Sam Lardner & Barcelona: News

Dear friends,

There are moments in all of our lives when we see things clearly: where we’ve been, where we are, and where we might be going if we’re lucky. While I am fortunate to know some very special people who spend most of their lives in this state of grace, I am not one of them. For me, it usually takes a confluence of people, place, good fortune and timing for the clouds to clear completely. This weekend at the Kerrville Folk Festival was one of those high blue-sky moments.

To begin with, the weather in Texas was hot, dry and relentlessly sunny. The last time I attended the festival (1995), it rained so hard that I remember feeling the water running under my tent at a couple of points during one sleepless night. This weekend, however, the evenings were perfect for concerts, and the nights cooled down just enough to make the occasional bonfire at Kerrville’s famous all night songsharing circles a welcome source of warmth, ambience and inspiration.

In its 37th year, Kerrville is an American musical legacy set in a gorgeous landscape of rolling grassy hills and trees about 60 miles north of San Antonio that actually reminded the band of the countryside near Tarragona to the south of Barcelona. The festival is an 18-day celebration of songwriting, performing, musical craftsmanship and basic peaceful coexistence presented by the elegant Dalis Allen and run by the most amazing army of volunteers I have ever met in my life. Many of the finest songwriters in North America make an annual pilgrimage to this musical Shangri-La, and a hand-carved sign at the festival entrance says it all: “Welcome Home”.

We were lucky enough to share the bill on Friday night with 4 other excellent acts. Scott Ainslee (Brattleboro, VT), Freebo (Los Angeles, CA), Slaid Cleaves (Austin, Texas) and Bob Schneider (Austin, Texas) all delivered very memorable performances, and we were moved by them to reach for something higher in our own show. We were also given a major boost by Noel Paul Stookey, who generously offered to introduce us and, in his own inimitable way, give us the wings we needed to make things easy and fun from the get-go. The fact is that there were so many things going on before, during and after our show, that I feel fortunate just to have played well and made a whole bunch of new friends happy. We were extremely touched to have Peter Yarrow come backstage and congratulate us after the concert on the eve of his 70th birthday. And it is actually to Peter Yarrow and Noel Stookey that I owe my moment of clarity, although it came 24 hours later during their performance on Saturday night.

I made certain to get a good seat under my favorite tree, close to the stage but far enough away to get a good sense of what was happening in the audience around me. I was also joined by new acquaintance and major talent, Sonia Rutstein, who has recently embarked on a solo path after years of successful music with Disappear Fear (www.disappearfear.com). Her new album “Tango” is a four-language (Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic and English) gem that I have had playing in my iPod since she handed it to me the other night. Together with Sonia and her partner, Terry Irons, we watched the evening build through a moving solo performance by Noel, a typically rousing/poignant/hysterical duo set by Peter and Noel, a remarkable performance by vocalist Bethany Yarrow and cellist/guitarist Rufus Capadoccia, and finally the moment I had apparently been waiting for, the grand finale.

In a gesture that only two grand masters of the stage would dare to make, Noel and Peter rejoined Bethany and Rufus and invited all willing children from the festival ranks to get up on stage and sing “Puff The Magic Dragon”. About 25 kids, ages 3-10, swarmed the stage in a soundman’s worst nightmare, squiggling around among the microphones, speakers and cables and getting in prime position to sing their hearts out. Noel and Paul managed the chaos brilliantly, capitalizing on the natural charm of missed notes and invented lyrics from the mouths of their impromptu choir of angels and quite thoroughly and completely bringing the house down. During the last chorus, I looked around the crowd and was quite certain that EVERYONE in sight was singing along – some with tears in their eyes, others laughing, others arm-in-arm - no one unmoved.

And that was it. Through the hills and valleys of my own personal and musical landscape there suddenly appeared a very coherent path that had led me directly to this moment, and I was so grateful to be there. On that path next to me were two new traveling companions, Sonia and Terry, thanks to whom I was richer for sharing the moment. And before me was a clear and perfect example of how we can complete the circle of our lives and enrich the people around us, young and old, by celebrating ourselves and whatever it is we have been given to contribute to making the world a better place – at whatever level.

So my thanks go out to Dalis Allen, Rod Kennedy, Noel Stookey, Peter Yarrow, Annie Wentz, Sonia Rutstein, Terry Irons and the Kerrville Folk Festival for conspiring, some of them unknowingly, to give me that moment. The band and I cannot wait to get to the New York shows this week, and after a short few weeks in Spain this June, we’ll be back in New England for some summer action. Please check http://www.samlardner.com/calendar.html for those shows, and let us know if there’s somewhere near you where we should be playing.

Have fun and “hasta pronto”!

Always,

Sam

Wikipedia: “Hibernation is a state of inactivity and metabolic depression in animals, characterized by lower body temperature, slower breathing, and lower metabolic rate. Hibernation conserves energy, especially during winter. Hibernation may last several days, or weeks depending on species, ambient temperature, and time of year. The typical winter season for a hibernator is characterized by periods of hibernation interrupted by sporadic euthermic arousals wherein body temperature is restored to typical values”.

Well that about sums it up, folks. I can’t explain in any other way where February went. While I haven’t been in total hibernation, I have definitely been doing my fair share of sleep walking and driving. I’m pretty sure my kids got to school and back everyday, but beyond that it’s all pretty murky and vague.

Spring has arrived to Barcelona with a burst of color, light and energy, and yesterday I awoke from my hibernation in the strangest of ways. I was playing in the courtyard behind our apartment with my youngest son, Oliver, who is 3. He was given a new bicycle for Christmas and, like me, has spent the last few months going round and round on his training wheels, singing and not really paying a whole lot of attention to anything. But yesterday he stopped his bike and said, “That’s a nice tree, Dad”. And indeed, I saw that the almond tree in the garden next door was in full, white-blossomed bloom. Then he asked, “Can I take the little wheels off?”

“Well, sure, I guess so”, I said, “are you ready?”

“Yes, it’s time”, he answered.

I think most people can remember their first time up on a two-wheeler, and I can certainly remember that Saturday in San Juan, Puerto Rico back in 1968 when my father ran me up and down our street yelling, “Peddle, peddle, keep peddling!” until I suddenly found that amazing balance point that for the rest of our lives we all take so much for granted. And what better advice to give a child than, “Keep peddling!”. I remember that moment as clearly as any other from my childhood and more lucidly than most from my adulthood. It’s amazing how many other people say the same thing about that first ride on a bike.

