On Komos Beach I entered Strawberry Hotel. What a find: for starters Alan‘s psychedelic breakfast, this Pink Floyd one with scrambled eggs. And then an extended morning dance on the beach. With Underworld rushing inside. Every second. Anna, the owner of a small Taverna nearby said, hours later, after i paid my grilled sardinas, and the Greek salad for my foster daughter: „I saw your dance down by the sea – very nice“. And she told me about her „inner dances“ while driving her old car uphill, downhill the rocky roads with beloved songs coming from the radio. By the way, Anna was right: my beach dance must have been really, really nice, from the point of view of bursting in laughter and decent spinal column rituals.

die sonne lässt sich zeit, diese wolken sind selten, aber werden bald vertrieben. morgens um 8 ist die welt noch in ordnung, wenn man nicht weit über die bucht hinausschaut. jetzt ein kleines bad im meer, ruhig mit der brust durch fast spigelglattes wasser pflügen, während fast alles noch schläft – so findest du auch da, wo buntes treiben ist, wohltuende stille. nach dem schwimmen ist mir erstmal ordentlich kalt, und ich höre, bestens abegerubbelt, auf einer liege, zum zusätzlichen aufwärmen, zwei lieblingsstücke der neuen underworld. schliesslich war ich gerade da, in der unterwelt, erst in wilden träumen, dann beim schnorcheln. und dann „the morning noises“, ich liebe sie, wenn das kleine städtchen, das im süden des lybischen meers schaukelt, erwacht. ganz anders als in paris, füge ich mit schmunzeln bei, dort erwacht das polyphone früh, mir sind dort schon öfters beim dämmerungsstreunen jacques brel und air und leonard cohen begegnet, aus den radios fremder zimmer unweit montparnasse. einmal hätte ich fast geschellt (m.e.)

She lit a fire in my childhood. I will never forget „Lichter von Kopenhagen“. And other songs from early radio days. She was able to elicit the universal from the trivial and take the uncanny out of „exotic otherness“ without exposing it to laughter. (m.e.)

After Caterina Valente passed away on September 9th, my phone spied me posting that clip of Valente and Dean Martin performing “One Note Samba,” which is the most charming thing ever filmed. So I got served this free? bootleg? puzzling assemblage of Caterina Valente and Maria Dolores Pradera songs on SoundCloud, which might be a real album? I cannot tell. The third song, presented here as “Franqueza,” is actually Valente doing “Cucurrucucu Paloma,” and her version is as canonical as the later Caetano Veloso performance I hold so dear. Free, also. (Sasha Frère-Jones)

I am stepping in the toes of Joni Mitchell‘s Matala experience in 1969 or 70, with a little problem. She wrote here first famous „Carey“ lines: „The wind is in from Africa. Last night i couldn‘t sleep“ . My „little insomnia“ is possibly not related to winds crossing the Lybian Sea, and not to any die hard problems. And it is very probably not coming from my melancholic episode last night when strolling the Matala Hippie Boulevard Of Dreams. One moment alone, staring at the black colour of the sea, sounds wrapped me up from behind, i turned around cause my ears were caught by a sweet magic melody from a totally empty Merino Bar. Only the girl who makes the drinks sent me a smile for being her guest, i kindly resisted, and for a moment the saxophone in that song i loved in the days that were the days, rang a bell: oh, these famous sax lines in „Baker Street“. Mellow me! How deep down it went, this song, anyway (if you read the lines of Mr. Rafferty‘s song). I was transported into a time where music was pure presence and dream and adventure and a look for elevations to come. Even reflecting losses, had a shining facade. This acoustic trigger of future feelings and dances is somehow diminished and lost by age where 69 is not your regular thrill, but a number of age, of days growing shorter. So that special song that wrapped me up, burned itself inside with tenderness, a time travel machine to Würzburg in those mid-seventies, was „Year Of The Cat“. „She doesn’t give you time for questions as she locks up your arm in hers. And you follow ‚till your sense of which direction completely disappears“. I think I will give this song another quiet shot tonite making it my dream path to sleep sleep sleep sheep sleep… I hope the scent of patchouli (in that song) doesn’t completely kill me.

Today Alabaster DePlume – saxophonist, songwriter, poet, orator, activist,  shares Prologue To A Blade, a series of creative statements setting the stage for a larger project arriving next year.

The Prologue includes a beautiful new digital EP – featuring two tracks recorded in Palestine with local musicians, pianist Sami El Enani and Qanoun player Laith Albandak, and a third track inspired by the experience of living in solidarity with the people of Palestine – which is out now on all digital music platforms.

This body of work lays the foundation for his evolving artistic journey, as he explores the role of dignity in healing and its impact on community, society, and humanity. 

was für ein Lied, so traurig, so herzzerreissend. Robert Wyatt liebt es, das weiss ich.

Im Hotel.

• Du, ich muss dich was fragen. Ich bin Didier aus Graz.
• Michael.
• Ich habe der Nicole das schon gesagt. Nun frag ich mal.
• Nur zu.
• Bist du in der Musikbranche?
• Ja. Also, auf der anderen Seite. Im Radio
• Ich wusste es! Ich mach seit Jahrzehnten Musik.
• Was?
• Hardrock und Stoner. Circle Creek.
• Wir haben uns was zu erzählen.

In einem ausführlichen Interview etwas älteren Datums (2008) – HIER in TheQuietus – spricht Robert Wyatt mit Jonny Mugwump über sein Leben und seine politischen Überzeugungen, seine Nervosität bei Aufnahmen mit Bjork und die Bedeutung von Unvollkommenheit in der Musik. By the way, he‘s still alive and kicking. Read about Richard Williams‘ visit at Robert‘s home recently in „The Blue Moment“!

I travelled three times to London to interview Robert and Alfe on „Dondestan“, „Shleep“ and „Cuckooland“ in the times of their release. Unforgettable, when, on the hottest day of that summer of 2003 , we were lead to the empty Purcell Room, that excellent concert hall, and then moved though every track of „Cuckooland“.  At one pont Robert told me how Brian Eno sang his part of the uncanny „Forest“ with opulent arm gestures of an opera singer. (And what a deeply moving song that is, from two of my favourite singers ever!) Many of his stories blurring the lines between the private and the political. And such a great humour, too. He‘s life‘s company, always has been! (m.e.)