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PARIS
"Welcome Americans. While you have perfected the Big Mac, the Whopper, and buffalo wings, we've stayed the course. Aren't you glad? How about some wine? Help yourself to the finest cheese and bread in the world. Have you ever tried bouillabaisse? No? Would you like to see some art? Do you like fashion? (No monsieur, the Gap is not fashion.) We know: we don't speak English, and you don't speak French. Who cares? Our two countries have always been in love, yes? Are we embarrassed by that? Shhhhhhh. Stay for a week. We'll call it a fling. Oui?"
Our hosts from the French label picked us up at the airport at nine thirty PM and took us to a restaurant in the city. We placed our orders at ten thirty and the food arrived sometime after eleven. This is life in France. Forget prime time television; you're eating dinner.
Our hosts ordered more wine, and smoked more cigarettes. More hosts arrived, kissing their colleagues on both cheeks, shaking our hands, sitting down, ordering more wine, lighting a cigarette. Our appetizers ran out, and someone ordered more on our behalf, smiling as if to say "Just wait 'til you try THIS." By midnight the size of our party had doubled, and still more people kept streaming in. The entrees arrived. More wine. We wolfed our food. We slurped down our wine. Tears formed in our eyes: tears of awe, gratitude, fatigue, and more tears to defend us against the thick cloud of cigarette smoke. The waitress brought out an amazing chocolate fondue for dessert. Espresso. Cigarettes. Aperitifs. The evening progressed with no end in sight. We left our hosts at two AM to go sleep. They were sorry we had to leave so early, and wished us a tender good night as if we were children going off to an early bedtime. Kisses on both cheeks.
It was reminiscent of our first trip to France in 1998 when our host from the label greeted us at the airport, checked us into the hotel, seated us at the hotel restaurant, ordered our food, offered us cigarettes, poured us wine, told us stories, ordered more food, poured more wine, laughed at our jokes, ordered dessert, smoked more cigarettes, ordered coffee, refilled our wine glasses, and then looked at her watch and observed "Well . . . now we are very late. We should probably order a final espresso and then get going." Then she lit another cigarette, reclined, and blew smoke rings through my heart.
I woke up the next morning and walked with John along the small streets off of Boulevard Saint-Germain. Life in Paris resembles an endless wedding banquet. People sit at bistros enjoying their food, taking in the day, savoring life itself. Strangers make eyes. Each human contact seems like an exchange of notes written on fine stationery. Each person walking down the street is a portrait of style. I saw a ninety-five year old woman in a navy coat and a plum colored hat. She winked at me.
We did interviews on the radio. We even spoke a few words of French. They appreciated the effort. And our show -- it went great. I think we'll be back. I hope so.
The following morning we arrived at the airport for an early flight. The gate agent made the following announcement: "Because of an air traffic controllers strike, the flight is delayed until further notice. Don't worry, the strike is usually over by eight o'clock."
I imagined the pilot looking at his watch, lighting a cigarette, leaning back and saying to the copilot "Now we are very late."
HAMBURG
"Americans, did you think all we have to offer you are the best cars in the world. Check out our cameras. Are you ready for amazing graphic design? Do you like to dress with style? Try on some Helmut Lang. Welcome to the birthplace and future of techno music. Art. Cinema. Yes, there's much for you to see and hear."
In Germany, more than the white lines of the highway come rushing at you. As we moved slowly through the narrow streets leading to our Hamburg hotel, we went by a parade of shoppers and storefronts. Jackets with sharp angles, hip shoes, a zoological assortment of sunglasses, hair styles, large posters of striking design with big black lettering, electronic music everywhere -- it was like reading a fashion magazine with headphones on.
We drove past the excitement and spent the morning in a quiet hotel room doing interviews. It's interesting how the questions vary from place to place.
Actual German interview questions:
- Can hope overcome despair in the real world as it does on your records?
- What is the ultimate purpose of music?
- In what ways can music change the world?
Actual American interview questions:
- Bet you guys get laid a lot. Huh?
- Met any hot babes?
- C'mon, which one of you guys gets laid the most?
In the afternoon we went to several photo studios for pictures. The first photographer had created a floor and backdrop made entirely of vinyl LP's. It felt weird to stand on someone's records. We might as well have been standing on a bunch of glossy photographs of someone's face. The second photographer was dressed entirely in black and had us stand in a white void. She climbed up and down a ladder and crouched at various altitudes to capture us on film posing like action movie heroes. Too bad no one got a picture of her taking our picture. It would have been awesome.
Then we were off to Sweden.
STOCKHOLM
"Welcome Americans. Have a free luggage cart. Have a smooth ride into town over perfectly maintained roads. Have a breath of fresh air. Have a look at a society that believes in sex education and universal health care. Set aside your puritanical rage for a few days and enjoy life in a land where people have no fear of cooperation."
