travelling to Florence - a short story in five episodes

Last Stop Florence

There are many reasons to travel to Florence, one of them not being to play at the festival della creativita, 2007. On a wall in one of the many festival halls it was written: 'you are the medium, the medium is the message.' I always thought of the original Marshall McLuhan quote, in which the message is the medium, as rather apocalyptic. In the Florentine hybrid an evolution seemed to have come to an end.

What kind of end this was, I discovered when I played the enormous (1500sq.m) hall under the ground. That is, I had the intention to use the hall as an instrument, knowing that my noises would flow outside and mingle with the murmerings of the visiting public on the festival lands. It is not a new concept. Stockhausen has worked on it. The 'has been done before' argument has never impressed me. A hall is an instrument like any other. So off I went, volume at its maximum. After a little while I felt the presence of this volume leaving me. Going on with the concert was like giving a heart massage to a dead corpse. Then I turned down my volume and finished the concert.

Matteo Marangoni, the young artistic director of the 'experimental part' of the festival had its hands on the main PA, situated in the middle of a 6.1 surround system. He shared the space with the people from the bar. A co-existence that looked like 20.00-10.45 experimental, 10.45 -03.00 disco. Bar means attracting people and sell-> big space. Experimental means attracting people who listen -> little space. The space, as defined by the set up of the six loud speakers, could easily acomodate 400 people-> BIG, indeed.

In my case this co-existence was impossible: people from the bar came up to Matteo to complain about the volume, and even the security guards came up to him to complain. I don't want to know about all the hardship Matteo has gone through to have his 'alternative' section at this festival, but my impression is that he had to compromise so often that the only thing that was left from the original idea, was the original idea itself: indeed the message is the medium. In the newspapers the festival was presented as a big success. YOU had to be there.

But as much as I was supposed to be a medium at the big celebration of mainstream culture, just as much the different stops I made on my way down to Florence (coming from Wuppertal) turned out to be the real reason for this trip.

First Stop: Augsburg

In my latest hometown Berlin one tends to forget how firm the experimental music, including noise and field recordings, stands in a tradition. In the mid fifties, at the West German Radio a studio became available for the musicians who used electronic devices to produce sounds. This resulted in a weekly serial of emissions all evolving around radiophonic productions

One word for KarlHeinz Stockhausen, who is 5 days older as my father. I have overgrown generational conflicts a long time ago; a twisted form of astrological prejudice organized a sympathy for the composer. Apart from his merits on a musicological level, he should be honored for his comment on the twin tower attack that so solemnly blew the 21st century into existence. His words defined the act as the completion of an opera, that had to be judged as such. (Me opinionating again:)All the other comments lead up to a state of (political) mind that in late 2007 Germany brought the government to a point to introduce yet another anti-terror law that controls the who to who part of private phone calls and emails.

I have cursivated the former paragraph, because it could have been the theme of a broadcast that you receive over the Deutsche Welle somewhere where palm tree leaves fristle in a soft breeze. Radio is an other life. It is not computer. This one, when I took a break from writing, played 'die grenzlandarbeiter' (Gerald Fiebig/Mathias Huber). I heard sounds that were not made for clubs or galleries. I heard something that I would like to hear when I walk into the kitchen and put on the radio. They don't have to play the whole Cdr;I just want to be surprised by the randomness of the choice on that particular evening.

Gerald is one of the persons who offered to become a mini sponsor to my das kleine field recordings festival, and expressed his desire to come and play at the next edition. His gentle offer arrived after the festival had finished. I didn't need the money anymore. E-mails often contain additional information. His one had the magical quality to turn a simple word like 'Augsburg' into a geographical reality that I could actually enter with a 30 kilo bag dangling from my shoulders.

I had received loads of suggestions on what to do in Augsburg when on a holiday, but there was not much time for a touristic detour. We taxi-ed straight from the train station to the Kresslesmühle, where I was to perform that evening. The only sightseeing that I could do was by turning around anti-clockwise on my feet. It offered a 360° panoramic view that reminded of christmas, Walt Disney, glühwein, and women with red noses as a result of cold freezing weather. None of the like were there.

