Tube stops: Termini, Tiburtina and a reaaallllyyy long bus ride homeToday, it's T -2, yesterday T-3 and on the day that shall always be known as T-5, or commonly as 'The Day Bonnie Tyler's legacy was bastardised', I held my leaving bash. You'd have thought I'd have learnt my lessons after the last party: what with playlist censorship (my theory is that the DJ took it personally when he read Em's slip requesting 'Fuck You' by Ceelo Green) and a random assortment of silk knapkins that were donated to us being used as gangsta bandanas (see evidence above.)
But no, new venue I thought, new opportunities to belt out some classic numbers and prove that we're all superstars at heart (except not in some tacky High School Musical way, which you suspect is purely just televised paedophile fodder. No-one is that happy at high school singing show tunes, unless you're regularly exposed to those school art projects held together with certain types of glue.) That's why we prefer Glee...those kids know how to be emotional rejects.
"I'm on my way to schooooolll...where I'm failing allmy GCSE's....but people think I'm cooooollll
despite the fact this large zit's hhheerrrrPPEESSS..." etc.etc.etc.
So the venue this time was the Vecchio Franklyn, located in the middle of what seemed to be on the crossroads of Heroin Alley and the Local Waste Disposal Unit's headquarters, i.e., the middle of Via Tiburtina and half-way along "where the hell are we?" We arrived: me, Date and G n T, three old afficionados of the musical theatre scene. Harmonia was already there and we were swiftly joined by S, Shaz, M and M, after a few phone calls to guide people to our location, up the flashing rainbow lights leading up to the second floor level of the car-park that was our location. Glamour simply out of control. Ahem.
These people are true superstars: M, M and Shaz
What was amusing to start with was the fact that a football match was playing on a massive projector screen, an important Roma vs. Inter match, which was getting several Italian punters hot under the collar. We were told that karoake would begin when the match finished: I was praying I wouldn't be subjecting my friends, and those arriving with KM to celebrate her birthday on our joint-venture, to a true British Wetherspoons experience, complete with shouting matches, broken glass and the local law enforcers.
Eventually, the karaoke began, the lights went off, replaced by glaring, primary colour flashes of light and the pub was full of groups of people crowded round tiny, square wooden chairs and tables and crumbling folders full of song titles were avidly scanned for the perfect song. I had already agreed with Shaz, we were drinking this evening, like only an Anglo-American alliance could: first the Long Island Ice Teas (as are traditional in...Long Island, America) and then, A LOT OF TEQUILA (which is traditional wherever there are people looking for a good time.)
Date, G n T: we feared their expansive
musical-theatre resumés.
And so the credits:
G singing Alanis Morrisette's "You outta know" as a (ahem) tribute to an ex. And nothing says "I'm now 100% fucking amazing" than "cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able
To make it enough for you to be open wide". NB: no-one realises how fucked up the tempo of this song truly is as a karaoke classic - kudos to the G!
Date choosing the unfrozen cryogenic version of Dean Martin: Michel Bubble (sorry Bublé) singing "Everything" and pretty much nailing the swagger of the Deanster himself.
Date and T letting rip with a good, old fashioned, "bring the house down" number:
("Grazie perché" - IT version = much, much better) and ("We've got tonight" - UK cover with quite a profound change of lyrics!) Perfect harmonies falling out all over the place: the rest of the pub didn't know what him them - which we were planning to do having been given just one song folder for the thirty of us!
(Jupard arrived to join the festivities, having driven across town and almost across country, I'm sure he said it felt like, and was ready to join in the carnage. I was touched that people had really made the effort to reach a destination that was, quite simply, undetectable by the latest satnavs. Em and Sam had also turned up with KM, the place flooded with these new UK arrivals in Italy, fresh-faced, eager to find out what this country could offer them. Dirty karaoke, the answer!)
And finally, after prompting the ever-smiling DJ to play my song choice - as I wasn't going to be able to escape the persistent demands of my friends to sing by hiding under the bar in a puddle of booze - I sang Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the heart", with help from Jupard and Shaz.
