I spend twelve hours in Brussels. Margarida Guia got me from the station. When we walked out we saw two ambulances. A person covered by belts and sheets was lying on a bar and pushed towards the open door of one of the hospital cars.
After walking for five minutes the air was filled with the howling cry of sirenes. It disappeared behind some blocks. A helicopter snorting life from above had replaced it with its nervous flutterings. I hadn’t seen a single soul yet, who was eating flemish fries.
At the little gallery with the beat basement I met up with Crys Cole and Julie Rousse. I never played with dolls when I was young. The girls world was at my doorstep, but seperated from mine by an impenetrable veil.
We arranged the tables and chairs as if we were preparing something bigger. Soundcheck with biological beer and talks outside followed. I thought about Moresnet, while listening to an older man talking about linguistic facts. His face close to me while lecturing, it looked like an author’s portrait on the back cover of a book of literature. The pages had turned yellow with time.
Playing with the girls, I was allowed to enter their world. Our sounds grasped after each other and let each other go. Some time I will remember how I laid on the grass and watched the clouds. Clouds that slowly lost their form. And then the warmth of the day was the only notion present. I think, therefore I am a sensualist.
Next day in Margarida’s wonderfull house. Back gardens full of darker green, and the houses that had cried just too often. I looked into a landscape described by Jeroen Brouwers, some fifty years ago. I didn’t want to leave. And when I did, I saw crazy little people driving around in crazy little toy cars and it sounded like wuwuwuwu all the time.
Then, shortly before leaving, I was the only person I saw eating flemish fries. It was the perfect peace for our times sandwich: maroccon sausage with flemish fries and an andalusian sauce.
Nothing to do in Paris,except for enjoying the calm of the days at palazzo Carcone. Its doors open on Plaçe de Nation. Instead of walking into Paris, I got Paris walking right up to me.
One day in Montreuil to see Sudden Infant and Billy Bao. I arrived too early and had a walk around. Recorded North African voices. Walked a bit more and encountered a black African enclave. People sitting on benches, talking. Smooth voices in an allowed lizzard like lazyness just beside the obligations of the day. The appartments looked as if they could catch fire any moment. In one courtyard of an appartment block I saw a small market going on. Anthony told me they were from Mali. You could buy a piece of soap there at three o’clock in the morning. The president of Mali went there when he visited France. It is the kind of place where Sarkozy would cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief.
Hello to Mattin and Joke. And then they performed. Mattin with guitar and his rockabilly hard working drummer boy. Hardcore impro goes hardcore noise. The organizer gets on the stage and reads the contract. He reads all of it. Mattin plays high school love song rhytm guitar without amplification. It goes on and on. Contract reading finished, bloody noise tearing the walls down. I think of very dark New Yorkian political statements. I was never in New York. Mattin was.
Joke is sudden infant and has brought a female companion who wears a plastic inflatable parrot head. Maybe I am watching a performance. But whatever I am looking at, Joke’s extremely charming stage presence contradicts equally charming with his screams and moves. I get transported to early day Charlie Chaplin. I connect with the dirt and poverty of the streets. Times I have never lived and visited come alive. Was this what Dada was about? Joke throws rhythms. The girl without the parrot mask throws invisible flowers into the audience. Joke scratches his legs because of a sudden flee attack. Different rhythms bring visions of shadows on the dance floor in a cocained city somewhere in the early eighties. Is this good? Why should it be good. Is that what you ask when hanging around in somebody’s appartment? This is what it is. And I am very curious what sudden infant will sound like this weekend.
Then I will be in the Normandy