More imaginationing awaited me inside. Completely of wood, low ceiling, two different levels, stairs and numerous chairs, a by curtains darkened wall, the performing space transmitted the impression I had landed inside a ship. An impression that got helped by an older English gentlemen turned Augsburgian who was there for the technics, but for sure had been the last one to survive a ferocious sea battle against Algerian pirates some 200 years ago.

I was invited to play at the first edition of the Echokammer series of concerts that Gerald has planned to set up, all evolving around literature, radiophonica and field recordings. The atmosphere in the Kresslesmühle was close to perfect. It would have been perfect if twenty more people had turned up. But leaning on the comforting words by Mattin ("every attendance more then twelve has to be considered a succes"), with nearly thirty guests present, one should be satisfied.

The soft lightning, a nice little stage, a very good sound system and an attentive public submorphed themselves into one of the ideas that turn into a guiding light, once you start traveling beyond the green eye of the radio. Yes this was live radio. And Ho and Lo, you could wait for the desire to be expressed, to go and visit Halberstadt where they will play organ for 639 years on a row. Gerald had been there already to record the organ tune, and the town, and presented it on this evening in a 639 second piece. Nowhere to be heard on your FM radio soon. But then again, it would never be as intimate and evoking as during his performance.

The next day was grey and cold; it had a kind of birthday feel to it. It was on a day like this that a great dutch writer went to the park to feed the cakes to the ducks. My bag was still too heavy to have a nice stroll around town. I hadn't the faintest idea where to find the park. Moreover, me and my train had an appointment to meet each other shortly after midday. And it wasn't my birthday.

Second Stop: Tarcento

For those apostles of the global warming religion, headed by their holographic high priest Gore, a visit to Austria might bring some good old 20th centurybased common sense breezing into their brains. From Salzburg the traintrack winds southwards, slowly entering into the Alps. I came to see some horizontal as well as vertical landscapes, especcialy the latter quite spectacular, because it left me with the question how those railroadbuilders had ever succeeded to lay a track so high, that it seemed to be suspended. Winter had come in some parts of upper Austria, fresh snow covered the platforms, a bare strip amidst pinetrees. People got out, not dressed for winter; their whole body longing for the warm stove in the kitchen of their homes.

Italy awaited me at the other side of the white landscape, but it lay also on the dark side of anonymity. I got a free ride on a European train full of retired spies coming from Vienna that was heading for Venice, got off on the first town across the border, and found myself in desolation land as designed on computer. Concrete, closed doors, mirroring glass walls, brutal neon lights, monitors and a voice coming from loudspeakers, I hadn't the slightest idea where to find the entrance hall, let alone where to buy a ticket. Announcements were nowhere to be seen. Luckily there was someone on the platform who I could ask where my train would leave.

Some waiting to be done, then I got on the train. Also this one newly designed, as has happened so often over the last twenty years in Italy. Still it is hard to find a train that has comfortable seats. This one was no exception. A new feature was a yacoozi formed ensemble, consisting of two opposing half mooned benches. The lights were strong enough to put on sunglasses. Warnings were glued to the wall, promising a nice fine for those who travelled without a ticket. Why can't I give a fine to those instances who fail to give normal service?

Then a mechanical voice set in, repeating the warning, but also summing up the places where the train would stop. I ignored the fact I hadn't heard 'Tarcento'. This blissfull ignorance provided me with some time to finish reading the newspaper I had exchanged for vanilla tea back in Augsburg. Three stops before my final destination, after having finished also the local newspaper someone had left on the train, I was still fighting the impression to be on a mobile laboratory with hidden camera's that gave the possibility to some EC-employed scientist to study the moves and behaviours of people on a train who are exposed to 800 Watt of artificial light. What did I know? Maybe suicide rate was high in these parts of the world due to winter depressions.

