T's diary, March - August, 2005

 ...OASIS IN THE DESERT

We're just leaving the village of bears on our way to Montreaux. I've played this festival before and it always feels like you're part of a tradition of musicians when you take part in this event. In some ways I see Switzerland as an island, that's one reason I played Cool on Your Island last night in the village of bears, also known as Zurich. You can't get more extreme than the Montreaux Jazz Festival compared to Glastonbury. Each is completely unique. Going into Glastonbury after the rains, with the sun shinning on Glastonbury Tor, timelines seem to blur. You can't get away from the history of the land and the mythology that surrounds the town known as Glastonbury. Having spent a lot of time hiking through the southwest of England, I, like many other people, with walking map in my knapsack, have spent many a day trying to piece together a fragmented path. Following the Michael and Mary dragon line that runs through Glastonbury down into the heart of the southwest was something I did after reading the book, The Sun and The Serpent, which goes into depth about the relationship that the early people had with the land itself. So in a way, I feel as these two festivals do have something in common, they are both islands: one because of the physical definition of an island, the other because of what it represents.

Today we leave for Italy having had a magical time here on lake Geneva after having played the Montreaux Jazz Festival last night. All of us have been romanced by the magic of the place itself, but know that we must make our way through the Swiss Alps, over the border into the Italian Alps. With the bus careening to and fro, for a moment I feel like we're characters in the Italian Job (the original from the 1960's). On our way, we stop at a cafe, it's just on the side of the road in the middle of the Italian Alps and are welcomed by a momma type warm lady, who is carrying a plate of scrumptious somethings in her hand. As we wave goodbye to Montreaux in the distance, the Italians open their arms to us and we walk into them.

 

 ...THE MAZE

March.
Paris.
Snow.
Racing to Amsterdam.
Charles de Gaulle chaotic.
Schiphol… shut down.
Back to Garde de Nord.
When technology stops everything grinds to a halt but… the trains still run.
People are sitting practically on luggage racks, any crevice where a body can be, there is one.
Snow in March is not “normal” here. The effect of Mother Nature’s surprise confuses humans.
What to cancel???
What not to cancel.
“ We’re on our way,” Johnny speaks through a headpiece contraption to a nervous voice in Holland.
The TV show has moved but a Bösendorfer is there waiting. I patted my girl as we parted at the Theatre de Bouffes du Nord after the collaboration with Viktor & Rolf.
The theatre was comforting yet haunting – in the round where I played the Böse I looked up and was in a trance carried on the notes of a Chantuse over a hundred years ago…
Then the fire. You can still see now the renovation.
Sound has loaded in the Bösendorfer up right the day previous. Mark has a sparkle in his eyes when he said, “No worries, wife. It’s an old one but it’s a Beauty.”
And it was. When a place has the resources to transcend the fashion world and it’s mindset then you must pay respect and acknowledge the theatre herself and all of her inhabitants.

Outside the window of the train I feel as if we’re skating at high speed over icing - the creamy wedding cake kind. White but not too sweet. Buttery but light. Just as it should be.
More calls. T.V. show canceled because of snow. In-store in Amsterdam?
Of course.
Most definitely.
Why do they think we’re skating from teetering heels with red edges in Paris to visit the red-light district?
Red. I played in a red kimono. A variation on a chapter from The Song of Solomon. The boys, as they are affectionately known, gifted me with roses.
If I had breathed them in any longer I would have drunk their hauntings. I drank in their lingering Sassicia Red.
The car turns a corner nearing the hotel, passing a coffee bar. Amsterdam is pristine today.
We drive past the Blood-Roses-Light-District.
I see her in her window and quietly wave.

Feet in sand. No shoes. Simple. I’m looking through all the piano books. Here in the sand------ the tour starts in a few days. I need to get a fresh spiral: this could be my last page. While my hands were in yoga pose on the hunt for a clean page, I found these thoughts that had been put to paper not so long ago in time. But it seems like months. Since this was written in early March, many countries have been visited and many chats had. Within days of this snowy train ride, we breezed through Ireland, Poland. Sweden. Norway. England, and then landed here in the sand----- in the States. Today is Easter.


 ...DESERT SISTERS

With a sad heart we leave Australia, the luggage is spread out across the floor, the cases are still open - not yet locked, but they will be within a few hours. Jen has taken out two potential outfits for our final show here in Melbourne. I don't know which one I will wear yet, that's about the only thing that I am not quite sure about...I'm sure that I will miss this place.
When we decided to come across the Pacific Ocean, meeting half of our crew who had crossed the Indian Ocean, none of us really knew what awaited us here. The crew and I have traveled to many places over the years and although we've been excited about a show or jazzed about an audience, we haven't necessarily been romanced by a country itself. As I've flown across this land, which is vast, I'm struck by its beauty. Australia's beauty cannot be compared to a place like Ireland or to a place like Cornwall, the emerald sisters. This lady I speak of now is a Desert Sister. Hues of russet rose and amber tan her skin as you fly above her. She reminds me of a Bain de Solei Ad-- "Bain de Solei for a St. Tropez tan...." which had a woman with delicious skin - our desert sister doesn't need a sun bed, unlike a lot of popstars today. People here wistfully speak of rain, in ways that I've never heard a Brit speak about rain before. It fascinates me how we begin to really value that which has been withheld from us for whatever reason. It seems like we've been here a lifetime, those of us that we're fortunate enough to come feel changed...some of our rough edges softened. The sincerity that we have come across night after night has left me humbled. With a sad heart we leave Australia.
 
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 ...Featured picture was not included in T's diaries.
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