These people are true superstars: M, M and ShazWhat was amusing to start with was the fact that a football match was playing on a massive projector screen, an important Roma vs. Inter match, which was getting several Italian punters hot under the collar. We were told that karoake would begin when the match finished: I was praying I wouldn't be subjecting my friends, and those arriving with KM to celebrate her birthday on our joint-venture, to a true British Wetherspoons experience, complete with shouting matches, broken glass and the local law enforcers.
Eventually, the karaoke began, the lights went off, replaced by glaring, primary colour flashes of light and the pub was full of groups of people crowded round tiny, square wooden chairs and tables and crumbling folders full of song titles were avidly scanned for the perfect song. I had already agreed with Shaz, we were drinking this evening, like only an Anglo-American alliance could: first the Long Island Ice Teas (as are traditional in...Long Island, America) and then, A LOT OF TEQUILA (which is traditional wherever there are people looking for a good time.)
Date, G n T: we feared their expansivemusical-theatre resumés.
G singing Alanis Morrisette's "You outta know" as a (ahem) tribute to an ex. And nothing says "I'm now 100% fucking amazing" than "cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able
To make it enough for you to be open wide". NB: no-one realises how fucked up the tempo of this song truly is as a karaoke classic - kudos to the G!
Date choosing the unfrozen cryogenic version of Dean Martin: Michel Bubble (sorry Bublé) singing "Everything" and pretty much nailing the swagger of the Deanster himself.
Date and T letting rip with a good, old fashioned, "bring the house down" number:
("Grazie perché" - IT version = much, much better) and ("We've got tonight" - UK cover with quite a profound change of lyrics!) Perfect harmonies falling out all over the place: the rest of the pub didn't know what him them - which we were planning to do having been given just one song folder for the thirty of us!
(Jupard arrived to join the festivities, having driven across town and almost across country, I'm sure he said it felt like, and was ready to join in the carnage. I was touched that people had really made the effort to reach a destination that was, quite simply, undetectable by the latest satnavs. Em and Sam had also turned up with KM, the place flooded with these new UK arrivals in Italy, fresh-faced, eager to find out what this country could offer them. Dirty karaoke, the answer!)
And finally, after prompting the ever-smiling DJ to play my song choice - as I wasn't going to be able to escape the persistent demands of my friends to sing by hiding under the bar in a puddle of booze - I sang Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the heart", with help from Jupard and Shaz.
M displaying his mutant 'Bright Eyes' ability, learnedfrom none other than Bonnie herself.
I don't actually remember an awful lot about singing the song, apart from trying to keep up with an impossible tempo and changing key somewhat dramatically half way through, when I realised that if I persisted with singing in a higher key, dogs and canaries for miles around would simultaneously explode with the sonic vibrations I was emitting. The microphone was thrust towards Shaz and Jupard at various points for them to sing, which to give them credit for, they did. Just maybe the words to another song. How the hell Rachel from Glee does it, I do know now but then I suspect she is part android. It's the squinty face for the high notes she systematically pulls.
It's enough to say the lyrics of the song had more than enough meaning.
So at this point of the evening, Shaz and I had drunk our own body weight in Tequila and Long Islands, attempted to share anecdotes with the more than amused bar staff (who actually treated me and Shaz to some free drinks when everyone else had left!) and flirt with the newcomers brought in by KM and her birthday crew.
It's enough to say the lyrics of the song had more than enough meaning.
So at this point of the evening, Shaz and I had drunk our own body weight in Tequila and Long Islands, attempted to share anecdotes with the more than amused bar staff (who actually treated me and Shaz to some free drinks when everyone else had left!) and flirt with the newcomers brought in by KM and her birthday crew.
