Tuesday, November 27, 2012

On Anonymity

People sometimes ask me, "Froog, why are you such a slippery fellow? Why do you conceal your identity and contact information from the myriads [Well, 20, at the last count. - Ed.] of admiring followers your blogs attract?"


Well, self-preservation is a prime reason. A lot of young Chinese Netizens are of the fenqing tendency - rabid, xenophobic nationalists who despise foreigners in general, and particularly those who have the temerity to make any public comment on matters relating to China. A lot of these folks are formidably resourceful in the techniques of the 'human flesh search' - tracking down people's real world identities and locations from the clues they leave about themselves online. Many of these people are tedious and unpleasant in the extreme; more than a few are outright psychotic, and potentially dangerous.

So, I cloak my identity to spare myself possible grief from online nutjobs who might take offence at something I say. Now, you might think Barstool Blues here is a pretty uncontentious sort of blog, but my other outlet, Froogville, is occasionally rather less so. I use the same alias for all my online activity; and I sometimes use it to comment on far more popular - and more overtly political - 'China blogs' that attract a good deal of attention from dingbats of this sort. So, no joke: physical protection is a serious concern.

Well, that and attempting to save myself from embarrassment with friends and acquaintances - and employers! I do post quite a lot of very personal, potentially compromising revelations on my two blogs; on Froogville, in particular, I quite often discuss my work. So, there's an element of using the cloak of anonymity to preserve personal - and financial - relationships as well.

I put quite a bit of effort into this. It's not just a matter of always referring to myself by the name Froog. Almost no-one - unless they're famous - is referred to on my blogs by name; I either avoid referring to people directly, or - for those friends who make fairly regular 'appearances' on here - I use initials or nicknames. I also throw in a fair bit of misdirection about my activities: lightly fictionalizing events to make them less easy to recognise, attributing stories that happened to me sometimes to other people (and vice versa), distorting time references by implying that a recent occurrence happened some weeks back or that something that happened a month or more ago happened just last night, and so on.

Perhaps there's a component of shyness or modesty - or anti-narcissism - in my shunning of 'publicity' as well. I never introduce myself as the author of these blogs. If other people do so, I deflect the conversation elsewhere. If people suspect my Froog identity and challenge me on it, I'll deny it.

Blog writing, for me, is an acutely private hobby; and I like to keep it completely separate from my real life.




It's the polar opposite of dear old Jim Boyce, creator of the capital's pre-eminent bar blog, Beijing Boyce. He parades himself so openly on his blog that it becomes difficult to distinguish the blog persona from the actual man.

And he's a staunch advocate - often, indeed, a somewhat self-righteous-sounding one - of non-anonymous blogging. He maintains that it creates 'accountability'.

I find that an unconvincing claim. 'Accountability' in the online world consists in having to retain the confidence of your readers. If you write something that disappoints or offends them, something that they feel is biased or inaccurate or self-serving, they will criticise you in your comment threads (and perhaps elsewhere online too). And, if their disgruntlement is great enough, they will vote with their feet by ceasing to visit your blog. That is accountability. Letting everybody know who you are - so that obnoxious drunks can abuse you in bars or send you snarky e-mails - is masochism.

JB has different concerns, and chose differently to me. I respect that. His blog is utterly unlike mine (it's a public information service, with a very large readership), and making himself into a public figure has helped both in building the brand awareness of the blog (ah, that alliteration: kind of irritating, but oh so memorable!) and in forging relationships with the F&B professionals that he writes about.

Of course, the downside of revealing your identity when you operate as a bar or restaurant reviewer is that it will tend to compromise your independence, your ability to experience a venue as other punters do, your freedom to critique something uninhibitedly. I believe JB is pretty assiduous about not trying to exploit his profile to gain preferential treatment and not letting bar owners ply him with freebies, but... it must be difficult to maintain such ethical probity all the time. And it doesn't seem to me like a good idea to put yourself in the position where you have to make that constant effort. It must get exhausting

I imagine it must be a bit constraining on your ability to be brutally frank in a review, too, if the owners know you, are perhaps even friendly with you. I certainly find it hard to write about bars where the owners know that I am Froog (although, currently, that's only two; so, not too much of problem). 

Being a publicly identifiable bar blogger brings a lot of problems to Mr Boyce, I think. It must impinge to some extent on the freedom with which he can operate as a reviewer. It exposes him to potential hostility from people he does review poorly. And it creates doubts in the minds of some of his readers about his ethics or his impartiality. When set against that, his 'accountability' argument seems even more hollow.

JB often gripes about the hostility his blog sometimes arouses, and about unpleasant encounters he's suffered with jerks in bars. I feel sorry for him, and yet... well, he brings it on himself by making himself such a public figure, by putting himself in the firing line like this. If you can't stand the heat, and all that.

Even if I were writing a blog like that, I think I'd keep my name off the masthead. It's not about 'accountability'; it's about preserving something of a private life for yourself.




Chinese hotel bars

I stayed in five different hotels during my recent three-week jaunt around China, and hung out in the lobbies of a couple more. I thought this experience might furnish a post or two about the experience of getting a drink - or trying to - in a Chinese hotel.

But, um, not really, no. Most Chinese hotels don't have a bar at all - or nothing that really passes muster as one. In the lower-tier cities, at any rate, even Western hotel chains are geared pretty much exclusively towards the Chinese business traveller. Thus, the facilities they provide will almost always include a karaoke lounge (often a synonym for 'brothel'), often a teahouse (ditto), and occasionally a spa (ditto). But no bar, as such. Western drinking culture still hasn't really caught on that much here, certainly not out in the sticks.

