Too Many Miles Sample Chapter - Kwartirnik
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Kwartirnik September 25, 2016 - Chemnitz, Germany
I sit straight up and my eyes stare, “Are you fucking kidding me?” at him without saying a word.
It’s 6:30 a.m. in a hostel in Dresden and the guy in the next bunk is watching videos on his phone at full volume. He looks back at me and wordlessly turns the sound off but now I’m awake.
I’m not fully comfortable sleeping around people I don’t know. My guitar is in bed with me and I’m using my backpack partly as a pillow, thinking I would wake up if someone tried any nonsense.
Out on the street I’m pretty excited to see that my car is still where I left it and has not been broken into.[1] I enter the address for a Marktplatz so I can find a coffee shop to wake up and use their Wi-Fi.
After tea and a croissant, it’s a short drive from Dresden to Chemnitz and I arrive four hours too early to check into my hotel. I'm beat and would love more sleep. I didn’t even mention how bad the bed was at that hostel. It was part of my compensation from last night’s show, so I’m not complaining.
Across from my Chemnitz hotel is a charming little park with a fountain. I sit on a bench and listen to two older women talk nearby. I keep trying to pick up more German but I’m struggling. I am at the point where I can hear the different accents from various parts of the country but the words still fly past me. I end up falling asleep for over an hour sitting upright on this park bench. Not a single person bothers me while I sleep.
Driving around Chemnitz still feels a bit Cold War era-ish. The rows of concrete buildings lining the streets feel like walls themselves. Getting some döner for lunch, I pass by a concrete head in front of a government building. It reminds me of the big head in the movie Zardoz.
Nischel - The Head, made of concrete.
Bobbo - Head, made of rock.
I’m quizzically looking up at this head as two women in dresses and heels walk out of the building and pass by me.
“Entschuldigung, Was ist das?” I ask.
“Nischel.” She says.
“Nischel? Das tut mir lied, English, bitte?”
“Englische? The Head.” She says, while rolling her eyes.
Ah, that clears it up.
Her eye roll seems to be aimed at Nischel and not at me. A guy in a slim, sharp suit and fancy shoes overhears.
“It’s Karl Marx’s head. Chemnitz was called Karl-Marx Stadt or Karl-Marx City until reunification when we went back to our original name.”
“Ah, thanks. Danke.”
The city name might be gone but the giant concrete head remains. I sit down under the head and eat my bourgeoisie döner with the proletariat.
It does make me think about how oblivious I was when the Berlin Wall fell. It was an absolutely huge moment in world politics, taking place while I was in high school, barely aware of anything beyond my teenage reach. At the time, it was a bizarre kaleidoscope of confusing images on the news with The Wall being chiseled apart, David Hasselhoff singing, George H.W. Bush talking about a “human bridge between nations,” and none of it forming a complete picture in my brain.
Looking at Nischel, I think about my friend Axel Kruse who grew up in West Berlin. I remember asking him what it was like to live in Berlin in 1989.
“It was disturbing. We were happy of course that The Wall came down but it had been there my whole life. There was a feeling of - if that could happen today, what’s going to happen tomorrow?”
Like Bob Dylan said, Die Zeiten ändern sich.[2]
* * *
Tonight, I have a live radio interview and performance with an audience. The venue, Kwartirnik, is a term with its roots in Soviet times. When bands wanted to perform, but not everyone was allowed, they would organize Kwartirniks, which loosely translates to “living room concerts.” Chemnitz is near the Czech Republic border and very much in what would have been the DDR, or East Germany, during Cold War times, so this all makes sense.
Now, technically speaking, it’s a bar, but it feels very homey. Comfy chairs are scattered around a high stage. Frank and his assistant are running cables for the microphones. I asked about using my effects pedals and they said they prefer that I not. Even though it’s all being amplified through a small PA system, my guitar won’t be plugged in. The microphones are mainly for the radio listeners, not for the venue.
I order some tea with honey and the bartender looks visibly disappointed in me. He keeps showing his disapproval with each subsequent cup he pours. A decent crowd shows up, and I’m live on the radio for over an hour. Frank interviews me in English, and I answer. Then, he translates both the question and my answer into German for the radio and the live audience. It makes the interview twice as long but at least everyone understands.
