The Czech emperor has a whole new wardrobe.

Wednesday evening I went to see Severed Head of State play a pretty good show at Klub 007, a legendary venue in Prague, situated in one of the campus-buildings up the hills. It was a chance for me to meet up with some nice people as well, Nuno and Jenny, who introduced me to some other people.
After the show we descended the Petřín hill to get to the tram stop, and the view of Prague at night was breathtaking. Of course, at moments like that I never have my camera with me. Today I went back up, and although it’s slightly less spectacular by day, it was nonetheless a nice (and sometimes extremely steep) walk.

On top of the hill is the Petřín observation tower, which looks like a miniature Eiffel Tower. Inside the tower, in the basement next to the toilets (what an ungrateful location) you can find the museum dedicated to Jará Cimrman, one of the most famous Czech people of all time.
Jará Cimrman, a playwright and inventor, was born either in 1850, 1869 or 1874 in Vienna and died in Prague in 1914. He is held (nearly) responsible for some great discoveries and was involved in a lot of important events at the turn of the 19th century. He helped Thomas Edison work on the light bulb; proposed the Panama canal to the U.S. government; taught the theory of relativity to Albert Einstein (and was never given credits for it) and advised Gustave Eiffel on the construction of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The Cimrman-museum is full of pictures, personal stuff and prototypes of his inventions, such as the ‘fire-fighting bike’.

It may seem clear by now that Jará Cimrman is not real. His character was made up in the 1960’s by a few Czech actors and was first brought up in a popular radio show called Nealkoholická vinárna U Pavouka (‘Spider's Non-alcoholic Wineroom’; I haven’t figured out this bizar name yet).
But this is not just some old, dusty practical joke: Jará Cimrman is still very popular in the Czech Republic. He doesn’t only have a museum devoted to him; there is also a Jará Cimrman Theatre in Prague that only shows plays he supposedly has written, and when a Czech television network decided to organise a contest for ‘The Greatest Czech’ a few years ago, Jará Cimrman was the designated winner, had he not been disqualified.
I was surprised by the thoroughness of the whole 'joke'; one quick glance at the museum itself is enough to understand how important this myth was and still is to the Czech. I think the explanation behind the whole fictionalization of this ‘should be hero’ (a slogan at the entrance of the museum reads “Genius, who has not become famous.”) could lie in the Czech sense of humour, which seems to be very sarcastic, and fifty years of Communism. In the Communist era, the emphasis was on bringing out all the good the (Czechoslovakian) culture had brought forth, so when someone came up with this undiscovered failed hero who was also a playwright, the government allowed his plays to be performed. And for what I know, they were (of course) full of sarcastic comments; on the Communist government itself, Czech culture and basically everything else one could comment on. A very creative concept, which obviously hasn’t outdated yet.

Typically, the only ‘image’ of Cimrman that can be found is this bust, that was of course destroyed. There are no pictures of him; the greatest Czech alive remains anonymous, despite his incredible life-story.



On a different note: a lot of people have asked me how I'm doing so far. To be honest, I have some difficulties answering this question. I'm doing well of course: I'm in a great city, I walk around a lot, discover new things every day, write, drink coffee, eat good food, buy some books or music. But I don't always realise that I am actually here, now: living here and working here, alone. Going to a show the other night and talking to some likeminded people made me very aware of the fact that I am 1500 km away from everyone and everything that is so incredibly dear to me: my friends, my parents (who live even further away, in France), my band, my house (oh, how I already miss living alone and doing whatever I want, without roommates looking over my shoulder!), Amsterdam. My life. It's like my existence has been put on hold and I am taking a 10 week time-out. Which is good, of course, and I think I really needed it right now. But it can be very hard nontheless. I find myself wondering if my friends will forget me during my absence; if my bandmembers will simply recrute another bassplayer; if my house will burn down.... I wonder if my life would cease to exist and in 10 weeks, I'd discover I have nothing to come back to. I know (well, I assume) this is nonsense, but the thought never really leaves my mind.

So: I'm doing pretty good. I'm having fun, I'm relaxed, I feel inspired and I feel good about the way I'm handling myself here. But for an insecure control-freak like me, it's a tough job.

Good night.