The Ramada Plaza in Guiyang, for example, has only a coffee shop (and a spectacularly awful one, at that); no bar.

The Crown Plaza in Kaili, however, does have what purports to be a bar. I didn't see anyone using it in the three days I was there - apart from a couple of Chinese guests who favoured it as a smoking lounge, but didn't appear to make any purchases. When I asked the two staff behind the counter for a menu, they gawped at me in amazement. As well they might - there weren't enough options to warrant having a menu. A few soft drinks, and a solitary beer (Pearl River from Guangzhou - fairly tasteless, and absurdly overpriced). No spirits - not even Chinese baijiu. I don't think this counts as a bar; more like a convenience store with a handful of armchairs.

In only one of the hotels I visited on this trip was I actually able to get a beer. It was a huge and severely underused place out in the wilds of Guizhou. I suspect it aims for the conference and wedding banquet trade, but doesn't market itself very effectively and is completely deserted most of the time. Its karaoke facilities took up most of the second floor, but they were - mercifully - not in use; and the reception area for this, apart from a vague musty smell, was a not unpromising bar. Well, it had a bar, for one thing, a wood-topped counter at a nice height for leaning; that's a good start! And it was dimly lit, quite cosy. There was even a member of staff on duty who was aware that it was his job to sell drinks to people - although he might not often have been called upon to do so. Once again, there were no spirits. But there were two types of beer on offer, and they weren't outrageously expensive. Unfortunately, there were none in the fridge, so the barman had to take one from a pyramid display on the glass shelving behind him. He hadn't served a drink in so long that he had forgotten where the bottle-opener was kept; so - after a long, futile search - I persuaded him to accept a loan of mine. And when I finally tasted the beer, I discovered - of course! - that it must have been some years past its sell-by date and was absolutely vile.


But at least I had managed to buy a beer in a Chinese hotel. That is quite a challenge.


Monday, November 26, 2012

Bon mot for the week

"Nobody can be exactly like me. Even I have trouble doing it."


Tallulah Bankhead (1902-1968)



I have been tempted to enrol Ms Bankhead among my 'Fantasy Girlfriends' over on Froogville, but my attraction to her has only bloomed relatively late in my life, and is based upon what I have learned of her personality rather than her looks - although she was rather striking in her appearance, and she did have an imposing and distinctively husky voice. (I must have seen her in Hitchcock's 1944 film Lifeboat when I was a boy, but that encounter left no enduring impression on me.)

A flamboyant personality, and extravagant in all her appetites, she delighted in flaunting her many vices: she was an outrageous vamp, a chain smoker, a heavy drinker - and completely unrepentant about any of it. In the 1920s, while working on the London stage, she caused consternation in British government circles through rumours that she was sexually corrupting boys from the nearby Eton College, the country's most exclusive private school. On leaving hospital after suffering near-fatal complications from a dose of venereal disease, she quipped to reporters, "Don't think this has taught me a lesson." Her dying words - many years later - were supposedly, "Codeine... bourbon!"

Rather than calling her a 'Fantasy Girlfriend' (to be frank, I think her sexual rapacity would have terrified me!), I think I should add her to the ranks of my 'Unsuitable Role Models' here on The Barstool.

Here's a good brief biography of her. And this fan site includes a complete recording of one of her '50s radio shows, which gives a nice demonstration of her wonderfully 'lived in' voice, and her fine comic delivery.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Great Drinking Songs (37)

After a drizzly and miserable few days in Shanghai, I felt in need of a bit of a pick-me-up - and what better than this? The Banana Boat Song may not actually be about drinking (well, apart from that one reference to a drink o' rum seeing you through the night's work), but the infectious bounciness of it, the make-it-up-as-you-go-along simplicity of it, and the fact that we've all known it since childhood make it an irresistible singalong when you've been drinking.


When I was working in Canada in the late '90s, I remember once hearing on the radio a live concert performance of Harry Belafonte doing this song (I was in Sudbury, of all places; waiting in a car while a friend went to the bathroom; when she came back, she'd missed half of it, but we both just sat there, listening transfixed until it was over before we continued with our drive): it went on and on and on, Harry and his band having so much fun, they never wanted it to stop, and the audience singing along too. Coincidentally, this performance dates from almost exactly that time (well, I suppose it could be this performance that I heard that night; but I think the version I remember was even more exuberant, even longer).


And for a supplementary treat (or three), here's the original recording sung by a 29-year-old Harry...


And here he is doing it with The Muppets...


And finally, here's a possessed Catherine O'Hara breaking up her dinner party with it in Tim Burton's Beetlejuice.



Hmm, now I feel better!


Friday, November 23, 2012

My Song

Oh dear, yes, it's no longer 'acceptable' to admit to liking Gary Glitter songs. The last but one time I was in America, I found his albums had been withdrawn from record stores, and the clerks thought I was a demented pervert to be asking about the status of the stock. His depraved sexual appetites have, it seems, pretty much robbed us of one of the great cheesy highlights of '70s glam rock.

While I deplore his private conduct, I yet regret this spurning of the music. I think a person's creative output takes on a life of its own, and you shouldn't make judgements about it based on the artist's personal life (unless he's actively seeking to promote objectionable ideas or conduct through that creative work, of course). Heck, so many of the great musicians have been wife-beaters, drug abusers, religious fanatics, or people who'd behave unnecessarily snarkily towards wait staff. If we started getting too prissy about this sort of thing, started enquiring too closely into the backgrounds of the people producing the records we listen to and the books we read.... well, we'd have to be spurning a lot of rather good stuff. And silly, fun stuff.