Of course, I was almost 5. Oliver is still 3, and as I removed the training wheels from his bike, it did occur to me that, were he to pull this off, he might not remember it as an adult. Was I to be forever denied that amazing “best supporting actor” role in one of the biggest scenes of his childhood? Oh well. As I feared, it took him about 7 loops in the courtyard with my help before he yelled, “Let go, let go!” and was off. I sat down on the bench to watch this tiny kid go round and round, cursing myself for not owning a video camera, when suddenly I heard the oh-so-familiar and unmistakable sound of someone from the window above the garden trying to play “Stairway to Heaven”.

Oh, the agony of the thousand different ways to get that little guitar riff wrong! Nostalgia day for Sam! I was instantly transported back to my bedroom in Weston, Connecticut, where I sat for weeks in the winter of 1979 gripping the life out of my new Guild acoustic 6-string, trying to get that little riff right while singing that haunting rock ballad that would become the nightmare of guitar teachers around the globe.

I must say that the kid upstairs, a girl from the timbre of her voice, was doing a pretty fair job of getting through both the guitar work and the lyrics. I was having all kinds of nice happy thoughts about my childhood and how nice it was to be sitting in a courtyard with Barcelona in full bloom under a blue sky watching my impossibly small son do his first laps ever on a bicycle when it finally came: the moment of my awakening and the end of my hibernation. You all know that part of the song that I’m talking about. It’s the part we all waited for whether we were playing it or listening to it at a party. The moment where the mother of all rock ballads blows wide open into full majesty, and we are sure that rock and roll will rule the world forever….

DA NA NA, DA NA NA, DA NA NA - NA NA!

….and THEN we really find out who can play bar chords and who can’t, as the song jams out in it’s pounding 3-chord finale that ends with Robert Plant’s immortal line…

“Hend she’s buuuuying, a staaaaiirway to heavuun”.

What a song.

So I snapped out of it, and thanks to Oliver, an almond tree, and a singing girl who shall forever remain faceless, I am back with you.

First, I am very, very happy to announce that we have been invited to play at the Kerrville Folk festival in Texas on May 30th. The band is completely jazzed, and we are really looking forward to contributing to one of the greatest music events anywhere. We will probably play a show or two in Atlanta on the way down as well as a series of shows in the New York area on the way back. Our thanks go out to Noel Paul Stookey and Annie Wenz for helping make the Kerrville dream come true for us! Stay tuned for shows in your area as they materialize!

We will also be barnstorming the East Coast in July and August, with confirmed shows in Connecticut, Massachusetts and Maine. So keep an eye on the calendar, and hope to see you very soon!

Finally, the results of the 2008 network sales challenge for the Barcelona CD are in! There are actually two winners! First place goes to Ann Luskey of McLean, VA, with a grand total of 51 CDs to her name. Ann will receive a free concert in the venue of her choice on one of our 3 trips to the USA this year. Congratulations and thanks, Ann!

Second place and a very honorable mention goes to Susan Brandt of Boston, MA, whom we very luckily met at the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival last summer. Susan actually purchased 30 CDs from us and has sold all but 4 in her local coffee shop. Take that, Starbucks! I am currently working out the prize for honorable mention, but I have a feeling we may be doing an impromptu show in a certain coffee shop in Boston this summer.

I hope all of you are well and that, wherever you are, spring is in the air. It’s great to be in touch with you again, and we are all looking forward to some great musical moments in the coming months!

Take care and have fun!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

This holiday season has flown by, and even though we still have 5 days to go here in Spain (Three Kings Day is the 6th), I wanted to touch base and wish everyone a very happy new year.

As a sign of how busy this year’s holiday madness has been, we played two shows on December 31st just to finish the year off with a flourish. The first concert was in honor of our good friend, Merce Vilajoliú, who celebrated both her 60th birthday and her early retirement from TV3 with an awesome gala lunch at the Tivoli Restaurant. As is custom here, the band was invited to share in the 4-course lunch and was rendered almost incapable of playing a single note by the time all the toasting was over. Thank the gods for strong Italian coffee and a powerhouse 3-layer chocolate cake. Congratulations Merce!

After that show was over (7pm), we packed up our stuff and drove up to my neighborhood in Sarrià, where it was setup time at the Bar Gerard. Our good friends Nacho and Mar throw an annual family New Year’s party at this wonderful little bar/restaurant (see photos on website), and about 40 of us jammed the place for more feasting, music, dancing and of course, the final countdown.

In all honesty, this second concert was more of an ad-lib karaoke. The adults, who are all-too-familiar with our normal repertoire, kept begging me to play “Country Roads” and “Roxanne”, while the multitudinous throng at the kids’ table insisted on “Asedehé” by the Ketchup Girls. Anything goes on New Year’s Eve, says I.

At 11:55 pm, just as we were ending our sing-along spectacle, one of Barcelona’s green, blue and white garbage trucks pulled up outside the bar and shut down its monstrous motor, blocking the entire street. Two city workers, dressed in matching fluorescent green coveralls, came into the bar and asked if they could join us for the countdown. This request was, of course, greeted with a roar of approval, at which point they each magically produced a government-issue goodie bag full of horns, hats, confetti, 3D sunglasses and candy. Oh yeah, turn it up a notch!

Thus armed with all kinds of free merrymaking equipment thanks to our new heroes in green (amazing to think that this same scene must have been playing itself out in about 500 bars and restaurants all over Barcelona), we turned our attention to the little plates in front of us, each holding 12 grapes, to ring in the New Year, Catalan style. In this hilarious tradition, one grape is consumed with each stroke of midnight. If you don’t happen to be conveniently located near the village belltower, fear not, both TV3 and radio Catalunya broadcast super loud chimes for everyone’s grape-popping accompaniment.

Adults hold their sparkling cava glasses high while filling their mouths with grapes, always keeping one eye on the kids’ table in case anyone there suddenly requires the Heimlich maneuver. Everyone ends up looking like full-cheeked chipmunks, and it takes at least a minute after midnight for everyone to finish their mouthful of grapes. At this point, all of the normal hugging, kissing, backslapping and shouting that we are accustomed to in other parts of the world can commence (why do we get so wrapped up in this night?). The dancing music starts cranking, and the party explodes into a free-for-all that lasts until about 3 am – kids totally included.

However, at exactly 00:10, our heroes in green, actually named Jordi and Ivan, shouted “Thank you and Happy New Year” and headed out the door to start up the truck and finish their rounds. Their departure was celebrated by a huge shower of confetti and frenzied horn-trumpeting by the kids, and both were enthusiastically invited to return, same time, same place, next year.

And so the New Year begins in Barcelona.

I keep forgetting to talk about music. Perhaps January will be event-free, and I’ll be able to fill you in on what is really going on.