We were greeted at our hotel by a flock of armed security guards. Evidently, various heads of state were gathered for a conference and were all staying in our hotel. Tony Blair and Vladimir Putin were flossing their teeth somewhere in our building! Guards were posted in the hallways outside our rooms. Security was heavy. So how come I felt I was in the greatest danger of my life? I kept thinking of scenes from James Bond movies where the villain goes to assassinate some world leader and gains access to the leader by killing an unsuspecting tourist in the adjacent room.
(Knock on door)
Jake: Who's there?
Voice: Housekeeping sir. We've come to fix your television.
Jake: Really? I didn't know it was broken.
Voice: It won't take a second.
Jake: (Opening door while blowing bubble gum) OK, if you say so.
(Sound of three shots from a silenced pistol. Jake falls dead with bubble gum popped over his face. Villain enters room with television closing door behind him.)
In 1998 we met Johan, an executive in the Stockholm office of our record company. One of the first things he ever said to me was "Have you ever tried Swedish butter?" Since then I've taken five years off of my life courtesy of the sweet creamy butter they make in Sweden. You could eat a tennis shoe if you covered it in Swedish butter. After that trip to Sweden I realized one measure of our success was the fact that we were gaining instead of losing weight on the road.
Now, three years later, I was face to face with him again. After dropping my things off in my room and managing not to be killed by an international villain, I went out for dinner with Johan and other label folks. He wasted no time. "I recommend the herring appetizer. Very good. Very Swedish."
Very good. Very Swedish. Here was my international villain. With his shaved head and steely eyes, Johan even looks the part. My plate arrived with eight different herrings, each in a different sauce. Each herring was so delicious that I required a new four letter word to adequately express my enthusiasm. Johan sat back confidently, ordering wine and refilling my glass as he challenged me with a stare. I flinched. He smiled. Then he suggested a specially prepared salmon in lemon oil and asparagus for the entree. The waitress offered dessert. I declined. Johan smiled.
The next day consisted of nonstop interviews. Even the best journalists ask the same questions: "Why did you decide to produce the record yourselves?" "How is this record different?" Our answers at the beginning of the week showed just how jet lagged we were.
INTERVIEWER: Why did you decide to produce this album yourselves?
JAKE: Um, well, you know, producing is . . . we've been in the studio . . . you know . . . like, we've made lots of records and stuff, so we . . . you know . . . it's like we know how to do it. You know?
After a week of answering the same questions, however, we had honed our responses into perfectly constructed sentences.
INTERVIEWER: Why did you decide to produce this album yourselves?
JAKE: Why? Why do we decide to tie our own shoes in the morning? My good man, for the simple reason that we know how to do it. Having made up our mind, we stepped into our newfound role with a bravura befitting a seasoned orchestral conductor -- an Arturo Toscanini or Leonard Bernstein if you will.
Such quotable answers are followed by the excited scribbling of the interviewer as he records your words onto a notepad. Unfortunately, the transcription skills of most reporters are limited, and the printed answer bears little resemblance to what you actually said: "'We had been listening to some Leonard Bernstein recordings and decided to produce ourselves' says Slichter." What?
As the interviews went on, Johan's agents brought in trays of pastries, cookies, and hot chocolate. By the end of the day, our shirts were sprinkled with croissant flakes and our lips were frosted with whipped cream. Then he took us out to dinner.
"This appetizer features a melted Swedish cheese. Very sweet and flavorful." He poured wine into our glasses. No one bothered staring back. "More bread and butter? May I recommend the special entree? It's a very Swedish dish featuring a fish covered in horseradish and egg. Very rich. More wine? This dessert features strawberries, blueberries and vanilla ice cream covered in melted white chocolate. Very good. Very Swedish."
Johan is an evil, evil man. He's evil and must be stopped but not before he has his way with us again.
The next day it was time to go home.
MINNEAPOLIS
I plopped down on my couch, turned on the TV and saw there was a new Survivor series running. Why? I thought everyone was really grossed out by the first version. That's what everyone said. The truth is everyone loved watching real life betrayal played out on the screen. The other reality shows like Mole and Temptation Island worked on the same premiss. Then there's Cops -- evidently it's fun to watch people get arrested -- and the Jerry Springer Show where families and friends get into brawls. Whoo hoo!
It's not just stupidity; it's willful stupidity. On Sally Jesse Rafael an idiot son and an idiot mother argue about the son's idiot girlfriend. You watch and feel yourself getting dumber, less articulate, more likely to vote for the fun idiot instead of the boring smart guy. Change channels to Survivor. Watch and feel yourself becoming more of a cynic, less of a sucker, more likely to drive a gas guzzling SUV and laugh at the losers who take the bus or ride their bikes. Then try Jerry Springer. People yell at each other, then push, shove, and then throw chairs. You're mildly amused. "Look at these idiots." You'd like to think you're above it all, but there you are watching them and becoming a bit less patient, a bit more confrontational, a bit more in favor of dropping bombs somewhere should the opportunity arise.
Yes, when I step off the plane I'm glad to be home. Then I walk through the door of my apartment, turn on the TV, and ask myself "Why can't we do any better than THIS?!"
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