Arriving back in The Jing after two-and-a-half weeks away, this song inevitably broke out of the maximum security compound of my memory to carry out a messy home invasion of my consciousness. I had quite forgotten that it was officially titled Hello, Hello, I'm Back Again. It's always been the refrain (unexpectedly morbid, counter to the general upbeat self-confidence of the song) - Did you miss me (yeah?!) when I was away? I know you didn't miss me at all - that  lingers with me.

You would hope that your absence from your 'local' would leave rather more of a hole, but in fact nobody really notices you're gone.



HBH 312

Cleanliness provokes,
Inviting desecration:
Pristine hotel sheets.


Yes, there is something about the artificiality of the hotel environment, the exaggerated orderliness and cosseting isolation of the hired room, that incites mischief and debauchery.

Me, I've been eating crackers in bed.


Thursday, November 22, 2012

NOTHING to do....

No telephone and no Internet make Froog go MAD!!!!

I've had some sucky Thanksgivings in the last few years, but this is way down there with the worst of them. I find I am developing an unhealthy appreciation for Shanghai's "international" TV station (which is, to be sure, way better than the China Central TV one - but that's not high praise). How I wish I had the range of indoor amusements The Statler Brothers found to enjoy!

Thankful for....?

Being stuck in Shanghai with no friends and no money and only very shaky Internet access?


Hmm, let's try again. Positive thinking.

Well, this should be my last Thanksgiving in China - that's something to celebrate.


It's a pity that my favourite holiday of the year (like Christmas, but without all the baggage - as I just remarked to my pal The British Cowboy) will have to go uncelebrated by me this year - but I hope the rest of you are enjoying the excuse for a bit of overindulgence.



I suppose I could go for a turkey dinner somewhere when I'm back in Beijing at the weekend, but.... well, I'm a stickler for observing holidays on the right day - alas.


Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!


Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Recommended Posts, April-June 2012

To keep in sync with brother-blog Froogville, where I've just added a similar rundown, here are some of the highlights from The Barstool earlier this year.



Guided Tour - recommended posts from the 2nd quarter of 2012


1)  Great Drinking Songs (32)  -   8th April 2012
Harry McClintock's hobo song Big Rock Candy Mountains, which I remembered fondly but dimly from my distant childhood, and was happy to rediscover a few years ago when the Coen brothers used it in the soundtrack to their Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?


As I near the date for my (possibly final) departure from China, I reflect on some good times past and list those Beijing bars where I have seen the sun come up.... and/or fallen asleep.


3)  Great Love Songs (31)  -  14th April 2012
Hoarse-voiced Norwegian dynamo Ida Maria's infectious shoutalong I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked.


4)  Cocktails in the afternoon!  -  17th April 2012
A private tasting at MaoMaoChong introduces me to some interesting new drink recipes.


In the week of the centenary of the loss of the Titanic, I find myself reflecting on a number of metaphors inspired by the disaster - and their disastrous significance for me.


6)  Haiku Bar Haiku 282  -  20th April 2012
I suffer a case of End of the World blues.


7)  Top Five Things We Miss From JK's Playlist  -  21st April 2012
My favourite bar owner had been back in Oz for 6 months, and down at the bar I found I was starting to miss some of the classic slices of cheese that used to come up particularly often on his iTunes playlist.


8)  Bon mot for the week  -  23rd April 2012
A particularly good one, from Friedrich Nietzsche.


9)  Haiku Bar Haiku 283  -  27th April 2012
Some thoughts on the shortcomings of 'happy hours'.


10)  An extreme 'Unsuitable Role Model'  -  28th April 2012
Perhaps the most unsavoury entrant ever in this series: blathering Glaswegian drunk Rab C. Nesbitt - a fabulous comic creation by writer Ian Pattison and actor Gregor Fisher.


11)  Seasonal drinking  -  1st May 2012
Some cocktail ideas for May Day.


12)  The beauty of statistics  -  3rd May 2012
Where is the highest concentration of bars - per capita, or per square mile - in America? Someone can show you.


13)  Memories of the SARS summer  -  8th May 2012
A long overdue post on my (mostly rather joyous!) recollections of my first summer in Beijing.


Reminiscences of my long affection for Queen, and a video of their anthemic singalong (Japanese chorus and all!) Teo Torriatte.


15)  The price issue (AGAIN) - 15th May 2012
A follow-up to this post from a little over a year earlier, decrying the outrageous overcharging we are increasingly being asked to accept in Beijing's bars.


16)  Haiku Bar Haiku 286 - 18th May 2012
On the brink of saying goodbye, I reflect on the handful of bars here that have inspired something like love in me.


17)  Junk food heaven!  -  19th May 2012
I find myself looking forward to some unhealthy eating 'treats' when I get back to the UK.


18)  Taking my leave  -  23rd May 2012
To mark my departure from Beijing after nearly 10 years, I could think of nothing more appropriate than The Wailing Jennys' beautiful a cappella version of The Parting Glass.


19)  Generic expat bars, and why I hate them  -  29th May 2012
A particularly undistinguished new bar opening in the (expat-frequented) Lido area of north-east Beijing leads me into an analysis of what invariably seems to be done badly about this sort of place, and why I could quite happily live without any of them.


20)  Caipirinha!  -  31st May 2012
I celebrate being back in the old country by having cocktails at home - oh, the decadence!


21)  Haiku Bar Haiku 288 - 1st June 2012
The delights of the traditional British 'lock in'.