Until then, take care, have fun and may 2008 be an outstanding year for all of us. Thank you for all you do, and looking forward to seeing you out there soon!

Always,

Sam


p.s. Check out www.myspace.com/samlardner ! 10,000 hits this December!

Dear friends,

Today is just another day in Spain, although a few of my neighbors are clued-in enough to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving, for which I am grateful. In years past I have actually forgotten that it was the last Thursday in November and, hence, Turkey Day back home. Two years ago today, in fact, I called my friend Bucky Jones to ask him a songwriting question. Bucky is one of Nashville’s all-time great writers and a generous mentor, and I was sure that he’d be up working at 8 am eastern standard daylight time when I called him from the middle of the bustling Spanish lunch hour. “Happy Thanksgiving, Sam”, he answered in his typically calm and understated tone, “What’s up?”

Ooops.

Anyway, I’d like to wish Bucky and his family a happy and uninterrupted Thanksgiving this year.

We are all doing fine here in Barcelona, fully recovered from jetlag and other random symptoms of our 2-week blitz to the United States in October. It was great to see so many of you out at the shows, and it was really fun to meet so many new friends, specifically at our visiting artist stint at Taft School and at our Spanish Food, Wine and Music Evening in Bedford. Lots more of that to come in 2008!

Before I forget, I spent both transatlantic flights totally transfixed by “The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Clay” by Michael Chabon. I know it’s been out since 2001. I am running years late on everything. But it is far and away the best book I’ve read so far this year. It’s an outstanding New York story and a great American novel from my humble point of view. It was fitting to fly in and out of JFK, totally immersed in this novel, happy to be spared the personal drama of the in-flight movies and all that unnecessary high altitude crying. My band would like to convey their special thanks to Michael Chabon for this detail, and they have generously vowed to buy all of his subsequent books for me this Christmas.

Now, before we get dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 6 weeks of Christmas madness that is bearing down on us like the Polar Express itself, I thought I’d bring you on a small side trip into our own personal Spanish Thanksgiving tradition of mushroom hunting.

That’s right, mushroom hunting. Ah… late November in Catalunya, after that first spate of winter rain when the forests are finally good and soaked, when the first beams of golden light of that first sunny day after the storm bring the steam right out of the ground, and the low dwarf bushes and thick green moss are covered with huge drops of dew that soak right through your shirt, jeans and sneakers before you’ve even gotten to the good mushrooming spots. The world smells like salamanders and toads, and you walk through patches of air that are 10 degrees hotter or colder than the one you just left. The world is caught between hot and cold, dry and wet, and things are just downright amphibious feeling.

On these mornings, in the narrowest, shadiest, most secluded valleys that cut through the rugged landscape near Montserrat, just 30 minutes from Barcelona, you would not be surprised to see a small dinosaur emerge from this dense cover into a bright patch of light. What you are actually looking for, though, are “Camagrocs”. These are lovely little overnight miracles whose long yellow stems and brown leafy caps send my kids into a major foraging frenzy year after year. Of course, I am not immune to a sudden surge of adrenaline when I crawl through a particularly tough patch of scrub brush and fallen tree limbs and find a clump of 20 bright beauties poking their heads out of a vivid green bed of moss. Not only is it satisfying from a primitive hunter/gatherer point of view, it is also doubly awesome to think of those puppies a few hours later in a Spanish “tortilla” or a white wine clam sauce served over fresh pasta with lots of garlic and parsley. For the kids, though, it is much more basic. They know it is an activity for which they are perfectly equipped because they are lower to the ground, more agile, and able to slip beneath bushes whose tangled upper branches tend to catch adults directly in the eyeball. For once, they can outscore the big people!

When you finally strike upon a productive patch of forest floor, things tend to go into an every-man-for-himself frenzy mode. It is inevitable. As a recovering athlete, even my greatest efforts to suppress my competitive urges are put the test when I hear my 8-year-old son, Jackson, screaming from a nearby patch of dense dwarf pine, nettles and rosemary, “Oh my god, oh my god, look at all of these that I’m getting!” In such moments, the temptation is to look down at your modestly filled wicker basket and start crawling around like an insane pig searching for a mother load of truffles. If you are lucky, though, you catch yourself and remember last year’s trip when your father-in-law nearly blinded himself by lunging through a pricker bush to reach a clump of admittedly large camagrocs all growing out of the same point of origin, sitting there slightly out of reach like a fat bouquet of flowers.

Then, from fifty feet away, my 6-year-old daughter, Mia, screams, “Whoa, look at all of these way under here!” and you just sit down and enjoy the scenery. Probably a good exercise for all of us, once in a while, to let the little people have their day. Of course you wouldn’t want to look too comfortable, lest some passing hiker accuse you of exploiting minors in some sort of scandalous outdoor mushroom-harvesting sweatshop.

For those of you who are wondering when I will start talking about the dangers of poisonous mushrooms, your suffering is over. Not only is there a decent chance of finding a deadly one out there, there is also a fair-to-middling chance of finding one that could send you on a pretty amazing ride through your college years. Catalunya’s genius modernist architect of the last century, Antoni Gaudí, was rumored to have spent a fair share of his time gathering mushrooms of all descriptions, and some of his most organic drip-castle architectural masterpieces are attributed to his adventures with a little red beauty called the “Amanita Muscaria” (also featured in “Alice and Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll). As for the really dangerous ones, there are about a dozen of the deadly to deathly-ill variety found in Catalunya’s forests, some with names like “Boletus Satanas” in obviously reference to the final moments of the poor soul who first hauled off and took a bite out of one.

Anyway, to set your minds at ease (it is Thanksgiving after all), the kids are instructed only to pick the totally distinctive yellow camagrocs and, above all, never to eat anything other than the chocolate sandwiches we’ve packed for snack. Period.

Once home, we lay all the camagrocs we do not intend to eat right away out on newspaper to dry. This way, when you want to include them in a recipe at some future date, all you do is soak them in water to return them to their original size, shape and texture. Presto! Instant camagrocs. After a good outing, we arrive home with between 500 and 1000 camagrocs, which seems like an endless supply. However, the secret hope of those of us who know is that this year’s harvest will to get us all the way through to the following Thanksgiving and the next mushrooming adventure.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving. Lots of good news coming up in December. I even promise to talk about music next time.

Take care and, go easy on the stuffing.

