Duende

Duende: A Journey to the Heart of Flamenco

by Jason Webster


Almost three months after I came back from China; two fiction books (Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart and Mistry's A Fine Balance); an ounce of guilt of not writing anything worthwile on dance except a few proposals, I discovered a book which anchors on flamenco, and guided me through a whole new perpective of what I previously thought simply as another hybrid dance culture.

Flamenco, as it turns out, sounds more like Dao (Taoism). A way (of life/living). It has compás (rumba, allegria, solea, etc) with always lyrical lyrics in it and dance to express an artform, but down to its root lies its vague origin and its deeper, impossible-to-translate meaning.

At last - I found a door to enter whatever 'spanishness' could take me. Ironically, from, er, an Englishman's point of view (which I could now somewhat comprehend). It's just a start; next time I'm in Madrid, I'd know more things to do. Visit those flamenco bars, and absorb. And probably go down to discover the Andalusian culture.

对生活，为什么中国

Why living this kind of life? and why China? I've got my own reasons, but let's first her what this guy's:

Guangzhou, 22 February 1988

The more obvious far-fetched analogy is this: my coming to China was another step in my attempt to find something I could do in life which did not have revolutionary purpose, my attempt to live without a revolutionary programme, discipline and enthusiasm. That is, in a sense, what an entire generation of Chinese of my age are trying to do now. But of course I have nothing in common with them. I am not doing this voluntarily, and I certainly don't believe that life without revolutionary purpose will accomplish anything revolutionary, as even worthwile in a historic sense.

On Acting Chinese

Jinan, 15 May 1985

I like acting Chinese, and it is no use telling me that I'm not. Acting Chinese helps me, not just with the language, the day-to-day affairs, the bureaucracy and regulations. It also eases my mind enormously, keeps me in serious conversations, and nourishes my intellect far better than the curiousity that Nick's rap always arouses. It makes me feel at home. There was always a place for me among ordinary Chinese in hotels and restos. While Nick had to be treated like a famous writer and painter, and constantly made himself the centre of attention.

[still from the guy - see: previous entries]

老外在北京 ：很多了！

［reflection on being a foreigner/laowai in beijing - still borrowing the rambling of that writer whose name I forgot]

17 November 1984

Why are foreigners so relentlessly solvent and so emotionally bankrupt, so selfish, so useless, so venal and backward, so ignorant and incurious? I know, of course, they are not all like this, and the ones who are simply helpless dumb animals in a foreign country at bottom. We are the scum of the earth, we 'travellers', we are an oily film, ever present and ever shallow.

[revisiting beijing, 26 june to 14 july 2006]

去北京 (我6月 23 号 离开）

[still quotation from the book whose title and author I forgot]

Bell Tower Hotel, Xian, 22 May 1984

Peking is a very different city from tthe pinched, yellow-caked, painfullly poor village I arrived in last January. Now it resembles Canton, It is very romantic: there was a young coouple pawing each other on the bus yesterday - oh, not very daring gropes, really, and she was obviously less into it than he was - under the amazed eye of a grizzled provincial. The staid Pekingese on the bus, like hip Londoners, all managed to look a thousand other directions without looking glances.


Peking, 21 June 1984

Peking, as Louise would say, is really frisky. Full of colour: sweaty workers stinking of garlic eaten whole and raw, wearing pink tank tops, women in glittery and practically transparent dresses, all dressed rather the way I do, without any regards for things te clashing and mirrors, but with a vague eye to the utterly unimitable. People slither underneath the rope segregating the men's part of the swimming pool for the women's without any compunction, and no one ever blows the whistle.

想法 (xiangfa)

Anshun, Guizhou, 1 March 1984

Now here I'm afraid I must do a kind of passacaglia on xiang fa, or the well-worn grooves of thinking in the psychological landscape. I have with me a kind of China guide for the snide, supercilious, slightly footloose college student, purely fore information on which rules are bendable. It is full of this kind of crap, and manages to make China into a small place ful of small minds. On the contrary, China is such a great place that any attempt to grasp details usually loosens your grip on the scale; and vice versa: you are hopelessly outnumbered. But without grasping a little of xiang fa it is impossible to get a grip on the guiding, regulations and reregulations. And maybe, if it is done right, the xiang fa gives you a little glimpse of the image the Chinese have of themselves, and of the image the barbarians have of them.