22)  A song for the Euros - 9th June 2012
I celebrate the kick-off of the European Football Championships by posting a video of Neil Innes' One Thing On Your Mind, a great C&W pastiche about the eternal incompatibility of the sexes. (This post became my discussion thread for chatting about the tournament.)


23)  Does Nanluoguxiang have a future? - 11th June 2012
NO. I predict the inevitable implosion of Beijing's most overhyped, overcrowded bar & shopping street. A great pity - it used to be my favourite place in the city.


24)  A decade of change:
Part 1 - 12th June 2012
Part 2 - 14th June 2012
Part 3 - 19th June 2012
This three-part series on the evolution of the Beijing bar scene during my ten years living here has already been given permanent links in the sidebar.


Another entrant in my new-ish series on great bass playing, this time focusing on bass parts that are a little more sinuous and sophisticated than my previous roundups of 'hooks' and 'chuggers'.


26)  Last call - 30th June 2012
Semisonic's Closing Time and Tom Waits's I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You: two great songs about the poignancy of the bar's closing at the end of the evening - and the danger of romantic entanglements forming at the bar!



Monday, November 19, 2012

Bon mot for the week

"I'll stick to gin. Champagne is just ginger ale that knows someone."


Benjamin Franklin 'Hawkeye' Pearce (as played by Alan Alda) in M.A.S.H.



He was, if I recall, turning down the offer of a drink from his snobbish tent-mate Charles Winchester (David Ogden Stiers). I was reminded of this line when in New York a few months ago (it was on a chalkboard outside a bar), and it once more struck a powerful chord with me. Does anyone really like champagne? Really?? I think we have come to like the rituals of celebration associated with it, that it is an emblem of success and happiness. Many people are also no doubt seduced by the cachet of exclusivity: it's too bloody expensive for the hoipolloi. But, honestly, does anyone like it all that much for itself? Or do you find yourself, like me, sucking down one or two glasses as hastily as possible - just for appearances' sake, just because it's free... - and then looking forward to a real drink?

I am no longer a big fan of wine, and I don't much care for bubbles in a drink (I make an exception for tonic water), and I hate snobbery and affectation, and the brainwashing of branding; so, I have a low susceptibility to champagne. But even within this unappealing category of drinks, I think many cheap sparkling wines taste much pleasanter.

Champagne is just a big French scam! Give me a bottle of Cava any day.


Saturday, November 17, 2012

Great Love Songs (37)

Today, I am nominating Nina Simone as my 'Fantasy Girlfriend' over on Froogville. It doesn't matter that she was in her thirties before I was even born, and has now been dead for 9 years. Most of these selections have been 'impossible' in one way or another. It's the idea of Nina Simone that I'm in love with.

In addition to the good things included in the Froogville post, here's one of my favourite of her love songs, He Needs Me (which blog-friend JES once informed me was written by one Arthur Hamilton; not one of the more celebrated lyricists, but he was given a flying start in the business when old high school friend Julie London asked him to write her some songs and he came up with Cry Me A River).

This is a great song about 'difficult' love. I'm not comfortable with the suggestions of imbalanced affection, dependence, and self-delusion in it - but these all too commonly are elements of love. I prefer to think of it as suggestive of stoical, calmly optimistic perseverance with a partner who's just a little wayward - or perhaps just a little slow on the uptake, a little slow to realise or acknowledge the depth of the relationship that has formed. It's a complex and beautiful little song, and Nina's rendition of it has always sent shivers down my spine.



Friday, November 16, 2012

HBH 311

The distant city teems
Cool night breeze ruffles the sea
Lights on the harbour


Ah, back in Hong Kong - for the first time in 16 years.

I had one of the most exquisite evenings of my life here, back in the early '90s, sitting on the terrace of the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, watching night fall, looking out across the bay at the lights of Kowloon - and enjoying the company of an utterly enchanting woman... who, unfortunately, was married.

We shared a taxi afterwards, and she invited me back to her place, "for a coffee" - oh, the clichĂ©! I declined. It seemed her marriage was quite a loose arrangement, the husband working in Japan and rarely seeing her. But I have a rather stern ethical hang-up about adultery. Or I had back then. I have been tormented by curiosity and regret about this incident ever since (and I don't normally do regret). She was one of the handful of great infatuations of my life.




What was a low-life like me doing entertaining a glamorous merchant banker in the swank environs of the Yacht Club, you might well ask. Well, as it happens, I was (am?) a member. Well, a sort of affiliate member. My best friend's girlfriend at the time was the membership secretary of a rather exclusive yacht club in England, and - as a going-away present when I set out on my round-the-world backpacking year - she did an elementary bit of computer hacking to insinuate me on to their membership roll, so that I could enjoy visiting guest member rights at a string of affiliated clubs worldwide.

Though I was grateful for the goodwill demonstrated in this gift, I felt a bit guilty about its mild criminality. And I didn't think that I was ever likely to take advantage of it. But I did find it very useful in Hong Kong....

The Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, with its prime harbourfront location, is one of the most desirable yet frustratingly unattainable venues on the island. It is strictly 'members only', and not many people can get to be members. Members can take in guests, but only members can pay for anything. And even members can't pay in cash (or by cheque or card); you have to use your member's tab for everything, and settle up at the end of each month by credit card.

I was staying with an old university friend who was working for a merchant bank, and I discovered that he and his friends and colleagues were all mad keen to have a chance to get inside the Yacht Club for once. Since he was putting me up for free and treating me rather generously throughout the two weeks I was there, a night out at the Yacht Club seemed to be an ideal way to thank him for his hospitality. Oddly enough, despite its high-tone vibe, it was one of the cheapest places to drink on the island (something I was much relieved to discover!).