Always,


Sam

Dear friends,

This letter comes to you in the midst of the Fiestas de Sarrià, a 10-day celebration of music, theatre, culture, folk tradition, gastronomy and community in our small town located within the city of Barcelona. The smaller streets of Sarrià have been decorated thematically by neighborhood groups, each vying to outdo the decorations on other rival streets. This year’s best, in my opinion, is the Ivorra street display, featuring overhead hanging vines and grapes made of different colored plastic bags (gotta see it to believe it). The most important thing about the Fiestas for those of us who have not lived here for generations is that there is suddenly a visible order to what is normally a blurred social tapestry of old timers, newcomers, natives, foreigners and everything in between. Yesterday our street was blocked off to all traffic in order to serve a giant paella for 250 neighbors and their families and friends. The paella was cooked in a pan the size of a very large satellite dish, and between the pre-lunch appetizers and beer and the post-lunch bingo and dancing, the party lasted about 7 hours. The street is about 150 yards long, not very long at all. The table runs about 100 yards along the center of the street, at the end of which stands a stage for the day’s entertainment, kind of like the engine to a long narrow gauge train. As I sat there after coffee and dessert talking to the owner of the scooter repair shop located at the head of the street, it once again struck me that I knew a very small percentage of my neighbors. I remember feeling the same way when I graduated from college 20 years ago. Prior to that day, after four years in a “small New England college”, I had enjoyed the comfortable sense that I knew most of my classmates. Yet on graduation day, I remember being hard pressed to find two friends sitting side by side in a sea of faces that were either vaguely familiar or, worse, that I had never seen before. How in Sam hell had that happened?

Now the reason for this is obvious, and it no longer surprises me. We all run in traffic patterns, even the most random of us, and there will always be a decent segment of the world around us that exists on a traffic pattern that is basically unavailable to us most of the time. Unavailable. Note the great restraint used by the author in not using the phrase “different dimension”, although it bloody well feels that way when you finally sit down at that table for 250 during the Fiestas and that feeling hits you again. Like trout in the summer months…where do they all go?

Anyway, at least we all share the common bond of wanting to have some fun, and the Fiesta highlights thus far have been the following multitudinous bonding moments: In third place, we have the “Correfoc”, a night parade that features bands of red-clad devils and giant green dragons rolling down the narrow streets spewing wild spark showers that all end with a tremendous big banger at the end (for those of you who read the June newsletter, the big bangers in this case are not quite as loud as the “Silba Booms”, but they do make you jump straight up out of your pants if they catch you off guard). The streets are jammed with kids (and a lot of their parents) dressed in hooded sweatshirts, ski hats and goggles, and the idea is to join forces in the face of the oncoming fiery hell and scream “¡No pasarán!” (“They shall not pass!”). It is quite literally pandemonium. I suspect Tolkien of basing his climactic Gandalf/Monster scene in Mordor on the fiestas of some small town in Catalunya. Anyway, the devils and dragons always manage to roll past with their insanely superior firepower, and even the staunchest bands of evil fighters are forced to dive, duck and seriously take cover in order to form ranks again and await the next wave of hell’s mignons (above all, watching out for the big bangers!). As opposed to the random pre-teen amateur firework chaos of the Feast of San Juan in June, I have to say that this is simply the most fun a person can have without paying for it (do I contradict myself? – sorry, gotta see it to believe it).

In second place, we have the Fiesta concert series featuring multiple shows every night that guarantee to satisfy the listening requirements of every single person in town. Acts include Núsic (hot rock), La Vella Dixieland (dixieland, and really good!), Gaitas del Mundo (international bagpipe bonanza), Jony Begut (dance band for all ages), Flamingo Galaxy (way out there!), Manu Guix (cover tunes by the director of “Grease” in Barcelona), Ad Libitum Orchestra (massive accordion attack), Alta Mar (folk songs from Havana for older crowd), Concert Coral Sarrià (local amateur chorus), Big Band de Barcelona (what it sounds like), Quartet Antígona (Mozart, Pachelbel, etc.), Line Dance (twangy local country band), La Kinky Beat (for the head bangers), and last but not least Sam Lardner and Barcelona. With a lineup like that, my band is only hoping to break even and humbly please our crowd of flamenco fusion enthusiasts, although it would be nice to bring some of the line dancers and head bangers into the fold.

Finally, first prize (in my book) goes to the “castellers”. Castellers are groups from Catalan towns and cities that train year-round in the acrobatic and sometimes dangerous activity of building human castles. They represent perhaps the most emblematic of Catalonia’s cultural traditions, and they are hands down one of the most powerfully moving things I have ever seen in my own limited personal traffic pattern, i.e. “life”.

The mythologist and professor, Joseph Campbell, liked to emphasize amidst the sea of educators, religious leaders, philosophers, writers and other “words” people that surrounded him, that there are certain things in this world that hit us directly at the core of our subconscious and defy us to describe them, rationalize them or otherwise attempt to “own” them in any way. He called them “effect images”, and every time I see the castellers, I know that Campbell was totally right. So at the risk of being a total pain, I am forced to say for the third time in this short newsletter, “You just gotta see it to believe it”. There is absolutely no way that I can do it justice on an emotional level, but at least I can provide you with a rough idea of what it looks like, perhaps inspiring you to get over here one day and see it for yourself.

I have always thought that, if asked to write an article about the castellers, I’d sell it under the title, “It Takes a Village to Raise a Child” because if there is any explanation for why almost everyone who gets close to this phenomenon suddenly wants to cry, that must be it. “Castells” are simply human castles made up of any willing and able citizen in a given township who wishes to participate and come out for practice twice a week all year. Anyone. These particular human castles (they exist in other cultures as well, but nowhere do they reach the height or magnificence of Catalonia’s castells) are built in multiple stories of standing people. Thus the ground floor or “pinya” is made up of however many people it takes to support the weight and height of the castle being attempted. This is the “everybody” level where I have seen participants in their 80’s bunched arm-in-arm with their neighbors preparing to have the members of the second storey climb up on their shoulders and brace quickly for the subsequent storey that will, in turn, climb their backs and stand on their shoulders.

Now for the sake of perspective and effect, let’s pretend we are watching the record-holding Castellers de Vilafranca building their 10 storey (TEN STOREY) castle. The second storey consists of a more select group of about 20 stout citizens, most, but not all of whom are men. They are standing atop a “pinya” of roughly 200 closely interconnected townspeople all dressed in the same traditional uniform: colorful shirts and loose-fitting trousers not unlike baseball togs. At the third storey, the castle narrows down to four people, usually the strongest in the town, who link their outstretched arms in attempt to create something close to a 90 degree square. As they link up, the fourth story is climbing up their backs to do the same. More powerful types on this level. Then at level five, the climbers begin to take on more catlike profiles, as the emphasis turns towards agility, balance, speed as well as strength. Many of these, in recent times, are women. All of the climbing cues are given by a group leader on the ground with either a monstrously loud voice or a megaphone. Did I mention that there are thousands of people crowded around watching this spectacle with their mouths wide open?

