From Blogs to Brussels, music is the great communicator (Albert King ain't too shabby either...)
I don't know how to speak French, but I sure know how to speak Albert King.
I just returned from a weekend in Brussels where French is the primary language. I took French I and II in high school; I was horrible in both. Ironically my pitiful performance in these two classes resulted in the first set of double-"D's" I ever got my hands on in high school.
I can croak out a few random phrases: "shut the door", "what time is it", "I am cold/warm"; none of which are worth much without context. Such is the traveller's life. When you are not fluent in the local tongue you have to get by on common human connectors: laughter, winks, nods, smiles and, as I experienced this weekend, music.
Our train pulled into Brussels late Friday night. We were there to see the famous xmas markets and had a long day of roaming and wandering planned for Saturday. Before we called Friday done and dusted, we popped into a nearby pub to wash down some eats with a few delicious Belgian brews.
The next morning my wife was cracking the early morning whip and was hot to get started on our market tour. Before we cut a path, we stopped for coffee. Seated across from me, she put down her latte, smiled her "I'm on to you" smile and asked me, "so...did you find one"?
She knows me oh so well.
Before every trip we take, I always search out the local independent record shop/collectors. It is not always that I find "one", but I did in Brussels; fortunately it was right in the centre of town. It is also a thrill to flip through European record bins in hopes of finding some old time used to be.
We walked the markets all day, tasted the local foods and drank much "chaud rouge" (hot red wine). Once we had our fill of the markets, my wife wanted to rest weary bones in a local cafe. Perfect. This was my window to self-indulge with a trip to the record shop. I wasn't exactly sure where it was, but I was hell-bent on finding it.
As I was scurrying through the streets, I heard the sound of a lone guitar man playing and singing for the passers by. There were lots of street performers out that day, but only one was playing music to my ears: Creedence Clearwater Revival. I swore I heard some one playing CCR; not just your standard CCR ditty, but a relatively obscure CCR song: "Cotton Fields". I love this song. It was built for the foot-stomp and sing-a-longs and I partake in each every time I hear it.
I followed the sound until I saw who was playing it. There he was sitting on a crate, a Pete Seeger look-a-like strumming on his amplified acoustic. "Cotton Fields"!?! Of all the songs in the CCR catalog, why the hell was he playing "Cotton Fields" and doing so in the middle of Brussels? Questioning it would only ruin the sweet surprise of it all. Instead I threw him a handful of Euros and did what comes natural: tapped my foot and sang along. My guess was that I was the only person who knew that tune within earshot...and I loved that.
Here is a quick clip of him finishing the song...with a bit of help on vox from yours truly:
As soon as he was done, I made haste for the shop. After a few more lefts and rights, I was there: "The Collector Record Gallery". The sign was a dead giveaway that I had arrived, but I knew that before I saw it. As I made my way up the street I could hear the loud, searing sting of Albert King's Flying V.
The front window was full of vinyl, DVDs, books and CDs. Store front windows display their top wares in order to get people to come in to see what else is inside. This was a damn fine store front window. Inside there were a dozen or more serious vinyl flippers like myself. From what I could tell I was the only English speaking music freak in the shop.
Myself and five other guys were leaning on the counter positioned around the turntable. None of us said a word, but we were speaking the same language: Albert King. Albert King was our translator. A few of us were rocking back and forth to his blues and everyone was smiling and nodding at one another. This is why music is so damn cool. You don't have to understand the lyrics, you don't have to know what the hell the song is about...shit, you don't even have to know who is singing it. Ain't nothing to do but sit back and let the man play...
We all had a few blues albums under our arms ready to buy. I motioned to one of the guys to see what he has holding. He handed his stack over to me. This guy had taste: live Magic Sam, Fred McDowell and a Mike Bloomfeld bootleg. I smiled and shook my head in a approval and pretended to take them for my own! He reached out for them and shot me a "oh, no you don't" look and then chuckled. The other guys joined in for laugh, too.
I paid for my selections, shook a few hands and then left the shop.
I am continually amazed at the role music has had in my making friends and acquaintances all over the globe. Whether it is through this blog or random record shops in Brussels, music has been my great communicator.
Hail, hail rock and roll...
- Posted from Brussel, Belgium
Comments (14)
Texarkana: REM on Out Of Time; Neil on Ride My Llama.
We flipped coin between Brussels 7 Bruges, Kip. Next time we hit Bruges.
If I remember correctly, my ex-gf and I once stopped in Texarkana to get new tires (we def drove through it, just not sure if that's where we stopped). I don't remember it being especially beautiful, but we didn't do any exploring either (again, if we even stopped there).
It also brings to mind 'Mexicali Blues.' Any songs about Arkadelphia or Texhoma?
The alter being the theme from Smokey & The Bandit. "...and there's beer in Tekarkana..." http://bit.ly/8u4JJg
Hey, who'd a thunk you'd be getting a US geography lesson from an Aussie while living in the UK???
Listening to the Johnny track now . . . and there it is, right there between Kingston and Monterey! Any others in your library?
http://www.songsets.net/words/texarkana/1.htm
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