Of course, as soon as I'd done it once, I was hooked on the experience, and went back two or three more times -  most notably for this marvellous 'date' with one of my friend's colleagues who I'd found myself falling into a dangerously flirtatious friendship with.

The guilty knowledge that I was an imposter there never quite left me, even though I was becoming something of a 'regular'; but the only moment of real alarm I experienced was on my preliminary visit, when I dropped in during the daytime to make sure that I would be able to set up a visiting guest member account with them. "Where are you moored?" they asked me. Oops - busted! My panic was fleeting. I calmly explained that I was on a business trip, and had flown in this time. Everything was fine. Until my heart got broken. I suppose that's karma, of a sort.


Wednesday, November 14, 2012

The Monmouth connection

At the start of the year, I did a little post on the development of my musical tastes in childhood and young adulthood.

I closed that piece by mentioning that accident of birth (I was born in the small Welsh border city of Hereford, and spent my childhood in the even smaller town of Monmouth, 20 miles to the south) may have had a significant influence on the evolution of my interest in music, and I threatened a further post on this at some point. It had slipped my mind for 9 or 10 months, but here it is at last.

For odd reasons lost in the mists of economic history (well, it was never plausibly explained to me, anyway), a record pressing plant was established a little outside of Monmouth (in the 1980s, it transformed into a CD pressing plant). Possibly predating the record plant a little, a recording studio was founded down at the bottom end of the town, in the area known as Rockfield. These studios became quite influential for a while in the '70s: most notably, this was where Queen recorded their landmark albums Sheer Heart Attack and A Night At The Opera  (I remember the studios actually got a mention in the credits on the gatefold sleeve of Night). Nimbus Records also set up shop in the area around about then.

So, there was a lot of activity in the music business in the neighbourhood where I grew up. I never saw any of the members of Queen when they were briefly in town to do those recordings, but I did quite often see people like Les Gray (lead singer of a band called Mud, briefly famous in the early '70s for a song called Tiger Feet - one of the greatest of the cheesy hits of that era, or of any era) and Robert Plant (also a fairly well-regarded vocalist), who bought houses in the area. Mott The Hoople, a band of some note at that time (Queen's first tour of America was supporting Mott! That's what that otherwise incomprehensible lyric in Brian May's Now I'm Here - "Down in the city, just Hoople an' me" - was about!), hailed from Hereford. So did The Pretenders. A decade or so later, EMF emerged from the Forest of Dean, midway between Hereford and Monmouth. Nick Lowe - a less illustrious name, perhaps, but a very influential and respected figure - also lived in the area for a while. I think the first gig I ever saw was Nick playing unplugged in my first local, The Nag's Head, in the early '80s.

Because of the recording connection, and the beautiful rural scenery of the surrounding Wye Valley area, quite a few rock stars acquired country homes round about. But they weren't full-time residents, and you'd only ever spot them once in a blue moon. More interesting to me was the community of session musicians the town attracted - guys who could play guitar or drums like gods, but just didn't have the ambition (or the craziness, or whatever it is that it takes) to want to be in a successful band, who were content just to make a decent living in the studios during the day and then hang out like regular people in the evening. Seeing one of these chaps step up to play on a small pub stage could be an astounding experience.

Robert Plant would usually arrange an end-of-year party for this local music community if he was around. And my brother would usually get invited through a couple of these session men who were drinking buddies of his. And a couple of times he took me along with him. These would be low-key, utterly unadvertised, invitation-only affairs in unremarkable local venues - but they were often quite star-studded, as Robert would inveigle all sorts of rock biz aristocracy to show up and jam. You'd do your best not to act too starstruck; and the booze flowed so freely at these things that you'd soon be struggling to recognise people anyway. But then you'd have a transient spell of lucidity where you'd find yourself saying out loud, "Fuck me! Isn't that The Edge?"

Those were probably two of the greatest shows I've ever been to; but, unfortunately, I don't remember too much about them.

Well, I remember the women. What is it about rock stars that attracts gorgeous women like moths to a flame?? I think I made a fool of myself more than once trying to hit on women who were clearly out of my league at those parties (you know, they might have been married to Jimmy Page, or something...). The memory loss is probably more of a psychological ego-defence strategy than a consequence of over-indulgence in booze and weed.



Aw, just for old times' sake - here's a blast of Tiger Feet.


Monday, November 12, 2012

Bon mot for the week

"Contentment consisteth not in adding more fuel, but in taking away some fire."


Thomas Fuller (1608-1661)


Saturday, November 10, 2012

Another Top Five Basslines

Time for another selection of songs with great basslines.

This time, I'm going for...



5)  Queen - Dragon Attack
Another One Bites The Dust is, of course, one of the most iconic of all basslines, but... well, it's a bit too obvious a choice for me. And like John Deacon's other hook-monster, Under Pressure, it's been rather done to death: covered, sampled, parodied ad infinitum. So, instead, here's his third greatest bassline (like Another One Bites The Dust, also from The Game - the last of their really great albums). It doesn't really come to the fore in this clip from a show they did in Montreal in 1981, but it's superb sound and picture quality - and Brian and Freddie are fairly ripping it up (you can try the album version here, if you like).


