sit, smoke, yawn?

prometheus is a cafe i used to think of as the perfect place for me, the all too refined and jaded one, to sit, smoke and yawn, inertly perpetuating my so-called social life among dubious aging intellectuals. i never had the money it took to be a regular, though. and when i heard al jawala were coming to town to play there on the 23rd of march, i was downright startled. oh no. the place will be strewn with tables and packed with snobs just sitting, smoking, yawning. no room to dance, no money to drink. hell on earth.
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...and so i went. i thought hey, if my mom's shaking off her nausea and coming along of her own will, there is still hope. but as soon as i entered the venue, it was all physical and mental discomfort. my mind and body numbed as i sat, smoked and yawned. just another gig. by now i've seen so much that i'm immune. erm, i do love al jawala, at least i used to back when i gave a damn about things. whatever.
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then they came onstage and sparks flew. introducing: steffi schimmer (alto sax), krischan lukanow (tenor sax), markus schumacher (drums and percussion), daniel pellegrini (drums, percussion and didgeridoo) and daniel verdier le diable de marseilles (bass). surprisingly on time for us romanians, not for them pluriethnic germans. their tonic smiles and greetings triggered our laughter and applause instantaneously, even before they began to play. it felt like i'd missed them indeed. the place was not infernally crammed and the drinks were on poor mom. not to worry. balkan beatz flooded the club and awaaay i went...

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i closed my eyes to the sitting-smoking-yawning snobs and i felt my memories of stufstock and my longing for the seaside amplify. wind in my salty hair, burnt skin and al jawala. those were the days, my friend, and to get to see them perform live once again was worth all the enthusiasm i could squeeze out of my oh so tainted corazon. no lyrics to relate to, no ideas advocated, nothing to yell along. yet not the slightest shade of boredom. these people are born entertainers. not only is their music the heck of a spirited one, but the good mood they emanated as they spoke in between songs was contagious. and who needs lyrics when you've got the beat and, above all, the gift of melody? irresistibly danceable tunes of wordless rapture, those were. cheerful grooves interlaced with hypnotizingly dramatic passages. steffi and krischan's saxes sounded like human voices, both in harmony and in dialogue. the guys in the rhythm section pounded as if to their own pulses. so clean but full, so sharp but mellow, so envelopping a sound. german quality, balkan soul. i just wanted to whirl and twirl and swirl with my hands up in the air. they had to honour not one, but two encores. or they'd have suffered the wrath of the frantic audience. i can't remember the last time the end of any concert found me literally dripping with sweat.

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and yes, most everyone else too ended up anything but sitting, smoking, yawning.

the joys of being byron

it's been a bad day, please don't take a picture.

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mister, mister, can we can we can we? one shot, pleeeeeze?

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did you not hear me?

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what? no. the club's loud. come on, quick, we've got him. argh, he's getting away.

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quit shoving that camera in my face. and get these groupies off me.

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watch your mouth, sir. we're band-aids. we're here because of the music. do smile now. don't be scared. it's just us. you're in safe hands. you're lucky we need you alive and undamaged... mwahaha.

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geddem off me! sheesh. they think they're evil. just you wait. i'm gonna make a funny face and ruin the picture.

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keep still, goddam it.

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these groupies.

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band-aids!

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maaan... whatever. just another day at the office. oh well. boo hoo. it's not my fault i'm byron.

i saw him

my hands are swollen. fingers blistering from the cold, palms numb from the clapping. my throat is sore and hoarse. i've screamed like a lunatic, a fool, an animal. i've emptied my lungs with elation, like those fired up sixties babes at beatles gigs, who didn't care much about the show but acknowledged the essential truth: it's him! it's him! it's him! plushenko.

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i've always been fascinated with figure skating. it epitomizes my childhood dreams of winter, ice and everything nice. the closest thing to flight. the gliding and the twirling and the leaping... and ah, those glittery outfits.

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and one time around, i spotted a blonde russian lad, angelic yet impish, huge nosed yet so damn cute, and i fell in love. i was almost 11, i had no perception of his skills, and he finished fourth. by no means would i have revealed my secret crush to my grandparents, who were watching with me. they'd have belittled it with their condescending giggles. i just reveled in its sweetnes and prayed to see him again. i used to force my limbs into the bielmann thing, stretch till it hurt, thinking it wasn't too late to become a skater, meet him and be his for all time. the following year, he came back and won me some gold. my heeero... i was almost 12, by now a brave young woman unafraid face her feelings, and i told the world! he has kept returning ever since. well sure i've "grown up", sure i've drooled over millions of others in the process, sure i didn't pursue figure skating. sure i had no problem accepting the fact that i'd never even meet him at all. but all these winters he's been my icon, my delight, mmmy preciousss.

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2007 was to be the year of goodbye-televised-competitions-hello-youtube. what do you care that i've been your loyal ardent fan this long, get lost, go do your stupid shows with that marton guy of yours. go now, before you see my tears. you ass.

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and then, shuffling along some street one frosty sunny day, i ran across it. the poster. kings on ice. evgeni plushenko and edvin marton. the national skating rink. bucharest. february 25th. hyperventilating and shaking all over, i stuck out my phone and made calls and... geez, i could never appear but a half-witted hysterical chick. i could never explain the joy, the sense of upcoming fulfillment that sprung within me. he was to skate out of the tv screen and into reality. life was being so unexpectedly and plentifully kind to me. i felt alive.

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all the dreams of comfort i had woven in sweet anticipation were torn when my mom and i finally got there. the whole place was barren concrete and looked almost scary, like a disaffected hangar. our seats were located in a dead area. we fastened our coats, nervously munching on popcorn to pass the remaining time. so here comes edvin marton, here go the opening acts, tears of joy down my cheeks, i'm actually seeing real skaters on real ice and it's sheer beauty. the chair is understatedly uncomfortable, it's freezing cold, the sound's bad from where we're seated. then...

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there HE was.

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in the flesh, he is thought to have been. dunno. was that flesh, mom? she says it was a ghost. immaterial. unabrasive. light. a hollogram floating around on and off the ice. those minimal orange plastic chairs may have disappointed me, but never evgheni. he was there, doing a second performance for the day, yet fresh as a daisy. not a millifraction of a notch below his own sky-high standards. a charming, tireless, breathtaking daisy.

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at the end of the day, there's not much clever stuff i can think of. just... ommigod!!! i saw him, i saw him, i saw him. i was there, i was there. i want more. this ain't over. we ain't seen the last of you. don't make me have to drag you by that beautiful blonde hair cuz i'm not scared of all the bodyguards. you're definitely coming back. and i'm buying front row tickets so you'd better kiss my hand and give me that killer look.