2008-4-1
Stepping off the number 9 tram at the Bertramka stop as usual, I headed up the hill, threading my way carefully around dog messes, human urine marks, and broken glass. My mind had been wandering on the tram ride; I realized one of my trains of thought as I saw what looked like a drug deal go down on the cross street I was approaching. The crumbling, dirty Smichov surroundings of this Country Saloon are a harsh contrast, a dark flip side to the tended garden green of the Stresovicka neighborhood Emily and I enjoy from our apartment windows.
We found an unusually good deal with out flat, but it still is a privileged spot, one that a normal university student would have only through significant financial family intervention. So we’re not normal, we don’t enjoy the networks of personal ties that enable “normal” Czechs to build a comfortable life on a shoestring; we’re foreign, we have to pay to get things done.
That difference, my outsiderness and (though it seems laughable to see it this way) my comparative affluence, hit me on the street. “Tonight at the jam, I’m going to try and pay attention to difference.” I had read through my colleague Michael’s summary of “whiteness” that day, and was reminded of “class.” How do I deal with class in my work – the range of folks who take part in bluegrass activities here in Czech Republic?
U Supa is a good cross section: between the tuesday and thursday jams there are businessmen, tram drivers, graphic artists, students, and more. The Czech-language group on Thursdays seems to be a more working-class crowd, but then again, I really have no idea.
When I reached the top of the hill and the door, a new sensation hit – I was tired. Setting down my equipment (the fiddle, the camera, jackets) at the table and greeting everyone, I found myself responding to Jirka, “Yeah, I’m still tired from our vacation” — the trip that ended several days ago. I didn’t arrive with a bunch of energy to add to the group.
The whole scene seemed fairly low-key. lots of absences (no banjo players, or bassists) and a mellow mood. Jirka and Slavka and I did make a strong fiddle section, though, and we tore through some “fidlovky” that got my blood moving and fingers warmed up – I hadn’t really played for two weeks. Petr’s songbook yielded some songs that flew “without banjo” -some brother-duet-type material and ballads. Jirka and I pulled off a credible improvised double fiddle break for “Danny Boy,” and traded off some fun jazzy licks on some of the other slower songs.
Just as things were picking up, I felt the tug of home, of Emily waiting. It was time to go. I made some farewells, but then reinforcements arrived. Tomas’ flashy banjo-playing got us going, and then he requested Whiskey before Breakfast, and showed that he’d pretty much got the tune down since hearing/learning it at a jam a while back. I allowed myself to be tugged back into the circle for a few more tunes, then packed up for good.
On my way towards the door, a gentleman tugged mea side – the guitarist from the other end of the table, Petr. He’d bleted out some interesting songs tonight, and I was impressed and surprised – the quiet night had allowed him some space, and I was glad to hear a new side to that side of the room. He was acting a bit shifty and I wasn’t sure what he was taking me aside to do – at first I was worried that he was inviting me for a shot or something… But it turned out he just wanted some help decoding english lyrics from a song he and his band were trying to learn. Sure! As I told him “I have a chance to use this language I’ve been learning for so long.”
Equipped with partial lyrics sheet and a CD of the track in question (Red Bird, by the group Cadillac Sky) I made for the door again, and finally made it out, after a short talk with Petr about the current Bells and Whistles situation (there’s a new bassist who seems to be working out well, and the CD is an ongoing project that still needs a lot of work, on the whole things seem ok) I was able to pay my ticket (i went easy tonight, just one Mattonku) and push through the swinging saloon door into the street. Trudging down the hill I realized that I hadn’t kept to my goal at all – what about “class?”
I suppose feeling included and a part of the group is a bit of data on that front. I don’t feel the divide in the moment of playing, in the circle of the jam. For what that’s worth – which is a lot.
PS – This evening also saw another American at the table, a mandolinist name Josh, who let me sample his sweet Vana (Miroslav Vana, maker from Jirkov, CR) mandolin. He also endeared himself to me by saying that he reads (and what’s more enjoys) this blog! I’m flattered. He also introduced me to Martin Krajíček, a mandolinistic artist I’ve not heard of yet. This link leads to some sample tracks; cool sounds. Thanks, Josh!