Reflection 1: Pre-departure 17 April 2006

Budapest 31 December 1983

And now I remember the song of the Gene like so much: 'what will it take - to whip you into shape - a broken heart - a broken heart - It can be arranged - it can be arranged'. Why then is this sense of waking up, of giving up, of abandoning all hope larger than life, always fresh and astonishing and not quite credible? why indeed? Enough of this self-pitiful self-hatred, impossible to get out of or get any sense out of anymore, and I'd rather be in China. I write all this only for ritualistic reasons, because I happened to be writing when the hour of the annual rite approached, and much as I respect your opinion on the matters, I have never been terribly impressed by your ability to make sense out of my own life. It is really asking far too much, since direct experience has always been the source of all my own insights, that you give me insights merely on the basis of my insights. Research is not exactly, as Burt says, the process of fidning that there is no particular reason why you shouldn't hold your preconceived opinions, but it is curiously difficult to make sense out of someone else's records, isn't it?

*) quoted from a book I read in Beijing 2004. Slipped the notes on the title and author somewhere.

T h i n k O u t

pla•ton•ic /pltnIk; NAmE tn/ adj. (of a relationship) friendly but not involving sex: platonic love Their relationship is strictly platonic.

de•sire /dIzaI(r)/ noun, verb
noun
1 [C, U] ~ (for sth)| ~ (to do sth) a strong wish to have or do sth: a strong desire for power enough money to satisfy all your desires She felt an overwhelming desire to return home. (formal) I have no desire (= I do not want) to discuss the matter further. (formal) He has expressed a desire to see you.
2 [U, C] ~ (for sb) a strong wish to have sex with sb: She felt a surge of love and desire for him.
3 [C, usually sing.] a person or thing that is wished for: When she agreed to marry him he felt he had achieved his heart’s desire.
verb (not used in the progressive tenses)
1 (formal) to want sth; to wish for sth: [vn] We all desire health and happiness. The house had everything you could desire. The medicine did not achieve the desired effect. [v to inf] Fewer people desire to live in the north of the country. [also vn to inf]
2 to be sexually attracted to sb: [vn] He still desired her.

Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionarly Online

Can the alteration be smooth? Feasible, might be, but is it sensible to pursue?

[soundtrack: My Bloody Valentine's Loomer, Loveless, 1991]

Treading a New Musical Realm

I'm happy.

It has been a rather musical rich the past few weeks - as I seem to finally find a mate to just blurting out all the long-meant intention on exploring music in a much more cerebral way, moving far beyond the mainstream (read: MTV and the likes). I always meant to do it - especially in the last two years - but felt that I never got it right. In late 2002, I encountered a really passionate music geek on this theme, but looking back, I kind of wasted those precious chance. As he walked by off my life - with all the knowledge still very much encassed in his head - it left me with a huge void, a realisation of having such a loose ends on what could be that rare chance to significantly alter my musical knowledge.

I, for example, did not manage to move beyond the first few pages of Simon Reynolds's Energy Flash: Journey Through Rave Music and Dance Culture nor Kodwo Eshun's More Brilliant than the Sun: Adventures in Sonic Fiction, the two bibles he brought for me. This exceptional encounter exposed me to what Oi! music is [don't laugh], to the fact that voila! there's actually such scene in the capital, in addition to what I've known for long as the punk scene and the ever so mobile indie's.

Anyway, this year's encounter (or last year's to be precise) started with me meeting this young lad from Berlin who was tailing his cool parents doing a stage design workshop in Yogyakarta. He said he plays in a band, and before too long I gave him a first glimpse of what's going on in the local scene, in forms of some CDs (courtesy of the foundation I work for, hiha) and some cheapo cassettes we found to sample during one of those last rounds in the so laid-back city. He then paid a surprise trip two months later, now with his (remains) cool mother, and a trip to Bandung soon drew him to the familiar sound of Teenage Death Star. He wanted to release TDS, but they were still recording, and by the time he's back to Berlin, the band disbanded. Ouch.