“I understand you have a new album that you are promoting. How’s that going?”
“It’s been great, I’ve gotten some great reviews and folks like the music. Can’t ask for anything more than that.”
He repeats the question and answer in German to the audience.
“We all want to know, how is it that most Americans are supporting Donald Trump?”
Jesus, this is the second question.
“I can tell you that it’s definitely not most Americans but it is the loudest Americans.”
Then he translates.
“How can he possibly be considered for President, with the way he mocks reporters, his racism, and all the sexual assault allegations? What is wrong with Americans that support him?”
“This is something we’re trying to figure out too. Good people are being taken in by him and it makes no sense,” I reply.
Frank translates my answer.
“Do you consider yourself a goodwill ambassador coming to Germany?”
It’s the first time someone has asked me this specific question but it won’t be the last. I never really prepared myself for this role but I’m happy to represent and answer. Everyone knows that the stereotype of the “Ugly American” – loud, obnoxious and boisterous – comes from a real place. I have seen it. I choose my words carefully. I know I am more than just a musician performing in the former East Germany – I have a responsibility to be the best version of myself and my country.
“I’ve never thought of myself as a goodwill ambassador, at least not in those terms, but I understand that I have a responsibility when I’m out in the world. I listen more, speak less, and learn as much as I can.”
“Have you always been politically minded and does that come through in your songwriting?” Frank asks.
“My influences are much more political than I am. If anything, my songs are more socio-political. I’ve always looked for the stories behind the headlines.” I reply.
As he translates his questions and my answers to the German listeners, I think about The Clash songs Straight to Hell and Washington Bullets and how both songs made me look at the world and the history we’re taught differently.
I think back about singing the Dominic Behan song Come out ye Black and Tans with a group of lads outside the Crane Bar in Galway, Ireland and for the first time in my life – feeling revolutionary. My grandmother used to sing the Jacqueline Steiner and Bess Lomax Hawes song Charlie on the MTA to me and that was a campaign song for a Progressive Party candidate in 1949. It seems the political-ness of music has always run through me to an extent.
Reinhard Mey’s Über den Wolken (Above the Clouds) wasn’t written as an overtly political song but its theme of freedom above the clouds was seen as anti-authoritarianism by East Germany and was banned.
It makes me wish I could write something like Paul Kelly’s From Little Things, Big Things Grow, a song written so well that the First Nations people of Australia say that Paul Kelly doesn’t speak for them but with them.
From there it goes all the back to Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land. As a song, it's about belonging and how we all belong here, wherever here is. But as a message, it’s so much more, so much more inclusive and, dare I say, proletariat.[3]
I’m asked a few times, “Have you seen Nischel?”
“Of course!” We all laugh and shake our heads.
The music and interview go well, and the people sing along while I stomp the stage. The hollow stage is resonating like a drum beneath my boots. The stationary mics swing and sway, making it impossible for me to stay in the ideal position for microphone placement, recording, and broadcasting. I am not overly concerned with it – the sound comes through – it’s the heart that matters more.[4]
Chants of “Zugabe” reverberate when I finish.
“We thought hearing some music in English would prepare us for our travels next week,” a couple who are heading to Wales, U.K. tell me.
Another guy starts telling me about California, “Mien Broder bargt in San Jose as en Parkranger.” His Plattdeutsch nearly understandable to me.[5]
The Kwartirnik turns into more than just a show. The audience wasn’t hostile towards me when I showed up but there was definitely some apprehension. Now, after the interview and songs, folks want to talk to me.
A woman who grew up here in Chemnitz says, “You are the first American I have liked. Thank you for not being ‘Texas.’”
I know some great folks in Texas but I understand what she means. I get good compliments, folks ask for my website, and they inquire if I’m on Spotify or iTunes so they can look me up.
Two nights in a row without any CD sales and no paper money in the hat is rough, though. Thankfully, I’m being put up in a hotel tonight. It’s a five-hour drive back to the artist’s flat in Bremen and this is brutal economics. Many people look at the CDs but ten euros is out of their budget. They put the CDs back and tell me that they will listen to me online. This is a crowd of folks who don't have much money at all. I understand and even end up giving a few CDs away.
I’m grateful to be here, performing for them, and serving as a goodwill ambassador for the night. I feel like I’m putting positive energy into the world where it’s needed but I’m still going to need to gas up the car for tomorrow’s 300-mile drive.
