Overheard at a venue in Exeter, England:

Me: Thanks for the show tonight.
Exeter Promoter (EP): Thank you. It was a pleasure.
Me: No, it was our pleasure.
EP: No, it was our pleasure.
Me: No, really, it was our pleasure.
EP: Okay, then. (A moment passes.)
Me: Well. How’s Exeter?
EP: Well. (A moment passes.) Exeter is strange. There was a university here. It was here for 150 years. It was an art school. It was the art school I went to, actually. I came to Exeter to study art.
Me: And you stayed!
EP: And I stayed! I stayed and I opened this venue.
Me: It’s quite a wonderful venue. You rank among the most hospitable English promoters I have ever dealt with.
EP: Really?
Me: Yes! I mean it!
EP: You’re being sarcastic.
Me: No! I mean it! You think I’m being sarcastic because of my accent. All Americans sound sarcastic to all Englishpersons, just as all Englishpersons sound sarcastic to all Americans. If I was being sarcastic, you wouldn’t know it.
EP: So how am I to really know that you’re really not being sarcastic?
Me: Because I’m telling you. If I was really being sarcastic, I wouldn’t bring up the issue of sarcasm.
EP: But, fundamentally, it’s a matter of trust.
Me: Isn’t everything? (A moment passes.)
EP: I’ve been running this venue for 17 years. But this year has been an odd one. The university moved away.
Me: The university closed?
EP: It’s gone. It took a lot of the kids that used to come here with it.
Me: Like a factory? Like a factory closing and moving away, the university moved?
EP: Yes. And it took all the kids.
Me: Like all the factories that closed in that Billy Joel song “Allentown?”
EP: Yes.
Me: I never heard of a university moving. Where did it move?
EP: To Plymouth.
Me: Where’s that?
EP: Not here. (A moment passes.)
Me: Well. What do the kids that remain in Exeter want to hear?
EP: New rave.
Me: New wave?
EP: No, new rave.
Me: What’s new rave?
EP: Well, it’s sort of like rave music, but put on [Ed. Note: "put on" is British slang for "played"] by indie kids.
Me: You mean electroclash?
EP: No, new rave.
Me: You mean dance-punk?
EP: No, new rave. It’s what all these kids are listening to now. You put on [Ed. Note: "put on" is also British slang for "book"] anything new rave and all the kids come.
Me: So, new rave is like rave music, meaning electronic and dancey, but it’s new, so, instead of being played by techno dudes with baggy pants, samplers, sequencers, and turntables, it’s played by rock dudes with tight pants and guitars and keyboards and such.
EP: Yes.
Me: Is it any good? (Promoter begins to answer.) No…wait. Don’t say. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me if new rave is quote-unquote “good.” What is good, and what is bad, and who is to say what is good, and what is bad, and what people should be listening to, and what people shouldn’t be listening to? That’s not relevant. The question is, are the kids quote-unquote “all right?” The Who once famously said that the kids are all right. That’s what I want to know. As long as the kids are all right, all is well. So that’s what I want to know. Are these new rave kids all right, in a Who sense?

Dear BBC representative,

I am writing to congratulate you on your network’s decision to air Cinderella Liberty (1973) starring James Caan at approximately 2 a.m. this past Saturday night. As you must be aware, I am a James Caan enthusiast, and was pleasantly surprised to find one of Mr. Caan’s overlooked works on British public television at such a late hour.

Most Caan scholars divide Mr. Caan’s career into two major eras—pre- and post-cocaine addiction. While Mr. Caan made quite a career for himself after kicking his troubling narcotics jones—think Misery (1990), Honeymoon in Vegas (1992), and the similarly-named NBC TV series “Las Vegas”—I am not a great fan of his later turns as gentle-hearted gangsters and hobbled romance novelists. I prefer the James Caan of old—angry, tall, broad-shouldered, curly-haired, dangerously handsome, mustachioed, and drug-addled. Who can forget James Caan as “Sonny Corleone” in The Godfather (1972), or as “Jonathan” in Rollerball (1975), or as “Frank” in Michael Mann’s cult classic Thief (1981)? These films laid the foundation for Mr. Caan’s career! When I realized that you had elected to air Mr. Caan’s work from this same era—a film, no less, in which Mr. Caan portrays a mustachioed sailor entangled in a doomed love affair with a prostitute—I was overjoyed. Last Saturday night, I was in the perfect mindset to lose myself in a selection from Mr. Caan’s repetoire.