As the castle rises, it appears as if it might break at any moment. The weight and movement of the climbers test the strength and resolve of the squared-off human stories at every level, and there is a serious amount of organic-looking swaying and shaking – each individual body involved in a very private and serious battle of strength and balance. By the time the true cat-women and younger acrobatic pre-teens in the sixth and seventh stories start to climb the castle, the bodies of those in the lower stories have begun to shake noticeably, and time, not weight, becomes the factor. The lower foursomes joined arm-in-arm work together to breathe and above all concentrate because now the little kids - the littlest, lightest, bravest and most fearless 8 and 10 year-olds that a town can come up with – are on their way up. They climb like monkeys on their well-rehearsed routes up the legs, backs and shoulders of their shaking, teeth-clenched parents, siblings, cousins, and neighbors, knowing that the difference between a collapse and a triumph lies in their tight-wound little bodies.

Stories 8 and 9 have to happen in a heart-beat, as two separate pairs of sinewy tough kids crouch in a duck-and-cover position atop the castle just in time for the littlest kid, called the “ancheneta”, to arrive at the top, hastily salute the mayor and the judges, and beat cheeks down the other side of the castle so the other stories can do the same without toppling the now-totally-shaking and swaying castle below. A castle is not deemed successful until it has been totally dismantled in an orderly fashion, and it is during the dismantling phase that many of the collapses logically happen. In all of recorded casteller history only three deaths have occurred, but I have personally seen two castles fall apart and many others called off because the group leader decided that the castles were doomed either for structural reasons or time problems. The credo of the castellers is “Strength, Balance, Courage and Reason”, and this last concept is without question the most important. If you ever see the face of an ancheneta when the floor goes out from below, you’ll never forget it as long as you live. I have personally seen it happen twice and, both times, thanked the ever-loving gods that my kids played soccer and did Play Station. Two years ago, a 12 year old was killed when a castle fell apart, and since then all anchenetas are required to wear helmets. Still, the overpowering sense of fragility, tension, suspense and human struggle remains. Castles are unbelievably serious, bordering on crazy, certainly not necessary for normal life to go on, and yet you cannot possibly take your eyes off of them except of course to wipe the tears from your face with your sleeve.

So why do the castellers hit us at the effect image level? Why do we cry, even though we are not watching it on an airplane? (see WAAH! – May, 2007) I can only speak for myself, but every day my kids walk out the door and head out into the neighborhood (they still don’t go very far), and I basically count on the fact that the people in their little world (even those that occupy other flight patterns) will somehow effect their journey through life in a positive way. This “child’s journey” was as tough and unpredictable in the Sarrià of 1000 years ago as it is in the Sarrià of today. Not much has changed in the basic human experience, and in a very real way, it still takes a village to raise a child.

For a few fiesta photos, see http://www.samlardner.com/photos.html

Here, also, are the final show dates and times for the October tour. A number of shows are sold out, including the New York show on the 16th. If enough people call the Roger Smith Hotel, we will try to schedule a concert for you on Monday the 15th, but you’ve gotta reserve now! Please don’t wait. That also goes for you folks attending the Fairfield show on the 20th. I’ve been asked to clear up of the issue of whether credit cards are accepted: the answer is “Yes”. So fire away with the plastic!

The full October tour calendar for New England can be found by clicking on this link: http://www.samlardner.com/calendar.html

We hope to see you out there and spend some time with you. For those who can’t come out this time around, please take care and have fun wherever you are. Barcelona is always there for you at CDBaby and iTunes! We’ve sold over 4500 CDs this year, and we owe most of that success to you!

Keep the snowball rolling!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

It is pouring rain on the Penobscot peninsula where my family and I are spending the next few weeks before heading back to Barcelona. It’s actually a welcome deluge, giving those of us that have pending indoor tasks the chance to get cracking before the sun returns and offers up all of those great excuses to procrastinate.

Last night, the storm brought an unexpected flurry of wildlife activity to the cottage where we are staying. The mice we heard scratching around the woodpile in the living room were not too much of a surprise. We know they are there. But the squirrel that entered our bedroom in search of cover caught our full attention. I never actually saw it, and I doubt it ever actually saw us. Too dark. All I can say is that things got terribly, terribly exciting when Katherine and I both let out a “Holy shit!” and it started ripping around the room in a crazed panic. Suddenly the beast had taken on huge dimensions. We dove beneath the quilt to protect ourselves from its vicious gnashing fangs, razor-sharp claws and insane, rabid squeaking. It finally shot up the plywood wall, thudded a few times against the rafters and disappeared. We heard it tear across the roof sounding big as a mountain lion, and then there was nothing but the soft pattering of rain on the roof. Maine – love it or leave it.

On the subject of rain, flash back now to the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival, where the band and I played a set at the workshop stage in a similar deluge two weeks ago. Nobody in the band could believe how undaunted the crowd was by the heavy downpour. They all remained faithfully huddled under umbrellas or tarps and listened smilingly to the music. Woodstock revisited. We had 3 great performances there (including a marathon rumba set in the dance tent on Sunday), and we also met some wonderful new artists. Highlights included meeting Mia Dyson and her band from Australia. Mia has a voice reminiscent of Bonnie Raitt, and she plays the electric guitar with excellent touch and personality. Visit her site at www.miadyson.com to have a listen and see her tour schedule. Also, Gandalf Murphy and the Slambovian Circus of Dreams www.slambovia.com pretty much blew me away. This is a hugely fun and entertaining act, definitely one to check out when they are next in your area.

All in all, the band and I had a great stateside tour this summer. Aside from Falcon Ridge, highlights included a packed show at Club Helsinki in Great Barrington, MA. Thanks to all of you diehards who came out AFTER seeing the Judy Collins concert at Lime Rock Racetrack on the same day. You are the best!

Thanks also to both the Philip family and the Stewart family for hosting a great show in Prout’s Neck, Maine. Whatta place! And finally, thanks to Zach and Laurel Martin for plugging us in up in Blue Hill, Maine on one of the most gorgeous evenings of the summer. We loved sharing our music with you!

Back in Catalunya, the “Barcelona” CD has been selling in the rooms of the Hotel Arts for over a month now, and initial reports are very good. It also happens that Woody Allen is staying at the hotel for the shooting of his new movie on life and love in Barcelona. I guess Barcelona is sort of in fashion these days. I’d like to think that Mr. Allen has given the CD a listen, but the phone hasn’t rung just yet…

On my return in early September, I will be joining the Mayor of Barcelona, Jordi Hereu, for a lunch/conference on foreigners in Catalunya. I will be part of a panel of ex-pats who are all doing “interesting” things far away from their native lands. At this luncheon, I will make every attempt to keep the conversation focused on my music and steered well away from my issues with the Catalan Internal Revenue Service, the Catalan Motor Vehicle Department, and the Catalan Fish and Game Department.