Let's dance.

Although Prague is famous for it’s classical Barok and Jugendstil architecture, and there are some breathtaking buildings to be found here, one of my favourite buildings in town is a modern one (or even a ‘post modern’ one, oh that dreadful P-word!). It’s the Dancing Building (Tančicí dům), often referred to as 'Fred and Ginger'. It was designed as a collaboration between two architects: the Czech Vlado Miluniç and the American Frank Gehry (one of my favourite architects of all time, who designed the beautiful Guggenheim museum in Bilbao, Spain).

Fred and Ginger have been dancing on the bank of the Vltava river since 1996. As you can see, there is a dent in the glass façade on the left side; apparently, this was done so that one of the neighbours would not lose his view on the Prague Castle, which is on the other side of the river. I don’t know if this is true, but it sounds pretty good, and ever since I saw Gehry design his buildings (in the documentary Sketches of Frank Gehry), which basically comes down to folding strips of silver coloured paper and attaching them with paperclips, it wouldn’t surprise me if this is indeed true.

(A thorough and slightly pretentious essay on Tančicí dům , written by an art historian who did know what he was talking about, appeared in the German art mag Kunst & Kultur in 1997 and can be read here.)

The right to rock 'n roll.

Today, some fierce rain showers finally interrupted the hot and humid weather. During one of those downpours I jumped into a Levné Knihy (‘cheap books’), a store of which the name says all. The tiny shop was crammed with books, cd’s and children’s toys; all dirt cheap, especially to Western European standards. After carefully choosing a plastic watch decorated with an image of Paul Gauguin’s ‘Femmes de Tahiti’ (1891), I stumbled upon some cd’s of the legendary Czech rockband Plastic People of the Universe, of which I bought two: ‘Co znamená vésti konê’ (‘Leading Horses’, 1981) and ‘Kolejnice duní’ (‘Rails rumble’, 1977-82).

The Plastic People of the Universe, which was formed in the historical year of 1968, was around for over 30 years, its history closely linked to the Czechoslovakian Communist years.
The ‘Prague Spring’ of 1968 began when Alexander Dubcek replaced Communist leader Antonin Novotny on January 5th. Novotny, a hard-line Communist, was fiercely opposed against any form of Western influence and had successfully ‘purified’ its government. Prague officials hoped that Dubcek would be a more humane leader, but his reform program proved to be too progressive for the Kremlin. The Prague Spring was put to and end in August of 1968, when Soviet tanks and soldiers invaded Czechoslovakia and headed for Prague. After three days of resistance from the people, it was all over. Czechoslovakia would live under a strict Communist regime for the forthcoming decades.
A month after the invasion, Plastic People of the Universe was formed, initially covering songs of bands like the Velvet Underground, the Doors and the Mothers of Invention. After a while, they started to write their own songs as well. Their concerts were happenings in the best 60’s tradition, complete with costumes and psychedelic light shows. During their 30-year existence, the PPU knew nothing but hard times. They were prohibited by law; their recordings, on cassette tapes, had to be smuggled out of the country to be released as records in Western Europe; the Secret Police often broke up their concerts, beating and arresting the visitors, and eventually two of the musicians (together with two other musicians from another band called DG 307) were sentenced to jail, charged with ‘organized disturbance of peace’.
Vaclav Havel, the playwright who would later on become the leader of the 1989 Velvet Revolution and the first democratic President of Czechoslovakia, took the PPU under his wing in 1977, allowing them to practice in his house in the countryside. The PPU also played shows there, while the entire place was circled by police. The band would record a few more records in the 1980’s, which were all released in other countries. PPU broke up in 1988 over a dispute, and some members continued in a band called Pulnoc (‘Midnight’). The Plastic People themselves reunited in 1993, in celebration of the reunion show of the Velvet Underground, their greatest influence so far.

A more detailed history of the Plastic People of the Universe can be read here. I had only vaguely heard of this band before, but after reading the complete story, I was baffled. For a group of people to believe so strongly in their music, to endure decades of censorship and oppression in order to play and record their songs, that is simply amazing. The Czech themselves are convinced that the existence of this band has had a huge impact on the country’s history, and that the two are strongly interwined.

