY

I have plans for Saturday night. Plans with people I don't know to go out to dinner and then to a play. My main contact for the encounter is a contact of a contact. In her email invitation, she tells me that we will be eating Peruvian food and and the group will be comprised of an art critic, a filmmaker, a photographer, and a chef, so I am intrigued. (Initially, I misread the email and thought that the play would be called "peruvian food first," or something like that. Who holds the blame for this mireading? The world may never know!) We meet up outside of the Abasto shopping center and walk the streets, slippery with rain and dog shit, in search of a Peruvian restaurant. I order an agua con gas with dinner and it promptly explodes all over the table as I twist the cap. I'm used to having waiters open my water bottles for me, I guess. (Please, whatever you do, fair reader, don't ever re-read the previous sentence!) Maybe I'm nervous. I am. But this special congregation of artists is, really, not that special, and, yes, I have had Peruvian food before.

And we're off to the theater! The crooked rain hitting harder the pavement. As we arrive, I try to dry off my wet glasses with my shirt, but that just makes the smudges worse. So, while in the baño, I take advantage of the privacy and clean my glasses with the very fabric of my life: my cotton boxers.

Now, the play is being performed at the Beckett Teatro, which excites me. I ask one of the guys in our group if he's at all familiar with the work of Samuel Beckett, attempting to explain in my slightly slurred (chicha and beer at dinner) Spanish the scene in Beckett's novel, Molloy, in which Molloy has a set number of stones that he sucks on and rotates from pocket to pocket and pocket to mouth in various iterations for a good ten pages or so. As to the logical question, then, of whether it was the best or the worst introduction to Samuel Beckett, I'll respond by simply saying "Yes."

The play we see has absolutely nothing to do with Peruvian food. It's named Angelito Peña and is written by some famous Argentine stage actor and director named Julio Chávez. With reason do we find ourselves at the Beckett Teatro, for Angelito Peña is certainly theater of the absurd, bordering on the abstupid. It starts with a Paraguayan woman reading the White Pages out loud in an under-enunciated monotone. By the end, I'd say I took in maybe 25-30% of what was said. Luckily, it was a short play.

Reviews are mixed within the group. We look for a bar, for a drink. It's raining harder now. We duck into some hippie tango dive for a beer, but most of the group is losing their social energy. One, though, Carla, has a party in mind. I'm down and I accompany her while the others return to their homes. At the party, Carla doesn't really know anyone and I need to pee (and clean my glasses again!). Eventually, Carla runs into someone she knows: a dead ringer for the actress, Chloe Sevigny, named Julieta. Oddly enough, most of the partygoers are aspiring actors, including our Julieta, who is kind enough to show me me the way to the bathroom. I knock. No answer. I can see that no light is on on the other side of the door. I pull and I push as hard as I can on the door, but it won't open. I come back to Julieta and Carla and tell them of my predicament. Can't see, need to pee. Julieta walks back with me and, with the grace of a girl who, in every single way, looks like a semi-famous actress, she slides the door open.

Cementerio de la Recoleta

RawBerto's Holiday Chestnuts

For those that have been roasting them on the regular, here's a list of the artists included on the mix:

1 - Lee Harris
2 - Albert Jones
3 - Andrea Henry
4 - Ike & Tina Turner
5 - David Ruffin
6 - Silky Hargraves
7 - The Soul In-Pressions
8 - El Pooks
9 - David Peoples
10 - Johnnie Mae Matthews
11 - Ann Byers
12 - The Volumes
13 - The New Yorkers
14 - The Valentinos
15 - Gene Chandler
16 - Frances Nero
17 - Betty James
18 - Nelson Sanders
19 - Fabulous Playboys
20 - Top Hat & Little Jeff
21 - Sweet Charles
22 - Margie Joseph
23 - Breakwater
24 - Larry McGee Revolution
25 - The Staples Singers

Weekend Roundup

It was all supposed to start on Thursday night.

Lenni, an unknown of an unknown, though clearly a known man about town - and how could he not be with that look(!) - had told me that I could spin some of my 45s that night at Makena as part of a party called AfroMama Jams. I was told to show up around 1am: I would have 45 minutes on the decks; I would not be paid. Lenni also told me to bring the heat, for the good people in Buenos Aires like to party hard. That was all fine by me, as I have sincerely missed DJing, and feel like I can let a heat rock loose when called upon. Unsure of how Northern Soul, and, for that matter Northern Rob, aka Roberto del Norte, aka DJ Good Flavor, aka DJ Buen Sabor, would be received in El Sur, I felt nervous all the same.

In the end, I had no reason at all to be nervous. There were no turntables at AfroMama Jams that night, and my debut on the Southern scene was not meant to be.

There was, however, a pretty good funk/soul/hip hop cover band at work. They even covered "I'll Bet You" by Funkadelic, which I though was pretty hip.



My favorite part of the evening, though, was when the B-Boy break dancers started making their moves. One, in particular, felt confident enough in his skills to get up on stage and dance when the band was in the middle of a "Give it to Me Baby" (Rick James)-"Thriller" medley of sorts. (Only now do I realize how the basslines in those tracks are strikingly similar, so the combination ultimately makes great sense.) As I looked closer at the B-Boy, however, I noticed that his sleeveless t-shirt had something written on the front of it. After struggling to make out the letters, in a flash it all became clear: his sleeveless muscle t simply read "The Beatles." I found this to be a supreme cross-cultural moment, and wondered aloud if the B-Boy had ever break danced to Ringo's drum solo at the end of "Abbey Road."