Looking even farther ahead, the October tour of New England is all but set, and I’ll be sending out a definitive calendar in early September. We are looking forward to seeing you then!

I hope these last few weeks of August bring you lots of rest and downtime with friends and family. My band and I are certainly taking a moment to relax and recharge so that we can hit the ground humming in September.

Stay well and have fun!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

I am writing you on the morning after the summer solstice, better known in Spain as “La Fiesta de San Juan”, and there are two things that are certain. First, summer has just been turned on as if controlled by a switch. The sun is now absolutely relentless, and suddenly all anybody can think about is finding a shady retreat or, if possible, a sandy beach on the Mediterranean. It was not like this a week ago. When summer hits here, it hits hard.

Second, our neighborhood seems strangely silent. If you really stop and listen, you can hear all the everyday sounds that you are used to hearing out there: the low groaning of the bulldozer at the construction site across the street, the occasional window shade being lowered, a kid crying over a skinned knee, scooters accelerating at the beginning of the block and braking hard for the pedestrians at the other end – normal stuff. What is missing, though, is the relentless banging of fireworks that, for the last ten days, had been building to a major crescendo before the Feast of San Juan.

The quaint version of the San Juan tradition that we would all like write home about goes something like this: In the small towns and villages all over Spain, people gather in the afternoon preceding San Juan (June 24th) to feast in celebration of the longest day and the shortest night of the year. The idea, derived from ancient pagan ritual, is to keep the light alive from sunset on the eve of San Juan until sunrise the following morning. As the darkness approaches, bonfires are lit in the squares of all the towns, and these fires are usually kept burning until dawn. Some mountain towns feature multitudinous torch-bearing treks up the winding hillside paths to light fires on all of the surrounding peaks – quite something to watch from a distance. Beach towns usually adjourn to water’s edge to light their fires and make their all night stand. Of course, people don’t just sit around waiting for morning to happen. The San Juan feast is traditionally one of the year’s major benders, famous for its all-night concerts and outdoor dancing guaranteed to produce an overdose of energy and extracurricular romantic activity. Young men and boys test their bravery (and level of intoxication) by jumping over the smoldering bonfires while the local women and girls look on in admiration (and occasional howling hysteria) at their local heroes’ exploits. Many, many amorous relationships have gotten their jumpstart on the eve of San Juan, and it is not uncommon for local maternity wards to witness a mild spike in the birthrate around Easter. Ah, small town life…

By comparison, the Barcelona version of San Juan is basically hell. Since bonfires are out of the question in city neighborhoods, firecrackers, roman candles and bottle rockets are employed as substitutes to get the party started. In many of the city’s parks and plazas, small metal kiosks appear magically like mushrooms about ten days before San Juan. Fireworks for sale! Legal and cheap! As a parent, there are two choices. 1) Go to the kiosk and buy the small ones to set off with your kids. 2) Allow the total stranger at the kiosk to sell your kids whatever they ask for.

The ones the kids in my neighborhood ask for are called “Silba Booms”. Do you remember M-80’s? Do you remember the sound those suckers made? Do you remember the sound those suckers made inside your neighbor’s garbage can? Well that’s what they are selling out there in Barcelona before San Juan. And that’s not all. We are talking heavy artillery of every description, all there for the purchasing so long as you are old enough to reach up over the kiosk counter and lay your eurocents down.

For ten long days before the great all-out siege of San Juan, the streets are roamed by groups of teenage and pre-teenage boys with way too much firepower and lots of bad ideas. Let’s face it. You light off one firecracker and it goes BOOM! After that, all the thoughts regarding what you might do with the remaining ones are pretty bad. I’ve worked hard on keeping my cool when the unexpected firecracker explodes near my feet and a group of kids goes tearing up the street in giggling retreat. I am, after all, a foreigner, and my job is to assimilate. But even the toughest, war-hardened Spanish truck drivers are likely to lose it when a big huge Silba Boom catches them by surprise as they are raising a piping hot “café con leche” to their lips at their favorite corner hangout at 9:30 in the morning.

The eve of San Juan itself is insane. Even the adults go into a heightened state of madness, buying vast assortments of fireworks at firework megastores and lighting them off, one after the other, from their balconies and gardens, with their children or without, for the entire night. I am starting to think it is some sort of unconscious wild salute to the fall of Rome and the legacy of Latin chaos (probably a little far-fetched). It does, however, have the feeling of a collective, cathartic howl. The air smells of gunpowder, and the city sounds like a battlefield until dawn. Big boomers, little crackers, roman candles, bottle rockets, sparklers, smoke bombs… everything, everywhere.

Katherine and I once thought it would be fun to go to dinner downtown on the eve of San Juan and take in the chaos firsthand. We reserved a tasty little outdoor table at Can Majó overlooking the beach only to find it difficult, if not impossible, to shout above the roar of explosions, booms, bangs and screeches (many sounding like they were “INCOMING!”). So we sat there watching the show in silence until the check came.

MORAL: If you come to Barcelona in late June, bring a helmet and earplugs.

Anyway, my neighborhood seems strangely quiet now, and summer is quite oppressively here. Time to set sights on July in the USA and festival season! For those of you in the NY/MA/CT region, we will be playing at the Falcon Ridge Festival in Hillsdale, NY on Friday, July 27th. I will send out a regional update for the exact time of that show and all other concerts surrounding that tour. The band is psyched for New England in the summer.

Also, a newsflash for you iTunes junkies (read “cheapskates”), The Sutton Club CD is up and available for iPod action. Also, for all you download lovers, I have discovered the greatest new Internet music sight. It is called www.amiestreet.com, and it is truly ingenious. I have uploaded seven songs from “Barcelona” that began selling at zero cents per download. That’s right, for free! However, once word starts spreading about good music and people start downloading your songs in numbers, the price of your songs starts to rise, just like a virtual music stock market. The site encourages people to listen to new music, and rewards popular tracks. Pretty much the way it should be. My songs are currently selling at about 11-13 cents per track, with the maximum price being 99 cents. We’ve clearly got some insider hyping to do. But now is your brief chance to buy my music for next to nothing! Get in there and go to town! It’s a great site and a great new way to listen to what’s new and fresh.

