it's not football. it's politics.

spain has been pretty strong when it comes to soccer in the last year. i mean, in june of '08, the national team beat germany to win the europa cup. but as barça's samuel eto'o scored the first goal in the tenth minute, and my building shook, it was clear that this was not going to be the same as last year. not in catalunya, anyway.

while last year's europa cup win was exciting, fcb's champions league win against manchester united was more than a win. because fcb is more than a football club. 'it represents the feelings of the people,' said one student. patriotic feelings. separatist feelings. most 'know' that catalunya will never become independent from spain, but still wholeheartedly believe in catalunya's fundamental distinctiveness.

fcb returned from rome yesterday afternoon, to lead a parade that began at the mediterranean sea, and ended at the camp nou stadium. hundreds of thousands of supports lined the streets, hoarding into the stadium, which was free and open to the public for an epic celebration. as i watched the players greet their fans from the top of a double decker bus, i was struck by the irony of fcb's un-catalan-ness. eto'o who scored the first goal, is from the cameroons. their most [globally] recognized player is france's thierry henry (who i met quite by accident during my first 3 weeks in barcelona). henry, for his part, was as emotional as any catalan about the win, albeit for personal reasons. 'i've played over 180 matches. i've been playing professional football for 15 years... i can't explain to you how this feels,' he told a spanish reporter in post-match interviews.


globally recognized (and fine!) though henry may be, no man represents catalan pride more than coach josep guardiola. from a village in the heart of the region, 'pep' trained with fcb as a junior (starting at about 15 years old), and led the team to its first champions league victory in 1992. this is his first year coaching the fcb pro team. for most catalan, this makes the victory even sweeter. t-shirts with pep's face superimposed on shepherd fairey's barack obama campaign art are now available for purchase. and if that doesn't strengthen the supporters and separatists connection, behold, the refrain of barça jersey clad, face-painted catalan youth everywhere:

'madrid se quema! se quema madrid!!' (burn, madrid, burn, the seat of government and home of spanish monarchy.)

the adults smirk and look away. they won't join in, but it's clear they co-sign the sentiment.

visca el barça!

world music wednesday: on music & meaning

from the mission statement of multi-culti punk/balkan folk band, gogol bordello:

the favoring of white, english-speaking product is often explained by patriotic or simply stupid arguments like, people can really understand the song. this is total fucking bullshit, for every scientist will tell you that sound is the purest form of information. the language barrier in the context of music does not exist. and the majority of power is contained in fingers of a player or the tone of his/her voice. this is why the emotional message of music is so instant and human.

that's all i'm saying.

inappropriate responses

dutch writer robert viujsje's novel, all the fine people is creating a stir amongst the dutch-speaking black community. apparently, the novel opens with a white male protagonist who... i 'm going to quote sibo from afro-europe international, who quotes anoushka nzume, who reviewed the novel at dutch webzine, women inc.

(and in this convoluted mess of she said's, quotes, and citations, lies the problem. because i haven't read the book, and i'm sure most of the black women up in arms haven't read it either. maybe, like, two of us basing our opinions on firsthand experience or engagement.)

according to anoushka nzume,

'main character david believes that there are two types of black women. the sherida chain (sherida was a popular suriname name); very dark skinned, wears at least size 46. Cup size 95 F. Not taller than 1.65. at least one of her garments has tiger print. she dates any man. breezer desirable but not essential. available in the 'negro women disco'. then there is the 'bounty' (black outside, white from the inside), highly educated with dreadlocks. dates only white men, in the absence of negroes of a certain level. she is boring, unsociable and mainly dressed in batik. you can find her at a slavery debate.'

my first reaction? lol!! i call my flatmate, mixeddutchgirl (indonesian mom, italian dad) into the room to translate some. apparently, the novel begins with david on the hunt for 'one of those black women with a big ass and a healthy libido'. second reaction: lol! according to afro-europe international, viujsje's novel has won belgium's prestigious golden owl literature award. the author also has a black girlfriend, who does social work as a therapist for criminals.

i guess there are three questions here.

