Yep, Still Day One.

During the banquet we meet up with a dude named Sjeng Scheijen. Sjeng, kind of pronounced Shane, but not quite, Rhymes with mayng, like "Hey, mayng, hows it hangin'?" "Hey Sjeng! How's it hangin'?"

To speak of Sjeng in this more common and friendly and vulgarian manner does not do him credit as to being a major published author, a curator, a lettered entity and a genius, among other highly respectable things. But to not speak of him in this manner I think belittles his best asset, his humanity.

So here we are sitting next to this dude, Beau and I. We are kind of lost in the shuffle of all the food and drink and people having major discourse about things we didn't know about, much less could we understand.

Here's how the typical day went at the festival:
10am lectures and a round table based on some subject or another. Usually about what is the direction to take in the world of music with all of the problems faced in certain blah blah blah.
2pm, Lunch at the hotel where people who got pissed off at what somebody said sat around the table and complained about how this or that person had no idea about this or that and that here's the real problem. The person that made the offensive speaker comment would sit around another table being congratulated by those whose experience share their own. And around another table, would sit the people who would take it all in and look at both sides and come up with their own conclusions about the whole thing.

Beau and I were usually just getting up as this truly endearing event would be taking place...

5pm the afternoon show at the Organ Hall, across the street and diagonal from the Hotel Ural.

7:30or 8pm Main performance at the Opera House. Either a ballet or an opera sung and or played by the house staff and danced by the amazing ballet company.

10pm Banquet

12:30 either hotel or discretionary time.

Our arrival was at the end of the second day of the festival. Obviously people had already formed opinions about what was going on. And, to boot, many of these people knew about each other from other festivals or symposiums, so there were always heart greetings, or there's that so and so over there.

Mostly these tiffs were about very meaningful things.I mean one of the subjects that came up was How does Russia take its new found freedom of speech and expression? What direction does it go? This is a very meaningful question and these thinkers were there to discuss and come up with some possible answers and directions. Some people's ideas were more steeped in tradition and others' had more radical solutions. ...I would have been at the third table...listening.

Sjeng had given his speech the morning before so we never got to be a part of that topic. But Sjeng was more than gracious. As these two bohunks sat at the table having our own personal reverie while those around us did the whole, while in Rome thang and spoke almost exclusively in Russian. Sjeng brought us along into the discussion and became our big brother and friend instantly. He, a gregarious sort from Rotterdam, the Netherlands, a celebrated Diaghilev scholar and author, 34, girlfriend, longish curly loosely ringletted blond-ish brown hair and a man who looked like he loved to eat, but didn't take it too far, leaned over and said after an older German chap, who had this old doty sports jacket covering a polyester metallic gold shirt, gave some toast about what a wonderful thing it was to be there and wasn't it just marvelous that we could all share in these ideas, some good, some bad in this hallowed building, in this hallowed room with these hallowed people and the Hallowed George Issakyan, bless him and Sergeij Diaghilef... Said, "I've been hanging around these old time pieces for days, I'm so glad you are here" (sic).

***In a few months when you old farts read this, and you know who you are, you know he was joking, right? We have the utmost in respect for you guys. Alexii, it wasn't really that brutal.

We laughed and the ice was broken. He told us basically what the guy said and it was something like what I said. Hallowed this and hallowed that, but in German.

Sjeng introduced us around our part of the table and pointed out the dishes to really go for and the ones to think about before we put a whole glop of it on our plate. He also got us up to speed about what the topic of the day was and how some people reacted to it.

He also introduced us to Dmitri Diaghilev, the great great grandson and only living relative to The Diaghilev. It was Sjeng who told us Dmitri was a "musician too." Sjeng leaned over to D and said something in The tongue, pointing to us, basically saying we were musicians and that Beau played the guitar... D leaned over to us and said "I laike Mehtahl." I like metal.

It all became clear. Ohhhhyeah! He was in a white t-shirt and black pants and had the obligatory long straight metal hair, which he had in a pony tail. Well let me tell you the evening just got a little better. Not only did we get Sjeng as an instant friend, but also D.

The table got much, much smaller after that as we basically tried to drag words that we understood out of D. Sjeng would interpret pretty faithfully, God bless him, God bless him!
There were more toasts by the ...more distinguished men. Lots of laughter and a general pleasant feel to the whole banquet. You know, when you set a pot of water on the stove and as it begins to boil it gets really loud, but as all of the molecules get used to boiling, that great smooth sound of the roiling boil presents itself and you know you are really cooking (my mother does not really know that sound. Oh she of the burned water). Thats what the sound was like.

Soon enough, the banquet was over and we stepped outside into the white night. It was like twelve am and dusk had just begun to set in. We had no idea how late it was.

