Levi’s Bloaaaahg

Last week, Rob and I went to see Vampire Weekend at the Melkweg. Rob is the ska, punk type of guy. His favorite bands include Less Than Jake, Boysetsfire, Strike Anywhere, Undeclinable and the Ataris. I am a postpunk, indie type of guy. My favorite bands include Death Cab for Cutie, Belle and Sebastian, Joy Division, Arcade Fire and Editors. There are some parallels in our taste of music. I can appreciate Less Than Jake and vice versa goes for Rob with Death Cab.
That been said, after the VW concert, I became a wild enthusiast and Rob a mild enthusiast. This is completely in line with our views on music, which makes it even more obvious. People are too predictable.

But still. If you like something, you really want to convince other people around you to like it as well. Because little things like this give you an even bigger connection. So here’s the catch: A central theme in Vampire Weekend songs is Massachusetts and Boston in particular. But in the song ‘Walcott‘, a different state is mentioned: New Jersey, the Garden State.

Walcott
All the way to
New Jersey
All the way to
The Garden State
Out of Cape Cod tonight

And that leads us to the movie Garden State, which is a movie that I’m totally in love with. And Rob hinted this one to me.

See, if you just dig deep enough you’ll end up finding something that connects you.

Dialogue this morning:

French drunk tourist: “Salut mon ami. Ca va?”
Me: “Ca va bien.”
French drunk tourist: “Where is the train station?”
Me, making a turn around gesture: “La bas, mon ami.”

Fricking tourists.

Every two weeks on wednesday, there’s a drink-in at Cafe Zool in Amsterdam. All sorts of people that work in the media get together and share thoughts. But mostly it’s about networking (”Have you met her yet? You should really talk to her.”)
Anywho, at the end of the evening I wanted to go home. A friend of mine, Sem, was also there. And he parked his boat right outside the bar in the canal. So why take a taxi back home, if you can take a boat? The Amsterdam canals by night are beautiful, with all the lights and the peaceful quiet.

What more needs to be said about Ian Curtis? Yes, he was brilliant. Yes, he was a possesive bastard. And yes, he died too young.

From young adolescence on he mentioned to his friends that he wasn’t planning on growing older than twentyfive. Just as his role models, Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin. He also told them he would be the biggest name in rock and roll music. Funnily enough, he never took the discipline to learn to play an instrument. He sold him self to bands as a singer / songwriter.
Aged 16, he started a band with his youth friend, Tony Nuttal. This didn’t stand long, since both of them really couldn’t play instruments and his friend didn’t share Ian’s vision on the musical industry.
At age 18 he married Deborah. Also, at that age, he told Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook and Stephen Morriss that if they were looking for a singer for their band, he was interested. And so, Warsaw, was a fact.
After a couple of gigs they had to change the name, because there already was a London based band called Warsaw Pakt. Curtis always had an interest in European warfare, and especially World War II. So they took up the name Joy Division. Joy Division was a reference to the brothels used by German soldiers, where only Arien women were on display. Their first EP, ‘An Ideal For Living’, depicted a German like soldier with a drum on the sleeve. They immediatley were accused of having racists thoughts and being neo-nazi’s. But given the era, the late punk period, names such as Joy Division were more rule than exception.
After being shown on Granada TV, a local music television show which supported the likes of the Buzzcocks, the Clash, Iggy Pop and the Sex Pistols, the band was pretty satisfied. Well, everyone except for Curtis. He was pissed that Tony Wilson, the host, didn’t play their music, but instead just showed the EP. A couple of weeks later, the band was in a pub when Wilson entered. Curtis wrote something on a napkin and handed it over to Wilson.
“Your’e a twat. A bastard, you are!” he told Wilson, who later reveiled the napkin. It wrote:

Joy Division, you cunt!

After seeing them perform, Wilson was convinced. The guys could go and play their song ‘Shadowplay’ live on Granada TV in April 1978. He even tried to convince Rob Gretton, the manager, that Joy Division ought to sign to Factory Records: a Mancunian based record label which provided bands the ultimate freedom. He even told them he would write the contract with his own blood. And so he did.
Joy Division were getting a lot more exposure from then on. This had a serious effect on Curtis. On their way home after a gig in London, Curtis had his first fit. He was now suffering from epilepsy. In order to find out which medication would suit him, the MD prescribed him various ones. The drugs didn’t had the effect they wished they had. Curtis began having fits while performing. His tedious way of dancing might have had something to with that as well.
On a more personal note, his daughter Nathalie was born. Eventhough this family expansion, Curtis still had doubts about his marriage to Deborah. He was always very protective and possesive about her, but it didn’t stop him from having an affair with Belgian reporter Annik Honoré. He also didn’t dare to pick up his own daughter due to his condition.
In May 1980 the great breakthrough came: Joy Division was about to embark upon a tour in the U.S. Everyone was happy. Everyone but Curtis. His relation with Debbie was on the verge of a divorce. In a final attempt to save it, he went home to talk with her. They ended up having a big fight. He told her to go away. “Come back in the morning. I’ll be gone by then.”
He stayed up listening to Iggy Pop’s ‘The Idiot’ and drank a lot of alcohol. He ended up on the floor, after having another fit. In the morning he woke up, suppossedly crying an completeley oblivious. He wrote a note and left it next to the pick-up.