4)  George Baker Selection - Little Green Bag
Despite the huge exposure this song got 20 years ago through its use by Quentin Tarantino over the opening credits of Reservoir Dogs, Dutch musician 'George Baker' (real name Johannes Bouwens) still seems to have a rather low profile online, and I haven't been able to find out who was playing the bass here. I would be grateful if anyone could tell me.


3)  Fleetwood Mac - The Chain
Of course, it's the incredibly hooky bit in the extended instrumental second half that we really love, possibly John McVie's finest hour - although he's had many. For me, as for many other Brits of my vintage, this is indelibly associated with BBC2's Grand Prix programme which showed highlights of the F1 races on a Sunday evening, and used this instrumental passage (I didn't realise it was part of a song until years later) as its theme music. I was an avid fan during my teens in the late '70s and early '80s. That was the period when the manic and touchingly inept veteran commentator Murray Walker was teamed with the extravagantly laidback former world champion James Hunt - one of the great accidental comedy double-acts in TV history.


And just for good measure, here's that BBC intro...


2)  Thomas Dolby - The Ability To Swing
It was Terry Jackson who played bass with The Lost Toy People, the band that Dolby put together for his superb 1988 album Aliens Ate My Buick! (one of my favourite silly album titles!), but I'm not sure who's accompanying him at this recent gig in Denver. (You can check out the album version here.)



And in the Number 1 spot this time we have....

1)  The Cure - Close To Me
Simon Gallup featured in the first instalment of this irregular series, and may well crop up again once or twice. His playing is probably the main thing I like about the band. (And this is one of my favourite video concepts, too.)


Friday, November 09, 2012

HBH 310

The old urges fade:
Food, drink, women - less tempting!
Losing appetite.


The health kick I've been on for the last few months has been ruining my social life. I've lost 20lbs, but I'm also in danger of losing most of my friends.

As I've noted before, vices provide motivation. Without them, life is rather flat.



Wednesday, November 07, 2012

The Top Five Unusual Places I Have Drunk

Since I am away travelling for most of this month, I thought it would be appropriate to review a few memories of some of my more exotic drinking adventures. I think I've visited 18 countries outside of my native England. And I have drunk in nearly all, no, all of them. And in many of them, I have drunk some rather strange things in rather odd circumstances.

Here then is a list of...



My Top Five unusual places to have a drink


5)  An outhouse masquerading as a Jamaican beach
OK, a little bit of a cheat this one - not really abroad at all; just a grotty semi-detached house in East London. I've already written about this, in one of my earliest posts on here, nearly 6 years ago. When I was at Bar School in London, I shared a house with the aptly nicknamed Mad Irish Dave - like me, an enthusiastic drinker. One Sunday afternoon, bored out of our minds, we improvised a 'Jamaican Beach Party' - for just the two of us - in the 'Blue Room', a narrow little extension on the house that our landlord used mainly for storing his garden tools. It was cold and pokey, but it was painted in a very restful shade of blue; so we hauled our living room sofa in there, and pinned a Jamaican Tourist Board advertisement for Negril Beach in the middle of the blue wall opposite. Then we laid in stocks of rum and ganja, pooled our handful of reggae tapes... and proceeded to get absolutely blitzed for about 8 or 10 hours.


4)  The veranda of a rock star's bungalow
Yes, a real live rock star. Not that I ever met him. Which might be just as well, given that I had never heard of him, or his band. They'd had one very big, poppy sort of hit in the late 1960s (dimly familiar to me, but I'd had no idea who was playing it; still turns up regularly on Best of the Sixties compilations), and had been able to retire on the proceeds. Not many musicians seem to have the self-restraint to decide that they've made enough money, and just give up like that. This guy, one of the guitarists, I think, had sunk most of his money into a small coffee plantation on the upper slopes of the Blue Mountains in Jamaica. He'd become friendly with an old college buddy of mine (occasional haunter of these comment threads, The Mothman) who was studying means of controlling an insect pest that ate the leaves of the coffee plants, and let him stay in his bungalow high up the mountain whenever he was doing fieldwork up there. I went to visit The Mothman for a couple of weeks after finishing university, and got to spend a night or two in the guitarist's bungalow. Only a small place, but an absolutely gorgeous location - the kind of place where you could lean out of a window to pick fresh fruit for breakfast - and a gorgeous view, looking down on the lights of Kingston far below. We got a bit mashed up on the local rum one night...


3)  The cabin of a Yangtze river cruiser
One of my favourite memories of my first visit to China in the '90s. I was going upriver through the famous Three Gorges (the huge dam project at Yichang was just nearing completion, but they wouldn't start filling the reservoir for another year or two; so, this was one of the last chances to enjoy a lot of the scenery in the gorges before it was flooded) on a mid-price cruise ship - not quite the grottiest possible (not the like the boat I came back downstream on, which was nothing but a tramp steamer), but a long way short of the swanky affairs that the better-off Chinese and nearly all foreigners favoured; I was the only laowai on this boat, and hence something of an instant celebrity. One day, I got chatting to a trio of young men who invited me back to their cabin for a drink. I was staying in the second cheapest class of accommodation - bunk beds, sharing with a noisy Chinese family; but at least there was a little bit of space, and a small TV on the wall. These lads were staying in the cheapest class - two double bunk-beds crammed into such a small space that there was almost no standing room; but at least there were only three of them in a four-berth cabin. We couldn't understand each other much (my Chinese was better then than it is now, but not much), but we mugged and smiled our way through some general pleasantries about international goodwill. One of them, I gathered, had just got out of the army - possibly invalided out after an accident (he showed me an horrendous scar on his upper arm, a large piece of it missing; but it didn't seem very new, and I couldn't make out how it had happened) - and the others were two old schoolfriends who'd come to escort him the last part of the way home. We spent a pleasant hour or two drinking beer and baijiu.


