Breaking Bread With Strangers.

Portland had a remarkable street food culture. For a place that is cold and wet most of the year it does seem odd, but I like it just the same.

Wherever there is a vacant patch of land and some humans nearby there are vans and caravans hawking just about anything you could want. Cheap, cheerful, what locals call food cart pods are a happy place to be. Folks share tables, strangers meet, it's only partly about the food.

A lot of the business owners are very young, trying something new, the future of the hospitality business learning their trade hands on. Some pods encourage buskers but the people themselves are the show. Sit for an hour and you'll see one of every kind of human there is.

When I think of street food I think of Asia. Portland street food is slower and fatter. I think Aaia might be my next journey so I'll let you know how the two compare.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

First Ideas.

So, I found a nice open string chord pattern with it's own natural melody line then started with the waxing of the lyrics. My first idea, what appeared without thought, were the words,"you said yes". Simple, huh?

But no, I let my brain get involved, didn't I, ridiculous organ that it is. For six weeks I've been hard working it, until last night when I returned to the first idea. It's now a list song, the girl says yes to everything from Miles Davis to marriage. It's a happy song.

It's about a girl I haven't met yet.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Saxophone Is Home.

Played my first saxophone gig here in Portland last night. I don't know why I ever venture away from it. This morning I feel grounded and happy and even annoying people seem o.k.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

It Must Be Love.

Waiting for the last bus is shitty. The lunatic behind me saying provocative things, seeking a reaction, is shitty. Romance is shitty.

A car approaches, head appears in the passenger's side window, I expect him to say something shitty.

"You're beautiful man!", he hollers joyously.

Portland must love me, it always takes the time to pick me up when I'm down.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Slowness.

Milan Kundera wrote a book called Slowness. He compared the joy of slow seduction with the crass, modern rush to fuck.

It wasn't just about love and sex, that was just the device, it was really talking about the satisfaction of the process in love, sex, art, one's own life. I love that book.

Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against crass fucking, but it isn't everything. It's hardly anything really, any dumb animal can do it, including the human. The human can also take time to build and release tension, to fulfill others and themselves.

Taking time to seduce oneself, value oneself, truly love oneself is not a fashionable idea. It is often mistaken for doing nothing. If we aren't sweating and thrusting our hips at something we are thought to be idle.

Apart from anything else the sex is better too.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Confidence And Arrogance.

Confidence is believing in and liking oneself. Arrogance is expecting everyone else to do so. Arrogance is usually the result of the absence of confidence.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

People Say Stuff.

People say stuff. They do it all the time. They go around saying stuff, I assume in the hope that someone will listen to them and believe them.

Then people deny they said stuff. The denial doesn't alter the stuff they said so they have to attack the person who listened to them and believed them, the very person they were searching for when they went around saying stuff.

Then they need to find new people to say stuff to.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Patter.

For any stage musician patter between songs is an essential but difficult skill. How to personal and likeable without being cringeworthy or arse kissing?

I finally feel I'm landing it. I'm not over explaining a story, just giving an impression, letting the audience fill in their own detail. I'm learning how to make a joke at my own expense without sounding like I'm putting myself down. I'm starting to feel when a crowd wants more and when to shut up and play

Patter is easier when you are confident in the music. You are essentially building up tension which is then released by the song, the song has to fulfill it's part of the contract. I hate to say this phrase out loud but there is a certain magic when the patter and the song slot in and work together.

It's hard to back off when you are getting laughs, but there'll always be more laughs, the patter is servant to the music, resist that cabaret urge that is in all of us attention craving stage tramps.

I recently played a show where I landed all but one introduction. Maybe appearing to be a little unpolished helped win people over, there is such a thing as being too tight.

I'll keep working on it.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Flying Solo.

The lonesome guy table is in the corner. The other chair has been borrowed, lent to a party that has one too many friends for it's table. When the party leaves the waitress returns the chair and says just one word.

"Sorry".

She needn't have been sorry. I enjoyed a very pleasant eavesdropping session and didn't have to share my delicious salmon.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Courage.

Honesty is the greatest courage. As a writer of songs and performer thereof I know when I'm being honest. The audience knows too.

