THE DEEP POOL - October 2005

1.30.am across the road from Central Station, Glasgow, Scotland on October 1st, i'm going back to my hotel after celebrating a very good friend's birthday in a nightclub called Bamboo - 2 teenage girls are amusing themselves by standing behind a middle-aged geezer who is throwing up violently but sporadically in a shop doorway. Everytime this poor bastard has a break from spewing the girls make hideous being-sick sounds: 'yeeeuuurgh - bleeuuugh - awuuuuagrhhh' and this is clearly making things much worse for the ill bloke who is far far too beyond the pale to do anything about his tormentors. The girls are in peals of laughter as he starts heaving again. This has drawn a small but deeply amused crowd who have come over from the taxi queue - they are all eating fish/black pudding/deep fried Mars Bars/mince pies/pizza and chips - they start throwing chips into the impressive puddle of sick between the chap's legs, while shouting - 'dae ye fancy a chip pal - plenty ae vinegar on them!'. Somehow it seems quintessentially Saturday night in Glasgow - the streets are mobbed with smashed folk of all ages, milling around now the pubs are closed, queuing to get into night clubs, or for taxis, buses and trains, singing Abba songs, football songs, and, somewhere in the distance, a crowd singing Wandering Star in unison.

Further back in selected doorways, behind the wind and madly blowing papers and pizza boxes, silent young guys, the braves, watch the scenes carefully with occasional whispered asides, waiting for the police activity to die down before making their move, just like in wildlife films where the wildebeest gets hauled to earth in a hail of unrelenting fangs. I myself am not smashed, but i do have to walk down a relatively quiet street to get to my Radisson Hotel, and this will be noted by the braves, so i pull myself into a severe hardman comportment and my demeanour is that of a guy who is himself looking for someone in particular - someone who is going to be beyond sorry when i catch up with him. This counts me out of the reckoning of most braves - i'm not legless and i'm on a mission - plenty of easier targets.

For some reason as i grimly stride along, i'm reminded of a starling at the end of my garden. It's been dead for some considerable time and i must have flattenened it at some point, probably with my wheelbarrow full of windfall apples, so that it looks like a charcoal sketch on the silver-grey paving stone. I try to think what it reminds me of - then as i'm looking for Norwegian kroner in my foreign money jar i come across an old German five Mark coin and the gothic eagle on it, black on silver, reminds me of the exaggerated shape of the starling. This gets me to thinking of how i was once told that starlings are the only birds who take in the fallen or abandoned young of other species and foster them as if they were their own. Now, whenever i see starlings bustling, shimmering and gossiping i wonder why they do it, and i also wonder how long it took the spewing man to get home that night. In a sad and callow way i think what a great short film it would make, filming the man in real time, pulling himself together, working out where he was and how he was going to get back. Then i remembered what Rainer Maria Rilke said in a prose poem, maybe even 'Faces' about how the one thing you should not do is follow the poor home (by which he meant the positively destitute) - he doesn't say why you shouldn't, but in the context of the piece you don't need a reason, you just know he's right - that's the power of poetry.

Much earlier that day i had been at Oslo airport waiting for a plane to Copenhagen, there to change for a plane to Glasgow. I'd left my hotel in Oslo too early for breakfast, so had bought myself a chicken tikka baguette and a cup of cappucino on the airside of international. I was sitting at a little table eating my baguette when a young guy with sticky-up hair came along and squirted detergent on my table, then gave the table a half-hearted wipe with a cloth. The detergent went into my baguette and i had an instant sense of humour failure. Everbody in Norway speaks excellent English, so i said to the guy 'excuse me, can i borrow your cloth please?' This surprised him so much that he just gave me the cloth immediately though nervously. I'm a bit of a house-husband in my own way, so i took the cloth and wiped the table properly, somehow making it clear that this was a this-is-how-it's-done demonstration for his benefit. When i was satisfied that the table was properly clean i threw the cloth with aggravated disdain at his midriff so he half-caught/half-dropped it. He then left the area altogether and returned ten minutes later with a bloke who was clearly some sort of security person.

'This man has complained about your bad behaviour - i would like to hear from you what you think happened'. As he said this a further security man arrived giving me a serious we're-ready-for-anything kind of look. I explained politely but testily that although i accepted it wasn't the young guy's fault that he was poorly trained, if he squirted detergent in people's food when they were already stressed and tired, sooner or later someone, like me, was going to demonstrate just how pissed off they were, and that's all and exactly what had happened. 'And is anybody going to replace my baguette?' i queried, showing the aforementioned article like an exhibit in a court of law - 'No, they're not, they're just going to hassle me about being understandably angry'.