2)  The roof of a train
There's only one rail line in Jamaica, winding through the mountainous interior of the island between the capital, Kingston, on the south coast, and the main tourist centre, Montego Bay, on the north coast. It's a single track, with a passing place at the mid-point, in the heart of the jungle high up in the mountains. One train sets out from each end once or twice a day, and whichever reaches the passing place first has to stop and wait... and wait, and wait. They're not big on keeping schedules, the Jamaicans. No, they're more of a party people. And it's a party train. Vendors pass constantly through the carriages selling bottles of the local Red Stripe beer (very palatable and deceptively strong) which they somehow manage to keep refrigerated. And if the weather's nice - which it mostly is - a lot of people head up on to the roofs of the carriages to get some fresh air. It's relatively safe, since the train only moves very slowly. But it does lurch alarmingly from side to side on occasion; and I wouldn't have wanted to be up there after drinking a lot of beers!


But in the top spot, it must surely be...

1)  A prison cell
I spent a month or so in Fiji when I was backpacking around the world in '94. I grew rather tired of the main island, Viti Levu, which is rather too intensively geared toward the fleecing of tourists, and is overrun with Australians. But towards the end of my stay, I took a boat across to the second island of Levuka (site of the British colonial capital) for a few days, and found that a much more laidback and amenable sort of place. As I mentioned a few weeks back, I had become rather partial to kava, the traditional ceremonial drink of the South Sea islands (it's made from the ground-up root of a plant of the pepper family; it looks a bit offputting - like a muddy puddle - and has a slightly chalky, gritty mouth-feel; but it's quite pleasant to drink, with a mild aniseedy flavour, and a prickly, gently numbing effect in the mouth; and it's very, very relaxing), and was always keen to find somewhere to partake. Asking at my hotel if they knew where I might be able to drink kava, I was told to try the police station. It had seemed as though it might have been a joke, but I didn't see any harm in checking it out. The two young Brits who'd latched on to me during the boat crossing earlier that day were extremely wary about the idea (perhaps having had unpleasant experiences with police stations back home), but I persuaded them to accompany me. And sure enough, the three coppers there - with little or no work to do in such a tiny and well-behaved town - were brewing up almost every night, and were more than happy to welcome us to join them. We had to move into one of the holding cells, though, to keep out of sight in case anyone should come in to report some rustic misdemeanour or other. They told us that they would probably mix another bowl later, if we wanted to keep going all night, but the first one kept us merry until getting on for midnight, and that seemed good enough. It had been a splendid evening, full of memorable conversation (the desk sergeant's tales of the time he spent in Cambodia with a UN peacekeeping force probably deserve a post of their own at some point; he claimed to have been held hostage by the Khmer Rouge). I worry that this experience may have created in me some unduly positive associations with police cells.


Monday, November 05, 2012

Timely escape

The enigmatically delayed, ever-so hush-hush National Party Congress is finally taking place in Beijing this week. I believe the official start date is Thursday 8th, but there'll probably be some kind of welcome shindig on the 7th, and various preliminary meetings even before that. The delegates are already starting to roll in from all around the country.

A hotel a few doors down from me is usually used to house quite a few of the less important delegates for meetings like this; so, my street is likely to be swarming with armed police for the next week. And - of course - the Internet is being filtered to hell, and is slow, slow, SLOW.

It is an excellent time to NOT be in Beijing. And, as luck would have it, a stack of different pretexts to be elsewhere all presented themselves in quick succession - so, I'm going to be off on a little 'southern tour' of my own for the next three weeks. [And, oh boy, did my VPN get crashed a lot of times when I was looking for that link! The Kafka Boys are outdoing themselves at the moment.]

I have tried to pre-bake a few posts to maintain the semblance of my still being here at my keyboard daily, but in fact.... well, I haven't decided if I'll even bother to take a laptop with me, and I'm not expecting to have very regular Internet access, or to be using it if I do. I'm on holiday, after all.

Have fun without me.



By the by, if martial law is declared in Beijing this week - you heard it here first. And if it isn't, I was joking.


[And - oh god! - Beijing is now reeling from an early onset of winter, beset by snow, ice, and fog over the last three days. There is a dangerously high probability that my flight out of Beijing will get cancelled. Oh, woe!]


Bon mot for the week

"When a woman buys a drink, she's either trying to seduce you or break up with you."


Froog


Oh, sure, that isn't invariably the case, but it does hold true a hefty percentage of the time. Yes, I speak from bitter experience. My ex of exes, "The Evil One", tried to break up with me* at least once a week throughout the four or five months we were together; I always knew it was coming because these were the only occasions when she ever tried to buy me - or herself, or anyone - a drink. (For an ardent feminist, she was surprisingly comfortable with patriarchal customs that require a man to pay for everything!)


* It was, in fact, probably rather more than once a week, but not all of them were completely in earnest: perhaps the majority might be better characterised as teasing threats, or ominous discussions about the possibility of ending it. Even full-on dumpings were, it transpired, not necessarily in earnest. The first she repented of after 12 days, the second in a matter of minutes (she claimed she'd only done it to "test" my reaction). 'Volatile' hardly seems an adequate word for that relationship; but the good times were very good.

I would also like to point out that these frequent ruptures were rarely if ever precipitated by any 'offence' on my part. The dear girl just wasn't comfortable with committed relationships.