The conversation with Sjeng and Dmitri continued outside about Metal.
Metal: Now I cannot go as much into depth with Metal as an idiom, or as an ethos, or really as a connoisseur, and I'd like to point you guys to a couple of resources. In short, over the years Metal, or Heavy Metal, started basically by Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin (among others) has today more classifications and distinctions than any other music in popular cultures from centuries ago until now. This sounds great, but my opinion is that that the individualistic art form that this is supposed to be has lead to this over fractionalizaton of music that sounds basically the same. Really, seriously folks it does. You Metal heads can call me what you want, but really what is a tempo? I mean, you take something that is a hair's bredth under a certain tempo marking and automatically its subgenred into being this, and then if the lyrics generally have a certain general topic, like "life is so bad I can't think of anything else but death." Or this classic, "Death is welcome when the sky is blue." Or how about "I am satan's transport, come hell or high water", "Mental terror is killing me." Your music is then shuttled to aonother subcategory.

Anyway, genres these all have their general comeuppance from some type of Metal archetype and so must be classified thusly. THEN you have the different vocal production.

Some Metal singers produce this guttural grunting sound which is a cross between what people think of as the Satan Voice and a burp. It does have a meaning though. There's not supposed to be beauty in the tone. The redeeming quality of this sound(of which their are a few different techniques used to produce) is that it has none. The Songs are about the lack of redemption, or a different redemption, a rejection of typical mores seeking a different end, or a deep rejection of joy and beauty and pleasure. SO, there is that and there is more of the, what is called the smooth, almost operatic approach where the gruff sound does not appear and actual singing occurs.

Ozzy Osbourne, one of the founders of Black Sabbath, the progenitor of the current major classification of Doom Metal is one of these straight up singers. Whereas 90 percent of you have no idea who would be the rough screamo hardcore sound. I'm afraid, in most cases, neither would I.

I just haven't had the need.

But here we are, talking with a couple of cool dudes and liking the company, we invite them up to my room for more vodka and cognac. Beau had been handed about three bottles of unfinished whathaveyou and we were Not even close to being tired.

This is where we learned how to really drink.

Now in Ireland (another story) we learned how to drink Guinness. But here in Russia, we learned how to really drink and stay in command of the senses. Beau and I had not even thought that there was such a thing, But there is even a word for it...which I cannot recall at the moment. Think of it, gentle readers, like a parachute. Yes you would normally be plummeting to your certain demise, but pull that cord and assuming it works you come floating gently to earth, where you kiss the ground in pandemic supplication that you did not have to kiss your butt when it met you at great velocity when you inserted yourself into the ground.

Not a modern day parachute, which really does a fantastic job of the gentle landing, but more like a WWII parachute, where you had to do the contact point roll. You still could really get damaged by that unless you knew how to roll. That's this technique. It's gentle enough, but you're never totally out of danger of getting Plotzed. Still, you may just be able to carry on a decent conversation. People always thought eating and drinking go together, but it IS the way to go. Cheese, sucrose or vinegar items, so pickles, olives, cheese plates are really handy.

We stopped into this 24 hour convenience store. Now, this is total vice. No drugs or anything, but on sale here is sugar items, pop, candy etc., Smokes..a pack of cigs is forty centavos, people, liquor, beer lighters, slot machines and those games that you spend about 50 bucks to have the little crane pick up a stuffed toy for your new girlfriend. it's all there in this little store smaller than a Quick Trip.

As we were discussing our food choices, these Russian girls traipsed in and bought what I though was the store full of beer and a bottle of champagne. Sjeng told us, this was a nightly experience for many girls this age. 18-28 I think. Each would get about ten bottles of beer each and just go to town. "Then," he added sardonically, "the fun begins." It was a bit chilling and ominous.


But that didn't stop us from getting a couple pints of orange juice, a jar o' pickles and a couple packages of pastries. We took them up to my room and we picked up our talk of Metal and Dimitry's favorite, genre - Doom, or Black metal. There was Sjeng, in the midst of it all translating when we couldn't come up with just the right pantomime to express our true and deepest feelings. All in all, it didn't go too far beyond that.

After a time of pictures with Laurie's Wolf, which we took to Russia in order to show her radio fans The Wolf not only liked Russia, but Vodka as well and many toasts, we decided to call it a day.

**toasts: For those of you who don't know, When toasting with a Russian, you always look 'em in the eye as you raise your glass to them. It's not a glance. You don't look away and you don't blink. Hold your smiling, joyous eyes on them for a good moment and then lowering your glass a little, move on to your next toast partner. This could take a while considering how many people are around you, but it is a great mannerism that we should continue to uphold. Seriously, think about it. Most of us look at our glasses as we clink away the best moments of our lives. You aren't there to just drink, you are there to socialize and experience the best part of life. It's not a challenge, this meeting their eye, it's the knowing look that you are celebrating a moment that no one else will have. No matter how hard I try to capture the moments of being in this smallish hotel room, or thy to tell you about the brown walls of the 'Bancket' room, You just will never know until you go. But if the next time you go out with friends, even if you aren't drinkin', or e'en drinking, raise a glass and look 'em in the eye. It's a special moment.

So after calling it a night, Beau and I stood there for a moment, just ringing,, nay, thronging with excitement and adrenaline.