They decided to change tactic - 'Where are you travelling to sir?'
'Glasgow'.
'AAHH - Glasgow' - nodding of heads - ''You Scottish?'
'Yes'.
'He's Scottish' they said to the Detergent Kid, as if this clearly explained everything. Gloomy nodding of heads by everyone including me, and the three of them moved away without further comment. I immediately returned to reading my Edith Wharton novel so that if they looked back it would be clear that i wasn't bothered by the incident - am i bothered? - do i look bothered? - do i? do i? (Specimen sentence from The Old Maid by Edith Wharton - 'Sensitive souls in those days were like muted keyboards, on which Fate played without a sound'.).

I had another experience at Oslo airport, but i would like to say here and now before Norwegians get glum that this experience could have taken place anywhere in the world. I got to the check-in desk for my flight, showed the check-in woman my passport and ticket. She looked at the ticket and her computer screen for quite some time, frowning and putting her hand to her chin. This happens in hotels/airports all over the world now - the 'no i can't see this booking in my system'. You're supposed to get worried and start talking crap about when the booking was made - 'it's definitely right, it must be there somewhere' etc. Of COURSE it's there, and the person processing you is going to 'find' it in a moment, but not before you've started to panic and make stupid pleading noises. I mean, how often do they say 'Nope, you're just not here - sorry! - you can't fly with us/stay in this hotel' - it CAN happen, yes, but it's not very likely at all. So i'm standing there while she 'can't find me' and i'm supposed to say something about the situation. My advice to you? - don't say anything - in fact look somewhere else, anywhere else - down the hall at other people checking in, with a faint silly distracted smile on your face as if you're seeing something interesting and amusing - maybe a Scotsman throwing up pie and chips. I did this in Oslo and i could feel the woman getting more and more pissed off - then she played a big card: 'I might have to phone somebody about this' she said. I half-looked round at her and nodded vaguely as if it were all perfectly okay and to be expected. She picked up a phone and put it to her ear, then looked at the screen again with great concentration as if something new was happening.

'Oh, here it is' - this said like she's found my details somewhere a little disgusting and, frankly, pretty weird. I kept going with my silly disinterested smile - 'May i have an aisle seat through to Glasgow please?' i say.

She looks doubtful - 'i think they may have all gone already'. Complete bullshit - i know i'm one of the first people on the flight - i'm there 2 hours early, which in this airport is a lot and there's no way the flight is that full. But she's tempting me to say this and be uptight about the lack of aisle seats.

'Oh well, it's not that important' i say and she gives me a window seat. When i get on the plane it's full and i apologise to a middle-aged Danish couple already sitting in aisle and middle, explaining i have to get into window.

'Oh no, don't worry' they say - 'we'll move up and you can sit in the aisle seat'. I'm really grateful, being a big bloke, and say so to them. They are completely fine about it and move over happily. A male flight attendant has been watching this, and once i've sat down and put on my seat belt, asks me if i'm sitting in the right seat. I explain that the Danish folk have offered me the aisle seat as they can see i'm a big bastard and they are little Danish bastards.

'You can of course change seats, but i need you to do this once we are airborne and not before' he says with a hostile smile.

I'm beginning to lose my cool at last and feel myself trying to moderate my response to this - you can't really argue with these people, just comply reluctantly and make their day. The Danish woman speaks before i can - 'Are you saying you want us all to move AGAIN? - why? - can you explain this to us'.

The guy is about to explain that it's a rule when another man, a big Norwegian lecturer type sitting across from us interjects to say - 'It's in case the plane crashes, so they can identify what's left of you according to seat number - isn't that so?' he says looking at the attendant. The attendant is in no mood by now to confirm or deny this and shapes to retort, but the Danish woman says 'well if i'm going to die on this plane, i don't care about making the job of air investigators easy, so i'm sorry i'm not moving AGAIN'.

All 3 of us have now more or less refused to move and the flight attendant knows that it's going to be extreme to insist that we do.

