Coltrane's Insane

There are many things in this world that take a great deal of nerve to pull off. Everyone saw what happened when Homer Simpson named his motorcycle gang THE HELL’S SATANS. You end up looking like a complete ass and usually end up pissing a shitload of people off. The late Jim Croce seemed to outline it well when he offered the following list of don’ts: pull on Superman’s cape, spit in the wind, pull the mask off of the Lone Ranger and mess with Jim. Easy advice; follow it and no one will get hurt. So my question is: What kind of gall it takes to name your Korean jazz bar Giant Steps?

If you are not familiar with Coltrane’s masterpiece then before you pass into the next realm of being you should take a little time out of your busy day and sit through it. Make some tea. Have a sandwich. Pour yourself a nice Scotch, dim the lights and savor everything that music could, and should be. It is only an hour or so; perhaps less depending on the recording. I carry the title cut on my MP3 player for those moments when everything is falling apart and I need a psychological safety net. Play the first few notes and the world is restored to something bearable. It is not something difficult like A Love Supreme or some of the more intense pieces of his final years. It is like a great wine: complex, flavorful and one glassful simply will not do.

On Friday night the Yahoo Life in Pohang group sent out word that there was to be a good, old fashioned, American style Halloween party at Mindy’s American Café and I was sort of up for a nice night out on the town. I was coming up to the point in the month where I was starting to crave conversation that was a tad more complex than Subject-Verb-Object and I figured that a night surrounded by drunken Americans in full costume really couldn’t hurt.

Naturally, when I got off work I fell asleep on the couch and that shot that plan right in the ass.

So Saturday I decided that I would make the trek to a place called Giant Steps. I had a vague idea where it was at and I had also heard that they had live music. So far anything that said “LIVE” on it was basically a karaoke bar with drunken Koreans trying to be Wayne Newton. So I was rather excited about the prospect of actually hearing musicians. This brought back these odd memories of my life in Detroit and how I lived right around the corner from Alvin’s. I would ride the bus home from work and there would be some old black dude with a battered horn case getting off at my stop. He would head towards the bar and I would head home to change.

By the time I would get to the bar there would be all of these people waiting to sit in. And it wasn’t like it was a bunch of bullshit people sitting in. You either knew what you were doing or you wouldn’t dare approach that stage. It was always decent, sometimes great and seldom boring. Perhaps I am idealizing it somewhat but as I rode my bicycle on a cool, October night that was the vision I was holding in my mind. Sure, there weren’t going to be a bunch of old black cats with 25 years in at Mr. Ford’s plant, but there could be some guy who spends his off hours trying to play along with Miles or some chick fresh out of high school who spends her time away from Mozart practicing In Walked Bud. I mean the place was called Giant Steps and that could only mean that whoever owned it was all ate up on jazz.

Or perhaps not.

AN ADDED “S”

I suppose there is a great many assumptions made when one lives in a foreign country. The first is that they have no idea how to use the English language. I see “Giant Step” and I think Coltrane and I assume that they simply forgot the “s.” I read the email and assume that those who sent it forgot the “s.” It never occurs to me that someone would name a bar that has live music “giant step” as that has no real value connotatively. Obviously, it denotes other images (Armstrong on the moon, the Jolly Green Giant crushing peasants) but why on earth would you want to name a bar that has live music something as inane as that? I just attribute it all to some piss poor use of syntax and I start pedaling like a mad-man to reach a destination which promises both live music and native speakers of English.

Sure, it is fun to pedal through the streets bustin’ out Ice Cube on my MP3 player, but after an hour on various hills and getting lost in unfamiliar ‘hoods I simply want what I was looking for and nothing less. I want music, sweet music. At this juncture I will even settle for covers of Green River or some other shitty song that is played at weddings. I will settle for anything as I am old and tired, I am sick of being lost and in a city of 500,000 people there has to be somewhere that has live tunes. Growing up in Flint we could go to The Rusty Nail and listen to MR. X play the drums and some other cats blow out tunes . . . It has to be possible here, no?

The bottom line is that the giant in the step refers to . . . I have no idea and there is no native speakers of English and the only people in the place are eating, what appears to be, poorly cooked French Fries, and the large screen TV is showing choppy footage of the recent bombing in India.

I sit at the bar and am thrilled to see that they have Milk Shakes on the menu as that sounds really good. I am shattered when they tell me “no Milk Shake” and the waitress looks all extra pissed off when I simply order a coffee. I begin to look around and the place is comfortable with deep chairs, nice tables and lighting, and a stage with a drum kit. There are amplifiers and it must be true what they say about “live music.” So I am pleased.

In front of me is a man who begins to shuffle through a stack of CDs. I can’t really see the titles but I notice that some of the writing is in English. So I sip my coffee and I wait. What he fill my tired head with? What beautiful choice will he make that will set my soul free and make my six mile journey through a chilled October night worth all of the calories burned? I mean, it is approaching Halloween and I think I deserve a nice treat.

This is the age of the music download. I can sign up for something like LIMEWIRE and I can offer up my music in exchange for yours. I currently possess about 15,000 songs and I have managed to do so without adding any files by Lynard Skynard, Led Zepplin or anything else that has been driven to the grave via FM radio. You spend a few years working construction sites and there is no reason to ever hear Stairway to Heaven, Freebird, or Back in Black. You hear the opening licks and you know where it is going. Just let it lie and move on. There are too many other choices out there. Read AMG and figure out what is new and try to find that. Get into opera or house music. Don’t limit yourself with what is prescribed. Life is far too short for that. It is acceptable to revisit the songs of your youth as long as those songs were not played on FM radio. Try to find that kindred soul who has a copy of Vistamix or Oil and Gold; listen to it to refresh the mind, wander back to when buying something new meant just that; file it away and move on. “Live for the obscure” is not necessarily a bad motto.

