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Posts Tagged ‘Eugene Hutz’

In spite of the need for me to update you on a poetry reading I attended and read at last night, it’s time for your daily Gogol Bordello….

The video is a bit of a wank-a-thon, but I post it because Eugene Hutz’ pants are falling down past the crack of his skinny ass, so dangerously low that I fear taking my teenage daughters to the show tomorrow night in VT should there be a Jim Morrison-style exposure. Look, I’m not against nudity (au contraire), but sloppy, drunken exposure is another thing.

The lyrics are silly, but hey, they are sung in no less than THREE LANGUAGES. Do you get that no less than 5 continents are represented in the band? How you can’t tell if Hutz is pretentious (Diogenes, Foucoult), silly (start wearing purple), a drunkard, all or none of the above or some other mysterious and wonderful manifestation we haven’t seen before in a punk-gypsy-rock pop band?

I am sure the bouncers are glad he’s just a skinny thing.

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Until the show. To cure what ails you.

HEY HEY HEY HEY HALI HALI HO HALI HALI HEY!!!

If only I had any clue about the Slavic languages. I did hear Joe Strummer, Bob Marley, and Vasco da Gama in there. This is the genius of lyrics like hey hey hey hey hali hali ho hali hali hey. Everyone can join in. Folk music. For the people.

I love how Eugene gets into this by the end of the song. He is slammin’. He even looks at the camera as if it’s a live audience. Did I tell you yet to GO SEE THIS BAND LIVE ANY TIME YOU CAN?

HEY HEY HEY HEY HALI HALI HO HALI HALI HEY!

Wait, wait, wait. What about how Eugene says “Guadalajara?” Do they teach that in school? Because they should.

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Hubby, my older daughter, and I went to see Gogol Bordello in Boston last night. I figured out a little bit more why this is the best live band I’ve ever seen, and, when you go, the best live band you will ever see. It is their interaction with and inclusion of the audience in every move they make on stage. That’s not the only reason, but it’s one of the overarching ones.

One of my favorite things last night happened after the concert. We were driving back home on I-90 and we stopped at a rest stop to grab a bite to eat (I try, I really do. I had a cooler and food bag packed with healthy stuff, but McDonald’s fries and coffee won out in the end). While waiting in line, a 20-something man noticed my [new] Gogol Bordello t-shirt and asked, “Were you at the show?” He was in a state of bewilderment, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, a halo of bliss above his head. I answered that yes, I’d been at the show. We began to chat. It was nice to see the reverence in his face, the gears clicking in his head trying to figure out how it was possible for such a band to exist.

I also struck up a quick conversation, still in line at McDonald’s, with a teenage girl (14-years old, maybe) who had the same happy, dazed look on her face.

“Did you just come from the concert?” I asked.

“Yes. Weren’t they amazing?” she asked.

“Yes.” I answered, and: “Had you seen them before?”

“No, have you? Does he tour a lot?”

It was all so endearing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Just 2 hours ago, I bought tickets to see Gogol Bordello on Lake Champlain for a mid-August concert. This time, I’m going for it. Up in front of the stage with all the pretty young women and raving young men. RIGHT UP FRONT. That’ll be me backstage, the only sober person in a throng of groupies trying to share a bottle of wine with the band. Maybe Eugene will let me massage his hands. Or forearms. Or the twisted erector spinae muscles of his back. Yeah, that’s how fantasies work around here: me massaging famous rock stars.

It’s like my kid, clucking at me to Stop it, Mom when I was bounding, fleet-foot, up the aisle last night, dancing around, twirling my new t-shirt in the air. Nobody cares, Violet. Nobody cares what I am doing. They are not looking at me. She danced next to me the whole concert, her face glowing and carefree, safe with her parents, buoyed up by the good will all around her.

I’m here to be happy, to fill the empty spaces with energy and heat and vibration. Just like that band up there, biding our time and asking everyone to join in the ecstatic moments.

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Just bought tickets for Gogol Bordello in Boston, June 1, me, Hubby, and the big kid (the younger one will be sailing in Camden, Maine)

Here’s my GB post from last year.

They’ll also be in VT in August.

Call me. We’ll caravan.

*not exactly, but this will kick off the summer festival season for my family. Who else will we see? Wilco, likely. David Sedaris? Wait, that’s not a concert and he’s not here ’til fall. It all works. Trust me.

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Good, happy, and amazing things this week:

Gogol Bordello

Seeing a band with Hubby

Dancing

Two of the broad, flat farm fields that we passed on the way to my daughter’s school this morning. There must have been a thousand robins in the low grasses. No kidding, a thousand. I am not a huge fan of robins but this was almost other-worldly. A strange sight, but peaceful and rhythmic in its way. I think they were all pulling up worms.

Certainly the brightest spot these last few days was talking to my great friend Stacey, a friend I have known since at least 6th Grade.

The only reason I came upon Gogol Bordello was because of several references that Stacey made to them on Facebook over the last year or so. This led to my further investigation and desire to see them live.

Stacey had read my Music Monday post this week and yet I reiterated my sad saga, the story of passing Eugene Hutz in the street and not saying so much as “hello.”

At one point in the conversation, she asked me what it was like outside on that day and I said, “Oh, it was pretty warm.”

“What’s warm?”

“Around 50, you know, maybe 52.”

And she let out a rip-roaring laugh. She lives in Miami, F-L-A, and you know, it didn’t even occur to me until she laughed what 50 degrees could mean to someone from warmer climes.

Of course, that is only the tiniest glimpse into our hour-long phone conversation. Every time I have spoken with her over the last two years, I get in some deep laughs. It is this kind of connection with women in my life that carries me as I age, as we age, as our parents whither and sometimes die, as our skin gets closer and closer to the ground, and as we weather the unpredictable, and literal, ebbs and flows of uterine blood.

My contact with Stacey was the “sweet refreshing show’r” of my week and I have been drinking it in every day since. Yassou, Stacey!

A follow up: Last week, I asked for suggestions for a new name for Thursday’s posts. You can read those in the comments from that day, but for the sake of ease, I will summarize:

A Better Day Than Yesterday (I quite like this one and am keeping it under consideration, or some variation thereon).

Big Honking Marital Aids (maybe a bit too silly for the purposes of a Thursday post, but “marital aids” could make a guest appearance here on occasion; you never know)

Also, I cobbled together something like “Take that thing out of your ear” from Pam’s comment. As sweet as it sounds, I don’t think it would adequately point in the direction of things for which I am grateful.

For now, I am sticking with “Thankful Thursday” as the moniker.

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