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Memories of moments capsizing: The lead-in -- My and Mikel's first time in Paris; Jack's visited before, but first time for all of us playing. Surprised by the horrendous traffic, and (too much Sun Also Rises?) by the anywhere-ness of the streetscape. Olivier, who's been here many times with Rene Biname, walks with us past the generic buildings, the grimy storefronts, the Forumla One motel with its plastic bathroom comparments. "This is the new Paris. This is the Paris I hate," he says. But just a corner away, over by Instants Chavires, the streets turn narrow and winding, with homes and shops and a parking garage all crammed together in a jumble that murmers of something older and more distinct. We've worked out new tunings during the drive from Belgium, and set out to see where they will lead ...
And a slide show of the before and after: View through phone booth glass of Mikel hassled by some guy on the sidewalk, he's put out by Mikel's headband somehow, neither of us can understand a word but he leaves snarling, keep trying to get a call through to Amy; rare sense of solidarity as a much-appreciated meal is laid in front of the stage for all the musicians and the Instants Chavires staff; blasting the esraj through an old Fender and realizing later the reverb is all the way on; ginger juice! ginger juice!; Christophe and Oliver pogoing into unsuspecting people during Noxagt; whiskey, wine and Belgian beer; Nils vomiting through a metal fence; waking up cold in the van, get out and walk it off, walk it off. --mg/2004
And still later: Donald tells me, sure, you can say you were in Paris, but that's like going to Hoboken and saying you were in New York.
Maybe it's like coming into Ironto and saying you're in Reesedale.