1. is this novel racist?
2. what does this have to do with me (and black women reading, you)?
3. why was i laughing?

on number one, i, for one, am incapable of making this claim until i've read the novel with some sort of critical eye. when it comes to everything, i believe that if you haven't experienced a thing, you should probably shut up until you do. and if you haven't actually engaged with the text... i don't care what theory you trot out. WHAT'S SUBTEXT WITHOUT [CON]TEXT?? how do we know what he intends to say, if we don't really know what the hell was said?

on number 2, even black people think in terms of 'types' of black people. a sister once approached me like, 'you're afro-centric. what did you think about ...'

WTF? i'm music-centric. arts and culture-centric. travel-centric. definitely, foreign-boys-centric. maybe even to an extent, eurocentric. because i freaking love europe.

but most people, EVEN BLACK PEOPLE, find it difficult to see nuanced differences between black people. we tend to see us as a monolithic group, with some type of shared essence. shared history has morphed into shared essence, almost completely superceding individuality. so, if you have locks and like, care about shit, you're labeled as afro-centric. or 'bounty'. or whatever it is. ridiculous. so ridiculous, in fact...

it leads me to 3. i shouldn't have to justify why i'm laughing. i don't have to be angry because everyone else is angry. or lift my verbal sawed-off in defense because he said something about 'black women'. i'm just not convinced that this impacts my life--my everyday life and daily interactions, or most importantly my march toward my goals, in any way.

stereotypes can be harmful. i write a lot about my run-ins with them. but never have these 'stereotypes' gotten in the way of my work or play. for example, should any man approach me with the preconceived notion that because i'm shaking my ass in a hip hop club, sherida-style, i'm easy, he'll soon understand, when he's masturbating at home alone, that i ain't sherida. unless he's really hot. in which case...

well, in any case, the only way to bypass the harmful effects of stereotyping (in terms of your everyday interactions and march toward your goals) is to, in the words of jon stewart-by-way of fellow blogger, hope (at hope dies last), be a fucking person. in all its complexity and nonsensical-ness. no matter who said (or wrote) what.

barcelona this weekend: the ciutatvella flamenco festival

in serbia this spring, at a patron saint day celebration in the cozy apartment of an engineer overlooking the danube, i asked a physicist why, centuries after migrating to europe, gypsies still seem to be on the fringes of social life. he gave me the best answer i've heard to date:

they just seem to have their own rhythm.

and if nothing else about gypsy life in europe makes any sense, this does. when it comes to flamenco, the gitano rhythm is complicated, changeable. seemingly random, but totally predictable to those versed. unless palmeros map it out for me physically, i, for the most part, find it very difficult to suss the rhythm out. this intrigues me. draws me to it, time and again.

although the south of spain is undoubtedly the place to go to experience "authentic" flamenco (i hear that in cities like palencia, normal people are dancing the sweetest sevillanas in bars and discos), barcelona certainly has its share of great flamenco, by way of festivals that bring the tradition's brightest stars north. the festival flamenco de ciutatvella is one of the region's best.

the concert...

i spent the better parts of the last few nights at the ciutatvella flamenco festival hosted by centro de cultura contemporanea de barcelona (CCCB). the festival featured 2 acts in the modernist yet intimate sala during the daylight hours, and shifted to a stage under the stars after nightfall.

that's where i was introduced to the cantadora pictured above, esperanza fernández. curvy, magnetic, and a consummate professional, she was the first singer i'd ever seen turn her mic towards the audience and send her naked voice out into the night. i realized a few things about flamenco.

1. good looks will help you minimally
2. sex appeal is a thing entirely apart
3. emotion is the engine
and
4. experience is king.

when it comes to dancing, this is especially true. it's what made the difference for example, between the young, nimble, but decidedly milk toast isabel bayón, and the sestegenarian couple from santiago de jerez, toni 'el pelao' and la uchi. and while bayón's technique and creativity are undeniable, something was missing from her performance. watching el pelao and la uchi, revealed the 'what'.

tony's face was straight of the 18th century, dressed in a bolero and fitted trousers, and sporting a thick cap of slicked-back black hair. la uchi's long blonde hair was snatched up on top of her head in a bun with flowers that changed colors with her dresses, which ranged from the traditional ruffly red, to a turquoise, beige, and MET costume ball worthy gown. they were a goya painting. i fought the urge to paint myself and jump inside.