Before watching Cinderella Libery, I performed at a music festival in Birmingham, England. Though the festival was a bit slapdash—my precious postpunk trio played alongside a series of films and some decidedly “heavy” hard-rockin’ acts—the crowd was enthusiastic, and the promoters hospitable. All too hospitable, in fact—these promoters provided an enormous box of vegetable samosas (see above) for all present to consume! Now, I don’t know about you, but I love vegetable samosas. I just love them! How many vegetable samosas can I eat, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you: six! Six samosas for me! Delicious! However, as you may know, vegetable samosas are packed with potatoes that, upon digestion, are converted into energizing sugar energy. So, though my set had ended at midnight, I found myself “up and Adam” at 2 a.m., fueled by potato power and in dire need of something to do until the sugar rush passed.

Enter Cinderella Liberty! Never has James Caan looked better, and never has he been so ably-mustachioed. What a compelling piece of art, made more compelling by your network’s policy to present it without commercial interruptions! If only stateside television programmers would dare to go sans commercials! I do not doubt that the aesthetics of Lost and Everybody Loves Raymond would improve without obtrusive ads from the Toyota and Budweiser corporations. Fueled by samosas and by your network’s unimpeachable programming decisions, I watched Mr. Caan deep into the night until I crashed. When Mr. Sandman visited, he brought dreams of samosas and thick mustaches.

I had always heard that British public television was of the highest quality. Now, I can return to my native country and report to all my friends: “It’s really, really true!”

I look forward to consuming additional samosas and watching more BBC whilst I am in England. Keep up the good work.

Yours in struggle,

Justin Moyer
CEO/President of the WeBlog “Iceland”

VEHICLE, OR BEDROOM?

To Whom It May Concern:

I understand that you are an American musician touring England on a tight budget and, in pursuit of financial solvency and/or personal adventure, may forego an expensive hotel room to spend a night in your freezing van. Drawing on rich personal experience, I write to provide my thoughts on this issue.

As you are now aware, touring England and touring Continental Europe are altogether different prospects. On the Continent, lodging is provided for touring musicians. However, as Europe giveth, so Europe taketh away—you have ferried ‘cross the Channel to the United Kingdom, where nothing is free, and those things that are for sale are very, very expensive. Are you aware that, at current rates, that attractive, clean “budget” £48 hotel room is $100! If your band can’t afford a $100 room in El Paso or San Diego, then you can’t afford one in London, Hartfordshire, or Stoke-on-Trent. Just as the New Testament presents God as Trinity—Jehovah, Jesus Christ, and Holy Spirit—your worthless American dollars present your van as both vehicle and potential English shelter.

But, before you curl up beside a guitar amplifier and say “nightie-night” to the bass drum, consider:

1. Are you absolutely sure there isn’t anywhere to stay?
Remember: you don’t have to sleep in your van! But, when searching for a place to stay, debutante ball rules apply—you won’t fill your dance card by playing the wallflower. Look around. Was anyone English at your show? If you see Englishpersons, odds are that these Englishpersons live in houses, apartments, or other semi-permanent situations. However, probability also dictates these Redcoats have not considered where you will sleep tonight. Thus, you will just have to march up to Britisher who looks like they keep a clean kitchen and don’t own cats, and ask for shelter.

2. Do you hate cats? Really?
Perhaps you’ve found a place to sleep but—UH-OH!!!—your potential English host owns cats. Many British citizens do not understand that the menacing housecat is a filthy, allergen-rich beast whose feces causes birth defects and, inexplicably, cherish these aloof creatures’ companionship. If, by some miracle, you can stand cats and keep their claws from destroying your sleeping bag, do not sleep in the van. That moveable bedroom must be reserved for that bandmate who really—really, really, really—is allergic to cats and, most definitely, hates cats’ guts.

3. How cold is it?
In the United Kingdom, the Celsius temperature scale is used. Zero degrees Celsius is defined as the melting point of ice. Certainly, 0C is much warmer than absolute zero, or 0Kelvin. 0K=-273C, a point at which molecular movement stops and no heat exists. It is physically impossible for anything to be colder than 0K. However, 0C is plenty, plenty cold. If you are used to the Fahrenheit system, as most Americans are, you should know that 0C = 32F. However, don’t let the “32” fool you. If you’re sleeping in a van, you don’t have 32 of anything, and will undoubtedly wake up around 5:00 a.m., freezing your ass off.