Being emotionally honest in real life becomes easier when you've done it in front of a bunch of strangers so I guess I see it differently to most, but I'm still surprised when people who claim to be adults can't be honest.

It takes courage to be free and happy. Hiding behind emotional dishonesty is the best method I know to ensure misery.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Girls On Bikes.

There is something about girls on bikes, I think it may be the rhythmic movement of all four limbs at once and the suggestion of sweat.

Here in Portland there thousands of girls on bikes wherever I go. They are all young and fit and fast and I'm, well, me. They are too fast for this pedestrian. They do, however, stop pedalling long enough to drink coffee and beer. Strangely they are mostly equally attractive stationary as mobile. I'm in love with all of them, every punky, dyed hair tattooed one of them.

Think I'll get me a bike.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Sacred Places.

The indigenous Australians have a tradition of holding certain places sacred, to be respected and only approached by certain people at cetain times and with due ceremony. It is part of their dreamtime beliefs and their natural physical connection with the land. Before other cultures were part of their reality, and that was true for tens of thousands of years, these ideas made sense.

Now we have all seen photographs of our planet as a whole these localised, culturally based ideas no longer make sense. If a culture isn't adaptable to new information that culture is dead.

Less than ten million people in Israel and Palestine hold the other seven billion inhabitants on this planet to ransom over their ludicrous claims to holiness. There is no mystical power in Rome, the water in the Ganges is the same water that has always circulated through our atmosphere. No rock has more god in it than any other rock and no, when I visit Seattle I won't be hanging around the grave of Hendrix seeking inspiration.

Whomever or whatever your god is, reducing it to an argument to support your petty squabbles demeans both of you. Hiding behind it's skirts to ally your human fears is pathetic. What kind of god, what kind of human do you want worship or be?

This planet will float about in space for a while then die as nature decides. Be grateful to it for giving us life, don't try to own it or use it to feed your ego, to disguise your fear of death.

Parkstreet.

When In Rome, Be Yourself.

The old saying about doing what the Romans do is true. Learning some language, eating some food, following some customs, these things can lead you to the essence of a place. I reckon it can't be all take though, a traveller owes it to his hosts to give something of himself. A new turn of phrase, a recipe, a joke, a small tradition that enriches the culture you've been plundering, these things should be offered if you enjoy the hospitality of a new place.

Travelling is finding your own essence through learning of others. It's like science fiction, same old stories but in a foreign setting that sets your mind free.

Parkstreet.

Basic Cable.

In my Portland guesthouse I only have access to basic cable television. I'm considering petitioning the United Nations to request that only supplying basic cable be listed as a crime against humanity.

This morning I switched on to a re run of The Price Is Right. Buzz Aldrin was announcing the big prizes at the end whilst hawking his book. Oh Buzz, what happened to you? You used to be cool man.

It was a car crash moment, I could not look away. I still don't know what to say. I've always admired Mr. Aldrin,for his feats in space and inside his own head, there is no doubt he is a great man.

I feel our culture sacrifices dignity for money far too often. I expect it of the cretins who line up to be in game show audiences, but not from one of the great men of the last century.

Parkstreet.

People Come And Go.

I wish I knew now what I knew then. When I was young relationships with other humans came pretty easily, people were in my life or they weren't, easy come, easy come again when our paths cross. I guess we grow deeper, maybe, or perhaps needier?

I feel like I've come back to that way of being, that my own company is ample and other people are great when they are around. Am I being detached and careless or realistic about what to expect from others?

I believe I'm a loyal friend, that I turn up when people need me, but my days of chasing folks who only want me when times are tough are done.

It's an honest feeling, like coming home.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Books And Covers.

I'd like to think that I bought my guitar on my opinion of it's sound but it's looks had a lot to do with it. I figured that anyone who chose to make an instrument look so beautiful would also have chosen to complete the job and build a great sounding box.

Guitars aren't pretty as such, their beauty is in the quality of the materials they are built from and the shapes that are formed to fit acoustic principles. I like to think I'm attracted to humans on exactly the same basis.

Parkstreet.

Solitude.

I have many solitary passtimes, one of which is polite to talk about here. Songwriting is definitely a lonesome pursuit.

