Is it Famous Ray's, or Original Famous Ray's?

An update from Italy.

It's as good as they say it is. (The 'za that is)

The first few days providing good 'za, but nothing to write home about.

Then, on our first night in Rome, it happened. And you could argue that it had to happen. The night before (Christmas) we gorged like never before. Started with a litre of wine, moved onto a salad, before the primo patti (Spaghetti Carbonara). It felt right to split a big pizza. It felt even more right to then get a steak. And some ice cream afterwards? Why not.

Needless to say, the next day was a bit rough. It felt like a goddamned revolution was going on in my bowels.

So I was a bit sluggish in Rome, through the Colosseum and all that. Couldn't talk much. Grumpiness was working it's way through me. And lady luck decides to stop and take a photo of a wreath on a statue. (She's got a serious hard-on for all things Christmas)

I rolled my eyes. Give me a break. I kept walking. Not two seconds later I was the victim of a speeding Fiat, who drove right through a puddle and gave me a full body full of said puddle.

Oh fuck it all.

But lady luck was cool, comforting. And she laughed at me too.

So we went back to the hostel and changed, cleaned up. I was looking for divine intervention. We decided that (I think I might have decided, but I'm learning about compromise in relationships) we had to check out Pizzeria Baffeto, which has been called "A Roman Institution". We found the joint, and found a line-up of 25 strong.

We waited our turn, and when we got to the front the door a terribly unkind old Gino screamed at us. How many were we? 2. He sat us at a table with this Spanish couple. We made time and waited for the 'za. We had incredible seats, right behind the action. We saw it all go down.

We waited another hour for our 'za. It came, and I got weak in the knees. It was entirely too simple, and way too delicious. I really don't know what they did. Lady luck put it right, actually. "I don't know what they put in their food here, but it tastes exactly like it's supposed to taste" When she said this, she was referring to her tomato soup from a few days earlier, but whatever.

The entire time Ginos are screaming, waiters are delivering 8 pizzas (I counted) on one arm. It was frantically compelling.

When we left, we bounced on cobblestone streets. (The litre of wine could've played a part in this.) It was just so simple. How did it happen?

Rome turned itself into a city I put near the top, after that meal alone. So I feel no shame in telling you this-

It was the single best 'za of my life.

And now we're in Naples, with reservations for "Brandi", where pizza was first served around 118 years ago. Here's hoping...

More photos and shit to come later.

So, hope everyone enjoyed their turkey.

We leave for Italy in a matter of hours. My aspirations are few-

Eat enough 'za to make Joey Tribiani proud.
Drink enough wine to cast a permanent rosey glow over my cheeks.

I mean, I suppose Christmas in Venice will be cool and all. But only with the above requirements being filled.

Merry days all, every day-

the truth untold.

I wanted to call this bit "Odds and Sods", as that's all it is. A collection of musings. (Which is all a blog is supposed to be, I guess) But anyway, I said "Odds and Sods" out loud today and I started thinking about The Odds, one of those Canadian indie bands from the mid 90's that just died a natural death. So this post is dedicated to my favourite tune of theirs. Maybe it's the only good song they ever wrote, I don't know.

It's time to get a little personal, as I'm on my second glass on beer. We're leaving our neighbourhood in a few weeks and moving in with some folks from Oz. As pathetic as it sounds, they've become the only people here who've bridged that gap between acquaintances and friends here is the 'bul. Is that pathetic? I don't know. I suppose I was extremely spoiled in Poland to have found a good, tight-knit group of people to drink beer with until the sun reared its ugly head. And here, we've been kind of starved for, well, normal folks.

Well, that's not true. Most people just don't drink alcohol. So it's kind of hard to get to know someone when they keep shooting you looks of disdain as you reach for another bottle. I don't know. Anyway, carpe diem and all that shit. The school which me and lady luck work for sucks on many levels, as does the area. I think I've made this comparison before, but I'll make it before. If Istanbul was Toronto, we live in Mississauga. That just ain't any way to roll. So we found a place in, well...I dunno. The hipper area of town. Less moustaches, more beards. I'll split my time between a few schools and write for a few rags here and there.

The school lauded us with compliments when we gave our notice. We heard things like "Yer our best teachers. Please think of the students." and "Forget what we said about asking you to shave. You can mop the floor with yer beard if you feel so inclined." The school's lost 9 teachers in the span of less than a month. And damnit, it feels good t'be part of a revolution.

So come the new year, we'll be residents of Kadikoy. "Koy" means village in Turkish. I forget what "Kadi" means. But, as soon as I heard that I was reminded of one of those beautiful Heritage Moments commercials that are permantly entrenched in my subconscious. You know the one, where the missionaries land in Canada, and the natives invite them to the village. And the young dude maintains that "Kahnahda" means village, while the asshead priest is confident that "Kahnahda" means the country. Those commercials are all that is right with TV and Canada. Really.

Anyway, I tried to spin that commercial into a story with a class of mine. When they told me "Koy" means village, I told them about the commercial, the story. So I had them convinced that as "Koy" means village, and "Canada" means village in some kind of native language. So therefore, "Koy" means "Canada". Hah. Once they finally got that shit, I had them rolling. And wouldn't you know it, that whole episode took up most of my lesson. So I guess everyone was a winner that day.