Now, proceed to a string of sped-up few emails - from and to my capital and his - which have been pooling some names, old and new. He introduced me first to The Monks, a punk band of the 60s, whose members were the American GIs stationed in Berlin. This is really tickles me, the phenomenon of obscure bands who are resurrected to life online, forty years after their split-up. The wonder of 2000s. I described him this Japanese band with a french name (which I forgot the exact name) from the 70s, who once hijacked an aeroplane and then joined all those legends in the Hall of Fame of Obscure bands after the frontmant mysteriously gone missing. This little story sent him off to a quest of identifying the band, cos I am totally hopeless at remembering, enacting those one-mentioning in the past of someone's passionate blabbering on the subject. I miss it - his blabbering - and him at the same time.

Then, it's the young lad's turn to tell or send me some strange sound. He fast-forwarded to the 2004's Wolfmother, a newcomer (founded in 2004) from Sydney (argh). That'ts where I decided to really read the backdated Wire I've got at home. I just proposed him to do this 'genealogy' study (sort of) together, tracing those influences (the band's version) of other's bands from what they claimed themselves. Wolfmother claimed they are influenced (among others) by Boards of Canada (which was the cover story of October 2005's Wire). From the article, I learnt that the two Scottish brothers love Cocteau Twins, really a gem sound soundbites I had experienced for the first time sometimes in August 2005 (more than two decades late!).

From my office's humble PC, I could only captured the fractured seconds of Wolfmother's Mind's Eye, but listening to their White Unicorn (playing looping on their website), for sure, he's right. Whatever influences the band claimed (BOC or Beck), their music clearly is rooted in those sounds of Black Sabbath, White Stripes or Led Zeppelin. I think, one of my 'eternal shame' is for some reasons, I always seemed to postpone the urge to start knowing at the very least, one of those three. Time to do my homework.......

Quotes on Three States

"Only a fool would prefer to be actively achingly dangerously unhappy, rather than bored. And I am that class of fool" (martha gelhorn)

"Which of us is happy in this world? which of us has her desire? or having it, is satisfied?" (thackeray, vanity fair)

新年快了！

The year of the Fire Dog!
It'd be a better economy (optimist), disaster remains around (the pesimist), it'll be beautifully foolish, or foolishly beautiful (the twisted optimist: moi!).

Just when I kow-towed some friends, I heard someone celebrated it at Stadium (tired of being in Aceh, mon ami? pissed off being recently accused of 'running around naked' whilst according to your version, it's only a short trip from bedroom to fridge, in boxers! ouch), and got his pocket stolen. (Lucky, it's only a pocket).

It's that 'half-full' of glass-year.

China in three months, including Beijing in amorem...

the World wide open, in the months after...............

oink oink

The BIG T: For the Tanamur Guy!

You commented anonymously to my Stadium review:

wow...really brings back memories of Jak night life. I preferred Tanamur myself- more intimate in a way, and the girls there could actually pretend they had been dragged there by 'evil companions' (and perhaps some of them were; who can say?)

Stadium, to me, has two strikes against it- first, it's owned by Tommy. second, with the fishbowl on lantai? with the tiny rooms for assignnations and that dingy-ass karaoke room: it's too blunt about wanting to be all things to all reprobates. Tanamur said, 'look, I'm a dodgy den for hiding your desires- take it or leave it, ya bastard' and most of us took it, yes we did. I am looking forward to a lot more posts about Jak nightlife! Please don't wander away! If you want more, perhaps a guest post and some Tanamur pictures, mention the Big T (Tanamur) in a post in the future.

This really tickles me. Tanamur versus Stadium: which has more attitude?

Although now few years closed, Tanamur will remain special for the city's contemporary history - I hope someone is writing a book about it, once such a egalitarian space for Jakartans. For me, its attraction lies on the fact that it used to draw people from all walks of life. The gold triangle men in business suit, young professionals (the middle-upper class kids) just entering the corporate culture, expats from all kinds (including the old, fat fart-big beer belly with eyes always on the prey), backpackers from Jaksa, students, local professionals and what have you.