I'm currently halfway through two very different songs, those of you who read more than one book at a time will understand. One is a silly ditty about forgetting all the little people when I'm rich and famous, the other is a real song of love based on the old fashioned idea of blurring the lines between two people until they become part of the one impressionist piece. You can imagine the latter is taking longer to work.

I'm having trouble finding time to myself to sit and dream right now. I treasure that time. Yesterday I armed myself with pad and pen and sat in a coffeehouse for an hour. The girl on the next table was smiling at me, maybe at my earnestness. I had to refuse the invitation and work. Oh, the dedication! Who knows when a new song idea will smile at me?

The alone time is difficult to explain in a relationship, I don't go into an office. Some believe that songs write themselves. Often it is too hard to explain the process without sounding like a jerk.

I'll post the lyrics when the tunes are done, once I find another afternoon to myself.

Parkstreet.

Squirrel, revisited.

This morning my squirrel friend made another appearance. Instead of the soldier in the trenches serpentine approach he sauntered up to the edge of the patio, stood on his hind legs and glared at me.

"Where are my fucking peanuts?"

This squirrel has spent too much time around humans.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com.au

The Portland Chill.

When I say thank you here in Portland people reply,"of course" or "right on" or "sure", as if being welcoming, friendly and helpful is in no way a chore. Can you imagine such a place?

Last night at Fuel Cafe on Alberts the drip coffee had been sitting for a while so the waitress made us coffee on the espresso machine at no extra cost. When it came time for a refill we felt self conscious about taking another more expensive cup for no charge. Of course it wasn't an issue. Now Fuel is our regular morning stop so I guess it works well for the business too but I'm sure that money isn't the motivation for the natural courtesy and goodwill in this town.

Occasionally a place takes on a spirit of it's own. It happens in the arts, imagine Hemmingway and Fitzgerald and all the others in Paris. A time and place brought them all together. While the arts scene is flourishing here I think Portland is developing something more important, a way for everyone to live together. Hasn't that been the aim of human culture since the start of civilization?

To not only live peacefully but happily, like we all belong and no one person is less welcome than another.

A smelly drunk man was given a minute of conversation by a bus driver the other day. Everyone on the bus approved, no one complained about being held up.

I love you Portland.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Stage Blues.

When one is on stage it is impossible to know what sound is coming out of the big speakers out the front. Last night I couldn't hear my nylon string guitar in the foldback but had to continue just the same. At the end of the song I asked if my guitar was coming out? This appeared to wake the sound engineer from his nap, at least long enough to reply,"no".

Useless prick.

There were two guitars on stage, nothing else, and this deaf fuckwit hadn't noticed one missing. The one playing the main groove. Again I name him a useless prick. A deaf soundguy is as helpful as a blind truck driver.

Useless pricks abound in the music business, as if playing and singing aren't difficult enough without having to battle with fuckwits.

Take your own sound man with you when you play at the Alberta Street Pub in Portland Oregon.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

To Truly Be A Squirrell.

Someone left a tin of peanuts behind, someone else found those peanuts were stale and tossed them on the back lawn. These actions led to a squirrelL paying me a visit as I sat on the back patio,

Well, o.k., the squirrell didn't come to see me. He slithered down the back fence, hit the ground like a soldier, edged forward, looked up at me like I might have been a sniper. He tried to blend into the grass but he was so excited by the donated feast that occasionally his tail would flick up like an orange flag on a pushbike. He glanced up at me a hundred times in the first minute, then less and less as I was assessed as harmless.

The cute critter, and by George squirrells are cute, wasn't putting on a show for me, he was simply doing everything required to feed himself and survive. Every action was so damned squirrelly, natural, as it should be. He had no doubt, no questions, no distractions from his peanut target.

I envied that squirrell.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Our Cadel.

Cadel Evans is in the Yellow Jersey at Le Tour de France. Those who don't follow cycling won't have a clue what that means so you'll have to take my word that it is very exciting news.

Coming from a country with no real tradition of road cycling and no real mountains worthy of the name it is extraordinary that an Australian could lead the world's toughest bike race. The world becomes smaller every day but the mountains on the route of Le Tour are as big as ever. Right now I'm taking my music to America. It's a similar venture to Cadel's, leaving a country with very little musical tradition or industry to make it in the real world.