We really do look forward to seeing you out there soon! Remember, this is 100% independent music, and we love your feedback and support. I know that all you WAAAH members (newcomers please see May blog) will be with us in solidaritous spirit as we cross the Atlantic at terrific speed and sickening heights watching in-flight movies and waiting for the waterworks to start. You will also love the new T-shirts for the “WAAAH Tour 2007”, coming soon to the Sam Lardner website store!

Take care, have fun, and thanks for checking in from time to time.

Always,

Sam

p.s. wrote the second half of this entry while listening to Tim O’Brien’s “Traveler”. What a great album! Everybody buy it immediately!!

Dear friends,

I guess I’ve opened up a fairly big Pandora’s box with the airplane crying thing. In fact, I feel there may be grounds for much needed research in this area. The only results I find in Google are concerning infants and small children. Can this be? People, we must communicate with one another! The outpouring of empathy and true confessions from HUNDREDS of fellow softies has been totally overwhelming. Thank god I opened your e-mails at sea level. For those of you who went to the length of reliving your soggiest and most heart-breaking airborne moments, thank you. I am with you, and I know your pain. For those of you who grudgingly admitted to “getting a bit teary occasionally”, I urge you next time to get over it and just let go. And, finally, for those of you who are still hiding in silence and denial behind the roar of the jet engines, fear not! We at WAAAH (World Association of Airborne Adult Healing) are here for you if you should ever decide to grow up and be honest with yourselves!

Of the HUGE NUMBER of responses I received, there were several highlights (identities undisclosed to honor bravery). One person suggested that this could represent a new niche in civil aviation, suggesting that perhaps some day there will be an airline that offers a crying section with extra large quantities of those little hot towels. “Cry the friendly skies!”

One of my science friends (I still have a few of these) said that this was easy: altitude x velocity x Hollywood = H20. Hence, we may have actually solved one of the world’s current major crises.

And finally, the most heartbreaking case of all admitted to crying within the first ten minutes of an in-flight film without even having his earphones on!

Anyway, I am officially sending out a cyber hug to the rapidly growing WAAAH family, and today I feel more prepared than ever to walk out the door and have a cracking good day here in sunny and solid Barcelona, thanks to you! Keep the confessions coming!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

This letter will begin, middle and end in three separate places. So hang in there if it’s a little disjointed. As it begins, I am sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Roger Smith on Lexington and 47th in New York. It is Sunday morning, my favorite time in New York. I have already walked up to 73rd street and back, having paid a visit with my friend from 1st grade, Chris O’Malley and his wife Wendy Flanagan (killer breakfast, Wendy!). I am wondering where the time has gone on this 4-concert swing. Two great shows at Lily’s Restaurant at the Roger Smith, one very cool show at Historic Hall in Bedford, NY and an appearance at the Mamapalooza Festival Showcase in the Village at Arlene’s Grocery. It was so great to see old friends and meet many, many new ones at Mamapalooza. Welcome aboard to those of you who are new to the monthly letter from Barcelona!

New York on a sunny Sunday is something special. There is a beautiful air of relaxation and reflection, and you can’t help but notice a very drastic change of pace. The streets are not filled with huge vehicles (I’ve been away too long. Even the cabs now strike me as immense floating hunks of extra heavy metal with cavernous guitar-eating trunks and screechy brakes – hate them). Breakfast or brunch seems the first thing on everyone’s mind, and the big fat Sunday Times invites you to find a place to sit down, have an immense coffee (or two) and spread out. People walk around looking as if they have all done something major the night before or the week before. And they know that if they don’t take a break on Sunday, it’s all going to happen to them again, this time maybe worse.

My band is upstairs busily packing their many purchases into their suddenly small luggage, and I am waiting for the first timid query of the day as to whether I have some extra room in my bags for a few things that don’t fit in theirs. I love my band, really. The honest truth, though, is that I have no extra space whatsoever because my bags are stuffed full of Sutton Club CDs that have just been re-released and are destined for immediate and satisfying sale in Barcelona upon my return. We released the CD at the Roger Smith shows last Wednesday and Thursday nights, and it is out on CDBaby.com as of yesterday.

ANYONE WISHING FOR A FREE MP3 FROM THIS NEW RELEASE CAN RECEIVE IT BY SENDING ME AN E-MAIL WITH “SEND SUTTON SINGLE” IN THE SUBJECT BOX.

It’s a great CD that, for some reason, drives children absolutely insane. It wasn’t intentional, but that’s the way it turned out. My apologies to those of you who have already heard “Ani” 3000 times. You don’t have to buy the whole CD again. I’ll send you the new songs via MP3 for free. Promise.

Flash now to Delta flight 94, direct from JFK to Barcelona. I can relax now, as the flight attendants have finally removed the remains of my dinner from the foldout tray in front of me. I am proud and satisfied to have made it through my 5th in-flight meal in a row without spilling my drink all over myself or the person sitting next to me. Now, I have decided to multi-task, and I am simultaneously writing this letter and watching the second movie of the evening, “The Bridge to Terabithia”. The first movie, called “Catch and Release” was so bad, so pathetically wrought and acted, that I feel morally obligated to tell everyone that there is absolutely no chance that I am wrong and that you must NOT go see this movie. What a punishment. And what was I to do, walk out of the plane? By contrast, I have already cried two times in the first 20 minutes of “The Bridge to Terabithia”, and to be honest, nothing has really happened yet. The main character, Jess, reminds me of my second son Jackson. That’s good for some healthy blubbering at 35,000 feet. Also, the woman who plays the music teacher is heartbreakingly beautiful for some reason, and when she begins her in-class rendition of “Why can’t we be friends”, I am instantly reduced to silent, seat-shaking convulsions broken by occasional gasps for air. My percussionist and guitarist, luckily, are fast asleep. And the roar of the engines keeps me from really making a fool of myself. Why does this happen to me on airplanes? I know I’m not alone, so anyone wishing to write me a note admitting that they, too, cry on airplanes - please go right ahead.

Flash now to my desk in Barcelona. It’s 9am Monday morning, and Katherine and the kids have already gone out the door. We crossed like passing trains. Inbound taxi from NYC and outbound minivan to everyday life. The building across the street has just been torn down, and the construction noise on the new foundation is deafening. The parrots are also shrieking in the plantain trees in front of the house. This is the definition of cacophony. There must be more to tell you, but the only logical thing to do now is retreat to the bedroom, pull down the Persian blinds, and sleep until I wake up. My latest strategy on jetlag, if you can get away with it!

I hope that May ends well for all of you. In June, I’ll let you know more about the Western Spain and New England tours this summer. Until then, stay well, have fun and take care.