Sunday, November 04, 2012

Wimping out - AGAIN

Four years ago - and several times subsequently - I was tempted to try out a speed-dating event organised by the charming people at Fishbowl Events; but self-doubt and inertia got the better of me.

There's another one today. And this one I really was going to go to. Oh yes. My self-image is better than it's been for years, as I've dropped a ton of weight and got back into a regular running habit over the past two months. And I must admit that I am, alas, feeling desperately randy of late.

So, this time I was definitely going to give it a try.

Until I realised they were holding it at Switch. Oh, I'm sorry - SWITCH!, I should have said. Now, this place is fairly new, and I've never been there; but nothing I've heard about it persuades me to try it. The name is fucking STUPID! for a start. Exclamation mark - really?? Moreover, it's run by Culinary Capers, a catering company whose food I have found - at a couple of events they've catered, and at the most godawful Thanksgiving Dinner I've ever had - to be pretentiously over-elaborate and just not very good.

Still, I was really keen to try this speed-dating thing, so I thought I'd do some more research: and I discovered this online review (the only one it's yet garnered on the City Weekend website) which complains that the place is outrageously overpriced. I'll say! 62rmb for a Stella? WTF??!! That's at least 25% more than anyone else in town is charging (assuming that's the price for a 500ml glass, and not a piddling 330ml!), 35-50% more than most places, and more than 100% more than the keenest 'happy hour' price. OK, I gather they have a two-for-one 'happy hour' deal; but that doesn't count for much if their base prices are twice as high as they should be. The 35 or 40rmb we usually get charged these days is already way too fucking high (there's simply no way the price of anything in Beijing should be higher than it is back home in the UK); 62rmb is simply obscene.

And I gather the food is similiarly exorbitantly priced, without the quality to justify it. I'm afraid this is the kind of place that I MUST boycott on principle. I'll have to wait for December's round of speed-dating....


[Furthermore, of course, it SNOWED last night - so I fear the event is likely to fizzle anyway. It would be hard enough for me to hack just a few miles across town to Dongzhimen. I can't see people making the effort to come in all the way from Shunyi or Shuangjing or Wudaokou with the roads and sidewalks in this sort of condition.]


Saturday, November 03, 2012

Great Drinking Songs (36)

Tom Waits's Frank's Wild Years album has a special place in my heart. Well, they all do; but that one more than most. I played it to death in my first teaching job in the early '90s.

This is one of the many songs that I'd tried and failed to find online many times in the early days of Youtube; now, it seems, more or less everything is becoming available.

Innocent When You Dream is a wistful/hopeful ditty that sounds - is meant to sound - as if it might have been an early 1900s music hall song. It somehow lends itself particularly well to a maudlin bar-room singalong. And indeed, on the album it appears as both a maudlin bar-room singalong and again, as epilogue, in a "78rpm" version recreating the ambience - crackles and all - of a very early recording.

Here's the bar-room version (accompanied by an unfortunately heavy-handed photo montage)...



You can hear the 'original record' version, a different style of melancholy, here.

And here, for a culminating treat, is Tom performing it live, some time towards the end of the '90s.

Friday, November 02, 2012

New Picks of the Month

Three years ago this month, I was busy moving apartments, but... that didn't stop me blogging!



On Froogville, I select Plumbing the depths as my pick of the crop - a particularly egregious example of the pitiful levels of Chinese scholarship I have to deal with in my academic editing work. 
[Although, this one on how the Chinese introduce statistics, this one on the difficulty of keeping a Chinese apartment clean, or this one on the inevitable uselessness of any utensil made out of Chinese plastic were also strong contenders.]


On The Barstool, my top pick is Shit happens - some entertaining wordplay between myself and my erudite friend The Weeble. 
[But, in an unusually rich month, I might equally have plumped for this list of my favourite Beijing dive bars (the inaugural entry in my Top Fives series), this description of how I like my Manhattans, or this contemptuous analysis of an over-fussy Thanksgiving menu.]


Traffic Report - the blog stats for October

Oh, dear! Last month turned out to be rather too prolific - for mine or anyone else's good. Partly, no doubt, it was not having any work. Partly, perhaps, not drinking - and hence not going out very much - also boosted my output. And, since I have decided to call time on my blogs next month, there may be an element of trying to get a lot done in these last few weeks, tidying up loose ends and getting some long-contemplated, oft-deferred posts off my chest.


Last month, there were 38 posts and around 20,000 words on Froogville.

There were 34 posts and some 11,500 words on Barstool Blues.


Too much, I know. Forgive me.

Nothing much of interest happening with the stats, except that my post on 'Oneiric' Films last Saturday is racking up a record number of hits according to Google/Blogger's own traffic monitoring. Ordinarily, I only get about 10 to 15 single-page views recorded for each post, within a day or two of them going up. So, I assume this is mostly regular readers (if I have any such). The numbers climb a little thereafter, but only very slowly and intermittently - unless I've been writing on something that has obvious search engine 'sex appeal' (which, as often as not, means just sex appeal). The word 'oneiric' would appear to be super-sexy to search engines, because that post achieved 100 single-page hits in just over 24 hours, and has now amassed more than 250. Alas, I fear this does just mean turning up in search results, rather than actually attracting anyone to visit the blog.


HBH 309

Virtue is outflanked;
Work forces you to the bar.
Fate weaves her mischief.


I was really trying hard not to drink last night. But then I lost my Internet access at home, just when I had a ton of work on for the first time in ages. So I had to, had to go to a bar, just for the wi-fi. And one drink led to another.....

These days, the road to Hell is paved with faulty Internet connections....