Uh, what else.

Italy in 8 days, for 8 days. Goddamn. It's about time we found our way onto a train again with a big bag hunched over our sweaty backs. I am incredibly excited, but even that doesn't do it justice. I keep getting the same thing though-"Oh Italy for Christmas, that'll be so romantic."

While I'm sure there is a certain air of romance to it, I'll have you know something else, since lady luck rarely reads this thing anyway. I've found the perfect crime. She thinks we're headed to Italy for a romantic getaway, while I know I'm only in it for the heaps and heaps of authentic 'za. Yes folks, it promises to be magically gluttonous.

Six of us caught another football match a week ago. Galatasaray. Apparently the rowdiest team in Istanbul. No shit. They went down 2-0 at half and most of us were fearing for our lives. With every goal, the fans behind us took to smashing the shitty seats and tossing them onto the field. It was strangely compelling.

They liked to call their home stadium "Hell", and here they were down 2-0 to an inferior team. Here I was ready to title my next blog entry "Hell has frozen over". But persistence is righteous like that and Galatasaray fought back in dramatic fashion. The seats stayed in tact, as did most of our limbs. That's the best part of watching live football here. You get so caught up with the fans that you forget there's a game in front of you. As big a fan of the beautiful game as I am, 90 minutes is a long time. It's really something else.

Hmmmm. What the fuck else.

Oh, Of Montreal is coming to Istanbul tomorrow. If yer not into 'em, you should check 'em out. Imagine Bowie with a bit of higher pitched voice, relying a little more on electronics to get his point across but at the same time, a little more dramatic. That was for you indie kids out there.

Anyway, they're gonna be in town tomorrow and I'm gonna meet with Kevin Barnes, the madman behind the whole deal for an interview and hopefully, a drink. I say hopefully becos this dude's a bit of an eccentric. Check it-http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whQ31Z0zBfI

Anyway, I don't think I could do the thing sober. But I guess all I'm just after a few quotes. It's just a lot easier to sit down with bands that look more haggard than you do and can out drink you all the same. That's my idea of work. But Of Montreal, they make some pretty far-out albums. Like real wild shit. You stop and wonder how they put that together, and yet it all sounds so condensed. I couldn't pass up a chance to write something on them.

All that being said, fucking no one comes to Istanbul, so you takes what you can get.

So. That's it for now dudes.

Oh. I wanna end this on a sour note. You know what I hate? People who wear their glasses low on their loses. Like really. What's up with that. Do you actually even need glasses? Or are you too lazy to just bring them off the top of yer head, like everyone else? Or d'you just enjoy looking like a genuine asshead? Anyway, I've noticed a lot of them lately. And as someone who wears corrective lenses to survive, I am extremely offended. OK. That's it, I suppose.

It's almost Christmas time. And I won't be home for Christmas. And that's the only Blink 182 song worth listening to.

As rabid as the other fans were, these kids know that no one messes with a hat like that. Bad ass.


Whatever happens in this city, there's nothing a narghile can't cure.

national anthem of nowhere.

It's about damn time. A foreign band finally came t'town on Friday. The National. From Brooklyn. It was very, very righteous. And for the first time in a long time, drinking beer and watching a band, there was a sense of normalcy stewing about. Anyway.

I've got a job writing for an English magazine and another newspaper here. I decided t'just paste the story I gave them on The National gig. It's more or less what I would've written here anyway. But the magazine has word limits. That'll take some gettin' used to. If anyone hasn't checked out The National yet, I suggest you do so sooner rather than tomorrow. In a few weeks they'll be topping critics "Best of 2007" list, so I'd strike while the iron's hot. Plus, no one wants t'hop on a trend afterwards. I wish the Turks new that. They're still wearing Ugz boots and carring Tickle Me Elmo. Anyway. Hope you dig---

-

Whenever you travel anywhere, be it across the Old World or across the Bosporus on a Dolmus you’ve got to refrain from searching for a sense of being or a sense of where you are. If anything, you’ll realize how late you might be. But if you do give in you’ll find that you’re doing something. And for that moment, that’s all you can do. And in a sense, that’s all you should be doing.

This is probable true for moody Brooklyn rockers “The National”. For them the next gig is always the most important one. Looking back is always fun for a laugh, but as guitarist Aaron Dessner confessed to me from a stop in Copenhagen, the road “Seems to stifle creativity.” If that’s the case then the destination becomes paramount when touring. They make plans and follow through with them. Bearing that in mind, it’s easy to understand why there was a palpable buzz surrounding Babylon on Friday, December 7th a few hours before their debut in Istanbul.

Dessner confessed that “No one wants to hear songs about a band being drunk of a bus in the middle of Europe. We feel like our creativity suffers on the road. With an itinerary, your grasp on what’s important begins to slip. But that being said I think the more touring we do, the better we become as a band.”

I didn’t think to ask him then what’s really important for a touring band. My guess would be that it’s the hopeful looks of the few fans waiting outside Babylon more than a few hours before the gig.