"No, you have to get off at Such-and-such" was the answer of a train passenger. (The conductor hadn't shown up, much to my relief, because I was still ticketless). When I got off at Such-and-such, looking into the dark behind the platform, wondering where Such-and-such actually was, my first question to the head of the trainstation was if I could find a train to Tarcento here. "No," he exclaimed, his voice full of pity for the night traveller, "there is no train for Tarcento leaving anymore untill tomorrow" (Please note it was not even 19.30) "You have to get back on the train." The train was a few steps behind me, all signs leading into the direction that it would close its doors soon, and leave me here.

The conductor waved his hands, inviting me to take a seat close to the door behind which he disappeared every time after having blown his whistle. Two men in the nose of the train, looking into the lightcone that is moving over the tracks, sitting in the dark themselves; I can understand he didn't come out to control the tickets. He came out when the train stopped, and waved again in my direction. I stood up and followed, feeling a bit of a child's christmass feeling slowly creeping up my veins. I didn't give it much attention. Why should I believe in something that disappears once you believe in it?

The door slided open. I looked into a slightly familiar darkness. I bowed a bit and saw the sign 'Tarcento' above my head. I felt as happy as a kid, thanked the conductor once, twice and thrice. He hardly moved the crackles on his face. I realised I was very far away from the media-ised view one so easily can get from Italy, stepped out of the train and thought of heaven. Even though it was dark. I walked a few steps, as if to prove I was not about to fly off, then stopped and looked back at the train. I can tell you, it is a wonderful feeling to look at a train that has made a special stop for you.

The station is a bit out. A silvershining parkspace, a lonely car with someone in it smoking his cigarette, and a dark shaded horizon indicating that the mountains were not far away. Finally fresh air. I could do with a little walk. My mobile was out of function. Next stop had to be a phone boot.

An evening with friends in a warm rustic restaurant (wild boar with mushrooms, locally brewed grappa), and outside of an other restaurant (more homebrewn grappa) brought me to the eye-opening remark of Giulia on the next morning, when we were driving through an idyllic landscape towards Udine. As she said about the pope " Mammamia, I would never leave my child alone with him, not even for two minutes." Apart from a woman's heartfelt opinion about the leader of the catholics, it also flashed in my mind that the presence of the Church, its head office in Rome, its recruits everywhere in the social and political life, were the main reason that Italy was so isolated from the rest of Europe. Maybe it is a good move to welcome Turkey in the EU, and shift the religious centre towards Istanbul.

Giulia and Francesco, her friend, belong to Hybridaspace, once an ex factory that had turned into a centre of creative forces with studio's and ateliers, where concerts took place, that had become a significant venue for (inter)national artists. Unlike many other places in Italy, where organisers fear to loose their face, and therefore not risk to book an unknown act that hasn't been recommended by twenty friends at least, Hybridaspace evolved into an international acclaimed place, and drew public from as far as Ljubljana. Being set up with the help of European money the situation changed when the local elections were won by rightwing parties. This resulted in a administrative war against Hybrida and the final closing down. How the sons of those rightwing rulers have tempted to redecorate the place can be seen here. Nowadays Hybrida is a nomadic organisation. It has to knock on doors to find lodgings

Third Stop: Arcore

The main attraction of Arcore is only to be reached in a blinded car or by helicopter. The man that can be held responsible for the cultural taste of the average Italian (and from a not too big distance every Italian looks average) has built his Mausoleum here. He is not dead yet. But I am sure he has already chosen the composer of his requiem.

To indicate the democratic level of this town, situated some kilometers north of Milan, it has an Arci amongst its locals. Arci means organised, financed, set up and run by communists. It also means that interior decoration is limited to the basic, and that is quite a relief, because it avoids the presence of the kind of Italian that moves on two communication levels, one of them being observing others from the tail of their eye in order to find out how these others value their appearance. Quite tiresome, I must say.