4. Make yourself comfortable.
Just because you’re sleeping in a van doesn’t mean that you can’t be comfortable. If you have to rearrange a few guitars to make space for your sleeping bag, rearrange them! If there are any empty soda bottles under your head, throw them away! If someone left a jacket in the van, use it as a pillow! And watch out for the gear shift!

I hope this missive has proven entertaining and informative. If, as you close your eyes against the streetlight, you happen to feel lonely, remember Fievel Mousekewitz from An American Tail, who famously pointed out that “It helps to think we’re sleeping underneath the same big sky.”

Yours in struggle,

Justin Moyer
CEO/President of the WeBlog “Iceland”

Overheard outside concert venue in Lille, France:

French Promoter (FP): I’m sorry about the show tonight.
Me: Don’t be sorry. I’m the one that is sorry.
FP: You should have been able to play a full set.
Me: It’s all right. We played for four minutes. Four minutes of any band is enough. The audience gets the basic idea quickly, efficiently.
FP: You see, really, I am so fucking angry at the owner of the club. Because, when I book the show, the owner does not tell me that, at 10:30, at the music must be done. Instead, he tells me at 10:30 that all the music must be done at 10:30. So, when you start playing at 10:30, there is no time for you to play. So, I stall and stall and stall. But, then, the promoter says he will pull the electricity. So, there is nothing for me to do but go on to the stage while you are playing and ask you to stop.
Me: That was quite surprising, when you just walked right up to us while we were playing. That’s a first.
FP: Otherwise, the police come. If you don’t stop.
Me: Gendarmes.
FP: Gendarmes.
Me: We were just happy to have the show. We did not have a show on this day. With your help, we book this show less than a week ago. Because of you, we have a show and a place to sleep and something to eat. So, even if it is only a four-minute show, we are satisfied.
FP: I am not satisfied.
Me: We even sold some merchandise. That’s the famous “the four-minute sale.” You play for only four minutes, so people want more, so they buy the CD. A good scam. From now on, we will only play four-minute shows. In America, we will play for two-minute shows!
FP: I am not satisfied.
Me: The next time we are in Northern France, we will play a bigger venue. Not that this venue isn’t wonderful. It is wonderful! So incredibly small! When I first came to the show, and we went into the basement under the bar, I thought to myself—‘Justin,’ I thought, ‘this is the smallest venue you have ever played. A tiny basement in a medieval bar in Northern France. This basement is smaller than the basement of your house in Washington, D.C., and older than the United States of America!’ But, somehow, we got forty people into that tiny, tiny space! So, the show was only four minutes, but was the sweatiest four minutes of my musical career. I was singing into the microphone, sweating, and was literally singing into the face of the audience and sweating on the audience. I worried about my breath because the audience could smell it.
FP: This venue is shit. We will find another venue.
Me: But the venue is okay.
FP: This venue is shit. We will find another. (A moment passes.)
Me: So…how is your life?
FP: My life?
Me: Yes. Music and shows aren’t everything. So, I ask you—how is your life?
FP: My life? My life is shit.
Me: That’s no good.
FP: You see, I am supposed to study in Brussels. In Belgium. But something has been fucked up and now I cannot study there.
Me: Perhaps you will be able to study in Brussels in the future.
FP: I don’t know. I’m sorry about the show. I hate this venue.
Me: Don’t say that.
FP: Can you do me a favor?
Me: Yes. I mean, maybe.
FP: Can your band drink loads of free beer tonight to say ‘fuck you’ to the owner of this club?
Me: Well…I don’t know. We’re not much for beer. Maybe we’d drink one beer, or two.
FP: But you must drink many beers. We will say ‘fuck you’ to the owner of this club with free beers.
Me: Maybe you can drink the beer.
FP: I can! I will! I will drink the beer! You will get the beer! I will drink the beer! And we will say ‘Fuck you!’ Fuck you to the venue! So, you get the beer, and I drink it! I drink the beer! I drink the beer! Fuck! I mean, fuck!