'I'm sorry, i must insist that you move back to your own seats' he says quite loudly so that lots of other passengers begin to look round at us. By this time i'm prepared to move if so required and have a zen-like so-be-it sense of no longer caring, but the Danish Two are having none of it, and start a conversation in Danish that sounds like they are discussing somebody who is very unwell, with lots of shaking of heads and tragic empathetic sighs. This is a masterstroke and i'm very impressed - it puts the attendant in the unwelcome position of having to do the equivalent of saying 'MOVE YOUR FUCKING ARSES RIGHT NOW OR I'LL THROW ALL 3 OF YOU FUCKERS OFF THE FLIGHT'...

But he's not giving up and storms down the plane to discuss the grave situation with a colleague - a dreamy looking blonde woman who i've noticed talking to a passenger whom she recognizes from somewhere - maybe television. She's unhappy to be broken off from this conversation to listen to our man's deep complaint about our behaviour. She looks down the plane at us so she can understand who she's dealing with -- the Danes are still in tragic conversation mode and i'm engrossed in a free copy of the Financial Times that i picked up at the airport. She nods at her colleague and comes up to us: 'Everything okay with you?' she says.

'The Danish woman looks up with a stricken face - 'Oh it will be a lot better when we get home' - her husband pats her hand in a consoling manner and gives the woman attendant a thanks-for-your-concern-but-there-is-nothing-that-anybody-can-do-to-help look.

I'm beginning to feel right out of my depth. I can see the woman attendant thinking -- there's something i'm really really missing about this situation but all my training and my basic humanity tells me not to make things worse by insisting these people change seats for no reason whatsoever other than that i have the power to do so. She gives us all a sympathetic look - i too am now nodding in sadness as if it's something to do with me as well, and we've suddenly won this ridiculous little war. The flight to Copenhagen then passes without further incident...

My new record - Elegy For Johnny Cash has been well-received in Norway for which i am grateful. I did some interviews there and i was constantly asked about how it is i became a fan of Johnny Cash. I kept explaining that, although i had not been a fan before, somewhere i had seen the video of Johnny singing the song 'Hurt' and that i had found this so moving that i had listened to all his last recordings and had aquired a new, deep and lasting respect for the man. My travels in Norway took me on a ship - the Hurtigruten, from the wild north of the city of Tromso, slightly further south to the islands of Lofoten to play in one of the world's great pubs, Praestenbrygga in the village of Kabelvag. The owner of this pub, a man of film star good looks called Jan Age Johansen was waiting at the quay to pick up me and Arne Berg, a super radio journalist who had been asking me searching questions for a radio documentary on board all the way down the coast. Jan and i are friends now - i've played at his place many times and many are the fine dinners we've shared while the snow raged outside coming off the sea straight into the heart of the mountains. Jan congratulated me on the new album, then reminded me that i'd first seen this Johnny Cash video in my hotel room when i'd played there last. I'd completely forgotten about this, and it was an eerie experience slowly feeling that moment returning to me, remembering how i'd said to Jan when he picked me up for the show how much the video had affected me...

The day after the show i'd just done for Jan, Arne was going to ask me a few more questions at breakfast before my flight to Oslo. Unfortunately, as is the way with Norwegians, he and Jan, who had never met each other before, bonded instantly and sealed this bonding by drinking an entire bottle of a Scotch whisky called Longmorn, plus a few Laphroaigs and a few Springbanks. When i saw the empty bottle of Longmorn, i said it should be called Gonemorn - Arne thought this was very funny, but i didn't see him again after this - a deathly silence from his hotel room as i made my way downstairs for a boiled egg and some whale carpaccio washed down with rosehip tea...

My tour of Norway felt like an epic - i could hardly remember my life before it began - the tour kept returning to Oslo and the same hotel there. I was too tired to go far from the hotel and partake in the superb Oslo nightlife, so i decided to find a small local restaurant in which to have an early dinner, then watch shit on CNN until i could take no more and crash into an avalanche of snowy sleep. I found a small modern Indian restaurant called The Curry House on the same block as the hotel and went there every Oslo night. Sitting with a chick pea curry - chana masala and a glass of white wine i felt deeply at home in the world - i usually feel deeply lost in the world in these circumstances, and even thought, well, i must be doing SOMETHING right. The food was fantastic (if you're a restaurant critic you're not allowed to say the food was 'tasty' so i won't either) but, like you do, i ordered too much and offered my garlic naan to 2 young Norwegian blokes who seemed to be talking about Fawlty Towers. They shyly accepted it and i wanted to say something stupid like 'maybe you've seen the great reviews for my new album in the papers'...but i didn't, i just carried on listening to the overrated John Legend album that was playing while thinking about a documentary i saw on television in the city of Trondheim about Gill Scott Heron - 'i hate to see the blood flowing, but i'm GLAD to see resistance growing - what's the word? - JOHANNESBURG!'