One of the components of the growing number of cultural refugees in Berlin is held to be responsible for my appearance in Arcore, or should I say in Matteo Uggeri's life. This young man has been blessed with a mother who liked the music of The Anti-Group. When I discovered the name of this group in the wall of Cd-'s at his home once again my friend of all times Margriet's report entered my mind. Somewhere at the end of the eighties she told me about a visit to a concert by Curtis Mayfield in Paradiso in Amsterdam. She had been there with some other sixty people, and I wonder up to the present day why I wasn't among them. Her eye-sparkling account of the supporting act broke my heart with desire and remorse, as she exclaimed how much I would have liked their performance. In the months after I bought every vinyl of The Anti Group that I could lay my hands on.

I guess there is an another factor that played a part in Matteo's upbringing: A fysical repugnance of Vittorio Sgarbi. Let's cursive another time. If you have made it up to here, you won't mind me taking a little detour again.

At the beginning of the nineties Vittorio Sgarbi, a politician and an art-historian , was one of the icons of Italian commercial television. He appeared at everybody's dining table , because television never sleeps in Italy. Masqueraded as a post-modern exercise on the sign language as to be deducted from newspaper articles his programme sprayed agitprop into every day life, not often using faintly hysterical rhetorics .
Hooray for post modernism!
Post modernism claimes to have undermined universal thruths and ideologies by their use of irony and ecclecticism, two qualities that I don't think can be defined as typical for any historical period. Criticism, just the same, is of all times. One can wonder where those post modernists are now, in a time that the - with universal truth overloaden - denomination 'democracy' is used to install and defend leadership all over the world. Post modernists have since long changed themselves into the defenders of the neo-liberal lifestyle. The methods of post-modernism were always close to those of gossip and slander. Irony and waving away arguments with single
adjectives as 'moralistic' were an expression of narrow-mindedness and boredom. Their now since long forgotten comments rised and fell with the rhythm of the then current events, were in fact a prolonged column in a newspaper. The post modern movement died as a result of an editorial operation. The current, as boring answer to post modernism is the trash culture. Good for television, and good for a yawn or two.

Back in Arcore most of the tables were occupied by elderly men who were watching AC Milan - Shaktar Donetsk on a big screen. I followed the match with half an eye. Milan is not my team. But the half eye attention I gladly offered to Clarence Seedorf, Kaka. Another trio blocked the view on the screen suddenly: I was looking at the companions Matteo had found for me this evening: Carlo, Paolo and Sandro. " Hi, we play with you, what did you have in mind?"

Actually I hadn't anything at all in mind, not knowing how the evening was set up. Matteo? He was somewhere else. Musicians want to play, and I didn't feel like playing solo while they were waiting, so I decided to play together with them right from the beginning. But first we sat on a long table, and everyone involved, plus those who were also involved in some other way, were talking to each other as the dishes went from hand to hand. In fact we talked all through the match, the responsible of the place, the one hardcore communist exposing himself as the anti-christ of soccer (subquoting Marx::"soccer is opium for the people."), with his back to the big screen.

The set was awkward for its choice of instruments: an electric bass, a double bass and a VJ, and Matteo who I caught off shore with my proposal, who played my walkman and cassettes. In this way I had the liberty to be a happy visitor to my own concert as well. In a way our concert was an extension of the dinner, the same variety of dishes, the same floating discussions, the changing of the topics, the oneliners, the hardliners and the skyliners, the moments of silence, some moments of domestic chaos, but always the turning point of great respect that at the same time became a vanishing point, and the signalling point that a new bottle of wine was about to arive; Sandro had changed the Meazza Stadium in something more danceable; but though I was facing the screen, I have missed most of the projections, except for the naked girls.

Fourth Stop Milan

When I left Matteo the next day with the mastodontic building that housed various science faculties and an even bigger variety of skeletons, I had a little park, a grey day and some hours of walking before me. Now Milan never puts me off; there is something frivolous and optimistic about the city, that gives sense to the polycoloured postcards from the sixties, when streets were empty and the future was clear. This future has gone for a long time now, but the condominions still stand in the same proud expectative way.

