Monday, July 19, 2010

Standing Out In A Crowd

Ahhh. Art. Music.

Wanting more than the standard Greek fare of strings and flute, traditional is fine but if I hear the Zorba theme again someone’s going to be beat with a lira. Okay, the theme is fantastic and the astonishingly brilliant 80+ year old composer Mikis Theodorakis lives down the road from my friend- but it’s like hearing Smells Like Teen Spirit every fifteen minutes. At least those are good songs.

The lame Seattle theme: The bluest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle. And the hills are the greenest green, in Seattle. Like a beautiful child, growing up, free and wild. Full of hopes and full of fears, full of laughter, full of tears. Full of dreams to last the years, in Seattle. Needs to be disposed of. Someone please compose a new one. It should acknowledge the dependence on Gates; addictions to BC Bud and flamboyant coffee beverages; serial killers; the depression on body and soul due to the relentless gray; the blend of yuppies, hippies, Goths, artists; ferry boats and crap commutes; and volatile home markets. Get to work. Oh- it can't be soft jazz or too folksy or I will kill you. It needs grit- rust and black soil kind of grit.
















Desperate for live music, we came across a Greek rock band online that would be playing in Chania. Cool.

After struggling to find the place, the "theater" was a surprise. A terrifying knot of scaffolding in a free parking lot was its home. But it wasn't just the one band- it was a music fesitval. Five evenings of bands! Most are locals or students doing their thing on a great stage. The drum set never moved- molested by beater after beater. Neither did the dj’s rig. The rest was hauled off and on stage by each artist (normal for small venues). The guys doing sound were incredible- it was better than some big league shows I've been to. Half way through one show, a screen saver popped on the light guy's monitor. Brian and I laughed- someone had been to the EMP in Seattle. Pictures of the gorgeous metal building, needle and monorail whizzed by. It was nice to glimpse home for a second.




















It was safe to say Brian and I were the only adults that weren't there to watch their twenty something child play. It was also safe to say we were the only Americans there. Did it bug us? Not at all. Young artsists had their art displayed: airbrushing/spray paint, photography, short animations, etc. Very fun and unmarred by moral or corporate restraints. No Robert Mapplethorps or anything, but there was some spiffy stuff.



Hearing hip hop in Greek was entertaining. For about two minutes. They were good at flicking their tongues, seeming to nail everything well but it was glorified karaoke minus the bouncing ball on the screen. The first boy (probably twenty or so) looked like someone I knew as a kid. His erratic black hair, well worn skater shoes and attire had me giddily thinking I’d see something punk. I’d already seen a half dozen divine mohawks walking the grounds- not fauxs honey, real ones. Dreadlocks, peroxide bleach jobs and natural jet black beauties. Ever since Joe Strummer wore one I've had a closeted fetish for them.


Anyway- this stunning boy gets on stage. Cigarette in hand, he begins spitting Greek. For all I knew he could be reciting: I cannot go to school today say little Peggy Ann McKay. I have the measles and the mumps. A gash a rash and purple bumps...(thank you Shel).

















He was adorable. Waving his hand all gangsta like. The serpentine posture pulling his spine backward, the sneer and smirk working his lips. He was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen on Crete. I watched the crowd gathered at the stage. He was basically singing(?) to his friends. By the end of his second song he was wheezing. WHEEZING. Was he out of shape? Oh no. Later that night he was running around shirtless, he looks like a young Adonis. That’s tobacco for you. Snot sucking the life out of you.

A busty girl rapped next. Again, two songs in she was gasping for breath and finally crushed her cigarette out during the third song. She could actually sing sing, was nicely curvy and dressed pretty modestly. But I was bored.

A band came on. No problem with the non-smoking instruments but the singer’s windpipes were gacking part way through. What the hell people? You’re not even twenty-five and you need oxygen at sea level?  I saw Mick Jagger aerobicize on a stage when he was 92 (a guess by the lines in his face) for two hours! Two hours that old man sprinted and shimmied and sang! I’ve seen singers high as Jim Belushi on his last night or drunker than a Chicago Irish cop on St. Pat’s Day sing for hours without gasping for breath.
Disappointed I didn’t expect much after that. Guess what happens when your expectations drop underfoot? They usually can only go up. Except, I must confess that I did find it all entertaining to see these spry looking youngsters holding their knees as they hacked up phlegm. At least they had the decency to be embarrassed about it.

But the Marlboro campaign ended.

Another band came on. I was floored- they were good. Then another. They tore through the crowd. Finally! A frenzy! Slamming, moshing- whatever you want to call it- a group of boys by the stage began thrashing into each other. Crashing, falling and laughing. My husband was wishing he was twenty years younger and not apt to hurt his precariously feeble back. The stage dives were hysterically anxious. It was more like a hop up and then sit gingerly on friends hands. I was snickering hard. Their fear was endearing.












The last band got up on stage. The crowd was spent. Every male was topless and I noted that not all Greek boys were as hairy as I thought they’d be. Glistening skin, giggling girls and bottles of water and beer were chugged. I felt immense pity for this band. They didn’t stand a chance after the last group. Their first song was shaky but relatively solid. Then something magical happened. It was as if it was another band came on stage. As if they had shaken off the jitters with a crap piece of music and said, time to do it or leave. BOOM! A killer start- killer hook- killer momentum. People went ape shit. Exhaustion was kicked in the balls and left to whimper on the pavement. The frenzy multiplied. The band intensified.












I was in awe. A blend of punk, rock, reggae, blues, ska and traditional Greek made for an olive oiled musical orgy. One song blended into the next. It was like wildly great sex. After fumbling the first kiss the guy said, To hell with being nice, I’m going for the kill. Forceful but effective groping had us begging for more. Groping raced into disrobing, disrobing into more groping, that groping becoming sex. Hard core pummeling kind of sex. Filling skin. Filling it, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter and then you burst into a thousand delicious pieces. It’s over. Panting, sweating and smiling. High.

Pass me a smoke, I don’t have to do any singing tonight.


 
 
Thank you 2 Festival 2010 of Chania, Crete. I may not understand Greek yet, but by God, I know fun when I hear it.
 
The two bands that floored us: Orchestra Sonora and Cabaret Balkan. The third band we were enamored with has a name in gobbledygook (Greek) that I can't read nor can my keyboard accomodate. But cheers guys! I'll never forget when I heard "Greek" music and realized I would love to hear it on a daily basis.

Can't wait for summer 2011.

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