I bet you didn't know I manage an 80's tributeband called "The Blue Steelers" - this is the
cover of our first album "Indigo Sex Dream Beast (Yeah)"
And there was dancing. Dancing can be something of a social protocol in Italy. Reserved purely for clubbing, it would be deemed a tad bizarre if you got up in the middle of a pub, threw a few shapes around, cut some rug up and returned to your seat (we're assuming music is playing whilst this is happening.) But that's exactly what we did: in between songs, the DJ was spinning some tunes and when Mr. Saxobeat came on, we all got up when several people weren't sure whether to clap or stay put. Without dancing, I can't tell you what life for me would be like - nothing gives me greater pleasure that opening up your body to rhythm and music and just release all that energy. It's like a work-out for the soul.
The part of the evening I hated was the end: saying goodbye. The Italians never really make farewells so final: a "ciao" means I'm meeting you again or saying goodbye, in the same breath (a causal loop!) and "arrivederci" merely "we will come back to each other again." "Goodbye" or "bye" seems like "go well" and then just "go" - that's it, finito. And of course I had/have doubts about what I would be leaving behind: these people changed me in ways I'm only just understanding, they showed how to live fearlessly yet with caution, proudly yet without arrogance, kindly yet without losing yourself and that to cook for someone is to open up your heart and your home to that person. Things I might never have been privileged enough to learn.
The Day After...the night before
Arising, like the long deceased brother of King Tutankhamen: I emerged out of my cell at about 11:00, parched, confused, mumbling fragments of karaoke hits. My head "told me so" through a thousand percussive beats - hello long forgotten British hangover!
Saved by great cooking and excellent company
I was saved, by coffee, the mana of Italia, but also by S's curry-fuelled lunch, an amazingly spicy feast cooked up in the New York, 1950's deli kitchen of the apartment she shares off Piazza Vittoria Emmanuelle. I was back on the vino and chatting to Harmonia, S & Em, and over Earl Grey, I felt Englishified, the conversation turning to religion, politics and life in general. From the bacchanalia of the previous night to the cerebral communion of Sunday lunch. S & Em are returning to Bristol after another year in Italy, and S may return to the UK at some point: just by talking, a wave of finality came over me - the remembered urban traditions of drinking tea after a meal feeling familiar, beckoning. The "expat Dream" could end well, we could choose when to depart and not be left at sea in a realm of unfulfilled wishes and expectations. 'Leave on a high', my Mum always used to say. How high, how high...
The part of the evening I hated was the end: saying goodbye. The Italians never really make farewells so final: a "ciao" means I'm meeting you again or saying goodbye, in the same breath (a causal loop!) and "arrivederci" merely "we will come back to each other again." "Goodbye" or "bye" seems like "go well" and then just "go" - that's it, finito. And of course I had/have doubts about what I would be leaving behind: these people changed me in ways I'm only just understanding, they showed how to live fearlessly yet with caution, proudly yet without arrogance, kindly yet without losing yourself and that to cook for someone is to open up your heart and your home to that person. Things I might never have been privileged enough to learn.
The Day After...the night before
Arising, like the long deceased brother of King Tutankhamen: I emerged out of my cell at about 11:00, parched, confused, mumbling fragments of karaoke hits. My head "told me so" through a thousand percussive beats - hello long forgotten British hangover!
Saved by great cooking and excellent companyI was saved, by coffee, the mana of Italia, but also by S's curry-fuelled lunch, an amazingly spicy feast cooked up in the New York, 1950's deli kitchen of the apartment she shares off Piazza Vittoria Emmanuelle. I was back on the vino and chatting to Harmonia, S & Em, and over Earl Grey, I felt Englishified, the conversation turning to religion, politics and life in general. From the bacchanalia of the previous night to the cerebral communion of Sunday lunch. S & Em are returning to Bristol after another year in Italy, and S may return to the UK at some point: just by talking, a wave of finality came over me - the remembered urban traditions of drinking tea after a meal feeling familiar, beckoning. The "expat Dream" could end well, we could choose when to depart and not be left at sea in a realm of unfulfilled wishes and expectations. 'Leave on a high', my Mum always used to say. How high, how high...
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