You can’t play on broken strings means as much as: go out in the morning (after a delicious breakfast… yeah, I keep telling that, but it is delicious. No, not the…, well yeah, too, but, you know, …ah, forget it!) having a Tom Waits-scruffish …
hell of a start with Depeche Mode (me all – shit, I must sound and think I DO sound crap, darn), going over a “what the hell – (give me a buddhist word for “fuck the money”) to a very nice concerto (still, this money issue is to be kept out of mind) I am working on NOT looking at the guitar bag = money-meter as long as I am playing (this is one hell of an exercise, I tell you. It’s like you’re in a mixed sauna and try not thinking about naked women, got the general idea 😉 – so this went on pretty well until – plaeng (I don’t excactly know the phonetic transcription of this most horrible of sounds to every string musician’s ear. Well, precisely I had to add some more exclamation marks for the dramaturgy of the moment. Something like !!!!!!!plaeng¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ {fancy, available on spanish keyboards})
So I had to quit the scene and went home…
After a very chilling reading and working on “Roads” afternoon (well, Roads has to be played on 6 strings, so I kind of abandoned this quest pretty quickly) I went to a Music Shop called Sevilla Musical to find a most excellente collection of single strings. I bought .011 (yeah, guitarits’ slang for a string with a diameter of 0.011 Millimeters, which is thicker than 0.009 which I used before and which broke twice in no time – here the non-guitar players can carry on reading) So I went buying these strings, back to the caller and playing my ass off, having so much emotions and fun, almost crying over Halleluja (darn, this keeps on happening when I play this song) that I had to grab my 50 Cents I earned (for real!) and played another place, collected my 30 Cents and tried to be happy and content just about playing music, understanding more about emotions and good songs than all of the ignorant crowd and telling myself over and over again to learn my lesson for further rencontres with street musicians in Switzerland (bet I will!)
So in the end I played just around the corner of Judith’s house (kind of home turf) and think, after 6 songs and kind of calling it a day, asked the bemused security guard of the shop in front of me: “Hey, what music to you listen to. I play you a song for free…!” Feeling like a prostitute just offering doing one guy for free for the sake of one hell of a bad business day. This guy all Eagles – me all tiffany twisted and mirrors on the ceiling – him really impressed threw me a two in the basket – me all I can’t accept that, because, well… ok… gracias…! What is your name? (I forgot it, but something with H… – let’s say Hercules) and off I went.
Home, sweet home!
(stop grinning, I know excatly what you are thinking…!)
Spocky, beam me up!
Sie can’t Spiel auf defekten Schnueren (babelfish-Uebersetzung) heisst auf gut Deutsch, mir ist heute Morgen (die Morgenroutine bleibt Routine und wunderbar) beim Musik machen auf der Strasse, welches sich etwa so anfühlte wie einen uralten Dieselmotor nach 50 Jahren Lagerung kalt zu starten, eine Saite gerissen ist – und ich weder Geld fuer noch eine Ersatzsaite habe… Jetzt wird es wirklich lustig…
Noch kurz zum Motor: anfaenglich glaubt man nicht, dass der wirklich startet, dann hustet und rust es mal anstaendig, irgendwann stellt sich das schoene Schnurren des Katers ein, welches dann jaeh mit einem Paeaeaeng! auch gleich ihr Ende findet. Da brauche ich den Clash-Song Should I stay or should I go gar nicht erst anzustimmen…
Naechste Haltestelle: Gitarrenshop in Sevilla (die haben ja Dutzende, aber allle auf Flamenco – heisst Nylonsaiten – ausgerichtet. Ich brauche Stahl, Alte!)