They could be straight, gay, bi perhaps or self-acclaimed perverts. Even the whores came in such variety: young and old, nymph and witch, cherished and pitied. All mingled in the same pool. Dance united them (not so much the music). The kitsch - represented by the tacky interior atmosphere (slouching couch in sleazy corner?) until the go-go dancers in their skimpy hot-pants, 'trying' so hopelessly to be sexy, but could not really wiggle their hips to start with.

Tanamur had more 'lights', faces; more 'colours', in contrast to Stadium's dungeon-feeling with people wearing shades in almost complete darkness. Whilst Stadium sticks with the sweet, slim girls clad in dark hues, with their Mamas (now) in striking red with their 'selling' spell. Once I sat down with a male friend, right at the bar at the entrance where the girls and the Mamas preying. It's part of being voyeuristic, part coziness. Coming as a 'couple'-like, we didn't think we would be bothered. But sooner, one Mama neared, and offered some service to my 'date'. And just when he replied, casually, '..no thanks, can you see I'm not alone' - she said in equally casual tone, '...we could get someone for her too'. Hah. Is this what you resent about Stadium?

Tanamur was outrageously cheeky where cheap, fleeting desire went around, ever rotating, never dwelling. On the other hand, Stadium is a such obnoxious dent, where the real vultures venture, either for the girls, the e-substance, or their own vanity. If you're a Tanamur regular, great chance is (depends who you are) people identified you as crazy or sleazy or simply fun-seeker, whilst if you're Stadium's, people tend to 'stigmatise' you (esp. if you're a gal).

But above these adjective description, Stadium represents something else. It very much reflects the state of this country/nation. The bare fact some place as Stadium can exist and practically can do whatever they want to do says a lot what a country/city it is situated. Just look at the facts: owned by the notorious TW for a start; selling the e-substance openly, with every waiter/waitress a so trained salesmen; the open flesh-market, sophisticated concept of integration marketing, the so-called 'non-stop entertainment' a space; the 'untouchable' status on most days, even the occasional raids we all know are fake. Its existence is a kind of parameter for me. If such place is let to exist on the ground (not under), then draw your own conclusion of how 'gotham' the city is (what? corruption index? forget it).

So, where have you been Tanamur guy post-Tanamur? Apart from few lines here on your place, I guess, the best way to describe your once fave place-space is to have you guest-writing in my blog.

For old time sake? What about it?

We are also what we have lost*)

But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirious of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the starts and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awwww.....!"

*) alejandro gonzalez innaritu

These lines have been a way for me to start a new (western) year. I emailed it to someone three years ago, as a 'whose lines?' riddle. His every timely, eloquent response:
Well I hope I didn't put you too much on the spot with that surprise phone call the other night. Hehe........guess I just wanted to show off as soon as I recognized the passage from "On the Road"? Maybe more than just showing off........once that passage, and others, meant a lot to me. That was half a liftime ago..........and jolting to read it again out of nowhere.Perhaps I read Kerouac earlier than many other people. My father bought me "On the Road" in Paris 5 December 1987 - the day of my fifteenth birthday. I started reading it that night too. At that age, the book was full of promise - making me dream of the places that I would go, things I would experience and people that I would meet in my own life. There were things in there that I could connect with already too - I was already interested in Buddhism (after the first trip to Japan at the age of 10) and I was already crazy about punk rock, so ready to learn about the counter-culture of an earlier era (though it would be years more before I really came to understand the counter-culture of that book - jazz - properly). Half a life-time later, maybe it's unpleasent to think about how the promise of that book came true and how it didn't. I have been on some long journeys, physically and mentally. And I have been lucky to meet all kinds of people. But in some ways I haven't travelled very far from the world that I wanted to escape when I was fifteen. At the time the year in paris was just a brief interlude - interlude from the world of middle class Melbourne. World of private schools and anglo-saxon ignorance. And despite all the things I've done since then, it seems like I've not really escaped. After years of immersing myself in so many different counter-cultures, how did my life end up at "Australia's pre-eminent law firm" (hahahahahaha)? Surrounded by so many people who went to the same kind of private schools, who have the same kind of arrogance. I am in this world, but not of it I hope. And funny how what to most people would seem like "success" only seems to me like the deepest failure [sic!]. But finally it is only myself to blame - why the hell did I continue to study law and have some small succeess at it, when I was decorating my life with so many other things. (10/11/02).