John X:/Schoolboy, Musical Explorer, Giver Of Gifts

A busy day.

I'm trying to get the Austrian version of what Americans call a "Green Card." (Even though it's actually white. Go figure.)

One of the new requirements is, you have to pass a test in which you show a basic proficiency in speaking and understanding German. Then, after you've been here a year or so, you have to pass another test showing greater proficiency. I don't mind this requirement, and B thinks it's long overdue in Austria, but it does mean I have to attend a course to bring my proficiency up to par, because up until now I've been very casual about learning German, just picking up a word here or a phrase there.

We've been checking out schools for the past week or so and finally decided to enroll my ass in a Volkshochschule, which is kind of a vo-tech of sorts. A course starts August 1, from 9:30 - 12:30 in the morning, Monday - Thursday. But today was the last day of enrollment! So B printed me out a few maps and I dashed out, eager to get this done----I had other appointments later, as you'll see.

There are a lot more immigrants in the 20th District, across the Danube from our district. A different flavor, more like SW OKC as opposed to Edmond, for my OKC-area readers.

I found the school and during the enrollment, because I can speak a little German, the lady wondered if I should NOT take the most basic course (A1), instead of the next level (A2). I told her I have to have A1 to get my visa. She solved the problem by telling me the teacher would evaluate me on the first day and if I seem more proficient, they'll put me in a higher class.

So I forked over 189 Euro and took off for my next stop, a meeting with the percussionist Peter Rosmanith.
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I had plenty of time to get there, have lunch, then meet Peter. But, no. The gods conspired against me---first, the subway line was shortened due to construction, no longer going to my connecting station. So I had to get off, walk a long way, then ride a streetcar to another subway line, and take it to yet another line that drops me off in Peter's neighborhood.

Then, somehow, I got turned around. What should have been a five-minute walk from the station to Peter's house took ONE. FUCKING. HOUR. I had a map but couldn't figure out where the hell I was in the mish-mash of curving, sometimes very short Viennese streets. I asked directions several times, getting closer and closer with the suggestions of each helpful person, finally arriving five minutes late. And hungry as shit. But no time to eat, because Peter only had an hour or so to spend with me.

He took me down to a basement in the collective where he lives. There, in a concrete room maybe 15 by 15 feet, was an astounding collection of percussion instruments, some of which he made himself.

Peter Rosmanith playing a South American stool drum made of wood.

The place also serves as a rehearsal space / studio, so there was all kinds of electronic sound processing equipment placed here and there. But the big star of the show for me was the Hang, a percussion instrument I've only seen in Europe and then only once before, when I saw a street performer playing one. Peter said you can only buy them at the factory in Switzerland---when they're available. They won't ship the instrument----you have to go there and buy it.

Peter has four Hangs, one of which sat atop a stand. He started playing it and I thought, shit, this guy has some serious chops. I'm not a musician but even lay people can recognize the difference between someone who knows their shit and someone who's a wanker.

One of Peter's Hangs.

Peter has gone to India to study tabla drums. He took his tablas out and also an African drum, made of clay that resembled a water bottle with a hole cut in the side, and played some amazing stuff. He showed me a spring/drum, his homemade drum made from a washtub on top of which he'd put a piece of plywood with some metal bars, which he strikes with a light mallet---ingenious shit.

Peter graciously allowed me to video him doing all this. I'll ask him if I can post some of the video, after he's had a chance to review it and give permission. Stay tuned.

We talked about various drummers---Ray Cooper, the bald guy who always wears suits and sunglasses and has backed up Clapton and Elton John, among others; Frank Zappa's various drummers, which we both agree are monsters of the first order, due to the complexity of Zappa's compositions and the odd time signatures he used; and my favorite drummer in the universe, Mr. Charlie Fuckin' Watts, who Peter agrees is like an atomic clock with his minimalist kit and his 50 years of exploration of jazz drumming and playing, when he's not involved in his day job playing for the Rolling Stones.

Peter surprised me by saying: "Yeah, also Ringo Starr is a very good drummer. He is underrated. But he plays just what he needs to play to move the music, nothing more, which is the best. Like B.B. King playing guitar---just the right notes, at the right time, in the right quantity."