(As soon as I have a solid internet connection in my room I’ll try to upload some mp3’s of the Plastic People of the Universe, and attempt to translate some of their lyrics.)

Nemluvím česki....

Today is the second official day of my stay in Prague, and unfortunately I don’t have any interesting thoughts to share with you yet, or any adventures to tell. So today, I’ll be brief.
I arrived Tuesday morning, dressed for Dutch weather, exhausted after only four hours of sleep and nervous as hell. My roommate/’landlord’ A. picked me up from the airport, which was very sweet of him. We drove through some lovely Bohemian villages towards Prague, and it was hot as hell outside. Finally ‘home’, I met my other roommate E., who had just woken up. A. left for work, E. let me unpack quietly and I found myself all alone in my room, wondering what the hell I was doing here. My first night was restless; I dreamt of people walking in and out of my room, and in the morning I was completely disorientated.
The past three days were spend walking around, getting to know ‘my’ neighbourhood. I live on the outskirts of Prague, and though the centre is not far, it’s far enough to feel like I am really in a Czech city, and not in tourist-hell. Because the tourists are here, and they come in numbers. It seems that the single tourist has died a sudden and silent death, since it’s merely groups that flush the centre of Prague; German, Japanese, British and French tourists wearing similar hats or flags, following group leaders as if their lives depend on it. It’s fascinating and repulsive at the same time.
‘My’ neighbourhood, however, is still dominated by Czech people. And they hardly speak English, which is an even bigger encouragement for me to learn Czech as soon as possible. With my dictionary in one hand and the biggest smile on my face I have managed to order coffee, ask for a specific type of sun cream, buy groceries and envelopes and, the biggest hassle so far, buy a month-pass for public transport, for which I needed to fill in a form that was entirely set up in that crazy language that doesn’t make any sense to me yet. It’s a slow process, but there is progress.

I hope that within a week, I’ll wake up in the morning knowing exactly where I am and what I’m doing here. For now, I just give myself time to get used to everything, try to feel at home and miss my loved ones like crazy. Nashledanou.

He can only rock.....but does a damn good job at it.

“As far as getting back together I never thought it would happen in a million years, but Touch & Go got a hold of me and asked if NA would do it. O.P. and I decided to do it. I did contact Rob (McCullough-ed.) about doing it, but after talking on the phone a few times I knew it wouldn’t work with him. So we got Ron Sakowski, and Harold Richardson, from Easy Action. I knew I could only do it with people I trusted; who could pull it off.”

Like I said three weeks ago, I did an interview with John Brannon for RE/fuse fanzine. Quoted above is an excerpt of that interview, of when I asked him what made him decide to revive Negative Approach after more than twenty years.

So, last weekend, only five months after the UK-shows, we went to see Negative Approach perform again. This time it didn’t take us a very scary crossing with a ferryboat in the middle of a December storm, and hours and hours of driving to the southwest of England. In a mere two hours from Amsterdam we were in Antwerp, where almost a thousand people had gathered from Belgium, Holland and beyond. It was very nice to see a lot of familiar faces again, some people I hadn’t seen in years.
There were several bands playing that night, of which I have only seen a few. Discharge stood out the most, because they were so horribly bad. And then, at around eleven, the moment had come. The band came on stage, Brannon took the mic and the second they started playing ‘Can’t Tell No One’, hell broke loose. For half an hour, it was complete mayhem. Hundreds of punks and hardcore kids were dancing, stage diving and just going completely nuts. A friend of mine actually broke his leg, and I saw someone jumping off a speaker and not getting up anymore. The band just carried on playing, clearly enjoying the amazing crowd reaction. When it was over I felt sweaty, bruised and extremely happy.
I actually had the chance to meet John Brannon that night before they were on. I felt shy and stupid going up to him and introducing myself, but he was very cool. We talked shortly, he signed my NA silkscreen poster (I felt like a total retard for asking) and told me they were going to play a last minute-set on Sunday at the Lintfabriek. Needless to say, the next day we headed for Belgium again. To my surprise, there were only about a hundred kids there. NA played a short set: Brannon let the crowd call out for requests. The atmosphere was much less aggressive, but nonetheless great. It felt like a private little party. Afterwards, I had a long talk with Brannon about their reunion shows, Easy Action and music in general. He was very sympathetic and most of all completely ‘normal’ and modest. He gave me some cd’s, we had the picture taken and said our goodbyes.
At a certain moment, my friends and I all looked at each other, started laughing and said: “This is too absurd. In ten years, we’ll all call each other to find out if it really did happen.”