outside of the sense of gravity it afforded them, their age was nothing but a number. their footwork, called zapatear in spanish, was as sharp and powerful as any young dancer's would be, if not more so. hand gestures elicited countless olé's, reaffirming the power in simplicity; the power in that single point of origin where the dance begins.

like when a singer walks away from her mic, and renders her song, unplugged. i think of how performers always say things like, i only need a stage, a platform, a soap box, a mic.... nas comes to mind. the true flamenco singer makes sure to establish this; he/she doesn't even need a that. i imagine that when your culture is historically defined by nomadism, many things are just extra.

in the end, even the performers i was less moved by, were worth seeing. flamenco is a genre i still have so much more to learn about: its history, its trajectory. the range of artists featured at festivals like ciutatvella provide useful points of comparison and room for perspective, unlike the one-dimensional, cookie cutter format of tourist flamenco shows. the sheer goodness of the good so far outweighed the... not so good. and between the wine, the good friends, and the beautiful music, it was a damn good weekend.

a recommendation

ciutatvella was my 3rd flamenco festival in spain in the last year. these elaborate moonlight serenades that happen all over the country, year round, to celebrate the art form, are normally amazing experiences, and pretty representative of the beauty and depth of the genre. always new artists to discover and veterans to rediscover. i'd venture to say that many festivals are worth even planning your trip to spain around, because they tend to do them right. pull out the stops. because spain needs flamenco. it (and the roma) are integral to national identity. without it there's virtually no musical tradition.

*photo of la esperanza by nick law

beyoncé in barcelona: the black girl performance

sid's (french, gay) facebook status update in the hours before we're all to meet up and head into the mountains for beyoncé's i am sasha fierce barcelona show:

sid is beyoncé without the fat ass.

first comment: and without the fierce back up dancers...

second comment: and the without the hair...

third comment: and without the pussy...

fourth comment: and without the money...

fifth comment: let's face it, you haven't one point of comparison with beyoncé!!

the last comment is from sid: well, i'm black and i'm a bitch, too..

******

i've always loved beyoncé. i cannot resist the ego and determination. the singlemindedness. not to mention the snarling, the booty shaking, the neck roll, that whole vocabulary of movement that's associated with american black girls. the whole 'black girl performance' that in seconds, morphs into classy girl in a white dress, singing ave maria. her ability to flip modes intrigues me, but is this just an american thing? what do people who don't understand what she's saying, understand of her?

the concert...

beyoncé's like a flame in a crystal-laced gold and orange leotard, drawing moths as she flies over the audience, cirque de soliel-style, to land on a stage in the middle of palau st. jordi's colossal dance floor. we're an hour into i am sasha fierce, and she's fast but furious through a medley of her early destiny's child hits, which greatly pleases the crowd. everyone's on the same page, until she rides sean paul-assisted, baby boy, into dawn penn's reggae classic no, no, no.

interesting choice. and by interesting, i mean not good. now, striking emotional chords across cultures is tricky, tricky business. you have to hit on the right memories. specific associations. and those change based on where on the globe you sit. although t.v. and the internet make us think we know each other, go far enough back, and our cultures are all but unrecognizable to one another.

i started to actually smell the sweat coming off the basement walls of a brooklyn house party. it was the early 90's again and i was pressed up against that wall, feeling a semi-erection pressed against my leg, hoping the night would end in a makeout session between me and whatever cute lightskinned-ed boy i was crushing on that year. it was a choice that would have most african americans and caribbeans screaming. here not so much. i started to question her transcultural translatability. she left barcelona confused. not knowing what to do with dawn penn. nueva canción?, they wondered? she could have easily swapped this moment out for a shakira/beautiful liar/hips don't lie medley, and maximized her connection to the audience.

her bassist, the multicolor dread-headed, divinity rocks, saved the day, hitting exactly the right spot on the shared pop culture timeline with her white stripes- inspired breakdown. licked her instrument for good measure. the stadium was on its feet.