If The National encountered any bit of the traffic that I did coming into Beyoglu, it promised to be a bit of an urgent gig. I jumped out of my Dolmus like jack in the box who’d drank a little too much on the Asian side of the city.

Following a string of critically acclaimed releases on UK indie label Beggars Banquet, the optimistically melancholic sound of these five friends has been lumped in with various other indie heroes. Each album gives a nod to Nick Cave and the Catherine Wheel. If anything sets them apart, it’s the unassuming manner in which they continue to conduct themselves. Their tunes have been featured on prime time American television and mainstream success seems to be within reach for The National. But as Dessner put it, “We don’t write frilly songs for the sake of frills.” It’s as if their attention is better focused elsewhere be it the gig in front of them or getting drunk on that bus, wherever it is.

The National didn’t appear to be bursting with creativity as they sauntered on stage, nearly an hour late. They were victims of life on the road. The Babylon show was their 33rd show in 38 days? It was up to the eager and loyal fans swelling at Babylon to provide the only cure they could.

They opened with “Start A War”, an acoustically driven debate from “Boxer”, their latest and most relaxed full length. “Walk away now, and you’re gonna start a war” vocalist Matt Berringer told us. But the fans were screaming; “Don’t even think of walking away”. And this was only the first song.
While the décor is intriguing, the stage at Babylon is a small one. The National worked to make the most of it, regularly trading instruments. There were even points when touring violinist Padma Newsome stole center stage from Derringer, adding fury and harmony. With such fervor, I don’t know how he didn’t break each and every one of his strings.

If nothing else, the band is consistent. When describing the recording of “Boxer”, Dessner told me that they “Like to keep things fair. Every instrument gets its due.”

As “Boxer” will be one of those albums that keeps fans and critics alike talking, I wondered how that urgently patient sound came to fruition. Dessner claimed that he had a soft spot for the ugly duckling under a rock. Which is true. If you blinked at the gig, you likely would have missed something. A bit of a visual overload, with a soundtrack to boot.

And again, the band wore their consistency on their sleeves. With many of the tunes, including fan favourite “Mr. November”, the band ran through the song’s circular patterns with relative ease. It struck me as a bit lackluster.

I forgot that any and all judgment in rock and roll ought to be reserved until after the gig. When the final chorus of “Mr. November” broke, the band finally overpowered the audience. There was nothing dynamic about what they were doing; it was simply frantic rock and roll. I looked around me and saw many a smoke dangling out of many an open mouth.

On the morning of the show, and I was left without a ticket into the gig. I was pacing around the city with little to no regard. When I spoke to Aaron, it was hard to come across as an unbiased journalist. (Or even any kind of journalist) After all, I’d gladly be lumped in with those “Loyal fans”. I remember finding their previous album “Alligator” in the “B” section of a record store in Poland. I listened to it three times over in the shop and nearly missed work that day. Their tunes are strangely compelling; as their records move from track to track you find that the record has swallowed you whole. After listening to “Boxer”, you’re left wondering if you even feel like digging yourself out of the hole that’s been dug.

I couldn’t keep struggling with the thought that I wouldn’t be inside that night, so I decided to let the band know about my condition. It wasn’t long before I heard back from them. A journalist or not, I was still a fan. And they knew that. I’d like to think they wanted me there too, to forge a new connection. Though I was admitted into the show on only a few hours notice, I was still no better or worse than anyone else in the room. I had to do my part just as everyone else would.

“A good show grows” Aaron told me very matter of fact. Sometime during the encore, vocalist Matt Berringer hopped into the crowd to sing a few verses. Realizing he couldn’t get a word in edgewise, he took to a lectern stage left; a good five feet above the crowd to escape the intensity the crowd had created and shout back at them.

Sensing a bit of timing and occasion, nearly everyone in the front begged the band to play “Karen”, a tune Berringer claimed to be “Too painful to play. Not emotionally of course. It’d just be painful for you guys to hear.” But the front row was relentless. They drew smiles from most of the band. Derringer offered a mild “You guys are very commandeering. I like it.” This only added fuel to a growing fire. It was a growing show.

I forgot I had to take notes on the show until a mass sing-a-long commenced some point early on in the set. It dawned on me then that this night had become something more than another Friday night on the piss for the kids. Certain dates have a way of becoming an indelible fixture on your subconscious. The fans in front likely won’t have parties to celebrate the anniversary of the gig every 7th of December from here on in. But a few years from now they’ll likely remember the exchange of faith, goodwill, cigarettes, alcohol, tunes and atmosphere that went down at the Babylon.

Maybe they’ll throw on “Boxer” and dig themselves a hole, searching for their memories at the bottom somewhere. But The National will likely still be on the road somewhere. And hopefully both parties will stop and remember that the only way to dig themselves out is to move up and move forward. And I’m sure that’ll mean another visit to Istanbul from the band sometime soon.

You should never stop and take stock, sure. But you should always question your motives, just because. As the show was drawing to a close, Berringer told the crowd that the band had the next 24 hours in Istanbul to do as they pleased. “What should we do in Istanbul?” he asked us. More cheers and various suggestions. But really, what should any of us do?

Vocalist Matt Berringer.