So the man who is trying to play DJ has some choices. Sure, there are patrons whose needs must be met but that doesn’t mean that you must bore the shit out of them. Pretend you have moved to Dublin and start to play the goddamned Pogues for Christ’s sake. Make a solid choice. Make a choice that shows that you have at least put some effort into your selection. Show a little bit of class.

Now, I fully admit that I added the “s” and that I went to this place with very high expectations and that in doing so I have set myself up for a huge fall. I made the trip, I made the choice and now I have to live with it. I connected the dots and created an image that was way too obnoxious to be realized. But I am patient and I will at least let the man make his choice before I make my appraisal. If his selection is good, I may make the journey again. I will make it without complaint and I will make it with a hint of joy and anticipation lodged in my heart.

The noise of the TV starts to fade and sounds begin to fill the air. Sounds. Sweet sounds . . . Hold on. What the hell is he doing?

You see, this is what I will call a sin. Now, I add the “s” and I get Coltrane. I take away the “s” and I still get Neil Armstrong. But this asshole chose the fuckin’ Bee Gees and that leaves me with the image of the Jolly Green Giant’s foot coming hard and heavy towards my own person. He will grind my bones to make his bread. If the devil has a juke box the Bee Gees are on it. They play in a continuous loop while bodies writhe in blocks of ice and fire licks the souls of there feet. After six miles of sweat and determined pedaling this is what he offers me? Why not give a man dying of thirst a glass filled with sand? Coltrane is rolling in his grave and I am starting to pray for mine.

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to beat him to death with my bicycle helmet. What a fuck nut!

Then again, I am the fuck nut. I guess Koreans like the Bee Gees and I am the one who must adapt. I am the one who must change. I am the fool.

After a few Bee Gee songs, the man puts on some video of a Korean folkie who the patrons obviously enjoy. This is my cue to leave. It is rolling on midnight and I still have six miles to go.

As I wind though the hills listening to the sounds of my youth (Howling Wolf, Bill Nelson, Jimi Hendrix, Merle Haggard, etc) I decide that I still need to hear my own language spoken with “r”s that don’t sound like “l”s, so I decide that I will stop off at Mindy’s. Her little oasis will leave me with about 12 minutes left on my journey. I can live with that.

I lock my bicycle to a lamp post and head to Mindy’s. There I know damned well that I will hear songs that have been played to death but at this juncture I don’t care. I have given up on any kind of music that I may enjoy and simply want a familiar mind. This is all. Nothing more. I don’t even care where they are from or what they do. They can be rabid Bush supporters. They can think that Stairway to Heaven should be the one song that should be played at their funeral. I just want someone to understand me and it is getting to the point where that is becoming a difficult goal to attain.

At Mindy’s there are some people playing pool and they are listening to Metallica and I don’t care as she remembers my name, places a Diet Coke in front of me and tells me “happy Halloween.” She says the last night’s party was good and that life is treating her well and I finally feel at ease.

At one point she offers me, and some American guy who is playing pool, to share in her snack. She warns us that it is very spicy and we eat and chat. The guy says that it isn’t too spicy for him as he is used to food that is much hotter. Thinking that he must be from Texas or somewhere else in the south, I ask him where he is from.

“Michigan.”

“Really, I am from Michigan. Where are you from?”

“Flint.”

“No shit. Where’d you go to high school?”

“Kersley.”

I tell him that I went to Northern and he says that he lived in Burton and that he is in the Navy. We chat but that doesn’t go very far and I return to my end of the bar. A fuckin’ poser.

The guy sitting next to me starts to pay his tab and finish what is left in his glass and I ask him where he is from and what he does. He is Belgian and works on windmill turbines. He is in Pohang for four weeks and this is his first time in Korea. His English isn’t flawless but it is pretty damned close and Kurt turned out to be a pretty fascinating guy.

He talked about his travels and the fact that he worked his way up within the company and now travels all over the world looking at the gearboxes in various windmills that generate electricity. He even spent about six months in the states and had really nice things to say about his time in America.

We talked for about two hours. He reminds me that I really shouldn’t bitch about not finding someone to speak with as no one speaks his native tongue which is Flemish. Thus, he is forced to speak in French, English or German. We talk about rude travelers, how different Asia is from Europe and how nice it is to actually talk to someone who knows what you are trying to express. It was just what I needed.

Around three AM a group of Americans in full Halloween costumes (a belly dancer, a devil, someone who looks like a Smurf and others) come in and start searching Mindy’s computer for Halloween songs. So we hear The Monster Mash, some odd Misfits tune and other scary songs. They dance in groups, take lots of pictures and the beer starts to flow.

Kurt decides that it is time to move on to another bar and we part. I gather my belongings that are spread across my corner of the bar, tell Mindy “good night” and head out towards my bicycle. It is just where I left it and, naturally, as I am riding home I see that my front tire is starting to lose air. It is nothing that will prevent the complete journey but it still pisses me off. I have to stop, pump it up and hope that I won’t have to repeat the process before I make it home.

Once back in my ‘hood I eat a quick meal and look at my tire which is suffering from a slow leak. Upon inspection I see that the tire must be replaced. This is fine as I had enough foresight to bring an extra tire and a spare tube.

The restaurant is a few blocks from my house so I simply walk my bike along the deserted streets. As I walk I look into various restaurants and see that they are still filled with patrons who are drinking and eating. It is now close to 4 am.

So on the whole my Halloween was fine. It was filled with both tricks and treats. In the end it was the tricks that I played on myself that got me into trouble. At least I know a bar where they know my name. It ain’t Cheers but it will do for now.

Happy Halloween.

Peace,

sh