mardi 17 septembre 2013

Even The Tramps Wore Golden Watches

Back from Norway. Back from the rain and drizzle and the hope of a sun piercing through the clouds. Bergen amongst friends, Art, wooden fishing shacks turned into designer cafés. Literature straightens the streets; mountains circle the sea, pushing it ever further away. Local beers. More beers! And many trips to the centre, parked behind a church with a German cannonball squeezed out of its façade.
An evening in Bergen, in an old pharmacy serving cocktails and a dose of jazz, Goodbye Pork Pie Hat as we came in. The place didn't have the flavour of knowingness. It was just there, not trying to be grand or emulate that something that I missed because it only ever existed in film noirs, or under the dress of a femme fatale: the pulp cliché. We made plans to spend the summer in the country of Copenhagen, and eat whale.
So what is the soundtrack of the weekend, what sonic memory have I brought back to Stepney? Tore gave me Cemalin by Erkin Koray. Yes, Turkish psychedelic music was all the rage a few years ago. A few years ago Bergen stood in the same place. Last weekend I stood on its streets and paved ways.

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