“I made my first record with NA when I was 19, and never looked back. I know I’ll always be singing in a band. Rock ‘N’ Roll doesn’t always pay the bills. But I’ve given myself to this and there’s no turning back. I’ll be singing 'til I die, and I don’t see myself giving up anytime soon. I’m glad I still have a chance to do this. And I will be doing this by any means necessary. I’m always rehearsing or touring with Easy Action and now that these NA shows have come up I’m busy as fuck.
Bottom line: I weight it out, split the difference and I know I’m still fucked. I can only rock.”

(RE/fuse fanzine featuring the interview with Brannon and a whole lot more, will be available by the end of June: refuse_fanzine@hotmail.com)

"It never used to be like this before..."

I don't have time to write about the past weekend right now, but I will do it sometime this week. For now, I just wanna leave you with this:
This picture was taken yesterday evening, and it shows me and my good friend Erik, posing with John Brannon after a last minute Negative Approach-set at the legendary Lintfabriek in Kontich (Belgium). It was a night to remember. (Laura, thank you for the picture!)

To be continued.

Apocalypse now.

Since my days are now entirely dominated by my thesis on German Expressionism, I'd like to share with you (all five of you readers) one of my favourite paintings of all time: Metropolis by Georg Grosz (1917). (Please click on the image to see a bigger and better version.)
To me, Grosz has succeeded in capturing the insane and overwhelming city-life of Berlin during World War I. Chaos and energy seem to splash from the canvas. Notice how the people are portrayed in a complete anonymous fashion; no recognizable features, barely visible faces. They seem just as square as the fronts of the buildings they pass. The entire painting is drenched in a bloody red, which gives it a kind of urgency. Georg Grosz (1893-1959) saw himself as a 'political artist', who wanted to exclude every subjectivity from his work. He was one of the few German artists who was opposed to the war from the very beginning, fearing it to be a complete catastrophy for mankind.

"Le Président de tous les Français."

'Together, everything becomes possible'. Well, I'm looking forward to seeing that.

Oh, and one other thing: it's officially 5 to midnight again, at least according to the Doomsday Clock. We haven't been this close to total catastrophy since 1984, according to the scientists who are behind the Bulletin Of Atomic Scientists: "The world stands at the brink of a second nuclear age." An interesting time-line of the Doomsday Clock from 1947 up 'til now, and more Global Security News can be found here.

Good night!

Aux armes citoyens!

This weekend is not your average weekend. Today, May 5th, is 'Bevrijdingsdag'; the 62nd 'birthday' of the liberation of Holland from German occupation. I wanted to write someting about war not being what it used to be, but I don't feel like it right now.
Tomorrow, May 6th, is the 5th 'birthday' of the murder of Dutch politician Pim Fortuyn. This self-proclaimed political dandy captured the hearts (and votes) of many Dutch citizens five years ago with his philosophy of "zeggen wat je denkt; doen wat je zegt" (best translated as 'saying what's on your mind, and acting on it'). His formula's main ingredients were popular xenophobia, an aggressive stand towards muslims and the rejection of basically everything the Dutch governement had produced in the previous eight years. He collected a bunch of corrupt and incompetent men to form a party with, and seemed destined to become the next prime minister of Holland. But nine days before the elections, he was murdered in broad daylight. Unfortunately, his range of ideas was not buried with him, and ever since 'Pimmetje', xenophobia and anti-muslim behaviour seem to have become a new Dutch treat.