“Your kitchen, though modest, is well-designed,” I confided to the promoter of my show in Dortmund, Germany. We sat in his kitchen, savoring cups of Pfefferminz tee, a.k.a. “peppermint tea.”

“The landlord has just built it,” the promoter declared. I inuited that he was unenthusiastic about his modest, well-designed kitchen. I traced this lack of enthusiasm to three possible sources: 1) he did not own his apartment; 2) he had hoped for a less modest, more elaborate kitchen that his landlord had proved unwilling to build; and 3) he is German.

“I find your choice of countertop self-effacing and poignant,” I admitted. The promoter had chosen countertop in a butcher block style, betraying exquisite taste. “I myself am redesigning my own kitchen, and have considered butcher block.”

“To purchase butcher block would be very stupid,” the promoter informed me. He lit a cigarette.

“Really?” I stared at the promoter intently, my mouth agape. “But you yourself have purchased a butcher block countertop.”

“I know,” the promoter admitted, exhaling. “Butcher block is very stupid. Every month you must, you know, spray it.”

“With fine finishing oils?” I queried.

“Yes, yes,” the promoter confirmed. “Who can remember this spray? Look at the countertop!” The promoter gestured violently at his countertop. “The countertop is dry. Dry! Dry! Dry!”

I moved closer to the countertop and ran my hand over the butcher block. The promoter was right! Someone had neglected to spray the countertop with fine finishing oils. As a result, the countertop was rough to the touch—quite the opposite of butcher block mindfully-treated with fine finishing oils!

“I see your point,” I relented. “Your butcher block will dry out if you do not treat it with the finest finishing oils. But look here—“ I pointed to a set of modern, flat overcabinets that the promoter had installed in his kitchen. “I find your choice of modern, flat overcabinets compelling. America, as you may know, was originally a British colony. For this reason, many Americans are obsessed with ornate, quote-unquote ‘colonial’ cabinets. This outdated ‘colonial’ style evokes a ubiquitous, faux Benjamin Franklin hominess. But I understand that I am no longer a colonist. Thus, I will exercise my inalieable right to modern, flat overcabinets, like these—a masterful choice that expresses a sophisticated aesthetic.”

“These cabinets are from IKEA,” the promoter declared. His cigarette had burned down almost to the cherry.

“And well-chosen cabinets they are,” I continued. “There is no shame in an IKEA cabinet. IKEA cabinets are inexpensive, and stylish!”

“These cabinets are a piece of shit,” the promoter said.

“Well…” I struggled to stake out my position in re: IKEA. “I know that IKEA products are not always well-crafted, but their modern style—“

“No!” the promoter exclaimed. “Do not go to IKEA for cabinets! See—look here!” The promoter pointed to a cabinet. I gasped—this cabinet had no handle. “See here? This cabinet has lost its handle. We install IKEA cabinets. Two months later, the handle breaks. The handle falls off. We go to IKEA. We say, ‘Can we have another handle? For the cabinet?’ IKEA says, ‘Sorry! That handle is out of stock and has been discontinued.’ So, you see? We sit here with no handle for the cabinet!” As if to emphasize the wrong that IKEA had done him, the promoter, at that moment, extinguished his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Though the cigarette no longer burned, I knew that the promoter was fanning the self-destructive flames of lifelong, white-hot, anti-IKEA hatred that could only end in personal tragedy.

“Do you like Born Against?” I asked. The promoter began to discuss the merits of the storied hardcore group Born Against. I wiped my brow in relief. For not the first nor last time in my life, I had slyly changed the subject.

GERMAN SHOWGOER ENJOYS SUPERIOR AMERICAN ART

“We played with an American band last night,” I informed my bandmate. We were walking around Hamburg, searching for a bookstore that might stock books written in English, our native tongue.

“Yes,” my bandmate replied.

“This was the first American band that we have played with in Europe,” I continued. “And we have been here for three weeks.”

“Yes,” My bandmate replied.

“I enjoyed this American band’s music more than the music of any European band we have played with,” I continued.

“Yes,” my bandmate replied.

“Why?” I queried.

“Because they are American,” my bandmate replied.

“Really?” I persisted

“Yes,” my bandmate replied.