In the course of that Thursday night, a young man named Fabrizzio approached me to see if I would be interested in spinning records at his bar that Saturday night...

"Of course! That'd be great! What's the name of the place?"
"..."
"La Evita?"
"..."
"What? I can't hear you. Is the bar called La Evita Bar? Like, Evita Perón?"
"Levitar!"
"Aha, Levitar. Like the verb. To rise up. To levitate. I get it."

---

Fabrizzio told me to arrive at Levitar at 1am as well on Saturday night. Parties in Buenos Aires go late, to say the least, and the function at Levitar would go all the way to 10am. Hence, very few heard my spot from 1-2:30, save those that worked at the bar and were setting things up. In fact, the place didn't really get going till around 5am. Nevertheless, I had fun, I danced, I enthusiastically sang along to Wild Cherry, Kool and The Gang, KC and the Sunshine Band, and, who could forget, Jamiroquai, and got home around 6am. I think the young people ultimately want to hear hip hop and the hits down here, and they don't really seem to care whether the music they're hearing and dancing to is off vinyl or mp3, so that's that.

---

In other DJ news, at this point my Scandinavian tour looks to be set: April 18th in Malmöe, Sweden, at Club Funtion; April 25th in Helsinki, Finland, at Soul Sides; and April 30th and 31st with The Fabulous Mr. C in St. Petersburg, USSR. That's what's up!

El "look"

Translated from the Spanish

Robert - You know, it's like sometimes these waiters in these restaurants, they look at me funny. Like they anticipate that they're not going to understand what I say before I even say it. They give me this look, then, and they look at me not as if I were a foreigner (extranjero) but rather (sino que) an alien (extraterrestre).
Leo - It's because you don't have the face of an Argentine.
Robert - Really? You don't think so? I don't look that different do I?
Leo - Well...I take back what I just said. It's not that you don't have the face of an Argentine, but rather a face from a different decade.
Robert - Ahhh.
Leo - So it's not really a question of the geographical zone, you see--
Robert - It's a question of the temporal zone. I get it!
Leo - Yes, and not a question of the time zone, mind you. There is a difference.

Out to eat

LUNCH

I had intentions to eat lunch out. It was a hot day. I recalled a place named Bar Sitio (Bar Place) that wasn't too far away and always seemed to have a group of girls eating in front of it. I made my way, arrived, took a seat outside, but only a pair of teenage boys sat drinking beer at a nearby table. Oh, well. I was hungry. I had my book with me.

Not too long thereafter I reckoned that it was indeed too hot to sit outside, so I let the waiter know of my desire and changed tables and moved inside. The ceiling fans made their cool noise, no doubt; yet I started to sweat with greater intensity. At that point I looked up to the ceiling and noticed that I had unwisely chosen to sit under the one ceiling fan that did not work. It sat there motionless, clueless, much like myself. Furthermore, the clientele was solely comprised of men over 50. No women, no girls. I took out my book - Amuleto by Roberto Bolaño - and started to read.

It was a nice lunch: steak sandwich w/ lettuce and tomato, french fries, agua mineral sin gas. Just what I had wanted. I only had some thirty pages left in my book, so I thought I might stay there and finish it, despite the heat. My earlier buzz had by then completely faded. (Dani, one of my hosts, and made me a mimosa around 1pm, when I was still in my bedclothes, my thin arms covered in mosquito bites from the night before in spite of our best efforts to keep them away. Later that afternoon I would ask him if he had any insect repellant that I might use to spray in my room. He did. "Do you know how to use it?" Dani asked politely. I did.) I had heard once that when it's hot outside it's better to drink something hot, which made me then remember how an ex-girlfriend once told me that hot tub water is good for your complexion (this latter piece of advice being a true bourgeois remedy). Red wine seemed like the closest thing to a hot and alcoholic drink that I could think of, so I asked the waiter for a glass.

"We don't have any right now," he started. "Wait, actually, we have _____ in either half bottle or full bottle. Which would you prefer?"
"Well, can I just have a single glass?" I replied, not sure if I had heard him right or not.
"No! Half bottle or full bottle!"
"Ah...Half bottle then, por favor."

I had thirty pages left in the book and 7/8ths of a half bottle (7/16ths of a full bottle) in front of me. I went to work. Who knew what I would finish first. Red wine tends to go straight to my dome.

DINNER

I had just bragged to my father in an online chat session about how I hoped my next meal would be "something other than steak." I was serious, though. Steak the night before, steak sandwich for lunch earlier that day. So, I went to a restaurant that I had been to for the first time just days before called Bar España (Bar Spain), where I had had a tasty fish dish for lunch and received excellent service. The fish had been one of the daily specials that day, which meant a cheaper meal, and I went for the daily special again this evening, not really knowing what it was: riñoncitos al verdeo. When in Rome! I knew I recognized the word riñon, but couldn't exactly place it. The dish arrived. It looked stranger than I had expected as the waitress served some on to my plate. It smelled strange, too. It wasn't until I took my first exceedingly chewy bite, however, that I remembered what riñon meant in English: kidney.