the next time we see beyoncé, it's onscreen, looking slick in a corseted, sequined dress, leading a legion of black men dressed like nation of islam followers, through what look like new york streets in the 60's. the crowd starts chanting, 'i am!' lifting every cell phone and digi-cam in record mode. it's civil rights and black fists made vintage fashion. the cool, cast in black and white, is immediately identifiable and the crowd's inspired again.

the show takes a turn for the best, splicing scenes of beyoncé as etta james in the film cadillac records, the civil rights movement (police dogs chasing protesters and such), and finally, president obama's inauguration. we relive the january glory as she simultaneously serenades us and obama with at last and listen. people have linked arms, rested their heads on companions shoulders choking back tears. my boys sitting behind me rub my back and smooth my hair.

comic relief comes in the form of a montage of youtube clips featuring people from all over the world doing the single ladies choreography. this girl (or her handlers) is only beginning to understand her place in the global landscape. the second half of the concert showed the type of dexterity she'll need to make money and have an impact worldwide, rolling stones-style, selling out euro-stadiums for the next 20 years. missteps, like singing reggae classics in spain, or more glaringly, her latest film, could continue to keep her from selling out 20,000 seaters, like the very palau st. jordi she failed to sell out wednesday night.

beyoncé's power is in her ability to really leverage the inspirational aspects of 'black girl performance'. the encore, 'halo', ends with her on the floor repeating echoed riffs on 'barcelona!' 'halo!' and pray it won't fade away!'... her voice clear, oscillating between control and abandon. maybe practiced, but exactly what the world wants from her. it's what inspires people. in the end, isn't that what it's about?

on future tours, may her wardrobe design evolve in a manner that does not include bathing suit-cum-competitive skating outfits. and when it does, i'd love to see how she connects somewhere really ill, like the balkans...

lost in translation 18

as sold at beyoncé's i am sasha fierce concert in barcelona tonight:



t-shirt designers everywhere, please be careful of how your text translates.

some see a sparkly black racerback 't' that says, 'PUT A RING ON IT'.

for others, it just says 'PUTA'. (whore.)

see this book? I'M IN IT!!

or at least naked me is... another milestone in this crazy expat life of mine.

last year i posed nude. it was a favor for a friend; he was doing his final project as a senior at the catalan institute of photography. one grey sunday afternoon, almost exactly one year ago, i manned up, disrobed and participated in la espiral, a series of artistic nudes exploring boundaries and relationships. what surprised me most, is that taking part, taking pictures, felt like an artistic process. it felt creative and expressive. i didn't expect this. i didn't expect to feel the same release i feel when i write, or when i dance, or even when i've executed a great class. i found another creative outlet that day. not a small thing.

4 of the photos in the series were entered into the 16th annual, Premio Nacional de Fotografía Profesional de España. it's the photography award, celebrating those who, through the art of photography, 'contribute to the enrichment of spanish culture'. we were finalists. one of my solo photos was displayed in the national exhibit, and appeared on a huge screen as they presented the nominees at the awards ceremony. the ceremony part is heresay; i didn't get to go to, because my friend, the photographer, was in the midst of a nasty break up with his boyfriend at the time, and he thought i was on his ex's side. anyway, we didn't win, but the photos have been published in this book, LUX '08. with me is joel, the 28 year old photography professor who oversaw and co-produced la espiral.

world music wednesday: to brazil, we go

last thursday i caught brazilian fusion band, moreno veloso + 2 (domenico and kassin) at the MACBA here in barcelona. wicked, wicked show. here's one of the best songs, allegría, which stood out for moreno's vocal quirks, and because that skipping drum beat? that whirring electro bass? none of it was programmed for the performance. none of it looped. each note played the old fashioned way. you know, with the help of machines and things. ah, technology! enjoy!

lost in translation 17

an advanced conversation course. 4 accountants from the same company. they have each read extracts detailing technological advancements in the years to come. the topic turns to virtual reality, and how we'll be able to simulate reality and experience so exactly, that it'll be possible to modify personality by implanting memories and skills, and inducing emotions. we all agree this is a bad idea. technology gone too far. next topic.

until one interrupts.

student: wait! but what about the rappers?