“But…” I stopped in the middle of one of Hamburg’s finest boulevards. My voice cracked. My face flushed with emotion. “I find your conclusion unsatisfactory,” I annouced. “Can European and American aesthetics be so disparate? We live in a rapidly globalizing world—a world so small that, if we need a place to stay in Bologna, Barcelona, Berlin, Paris, or London, I can use my cell phone, email, or MySpace account to call upon the resources of one of my many acquaintances who dwell in these foreign metropoli. Or, if we need British working papers faxed to France before we ferry ‘cross the Channel, or need to have compact discs shipped to Prague or Milan, I can accomplish this feat via text message. On this shrinking Spaceship Earth, how can art from one side of the Atlantic sometimes still fail to move potential audiences on the other side of the Atlantic?”

My bandmate did not reply.

“I suppose you might say that there’s no accounting for taste,” I continued. “I agree with this sentiment. Yet, while our trip through the Old World is a grand adventure, I find the foreign places we stay ever-more familiar. When in Hamburg, I begin to wonder—is Hamburg that different from Cleveland? ‘No,’ you might say. ‘Hamburg and Cleveland are interchangeable.’ Fine. Fine! After all, I like Cleveland, and I like Hamburg. But, if Cleveland and Hamburg are the same, shouldn’t I be as impressed by bands native to Hamburg as I am by American bands playing in Hamburg? Yet, when I see an American band in Hamburg, I say, ‘Goddamn! That is a wonderful band.’ But, when I see a German band playing in Hamburg, I say, ‘Eh…’”

My bandmate did not reply.

“So,” I concluded, “Maybe you’re saying this: ‘Justin, you just don’t like that many bands.’ I find this conclusion reductive. I prefer to think that, for the most part, I prefer American music because Americans are exceptional. I assert that there is something about our nation—its vastness, its obsession with religion, its obsession with sex, its obsession with wealth, its Puritanism, its debauchery, its classism, its diversity, its racism, its political isolation, its absurd War on Terror, its ‘newness,’ its large refrigerators and larger automobiles—that is the raw material of good art. The so-called ‘American dream’ is a capitalist fabrication, but Americans either pursue that dream or have that dream thrust upon them. Though we may live in New York or Los Angeles, Americans are still cowboys and cowgirls. We are cowpeople grazing an uncharted psychogeography.”

I had come to the end of my speech. My tirade had caused a traffic jam on Hamburg’s Reeperbahn—the red-light district where the Beatles had perfected their aesthetics and engaged in libertinage that would embarrass their biographers. More than one car was honking at me to move. Move, American! the cars seemed to say. Move out of the German interesection!

“It seems that you have answered your own question,” my bandmate replied.

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes. It seems that I have answered my own question.”

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inform you that I have photographed you without your permission. As I do not know your name or current address, I ask that you, my subject, identify yourself.

This photograph of you was taken on Monday, October 29, in Braunschweig, Germany. I took this photograph around 11:00 p.m., or 23:00 in 24-hour military time ubiquitously used throughout Europe. You were standing outside a concert venue called Nexus in a light, but penetrating rain (the precipitation accounts for the snowy distortion in my photograph) speaking German. My band had played this venue earlier in the evening to the delight of a small but enthusiastic audience. I believe that you attended the show, but did not watch my performance. There is a foosball table at Nexus, and I suspect you whiled away most of the evening in friendly foosball competition with your friends and their numerous dogs.

When I photographed you, I was wearing a brown, knit watch cap, a green, overpriced jacket/blazer from Urban Outfitters with too many pockets and zippers, dirty blue jeans, soaked Ben Sherman canvas sneakers, and somewhat pretentious fingerless U.S. army surplus gloves. Perhaps you saw me? I am a 5′8″ (1.542 m) , 140 lbs. (63.6 kg), 30ish bald white male “indie rocker.” You are slightly taller than me and about 50 pounds (22.7 kg) heavier. You were wearing a camouflage pair of slacks, a camouflage shirt that did not match your camouflage slacks, an enormous chain (for use as a weapon or bicycle lock?), a black shirt with a red star on the center (you are a Communist, perhaps?), a grandmotherly blue scarf, a goatee, and dredlocks. You were also drinking a beer. Though I do not wish to associate you with any subculture before speaking with you, your clothing, numerous dogs, beer, and devil-may-care attitude makes me suspect that you are a crust punk (a.k.a gutter-punk, a.k.a. speed punk) and may be a devotee of crusty punk music and the crusty’s marginal lifestyle.

