Thursday, December 17, 2009

Mad musicians, mad heat 5/08/09

All mio marito’s mates are back for the August holidays. They all congregate at the trendy beach bar, just like they did when they were teenagers in fact, most people are now in their thirties there. For them it is like going out, another occasion to chat, flirt, and eye each other up, with the added bonus that you have next to nothing on. My husband’s two recently separated mates try to convince us to go there but I can’t stand it for the posers and waxed men and overtanned people with ridiculous beads and designer hats and artificial crap. The beach is four lines of towels deep and you can hardly find a path to the water and it is WAY too hot, our house is a sauna. My mind is soggy cotton wool.

At night I watch these proud arrogant people through the window by the till. The tacky girls in high wedges and mini skirts, chest exposed and bums sticking out. A bit like Brazil. The girls watch me, the exs talk about me watching slyly as I pass. I smile and look good, and interesting.

We had another Brazilian night last night – a guitarist and percussionists from Palermo and a local flautist Max, who is known for his wild changes of humour and rages. I was annoyed with my husband for giving the band three bottles of wine for free; he says that is how it is done, but then I have his father telling me that this is not how is used to be. I’m on the till when the flautist comes in roaring that I cam to come now and sing with them right now! They hadn’t been sure as the singer’s girlfriend was to come and sing a bit with them; but since she hadn’t come, they wanted some female vocals to lighten things up a bit. The flautist was having a fit because he had introduced me at the mic apparently and I hadn’t heard him – we couldn’t hear anything properly at the bar as the music was outside in the piazza tonight. So I almost laughed at the fit he was in and followed him, checking that there was no one at the bar. We did a few bossanova numbers, and the percussionists were fun, though the guitarist kept turning round and shouting at them. The flautist did his solos and I came in nicely at the right time to sing through the songs again. I could hardly hear myself because the music was so loud, so I doubt if il publico could hear me well, but afterwards people who came to the bar were complimentary. When the band finished playing the flautist was much more relaxed and suggested we form a group with another guitarist friend he has to do bossanova music. I’m inclined to run a mile. Though he is a great musician, his temperament is just too much for me. Maybe he cools down a bit in the autumn. We’ll see…

Lola

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