But I didn't want to write about this today. I want to write about something much more important: the second and final round of Presidential elections in France, tomorrow. Whatever the outcome, it will be a day to remember. For the first time in the history of the Fifth Republic, a woman, Ségolène Royal, has a shot at becoming Président de la République, although the polls predict that it will probably be her opponent Nicolas Sarkozy who will win. Unfortunately, I must add.
Royal, representing the left-wing Parti Socialiste, is a modern woman. She may not be the best speecher in the world, but she is a very good debater, and has a few very healthy opinions about France's future. Royal believes that first and foremost, France needs to win back some confidence. The French must find back their moral. Her focus is on social reformation, education, the closing of the gap between rich and poor. All topics that are soothing to the ear, but not to the purse.
Sarkozy, representing the right-wing UMP, is cut from a different cloth. He focuses on a strong state, with (liberal) reforms on economical levels, and a pretty harsh Immigration policy. What worries me most about 'Sarko' is the way he seems to divide France into 'right' and 'wrong'. This kind of polarization is dangerous for any country, and no less for France.
In 2005 riots broke out in Parisian banlieues (impoverished outskirts), after two boys where electrocuted while hiding from the police. For weeks, young kids, mostly of Algerian and Moroccan descent, clashed with the police, thrashed buildings and set fire to cars. Sarkozy, who was still Minister of Interior, spoke about the rioters as 'racaille' (scum) he would remove from the streets with his Kärcher. It was a line that would make him (in)famous, and demonstrated very well his attitude. 'Sarko' does not believe in a soft approach, not for anything.













*'It works really well, my new Kärcher!'

To be continued tomorrow, quand le jour J sera commencé!

Scribo ergo sum?

Lying awake tonight, I realized I cannot recall the last time I wrote. I don't mean the writing I have been doing the past months on my thesis, or the writing for the zine; when you force your fingers upon the keys of your keyboard, trying to make sense of it all, trying to create something that is 'original', something intelligent. Something new.
What I mean is the writing that is uninhibited, when you press the dry pencil against the paper and let your hand find its way; without prejudice from the mind, without interference.
I don't think I have ever asked myself why I write, or why I want to write. I don't consider myself a writer, and yet I want to become one. Writing is want I want to do; it is what I am doing right now, as I try to finish my thesis in order to obtain my degree in Art History; and it is what I will be doing in three weeks, when I go to Prague to make a travel guide. And it is what I want to do in the future, more than anything else. But while aiming for the creative writing, the process of conceptualizing something that is 'original', something intelligent, something new, I forget the importance of the unrestrained writing; the dry pencil against the paper.

The past few weeks, I can't seem to forget something I read in an interview with Saul Bellow (1915-2005), the much appraised American writer who won the Nobel prize in 1976 for his novel Humboldt's Gift. In the interview Bellow talks about his deep interest in anthroposophy, and the influence this has had on his writing. At a certain moment, the interviewer describes how Bellow comes walking back into the room after making tea, and stands still to exchange a long look with his visitor, in silence. Bellow then says: "If two people stand facing each other, they see each others physical bodies. That is important. That is real. If a writer treats the physical things as insignificant, and ignores what his eyes see and his ears hear, than nothing that he writes can be of any importance."
These words have struck me, and I have read those lines again and again. To me, they are true. If one does not acknowledge the most basic things around and inside him, than anything beyond that; anything that is supposed to be original, intelligent, or new, is worthless.

Maybe my obsession with this specific phrase means that I should first acknowledge the physical reality around and inside myself, before I try to create anything beyond that. I must first pick up the pencil and press it against the paper, before I do anything else.

Good night.

"You try to make things work, and gain something..."

Three weeks left before I leave for Prague, and I'm already adding my third premature post. Oh well, fuck it.

Right now I'm finishing an interview I did with Negative Approach singer John Brannon, for RE/fuse, the Dutch hardcore zine I write for. It was the first time I had to do an interview with someone by e-mail, instead of talking face to face. It was tricky, to say the least, but in the end it turned out to be cool. Maybe I'll post it here in the near future.
To get in the right mood during the writing, I've been listening to 'Ready to Fight', a compilation issued in 2005 by Reptilian Records, including the 1981 demo and a few live recordings. The music is still amazing; sheer energy and aggression. John Brannons singing is stunning. Thinking back at the two reunion shows NA played in December, in the UK, I remember being amazed by Brannons voice: it sounded exactly like on the records.
I can't wait to see them perform again in Antwerp, in two weeks.

Check this page from the Kill From The Heart-website for more info and interviews.