As you may be aware, a photograph is the unreliable digital or filmic record of an elusive moment in time. Because human lives are composed of innumerable such moments, I cannot expect that you will remember when I photographed you. However, in the hopes that you have access to the Internet (a.k.a. the world wide web) and, through some set of circumstances I cannot imagine, stumble upon my photograph of you, I now post this photograph and hope you can confirm that you are the subject and I am the photographer. I take these steps in the hope that you will remember the elusive moment my photograph records and, if you live, declare yourself. For, though my photograph achieves art without your consent, said art cannot transcend mere voyeurism if I never communicate with you or learn your name. In my life, I have heretofore espoused democratic, participatory art forms (”DIY” punk, weblogs, and, rarely, journalism). I despise the fictional barrier between “artist” and “subject” and, since I have made art out of you, must now seek to know you. In fact, I would have spoken to you after photographing you, but had to hide in my band’s touring van when I heard from a third party that you and your friends were not happy with my picture-taking. Thus, though I failed to make human contact before, I wish to make clinical, digital contact now. Email correspondence will suffice.

Thank you for your time. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Justin Moyer
Writer of the WeBlog “Iceland”

“There are many sad people in Berlin,” commented the promoter of my band’s Berlin show. It’s no wonder—all happy Berliners have relocated to Leipzig, where former Communists merrily play foosball (see above) in dirty basements before enthusiastically demanding that punk bands from the United States play multiple encores. Though the basement-cum-rock venue I visited in Leipzig was poorly heated by a wood-burning stove, Leipzig showgoers did not care. They wanted their dose of American punk rock, no matter how low the temperature.

Some sample comments from Leipzig:

1. “Your music blows my mind!”
2. “Your band played for too short! For too short!
3. “You must play Leipzig again!”
4. “I would like to buy all of your records!”
5. “Would you like these vegan crepes I prepared?”
6. “Come visit my record store! It is housed in a building that used to be a squat, and sells homemade peppermint soap lovingly manufactured by a Leipzig artisan!”

Meanwhile, in Berlin, times were tough. Though my band’s show in Berlin was “better” than Leipzig—that is, sounded better, paid more, and was attended by more people—the audience was a bit depressed. Not sad, or hostile, or unresponsive—just touched by ennui.

Some sample comments from Berlin:

1. “Your music is okay.”
2. “Strange—you played two encores.”
3. “My rent is very expensive.”
4. “When the Berlin Wall stood, one could stand in on the top floor of an apartment building in the former West Berlin and wave to those exiled in the former East Berlin.”
5. “This veggie burger is 7 Euro.”
6. “I love existentialism.”

Of course, comparing Berlin and Leipzig presents extraordinary statistical obstacles. Berlin is an international capital, one of Europe’s five grandest cities. Leipzig is a small university town. Berlin has been flooded with Americans, and English is spoken everywhere. Leipzig is most decidedly German. An friend of mine once made a living in Berlin DJing, throwing parties, and playing shows. Meanwhile, at least one avid music-maker I met in Leipzig was living off of the dole. How can two urban areas with such radically different populations, economies, and social miens be meaningfully dissected with social science’s crude vocabulary and blunt instruments of analysis?

This is the realm of art, and the bailiwick of poetry.

“I promoted your show in Prague,” remarked the unidentified promoter of my show in Prague (tall man pictured above). We sat in Club 007, where my band had just played a show.

“Hello, sir,” I replied. “Might I point out that you are enormously tall?”

“Perhaps,” the promoter shrugged. Glancing around Club 007, I noted that I was the shortest person in the venue. Now, I am not very tall. Still, in any given room, I expect to be of average height. But because I was the shortest person at Club 007, logic dictated that taller-than-average people patronize Club 007, and, perhaps, that humans living in Prague are taller than humans who do not live in Prague.

“Why are there so many tall people in Prague?” I queried, testing my hypothesis.

“Are there?” the promoter replied. I silently wondered whether Prague’s citizens had evolved. One theorist recently postulated that average human height will reach seven feet. Since the promoter was non-committal on the height issue, I decided to initiate a new topic of conversation.

“How goes Club 007″ I asked the promoter.