Ray Cooper going apeshit in Knebworth.
Jump ahead to 5:58 to avoid the Clapton / Elton John / Knopfler part
and get to the Ray Cooper going apeshit part.

The goddamned king

After an hour with Peter, it was off to the Prater to meet B and our friend Franz, who's in town for a week working.

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But first, a quick detour to visit Thomas Eisendle, the cool book binder who made one of my treasured possessions for me---a blank book. (Here's the link from my post from last summer, with pictures.)

I realized I had time to drop by his shop briefly. I'd tried to connect with him last week but the shop was closed---this time, though, it was open. I burst in the front door. "Remember me, Thomas?"

It took him a moment. "Ah, yes! How are you! What have you written in your book?"

"Nothing yet. It's too beautiful to defile with my bizarre scribbling. But I have an idea, and I'll start on it when I go home in October. Meantime, here's a gift..."

I'd brought along a two-CD collection of Quicksilver Messenger Service's greatest. Thomas surprised me a bit by recognizing the name, but maybe I shouldn't have been surprised; he always plays "hippie music" in his shop.

He seemed happy with the gift and the spontaneous visit. "Come by again! We will have coffee," he said. Which I appreciate, because unlike in America, casual acquaintances usually don't agree to meet. I told him I had to run to meet someone at the Prater, but I'd call him and we can meet. I look forward to it.

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Then to the Prater to meet B and our friend Franz. I hadn't eaten so I bought a slice of pizza at a place near the subway stop. I stood outside munching away when who emerged from the subway but someone who looks suspiciously like my wife, walking toward the Prater....so I dashed after ler and said in German, "Excuse me..."

She turned and gave a cold look but then realized it was only her dipshit husband, instead of a beggar or a drunk (though I hope to add both to my CV).

We met Franz and had a good time catching up on things since we last saw each other.

An old man walking along the 4-kilometer long path through the Prater.

We stopped at a place for a drink and conversation, then strolled along the Hauptallee (pic above) and found another place by a small pond to sit and talk. We went back, wandering through the amusement park section of the Prater, and eventually made our way back to the subway station where we parted ways.

Even though I'm here through early October, I might not see Franz before I leave; he only comes to town once a month and his visits may not overlap with our free time. But it's always good to see the guy, and he was happy I may be moving to Vienna. "It is just a four-hour train ride to my house from here," he said. "When you live here, we can visit more often."

I'd like that. An Austrian brother---not a bad thing at all.

A Sunday Visit

We visited our friends Sissy and Tony at their place in a village about 45 minutes from B's house.

It's been Seattle, Austria here for about four days so we drove out and back in a light rain. No problem for me, but the Austrians want their summer back.

Sissy fed us chicken wings rubbed with some kind of Middle Eastern seasoning and served some of her famous Turkish coffee----very sweet and a bit strong, but delicious.

The view from Sissy and Tony's kitchen window.

Note Pacific Northwest-like conditions.

They have a sun room at the back of the house, glassed in at the top and sides. No sun, of course, but it was pleasant out there as the rain fell, talking about things and enjoying their company. Sissy and Tony have three grown boys and they often invite their friends over---two of the sons were there, along with one of the sons' friends and a couple of the girlfriends. They more or less stayed to themselves but every so often Sissy would ask one of the young people to bring her a glass or wine or something and they politely did so. VERY nice young people.

The home is a grand meeting place not only for family, but also for friends who happen to drop by, like a friend who came by an hour or so before we left. She joined us for conversation and drinks, including this strange but delicious orange concoction:

I forget the name, but it has alcohol in it, and it's orange. What's not to like?

Tony is a pretty serious amateur photographer, and he appreciates film, too. He loaned me his copies of THE STRAWBERRY STATEMENT and Antonioni's BLOW UP, neither of which I've seen. So I look forward to checking them out.

He also brought out a couple of photography books, one featuring the work of a doctor who took pictures of mental patients back around the 1860's or so. Haunting images. Beneath the pictures were little descriptions like MURDERED HIS MOTHER or HYSTERICAL.

More fun was a book published by Tarcher featuring the work of famous French photographer Robert Doisneau. You've probably seen his most famous work, called THE KISS:

Even in 1950, the French were, uh, French.

Just before sunset, we drove home in the rain. That's how it's been around here lately.