Musiikki & Media: American Kitsch

Music and media professionals from Finland and abroad have once again made the annual pilgrimage to the hippest, most happening music city (err...) in this neck of the woods, otherwise known as Tampere. An extended weekend of seminars, talks, networking, gigs and generally approved intoxication in the form of Musiikki & Media 2010 kicked off last night.

As M&M first-timers, we rock up to Tampere in good time, decide to get the lay of the land and grab some lunch. I persuade Aleksi into checking out Classic American Diner, a place i've wanted to visit for ages. Now, i'll admit right here that i have a serious thing for all things kitsch and Americana. Which is why i can happily overlook the superficial, plastic pseudo-nostalgia of this 'roadside diner' situated in the middle of a shopping center in Tampere, and love it despite all its goriness. And the spicy veggie burger, fries and mint chocolate milkshake i had weren't too bad either.

 

 

the mint-chocolate milkshake

Later last night, we decide to delve deeper into the depths of this Americana experience, and go check out some rockabilly at Klubi. Turns out it was an awesome idea, cause they have a three band lineup of rockabilly ranging from the toe-tapping, bass-slapping gusto of Relentless to the sombre, cinematic melancholy of Last Calls, topped off with Fatboy from Sweden. Contrary to the diner experience, there was nothing pseudo or plastic about the music. 

Relentless

Last Calls

Last Calls

We wander home in the early hours, in good spirits, and decide that Tampere is, indeed, a great city.

Having by now almost recovered physically from the after-effects of yesterday's Americana trip, i can only guess what's gonna happen tonight. If we're feeling adventurous, we might ditch Uusi Fantasia, Jätkäjätkät, The Capital Beat, Iiris, Neufvoin and a whole host of other bands for another nostalgia trip, this time to the teenage era, and go check out revamped pre-teen idols Jimi Constantine (formerly Pääkallo, of Technicolor fame) and Jonna Geagea (formerly Kosonen, of Nylon Beat stardom) instead. Trippy indeed.

The NY Chronicles: i heart Coney.

A very long subway ride away from upper Manhattan, at the Brooklyn end of lines D, F, N & Q, lies Coney Island. Much like the legendary end of the rainbow, this magical destination is full of treasure for those who find their way there.

Coney Island - home of the American amusement park - has spawned, cultivated and cherished all manner of wayward characters during its long, murky and enchanting history, from ladies of the night to sideshow freaks, and tattoo artists to sailors. Reaching its heyday as a haven for laughter, inebriation and other wild pastimes circa the 1920s, the amusement park fell into a state of neglect post WWII. There have since been attempts to restore the park to its former glory, but the fairground still retains an air of old sex nostalgia, like a sullied, derelict counterpart to the polished, legendary original.

This, of course, makes it all the more interesting. I first went there on a gloomy day last May. The mist hung wet and thick across the boardwalk, obscuring the end of the pier, the water beyond it, as well as the towering, crooked-looking ferris wheel. The amusement park was empty, apart from the puffy, liquored-up 'Nam veterans standing sentry by the rides, waiting for those in need of amusement, but returning always to tip back their barely concealed brown paper bags. The merry-go-round travels in endless circles, the carnival music plays, the hot dogs are the best in the world and the mist thickens. i love it, this long-standing bastion of kitschy, crooked, bewitching Americana.

This time around, however, the weather was (rather surprisingly) sweltering, and my Coney Island day plan included lying around on the beach and dipping my toes into the Atlantic.

Gone was the gray fog obscuring the beach on the previous visit, and in its place were the browning bodies of masses of New Yorkers. With the temperature in the triple digits, it was to be expected. Kids frolicking in the waves, old ladies with those weird aluminum foil tanning mirror things, and beach vendors zigzagging the shoreline, selling everything from steaming empanadas to rainbow-colored kites.

I find myself a spot, apply factor 30 in excess and settle down with Richard Price's Lush Life, ignoring the smirks my chalky white limbs seem to be getting from the orange-hued hoochies in teeny bikinis on the neighboring beach towel. Ah, this is the life.

After finishing my book and dozing off for a while, i come to, thirsty as hell and with an uncomfortable burning sensation beginning at the back of my calves and ending somewhere around the back of my neck. Ouch. Note to self: even SPF30 isn't gonna save you when you fall asleep in the sun. The gum ball-popping ladies to my left continue to simper as i pack up my stuff and head back to the boardwalk with pizza and a pint in mind.

Before i call it a day, i pay the Glass Box Grandma a visit. There's nothing like getting your fortune told by a googly-eyed dame encased in glass.

 

I drop in a quarter, expecting the robotic geriatric to spring to life. It doesn't happen. Instead, a light comes on, the granny jerks awkwardly back and forth a couple of times, and then resumes her static, cockeyed vigil.

I'm a little disappointed. And then i see the card sliding out of the waist-level slot of the machine. I pick it up and decipher grandma's prophecy.

Grandma tells me i talk too much, can't keep secrets, shouldn't leave the house for any reason, and would be better off taking after a wise, old bird. For another quarter she'll elaborate. I'm satisfied with the crone's counsel; it's little nuggets of wisdom like these that keep me from making awful mistakes, like going on ill-advised trips to dirty, big cities; meeting horrible people and generally having the worst time of my life. Oh my, how dreadful it all sounds. How dreadful indeed.