“Wonderfully!” the promoter replied. I thought to remark that “Club 007″ is cheeky name for a Czech punk venue. After all, Club 007 is the basement of an enormous, Soviet-era apartment building, and its name is ironically borrowed from the James Bond, that most bourgeois of international secret agents. However, I remembered that Club 007 is actually in Building 7 in the aforementioned Soviet-style housing complex. Thus, Club 007’s name is also its address, and its name is deadly serious.

“Has business at Club 007 improved since Western capital’s invasion of the former Soviet Union?” I queried. “Or have patrons tired of the novelty of so-called punk rock and, using MySpace and ITunes, moved on to new cultural frontiers?”

“Not at all!” the promoter answered. “I find that Club 007 and ‘the scene’ are in better shape than ever!”

“Really?” I remarked. I could not remember the last time a concert promoter had said anything remotely positive about anything.

“Yes,” the promoter replied. “You see, technology has improved access for artists in all media. This is a good thing! I would say that people are more connected, informed, and eager to make and consume art than ever before. For example, I run a record label. One of our bands recently toured Russia. Touring Russia is difficult. Visas are hard to obtain, and it is a money-losing prospect. Our band was harassed by cops and generally put-upon. But it was a great adventure!”

“Your positive outlook shines in a weary world,” I admitted.

“Indeed,” the promoter replied. “I recently became a father. At first, I thought I would not be ready. I thought my parental responsibilities would infringe upon my aesthetics. Now that I have a child, I see what I should have seen all along—that whether my art quote-unquote succeeds or quote-unquote fails is immaterial! Freed from expectation, I am open to happiness!”

I considered the promoter’s outlook and recognized its perspicuity. Then, a showgoer asked how much one of my CD’s cost. I spent three minutes on the conversion from dollars to euros to Czech crowns. “The CD is 300 Czech crowns,” I finally managed.

“What kind of strudels are these?” I asked. A very considerate woman had just walked backstage, uttered a few choice German phrases, and departed, leaving two strudels in her wake.

“We do not know,” answered a Austrian member of the Austrian opening band (pictured above). “It is a surprise.”

“That’s the kind of strudel I like,” I remarked. “Strudel surprise.”

“Go ahead!” exclaimed the Austrian. “Cut into the strudel!”

“Me?” I replied. “I should cut the strudel?’

“Yes, you,” the Austrian replied. I surmised from his authoritative tone that, in Austria, it is the role of the guest to cut the strudel.

“But what can I expect to find in the strudel?” I queried.

“The woman who brought the strudel says that one is spinach and cheese,” the Austrian admitted. Previously, the Austrian had withheld this information. However, I did not point out the Austrian’s awkward failure to disclose. “The other is composed of vegetables,” the Austrian further elucidated.

“But which strudel is which?” I asked.

“That is for you to find out,” the Austrian replied.

“All right!” I exclaimed. “Let’s bring an end to this game of wits and see what these strudels are, quite literally, made of.” I reached for a knife that a thoughtful person had laid beside the mystery strudels for cutting purposes. The knife was heavy in my hands. I pushed the knife into one of the strudels. The strudel dough gave way before my knife. Steam rose from the strudel, filling the room with an earthy, cuminesque smell. I salivated. I swapped my knife for a spatula that a thoughtful person had placed beside the strudels for serving purposes. I then served myself a piece of strudel and tasted it.

“This strudel is the vegetable strudel,” I informed the Austrian. “Logic dictates that the other strudel is spinach and cheese. I am a vegan and do not eat cheese. Thus, it is up to you to see if logic carries the day.”

The Austrian nodded, picked up the knife I had just cast aside, and fell upon the uncut strudel. As I had predicted, the second strudel was composed of spinach and cheese. Logic had carried the day!

I turned to my bandmate. “This strudel is a cut above the Entenmann’s apple strudel on which I was raised,” I remarked.

“Yes,” my bandmate replied. We sat in silence for some minutes, eating strudel.

“I cannot complain about Austria,” I observed after some time. “Audiences have been friendly, if not as friendly as German audiences, and promoters have been enthusiastic about our aesthetics, if not as enthusiastic as Germans. However, I continually find that, when writing or thinking about Austria, my thoughts and comments begin and end with food, which, in Austria, is always delicious, and always available.”

I thought my bandmate offer a rejoinder to my observation, but he contined to eat in silence. I assumed that my bandmate was not in the mood to converse. Thus, I cut myself a second piece of strudel and ate it without speaking.