Music isn't a race, I don't have be the first up a mountain to succeed, the mountains are internal, self belief, discipline, maintaining an open, creative mind. America is a vast market, I don't need to come first, to beat anyone else. This makes it harder, not easier. Men understand goals, we are happy when we can rank ourselves, even if we never wear the yellow the striving for it brings out our best. One doesn't strive to write a song.

As long as Cadel is doing his thing I'll keep doing mine. The man is an inspiration.

Parkstreet.

What Is Sophistication?

Nine years ago I spent some time in Auckland New Zealand. I noticed many blenders and roasters of great coffee, in my eyes a sure sign of a sophisticated culture.

Last week in San Francisco I found a few cafes with excellent coffee yet nowhere near the same level of service and attention to quality I'd found on the other side of the planet a decade earlier. There can be no doubt that San Francisco is a much more worldly city than Auckland, so what is it that makes a place sophisticated?

I believe it is in the self belief of the population. If the people see their city as sophisticated it becomes so. Most of the talented coffee masters in New Zealand couldn't wait to take their skills abroad, as if they didn't exist until someone in the real world had seen them. Their coffee would be just as good, probably better when made with perfect New Zealand water,yet their perception was that making it meant making it somewhere else.

I can't help thinking the U.S. Immigration department should take advantage and offer special visas to the New Zealand coffee industry, at least until American coffee making and service catches up with their antipodean cousins.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Portland Oregon #9, Heaven.

So I'm sitting on the balcony at Tiny's Coffeehouse, I might be in Kent Heaven. Next door a stunning brunette is tending enormous chunks of pork on an outside grill. She is sweating just a little, it's sop sexy I could cry.

The lovely young lady behind the counter remembers me from last year, I'm flattered possibly a little more than is normal.

The clientel is chilled, conserving energy in this irrational heat. The clientel is always chilled at Tiny's. Time is relative, Tiny's time is apparently even more relative than other time. Two hours swing by blissfully, time to move on.

If I could find the right writing job I'd work my eight hour shifts here. It's great to be back in Portland Oregon.

Parkstreet.

Portland Oregon #8, Folks Who Tell Fibs.

We've found ourselves in a difficult spot here in Portland, the accommodation we booked isn't as described online. Always a risk, booking anything from a distance. The people you are booking with should probably realize that although the booking is made from far away, eventually the actual humans will show up.

I don't think we were lied to deliberately. People who drive their cars everywhere, people who never walk anywhere, they truly believe that a mile is half a mile, even if google maps says otherwise. Those same motorists might also believe that gangs of bored young men are harmless, on the basis that they've never been harmed as they drove by.

It is possible when we were told what a safe and convenient area we were moving into the people spouting those lies actually believed them. Many are sure that their own perception of reality is in fact reality, they cannot conceive of another view. The idea that grown men may choose to walk and use public transport is outside their scope. Every mile is a car mile, it flies by like every other mile.

So, we have a political situation to sort out, a new home to find. The important thing is not to let it distract us from the music. We'll forget about liars and play a d sing the simple truth when we perform our first gig on American soil tonight. Then we'll work out how to get home safely.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Still Alive.

Hey folks, just to let you know I'm still out here. Been in transit. SFO was excellent, finally in PDX, more to come later tonight.

Parkstreet

Portland Oregon #7, Flying Machines.

The physics of flight are pretty simple, lift and thrust. The giant craft I'll be boarding tomorrow has wind tunnel tested, computer designed wings and a crapload of grunt in all four jets. The aluminium tube I'll be sitting inside is wafer thin, yet it will take me from one hemisphere to another, from Sydney to San Francisco.

Many folks complain about flying but it is still a thing of wonder to me. It is pretty damn astounding that two weeks of the basic wage will buy a journey in a flying machine. The other amazing thing is the old fashioned prissiness of the whole affair, the smiles, the pretence of class, the affectation of glamour. I suspend disbelief and climb into the whole fantasy. That hostess does think I'm marvellous, I am an exciting jetsetter, an image from a 1960's Pan Am poster. When my parents first married they couldn't afford art for their walls, they cut down a square from a Pan Am poster, a scene from the Greek Islands, placed it in a cheap frame. Even when they had a small collection of surprisingly tasteful pieces that old homemade image of glamour was always my favourite.