On the voyage from Tromso to Kabelvag the ship decided to sail up a very narrow fjord. So narrow that you could almost touch the rocks on either side. The ship moved ever more slowly until we were in a very cold and terrifying basin of water at the end of the fjord. Snowcapped mountains towered above the vessel and the fjord sides were nearly perpendicular. Everybody on board was silent as the ship turned round with extreme caution. Arne pointed out that there was no animal life at all in this place - not a single bird, just a horrible chilling silence. The voice which announced in English, Norwegian and German that this detour was going to take place had made it sound like a charmingly intriguing moment on our journey. There were 2 kinds of people on the ship at that time - those who knew what to expect and those of us who wanted to escape below decks but felt honourbound to observe this nightmare place. As soon as the ship was clearly leaving the fjord i said to Arne 'I'm going to my cabin to sleep for a while' - he said 'Oh, me too'...

AND NOW! - to end, having sailed away from the ultimate Deep Pool, here is a wonderful review of Elegy from Italy to keep you thinking till next time.....

jl

Recorded in Lebanon and mixed in Wales, the new Jackie Leven’s album, titled Elegy For Johnny Cash, is not only to trubute to this unforgettable artist and his American Recordings with Rick Rubin but is to truly to musical comedy journey between folk, POP, rock and hip hop. The album of the year.

After a double particular album recorded with Ian Rankin and composed from songs and fiction the novellistic Jackie Leven Said, Jackie Leven returns to make to speak about if with Elegy For Johnny Cash, a album from the irresistibile fascination that goes al.di.là.della experimentation in order to become a travel through music touching and integrating between they diametrically opposite musical kinds like folk and hip hop or blue and POP. Recorded to Beirut in Lebanese on council of the producer David Wrench, the disc sees not only the participation of local musicians like Mohammed Laroud to the bottom, Reza Almieri to the programming and the percussions and Knows Shakinsta to me to the sintetizzatore but also that one of other coming from musicians from others you leave of the world like the Greeks Spiridon Anemogiannis all’ accordion and Mixalis Kataxanis to viola let alone several hosts to the voices.

Reading to the title it, Elegy For Johnny Cash, has the feeling that in some way this disc is rising of funeral peon in sauce world all’indimenticato Johnny Cash or $R-al.meglio I pay “particolare”. Nothing of all that. The concept base but has roots closely connected to the American Recordings dell’uomo in black with Rick Rubin, in fact laddove Cash had worked on brani from the musical structures scarne, Leven has constructed a cross-sectional and unmistakable disc from the sound. Therefore sintetizzatori, percussions, arch and accordion played from musicians libanesi and Greek damage to this disc not a sound world but a sound without time that remembers as well as old west how much the future of one music without borders.

Instruments that apparently would contrast too much between they here are married happily in perfect a sonorous amalgam. Lampante example of this concept is the splendid one title track, in which Mixalis Kataxanis it makes a job shocking to viola but above all Leven manifactures an excellent brano in which all l’eredità of Cash is breathed being the brano more E layers more sound levels. Little interesting is not moreover The Law Of Tide in which Robert Fisher of the Willard Grant Conspiracy he is host to the voice and the brano folk-hip hop All The Rage where we find the voice of an old friend of Leven, Martin Okasili. It is not absolutely all because the disc has thousand faces and thousand implications all to discover with various listenings but sure it is difficult to resist, also to the first one only I listen here to brani like Museum Of Childhood, in which Leven it tells the history of boxers Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran, or to the power Vibration White Finger in which an invective against the progress emerges that kills the freedom of the forced hands to repetitive movements.

Reminiscenze from the past of Leven emerges in King Of The Barley in which own topics of the folk return English, to the contrary from the more recent present us reaches two spoken word, moving In Memory Of My Mother and the short fragment Why Log Truck Drivers Rise Earlier Than Students of Zen. It does not remain therefore that to dip itself nell’ascolto, this is without doubt candidate to being one of discs dell’anno for quality and intensity is of the compositions is of the agreements.

Salvatore Esposito