A Gogol Bordello Weekend

"We've conquered Jamaican dance hall, what's next? Peruvian rumbah speed metal?"

In that one sentence Eugene Hutz summed up the lingua franca that is Gogol's music. There's something for everyone in the gypsy part of town. Or you can say that from the screaming violin that makes one think of a fiddler on the roof of the world hopped up on steroids and speed, a juggernaut of that viiolent screaming little fiddle. Maybe its the accordian player in his striped shirt that makes you think convict and sailor wrapped up in one, or the two girls that come dancing out on stage beating cymbals and bass drum, who knows, sometimes I think its Eugene's ability to turn the slamming of a mike into a new percussion section that sets them apart. Whatever the secret sauce, seeing them live was both a treat and a joy that is incomporable. If you ever get a chance, run, don't walk, and do whatever needs be done in order to procure tickets to see their under dog world strike.

So really, what makes it that amazing? Simply put, energy. "Fuck it! Its Friday night" was their raison d'être to play a 45 minute encore that was nearly as long as their set. Yeah, they gave of themselves for two friggin hours! I couldn't keep up, I don't know how they were able to do it, but Slim's was on fire. People were jumping, fans were screaming and "dogs were barking." Its unreal how much they bring to bear, sonically on stage. How you can get lost in that perverse folkloric feal that is amped, stretched, pulled and refashioned into a sound bolder than the lands from which it hails. Its gypsy music that appropriated punk rock, that stole the gypsy soul, that commandeered the rhythm section from a couple dozen different countries and created a unique flavor of rock and roll that leaves you deaf, drained and exhausted from the joy of participating in something that is as much give as it is take. I'm not sure these cats could've sustained that rampage for that long had it not been for the fact the crowd was a perfect conduit to share in that electrical feeling of complete abandon that comes from live music. Yeah, its Dionysian in the pure sense of intoxication, it brings the entire audience, the space which they fill, the sound which permeates all of them, into that unique state of primordial oneness when all form ceases to matter: it doesn't matter how you dance so long as you're dancing, or how you applaude, or how you salute, nothing ceases to matter as you melt into a cosmic vibration.

Ok, so I'm waxing a little poetic here. I know, a bit of the deep end, but so was the entire show. But it was kinda perfect that way, you know? The end of the show, or the encore, or their second set as the case may be, featured the girls back on stage with cymbals and bass drum. The drum found its way onto the hands of the crowd and the girl lept up onto the drum straddling it and continuing to play while the crowd held her atop their heads. She came down off the drum while Eugene turned the mike into a small bongo by placing a plastic bucket over it and using a pair of drumsticks to knock out a rockin' rhythm. He decided to trade places with the little drummer girl and lept up on the drum and proceeded to stand straight up, nearly to the height of the lighting tressel with arms raised proclaiming victory. Yeah, they left their mark.

The next night after my hearing returned we went to see Everything Is Illuminated that features Eugene as co(?)star? I don't know, he kinda stole the show if you ask me and although "the rigid search" is the brainchild of Jonathan, it seems like we're more interested in the life and well being of Alex, our hip-hop loving Ukranian Jew in denial. There's a kind of unfinished quality to the movie, something that is left to be questioned when its all over. The film is a mixture of black humor (the first half) and family drama that reaches back to the war years and reminds us about the very personal, humbling stories of individuals. Those vast numbers of dead mean little unless charged with the intimacy of a single face, a pair of hands, the birth and death that is one person's life. I was reminded of the life and daeth of Celan, Amery and Borowski. They all lived, survived the camps, the war but succumbed to their own questions: survivor's guilt.

See both, the latter being more accessable than the first, but if you can, see them, at the very least, you'll get a kick out of the antics, at the most, you'll fall passionately in love with the night and feel drunk even if you hardly drank.

Just a sunday night with nothing really interesting to write...

As I approached mi casa I heard the familiar tenor of Russian being spoken. I looked up and noticed two people walking up Balboa. Both were thoroughly engaged on their cell phones, they were both speaking russian, they were both on their cell phones. Some part of me chuckled hearing how "Zhenya, wait wait wait, the garage door will be openned, we'll be right there." They were infinately important in their own minds. I kinda dug it and at the same time had to say "oy vey!"

Went to see "Two For The Money" this weekend with Pacino and Mathew (I'm not even gonna try spelling that last name.) Well, what can I say? Al is always kinda brilliant, but the role is far to safe. We know he can be fired up, we know he can seem creepy. WE've seen him be fired up like a batptist minister way too often: Devil's Advocate, City Hall, Any Given Sunday and Heat. He does those roles well. It feels a little like the guy is getting type cast. I mean he needs to take some more risks. I suppose this late in his career he's had a whole bag of risks and has done the great roles, but it seems there are more in store for him if he wanted them. I want to see more small projects like Searching for Richard or even a Frankie & Johnny or say something like Angels in America. Thats where the untapped potential lies. Since the days of "Dog Day Afternoon" we know this man can do rage. We know he can raise the little man complex to all new level as seen Scarface, he has the fire in his belly and a voice to fan the flames to temperatures deep in the Kelvin. I want to see the quiet side of paccino, something a bit more refined, or at least contrasted against his fiery and explosive side. I think that's what I loved about Scent of a Woman, Frank, the character, was a serious looser, and you could see that in the fatigue of a man who is almost as tired of being an asshole as he is a cripple. But hell, he's a pleasure to watch, don't get me wrong, I just want to see him in a different capacity, that's all.

I wondering if I have the strength to wake myself up around 3 am and see if I can catch the moon hang over Ocean Beach from Sutro Heights Park. It would be a lovely sight for sure. Take the medium format up there and hope I can snap off a couple longish exposures in black and white without having the frames overlap. It would truly tickle me, hell, we'll see... (Breath should not be held in any way shape or form).