“At this very moment, I wish I were dead. I just can’t cope anymore.”

It was 18 May, 1980. Aged 23, he hung himself in the kitchen for his wife Debbie to find out.

To this day, many speculations have been going on, on why Curtis chose that exact place and timing. Many say, that from his lyrics it was obvious that he was going to kill himself, but that is just plain ridicule. I guess there are a lot of factors, but it’s nothing more than a guess. Four years of Joy Division apparently was enough to change the way rock music sounded in the late seventies. To this day, many bands such as the Killers, Franz Ferdinand, Editors, Bloc Party and Interpol are still influenced. The distinctive sound of Joy Division classics, such as ‘Transmission’, ‘She’s Lost Control’ and ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ nowadays still sound ageless. Thank you, Ian.

Again, we at Marcus & HeinZ got some nice exposure. Our work on the ‘Nunca Mais’ video from Zuco 103 was mentioned. Pretty nice, since we’ve only just begun. The sky is the limit.

When the routine bites hard and ambitions are low

Here’s one for ya: why am I feeling so fricking fricked up, while I shouldn’t?

(very, very deep sigh)

Watching this movie isn’t particularly helpful, but in its sadness lies such beauty. In three days it’s been 28 years again. I’ll promise a beautiful short essay for then. For now, I’m gonna go swallow in self pity.

Yesterday, I was walking back home from RAI station after an evening of working. A guy was strolling before me. I was busy talking to Lins on the phone when I past him, but still he called me.

“Hey man, I need some help. I’m completely lost”

So I told Lins I’d call her back and hear the man out. He looked a bit like Leo meets Catweazle. This ought to be interesting, I thought to myself.
I heard him out. Apparently, he was from Johannesburg, SA. He got mugged in a hostel here in Amsterdam, and lost all of his money and credit cards. The only things he still had were some clothes, two telephones and a diary. He went to the police with that story and they found out some places for him where he could crash for little money. His friends were coming to town this weekend, so he just needed a place for two nights.
At the first hostel, he got rejected for being too old. At the Jellinek, he got rejected for not being a (total) crackhead. At another hostel, he got rejected for not being a Catholic.
So he was pretty desperate. He walked alongside of me and we talked about linguistical differences in Afrikaans and Dutch and about computer hardware and software.
When I reached the point where I had to turn right, we said our goodbyes. I gave him some money for food and a smoke. He told me I was the first person, other than the police, to pay him any attention. He knew that it was probably because of the way he looked. But after a couple of years in Amsterdam, I’ve learned one thing: do not judge people on their appearence.

Oh yes, there was a band.

This friday started out pretty nicely. After I went to Ignjat to work on the Marcus & HeinZ site, I took the train back to the centre. The sun was shining, I solved the Sudoku in the NRC*Next within the hour and Ben Folds playing my song.

September ‘75 I was 47 inches high
Mom said by Christmas I would have
A badass mother G.I. Joe
For your little minds to blow
I still got beat up after class
Yeah, now I’m big and important
One angry dwarf and 200 solemn faces are you
If you really want to see me check the papers and the TV
Look who’s telling who what to do
Kiss my ass goodbye

Anywho, I called Robbert. He was sitting outside of his work with a beer. Sounded good enough to me. After waving to tourists in canal cruisers, I went to Elian’s house for a little poker. Rob went to a party at his fraternity. After three hands of poker, I went all-in with two kings in my hand. I lost to three sevens. Fuck.
Lins called. She wanted to do one beer. One isn’t enough for me, so that didn’t go through. I then called Ignjat, but he was already home, to do some push-ups and shit. Luckily, Rob was still around, so I went to his frat party. Oh yes, there was a band. But they sucked. Five guys and not one of them could sing. They could play, but the singing was awful. We drank a whole lot of vodka and then, all of a sudden at half past one, Rob decided to go home. And I had to follow. So now I’m sitting here, writing my next blog entry (or bloooaaaaaaagh, as David Duchovny would have said in ‘Californication’). This is for your little minds to blow. But I still got beat up after class.

But fuck that. I am gonna be big and important.