Frank walks me to my car as he wants to talk politics some more. He is a volunteer teacher, teaching German and English to refugees here in Chemnitz. He tried to donate money to Bernie Sanders but the website wouldn’t let him because he isn't a U.S. citizen.
“The teenagers here have a difficult time. They aren’t old enough to get jobs or have the paperwork to get a job. They can’t get into the school system, and most have lost their parents. They are just kind of floating. There’s nothing for them to do and nowhere for them to be. They are living this rootless life with no family and are drifting through the system, trying to find something to hold on to. With all the new refugees here, other Germans are turning to the far-right AfD and it’s like those old fascist ideas never went away.”[6]
“It’s like the far-right in the U.S. – same old fear and racism.”
“You know Trump reminds us Germans of Hitler. It’s the same rhetoric.”
“You’re not the first to tell me that. It’s scary.”
We joke about how comparing Trump to Hitler isn’t just Godwin’s Law coming into play.[7]
He’s building toward something and finally says, “Those people are feeling pushed out of the new world because they don’t want to change, they don’t like computers, or fact-checking. They want things the way they used to be before homosexuals were out of the closet, before women wanted to be equal, and before minorities didn’t bitch about being treated like minorities.”
“Folks don’t like change. Change is hard." I say, agreeing with him.
“It’s the old system’s last gasp.” He adds.
“I hope so. It reminds me of my friend Tawny’s song Evolve or Die. I think you’d like it.”
“How do you spell her name?” And he writes a note to look up her song.
The comparisons between the music business and global politics seem somewhat intertwined. I think about the idea of “the old system” and how it relates to what I do. I’m a traveling troubadour – singing and strumming, playing music, and trying to survive out on the road. CDs are being phased out of the new world. New cars don’t even have CD players and neither do new computers.
I stop on my way to the hotel to fill up the car’s tank. The attendant here doesn’t want to let me pay €38 in coin but it’s all the money I have – I’ve made €50 in two days, all in coins and I’m putting most of it back into my ride.
I love what I do but am I needed? Am I failing to change with the times? The idea that art only serves a purpose if it can make money is so demoralizing and physically painful that I don’t even like thinking about it. Yet I’m surviving on what I can collect in the hat at my gigs. I’ve reverted to being an actual traveling troubadour from the 12th century.
Back at my hotel I watch a documentary on Mikhail Gorbachev. I learn how his policy changes were too fast and drastic for the system he was in, and at the same time, too slow for the people of his country who wanted change.
Bpemeha mehяюtcя.[8]
[1] I really wanted to start this paragraph “Out on the street for a living” but I was finally convinced that quoting the KISS song, Black Diamond – that I only know The Replacements version of – only made sense to me. They got me under their thumb. This seems as good a spot as any to also mention how much I love the song Black Diamond by Jordie Lane.
[2] The times, they are a-changing.
[3]While Woody’s This Land was written with the idea that the U.S. is a land of opportunity for everyone, rich or poor there is also the Indigenous viewpoint where it’s a colonialist stance, and the land that is sung about is stolen land. It was most likely not an intentional view of Guthrie’s song but more likely a blind spot, culturally, at the time. I only learned this recently.
[4]I didn’t mean to indirectly quote Counting Crows here
[5] His brother works as a park ranger in San Jose, see? You nearly understood too. Plattdeutsch, or “Low German,” is somewhat a mix of English, Dutch, and German. For example, In English the number is ten in German is zehn, but in Plattdeutsch, it is tein (almost a combination of teen and tin). A few radio stations have Plattdeutsch programming and it’s interesting to listen to because I feel like I almost understand it.
[6]AfD or Alternative für Deutschland is an extreme far-right political party in Germany that leans very pro-fascist, like their predecessors in the 1930s and 40s.
[7]Godwin’s Law, introduced by attorney and author Mike Godwin, states that any internet discussion that lasts too long will eventually involve Hitler or Nazi comparisons. It originally aimed to show how calling someone a “Grammar Nazi” can diminish the horrific atrocities of the Holocaust. Conversely, it points out that calling certain groups, such as the alt-right movement, “Nazi-like” is justified because of their beliefs and actions.
[8]The times, they are a-changing.