me: [blank stare]

[he consults his classmate to the left on pronunciation. they agree it's correct.]

student: sí, sí.... this would be good for the rappers...

me: uh, can you explain what you mean?

student: jes, jes... for instance, they do a crime and go to the jail. but when they go out... no... come out of the jail, they are the same way.

me: ummmmm...

student: jes, jes! it's true!

me: rappers?

student: jes!! and with this technology, we can change their minds. rehabilitate them.

me: rappers?

student: jes!! the men who do sexual crimes...

me: you mean rapists!!

student: sí, sí... rapists!

how we got here --->

easy answer: spain doesn't celebrate V-E day, so we had to throw the party ourselves.

it's quite possible that if you're reading this and you aren't european, the more important question is, 'what the fuck is V-E day?' sounds like something that requires pills and medicated cremes. i guess that all depends on how you spend this day, but that's neither here nor there. (i adore that expression.)


victory in europe day celebrates nazi surrender to russian forces at the close of world war II, as well as the plan that gave birth to the biggest social science experiment ever, the european union. victory in europe day makes me think of gizam, a beautiful, earnest old friend from graduate school.

gizam was a political scientist from turkey, also attending our artsy, liberal english university on scholarship. back then, she was all about working for the turkish government in a foreign affairs capacity, to bring turkey, both culturally and politically into the european union. on any given day, she was flipping her thick brown hair and railing against capital punishment in her country, or expressing some really deep anti-american sentiment or another.

it wasn't a productive week for her if she didn't say, at least once-

ieishah, you are american dreaming

she could not seem to hold in her mind the idea that black americans are almost always, by definition, ambivalent americans; left out of and estranged from any kind of american dreaming. in discussions about WWII, her diatribe always ended the same: it was russia who kicked german ass. then she'd proceed to read my future in the coffee grounds at the bottom of the small white ceramic cups in her dorm kitchen.

all over europe, may 9th is the day in contemporary european history. in russia, apparently, victory in europe day is a huge celebration; pride in having kicked german ass in what they call, the great patriotic war, is, well, great. concerts in public squares, speeches and special appearances by the president, international coverage of events. the 59th anniversary was celebrated in fine style.

serbia, who fought on the side of the allied forces, also celebrated with special events all over belgrade and novi sad. the monument below commemorates the deaths of hundreds of orthodox serbs and jews at the hands of nazi forces. the bodies of the dead were thrown into the danube, almost exactly at this spot...



so, why doesn't spain celebrate this day?

i logged on, googled, asked around, looking for celebrations in barcelona. none. i had completely forgotten that at that time, spain was ruled by fascist dictator, franco. franco, having just defeated the forces of the republic in a bloody civil war, (1936-1939), didn't really want to get involved in WWII, and gave both sides the runaround for the entire 6 year duration of the carnage. spain's relationship to WW II is largely nonexistent.

but spain's relationship to itself... well... it's like the fraught, ambivalent relationship between black americans and america. case in point, a monument to the 'fascist bombing of barcelona in 1937' stands at gran vía and rambla catalunya--



the accompanying plaque is worded as though some outside fascist force invaded, when in fact, barcelona was bombed by spanish fascists in an internal struggle for power. when in fact, in the war that shaped modern europe, spain was ideologically on the wrong side, and in action, noncommittal.

so having found no celebrations of the ass-kicking (no matter to whom it's credited) that shaped the europe we love so much, we made our own. no pills taken. no cremes applied. just pure, random, slightly sweaty, fun!

*photo taken at catwalk bcn, featuring me, french celia, and nyc's own dj sujhino
* V-E Day historical photo courtesy of veritas

rock stars

last night was a rock star night, concert hopping at the right hand of bcn live music god, aurelio. one of the bcn nightlife's most recognizable faces, aurelio's originally from madrid (but has lived in barcelona for more than 20 years), and one of the city's premiere live music event producers. his latest project is the hottest jazz night in barcelona, also known as what the fuck? barcelona jam sessions, at club jamboree every monday night. last night's first show featured wtf?? regular, llibert fortuny.