We are both walkers. When we both lived across from each other on Summit Street, we would walk around the block a couple times a day. Not caring if it was the same route, but enjoying the benefits of being poor musicians. Taking a walk during the middle of the day. I cannot tell you how cool it is when Monday rolls around and we, in the prime of our adulthood can go to the supermarket, mall, theme park, what have you, and have all of you poor stiffs back at the office, drinking you insanely bad tasting folgers.maxwell house, sanka, diet coke, red bull vileness just so you can stay awake to do your company's bidding, acting like it was your idea that you are selling rubber doohickeys to people who have the same doohickey your company sold them under a different name, ten years ago and every two years hence.

But then, you get retirement accounts and pensions and a regular paycheck and get to go to an office that is normally air-conditioned, and get to go home to a comfortable bed and in the dead of summer, get to just crank that air-conditioner and laugh at us punks who couldn't afford it this month...and what gigs there are look like next month isn't any better and it looks like you'll actually need to PLAY at the coffee shop to be able afford the coffee you couldn't live without.

So there are trade-offs.

But I am SO glad God granted me the talent to be able to pursue a life in art. Yes, 90 percent of the time we are at our desks writing, learning, sweating the small stuff, hoping, dreaming scheming, so that 10 percent of the time we can perform. and five percent of that is doing gigs you wish you'd just stayed at home, or had that cushy file clerk job. But to get that job, One would have to explain the almost nonexistent work history. "Well, Mr. Fielding, I did have a job, it was called professional musician..." onetwothreefourtellthepeoplewhat.she.wore"Haaa Haaaaa! Did you say professional musician? HAAah HahahahHa"

It didn't take long for Beau and I to hit the sidewalk e'en if it was 3am.

Uh Oh, Sjeng left his festival credentials, let;s catch him before he goes to sleep... We booked over to Sjeng's room, the gentle tapping on the door sounding like heavy Ogre-like fists beating an ominous booming Latin beat in the early morning. I couldn't stick the pass under the door so there was only this way. tapBOOOM tapBOOM! ... ...BOOM! "Shhh, good lord! wake up the whole..."

"Yes?" said Sjeng, opening the door a smidgen, already in his pj's.
"Uhh, sorry Sjeng, you left this in my room and I thought you might need it", handing him his pass.
'What are you guys doing?" was his reply as he blinked the tonic of the Sandman from his eyes.
"Oh, you know, going for a walk." I said.
"At three in the morning?"
"Well, for us it's like, 11am"
"Oh, well, let me throw on some clothes and I'll come with you." He said, brightening up rather appreciably.

As my astounded eyes bugged out a little at this splendid news, he shut the door and before we knew it, we were back at the convenience store of vice, which happened to be conveniently placed right on the corner of the block the Hotel Ural was located.

We declined on the pickles and went straight for the beer. Just one bottle, but at about a dollar, we didn't need to be greedy. I got a cool light lager beer with a nice green label.

In Perm, there are, as in the USA, gangs. It's a little different. Not a frequency of drive-by's...I'd guess these were more hoodlums that gang members. like the Greasers and Socias in Breaking away or Rumble Fish or The Outsiders, there were the walking gangs. The Motorcycle gangs, both the Japanese bike and domestic bike gang, and concurrently, the Car gangs. One the, local Russio/Eastern block and the rich kid, Pretty in Pink I drive an export car gang.

Then there were the cops.
Strolling out into the perfect 74 degree early morning Sjeng told us, "Most gangs out at this time of night are not who you want to be talking to, but the Cops are not your friends."

Indeed, when we finished our first round of walking beer drinking (totally legal to walk around town and suck down a brewski), we stopped into a grocery store to pick up another bottle and ran into a few cops playing security guard. Really, it was more like woo the female grocery clerks. There three of them were. Leaning one elbow on the counter, leering at the smirking girls. All of them looked up at us like we were interrupting a clandestine party. We paid them no heed and I turned on the loud drunk, (but not overly American) voice, making sure to clearly slur my words in this melange of happy drunk talk. Sjeng and Beau catching on, ratcheted up their volume level and innocent party attitude. We grabbed our beer, paid and booked it out of there. No need to linger and make any unpleasantness.

Sjeng, as we walked along this brilliantly lit main downtown strip, the colors popping and vibrant lit our discussion of some of the political turmoil going on in The Netherlands. I wish he could give you an account of the latest goings on there. From what I recall, and If I'm wrong, the participants in his stories were just as incongruous., But something to the effect that the Vegan Part, yes the Party of Vegans, just as viable as the Democrats here, or maybe the Independent party of Buchanan... Had assassinated a member of, I cannot remember, but some otherwise fringe party. It was a big mess. Shah, Right! A big mess. I mean, what drives a VEGAN to Murder??? Political Assassination, no less, where it's all about ideals.

Beau and I actually were so dumbstruck by the total Irony that we both had to sit down on the curb to control ourselves from the shock. Sjeng, though having lived through the event, was just as incredulous...though he didn't have to readjust the brain into being able to grapple with the thought that a Fracking VEGAN would murder!

The remainder of the evening, was basically uneventful even though we did stop in at a local bar, a nice African appointed place, where there were about two people remaining when we arrived and, after another round of beers, we grabbed a cab and headed straight for our rooms and our patiently waiting beds.

There was no dreaming that night, as we were already there. Dreams d0 come true, we were at last in Russia.

end of Day One.

-fin-