The one time I flew to Japan the food was fantastic, as it always is flying out of France. It isn't so good flying out of America. If only they could place a New York pizza oven in those little galleys. Still, the funny little trays of nonsense always amuse me, packed by evil elves in a travesty of a kitchen, the farting frenzy those meals inspire is the natural enemy of the flying public. A bowl of thick soup and a decent bread roll would do the trick.

There is something glorious about flying towards the sun in the morning, knowing it will pass over me then eventually hit the city I just ran away from. This planet feels very small some days. Best throw some clothes into a bag and go, I have a plane to catch. Yep, I'm excited.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Vive Le Tour, Sleep Is For The Weak.

This year I'll be watching Le Tour de France in America, at a more civilized hour than usual. I haven't worked out the time difference yet but here in Australia the television coverage starts around midnight so it can only mean I get more sleep for the next three weeks.

J'aime Le Tour. Every matchstick moment thrills me. I love Phil Ligget, the English artist commentator, I could listen to him describe my breakfast and be enthralled. I love the French landscape as it rolls by, every year I take three weeks vacation and tour the whole country, and every year the highlight is the Alp Duez. I particularly enjoy the detours, when the race starts in another country, this time Holland and Belgium. It's so generous of the French to share some glory with their neighbours.

I giggle the first time I see the Devil leaping about like a lunatic on the side of the road, I hold my breath as the riders slip between the crowds on the mountain peaks. Even when the race is all but over I can't take my eyes off the final stage along the cobble stones in Paris, the insane cavalry charge that passes one block from where I stay in the greatest of all cities.

The last few years I've been watching the Australian cyclist Cadel Evans. Our Cadel, Australia's greatest ever professional cyclist. I'm already excited for him, he isn't the favourite this year and may well revel in riding his own quiet race.

Every year the organizers set up a day for happy amateurs to ride over one of the mountains on the course. The pro's often climb three such peaks in a few hours, the enthuiasts can take twelve hours to get over one, if they make it at all. When I see a bloke on a bike riding up a mountain after four hours in the saddle and fit young men can't run alongside him for more than a few seconds I am in awe.

I watched every minute of Lance Armstrong's seven wins. I'd give anything to see him take one more. The man is a legend for so many reasons.

So I'm travelling to the U.S.A. in real life, France via the television, who knows where my heart will go? At least this year I won't be so sleep deprived that my own life stops for three weeks.

Parkstreet. 

Portland Oregon #6, Working For The Yankee Dollar.

Like Proust's Madelaine the smell of American money brings back memories for me. The greenback looks and feels like cash, like I remember it as a kid. It also brings back feelings from two trips to the U.S.A. over the last two years.

Here in Australia we have shiny plastic currency, all very modern. We even sell notes to other countries, ours last for decades, are nearly impossible to counterfeit. They're also quite beautiful to look at, making art out of filthy lucre.

When I exchanged my currency recently I asked for a bunch of one dollar bills. America runs on one dollar bills, I'd be lost without them. I love that I can hand over two bills and receive a coffee and a refill, one more in the tip jar only seems reasonable. Our dollars are coins now, great for buskers but not the same feeling of tipping properly.

I remember buying Marlboros from the gas station, each day receiving a penny change, wondering what the hell to do with it? I remember the way my date laughed at me when I clicked out some notes after dinner, I was just enjoying the feel under my fingers, making sure two hadn't stuck together in the old fashioned way. Because I'm a little blind I placed ones and fives in one pocket, larger notes in another. A coffeehouse worker used to rib me for not looking at what I was handing over, she thought I was being too cool.

On this trip I'd like to earn some U.S. dollars. Of course I'd like to earn plenty, but any dollar I earn will be spent at one of Portland's fine restaurants. If I come home fat it's because I earned too much. You don't see so many fat musicians. I'm also hoping to earn some new memories. So far American dollars have bought me nothing but joy, here's to more of the same.

Parkstreet.

A List Of The Five Men (And Or Fictional Characters) I'd Go Gay For, Revised, Again.

Five Men I'd Go Gay For.

1. David Bowie.

2. Chet Baker.

3. Colbert, if he told me it was in the name of freedom.

4. Robin.

5.

Parkstreet.