in l'onca proposa at palau de la música, fortuny fuses drum and bass rhythms with a string orchestra, and formidably gymnastic sax chops. the set began strong, showcasing p-funk-reminiscent pieces like 'shaman' (he's got a new CD out of the same name), juxtaposed by very 21st C rhythmic computer graphics projected on to a giant screen. while my music snob companions (reli and argentinian guitarist, pablo) preferred the solo pieces that focused on fortuny's skill, i was all about the layers and depth of the group efforts. the electric violin topped tunes grabbed me, in particular. technology was latent; fortuny using electronic voice manipulations à la r&b's roger, more recently, t-pain and EVERYONE ELSE IN HIP-HOP. these days, anyway. i loved the show, but the sheer variety of influences had me thinkin': in jazz's quest for mainstream relevance, just how far should it go?



from there, we rolled to MACBA to see the band[s] of moreno veloso, son of brazilian legend caetano veloso. in MACBA's circular, recording-studio style venue with spectacular sound, the 5-man band ushered us through genres, from a more samba/bossa nova sound with alex kassin as frontman, to a funkified, rap-edged, fusion of electronic and drum-n-bass, fronted by moreno himself, and beyond to the smooth, folksy acoustic personality that the quintet takes on with domenico lancelloti on lead vocals. it's like 3 concerts in one, mostly because it's 3 groups in one, each more danceable than the next. if you don't believe me ask the brazilian brother who took the aisles with his best baryshnikov meets michael jackson circa '88 impression by the 3rd song, and never sat the fuck down. i'd have done the same if i were, you know, a cheeseball!! better yet, if moreno veloso +2, alex kassin+2 or domenico+2 are anywhere near you anytime soon, spring for tix.

after an indian dinner break of curry, masala, and conversations about dancehall street jams in jamaica...



then the last concert: barça-based indie rock outfit, the beautiful taste, brought the house down at popular plaça reál hangout, sidecar, with what i found to be a very system of a down inspired set. well, system of a down without the political consciousness. check out nobody knows you on their myspace page to hear what i mean. the 3-man band rocks like a legion of 20, employing deconstructed rhythms, gorgeously wrecked melodies, and loads of leather and charisma. the beautiful taste is light on longwinded guitar riffs, but i guess that's what makes the difference between jazz and more commercial music. the necessity of constantly reaffirming your technical prowess just doesn't exist. i'm beginning to think that's not always a bad thing.

*image courtesy of www.clubdefun.com
* links to each band's site are included, just point and click

lost in translation 16

what's so special about costa rica? well, besides the fact that i once lived there? absurd natural beauty. killer waves. artist colonies and alternative communities and nature reserves galore. puerto viejo, populated by dreadlocked european expatriates smoking weed, selling jewelry they learned how to make in guatemala, and partying on the beach until dawn. the city of límon, on the most northern tip of the country's caribbean coast where i lived; populated by the descendants of jamaicans and trinidadians who came to work on the banana plantations and railroad. the way they've preserved their english patois, [ieishaaaah!, i'd hear every few days from the black woman who worked the front desk of the missionary i stayed in, 'ya mudda pon de phooooone!], but they're completely costaricense... totally culturally unique. watching enormous tortugas hatch; pondering the existence of the inexplicable stone spheres, like the stonehedge of the new world; holding sloths and monkeys in my arms... it's been almost a decade since my year abroad in límon. i remember it as a kind of utopia.

most idyllic, though, is the fact that costa rica has no army. the army was abolished in 1948, after civil war ended. for the euro-boho expat crowd that crowds the beaches, yearly, this no army thing is like icing on a cake.

it's why the following conversation with a student, a successful, harried, middle-aged engineer with two children and not much hair, threw me. i'm hoping this time something really got lost in translation.

student: my company wants to send me to costa rica as part of a team that will build a dam.

me: really? why?

student: why what?

me: well, does costa rica have flood problems? why would they need a dam?

student: for... for... no se como se dice en inglés.... ejercicios armados...

me: military exercises? oh, they're building a dam to create space for military exercises?

student: sí, sí, eso...

me: but costa rica has no military...

student: it's for the north american....north american... no sé en inglés...

me: NATO?

student: sí, sí. eso...