I went for a touristic walk, but as the kind of tourist that has an eye for culture. Without waving my white panama hat I passed the apartments, and looked at them f they were pieces in a museum. And got quite tired after two hours, randomnly following a left right righ left pattern, which brought me to a bigger park. I had also in mind to do some recordings. Traffic was everywhere. In those moments I think of Yehlin Lee telling me that after two years in Europe he hadn't encountered one interesting sound ( and talked about lightning that set of all the car alarms in the Chinese towns he knew of, or habitants shouting form their windows in a huge apartment block to find out which comrade had rotting white cabbage on his balcony.) I sat down near a fountain, another hyperlinked pose, since it was Aristotle who brought tinnitus sufferers to a well.

I had ended in the park with the natural history museum of science, the place where Matteo's predecessors got stuffed. I knew the museum from many years ago. Then it was a sunny day and M. was still the wandering girl in my life; a car bomb exploded the next day in a street next to the park; I talked T. into a Turkish holiday; A. hadn't decided yet to move to Paris; I bought twenty postcards with butterflies or a dinosaur egg on it; it was still interesting to see a Joseph Beuyss exhibition; I must have left the park at some gate, but I couldn't recall which one. This time I disappeared under the arch.

Lucio is a Doubleganger. That is the name of his group. He himself was waiting for me at the end of one of the many metro lines that spaghetti-ise the underworld of Milan. I was too late, but I found Lucio at the gates by pointing my finger at him, to which he kind of surprised/anxiounised reacted, as if it was not my finger but a James Bondian weapon I had aimed at him. But my finger changed into a hand to be shaked, and everything was allright.

Now never tell me things that fuel my imagination. And this one thing came after I had seen his apartment. He presented it as his fathers. But his father didn't live there anymore. In fact he kind of lived in a silver framed photograph as a young man with long hair back in a world that was still naivly black and white with a lot of sunlight. He played the guitar in various groups, beat groups I presume.With a little flower power touch. The furniture that he had left to his son was even more ancient, more grandmother like, the kind of heavy wooden furniture that waits for its dustification, and while doing so silently floats away from time behind closed curtains. Hard to imagine life in it.

Lucio told me a little anecdote, how he returned home one day beaming with joy, and said to his father he had served as an altar boy, to which the immediate response was that he got wacked in the face. The gesture concluded the anecdote. Lucio was still beaming with joy, now some thirty years later. From the many talks we had I could easily imagine a world before and after that educational editing. Part of his spiritual fantasy was still floating in those pre wacked childhood days. Maybe his regular holidays to India helped him in preserving this christian attitude to life: the one that talks about caring for your neighbour and stuff.

It was funny and exciting to see how both his house and the bar he owned together with his girlfriend Pat (also she a doubleganger) had evolved into a monumental hybrid of styles, that like geological layers, gave an insight in the development of taste over the last thirty years, say from hippy, neon hippy to post hippy with some touches of imaginary vagabondical beatnikism. Ah, just go there. Was it really in the periferia of Milan, a street that got coloured by the fog and the coming winter that you could almost scratch from the houses; in this street to nowhere that had grown pale and familiar to unfamiliarity? No wonder the shutters were down all evening.

Pat, was her name in real life Monica? - I get so confused by all the Monica's in my life - felt a bit ill, but she was there all the same. She wanted to sing along with us. Lucio had invited a guitar friend. After I had laughed all the way through a dvd by Einstürzende Neubauten, it was time to make some sincere noise. Marco sat down and we started a two hour session to provide the clientele with a sound track for that evening. It was pretty packed. Our sounds created a sonic decorum. Lucio ran on and of with the excellent Belgian or/and biological beers and it was when Pat sat down with us and sang/spoke, reading her lyrics from a paper that all pieces fell into one. This was fifteen minutes of bliss. It provoked some applause as well, and the comment by a heartachingly beautiful girl who imagined us playing together since eight years or so, expressing her desire to see us perform again. Yeah, wouldn't that be nice.

At the end of the evening my hands became an altar, and with those gifts I headed southward the next day to visit old friends and travel further on to Florence to give it another try. Well, in fact to sit and eat with friends at the market of Sant'Ambrogio, that Baccala Livornese was not bad at all.

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