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

Yesterday Barcelona celebrated the day of Sant Jordi, the annual day of books and roses. It was beautiful spring day, and business was literally brought to a standstill downtown by the throng of people stealing a few hours (or the whole day) to join in the festivities of what has become Catalunya’s favorite unofficial holiday and the perfect excuse to play hooky. To fully describe this day, I defer to George Semler, the leading North American expert on Catalunya and, coincidentally, my father-in-law. His Sant Jordi article, published a few years back in Sky Magazine, pretty much says it all. Thanks, George, for letting me share this with everybody.
First, however, the news I promised you last month. We have reached an agreement with the Hotel Arts to distribute “Barcelona” in its rooms during 2007-2008. This hotel, owned by Ritz Carlton, is without exaggerating one of the most amazing hotels in the world. For those of you who have a copy of “Barcelona”, the Arts is one of the two tall buildings in the background of the CD cover. The one on the left, actually. They have 483 rooms, all of which are decorated with original art, a permanent and very eclectic private collection belonging to the hotel ownership. The views of Barcelona and the Mediterranean are spectacular. I owe a great deal of thanks to Victor Clavell, Rosemary Trigg, Pep Lozano and the whole Arts team for believing in the CD and making my music a part of their very special environment. Thanks, also, to Dave Brush from London who, after seeing one of our concerts last fall, put me in direct touch with them. To celebrate this project, we will be playing a summer concert series in their garden terrace on Thursday nights in June, July and September. So stay tuned for details on those shows and, if you are in town, come spend the evening with us overlooking the Mediterranean.
The other great news is that I have been invited to perform at the Falcon Ridge Festival in Hillsdale, NY on July 20th as their International Spotlight Artist. This is one of the most important festivals in the Northeast, and we are very happy to have this opportunity to share our music with such a well-versed audience. We will be organizing shows in New England between July 22nd and July 30th to round out that tour. So if any of you are interested in a show in your area, please let us know. All we need is a contact, and we’ll do the rest!
Finally, we are gearing up for our lightning trip to NYC next month. We will be playing two concerts at our ancestral base camp, the Roger Smith Hotel, on the May 16th and 17th. Those shows will be very intimate performances given in the hotel’s downstairs restaurant. For the occasion, the hotel will be offering a special Spanish menu complete with tapas and wines from the Rioja region. I will be sending out a special New York area e-mail on how to make reservations for these shows. Stay tuned!
On Saturday the 19th, we will be opening the festivities for the Mamapalooza Festival at Arlene’s Grocery at 7 pm. As we are part of a long list of excellent acts that evening, we will only be playing a 30-minute set. Those of you who want to hear more should set your sights on the Roger Smith shows. For those of you who do want to come out to Arlene’s and hear a hugely diverse bunch of acts from around the US, come along and join the party. It should be a great evening of shared music and excellent fun.
On another note, the Sutton Club CD is mastered and on it’s way for manufacturing and re-release in NYC. Thanks again to Victor Paul, Pedro Hermosilla and Marcel Botella for making this happen! I couldn’t have done it without you!
And now, for George Semler’s article on Sant Jordi. Enjoy, and see you soon. Thanks for all that you are doing for Barcelona!
Always,
Sam
La Diada de Sant Jordi: Barcelona’s Lovers’ Day
Barcelona’s best day? Easy. April 23---St. George’s Day, La Diada de Sant Jordi, Barcelona’s Valentine’s day---a day when kissometer readings go off the charts, a day so sweet and playful, so goofy and romantic, that 7 million Catalans go giddy from dawn to dusk.
Patron saint of Catalonia, international knight-errant St. George allegedly slew a dragon about to devour a beautiful princess south of Barcelona. From the dragon’s blood sprouted a rosebush, from which the hero plucked the prettiest blossom for the princess. Hence, the traditional Rose Festival celebrated in Barcelona since the Middle Ages to honor chivalry and romantic love, a day for men and mice alike to give their true loves roses. In 1923, the lovers’ fest merged with International Book Day to mark the anniversary of the all-but-simultaneous April 23, 1616 deaths of Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare.
More than 4 million roses and half a million books are sold in Catalonia on Sant Jordi’s Day, men giving their inamoratas roses and the ladies living books in return. Bookstalls run the length of the Rambla, and although it’s usually an official workday, nearly all of Barcelona manages to play hooky and wander. In the city, St. George is everywhere, beginning on the facade of the Catalonian seat of government, the Generalitat. Art Nouveau master Eusebi Arnau sculpted Sant Jordi skewering the unlucky dragon on the facade of the Casa Amatller as well as on the corner of Els Quatre Gats café, while Gaudí dedicated an entire house, Casa Batlló, to the Sant Jordi theme with the cross of the saint implanted in the scaly roof and the bones of the dragon’s victims framing the windows of the main facade.
A Roman soldier martyrized for his Christian beliefs in the 4th century, St. George is one of the most venerated of all saints, patron of England, Greece, and Romania, among other places. Associated with springtime and fertility, Sant Jordi roses include a spike of wheat and a little red and yellow senyera, the Catalonian flag. And the books? There’s the Shakespeare and Cervantes anniversary, and Barcelona is the publishing capital of the Spanish-speaking world. Language and love have, in any case, always been closely associated, to the point that contemporary evolutionary psychologists identify the cerebral cortex as both the erotic and linguistic center of the human brain...and don’t affairs of the heart inevitably lead to exchanges of letters, books, poetry?
In Barcelona and all of Catalonia, Sant Jordi’s Day erupts joyfully. The spring air is sweet and filled with promise. Lovers are everywhere. There is a 24-hour reading of Don Quixote. Authors come to bookstalls all over town to sign books (...and being an author and a Jordi on this day of days is all but a license to steal). In Sarrià, floral artisan Flora Miserachs displays 45 kinds of roses representing 45 different kinds of love, from impossible to unrequited to filial and maternal. The sardana dance is reverently performed in Plaça Sant Jaume, while the Generalitat, its patio filled with roses, opens its doors to the public. Choral groups sing love songs in resonant corners of the Gothic Quarter as jazz combos play in Plaça del Pi. The Rambla is solid humanity from the Diagonal to the Mediterranean, 2 miles of truants basking in the warmth of spring and romance. Rare is the roseless woman on the streets of Barcelona, schoolgirls to avias (grandmothers) aglow with bashful smiles.
By midnight, the Rambla, once a watercourse, is again awash with flower water and covered with rose clippings and tiny red-and-yellow—striped ribbons with diminutive letters spelling “Sant Jordi”---“Diada de la Rosa” (Day of the Rose)---“t’estimo” (I love you).

Dear friends,

I’m not sure where March went. I know that on the 4th, I turned 44. After that, things sort of accelerated and went blurry. I guess, at 44, I could start blaming everything on age, but I’d rather not go there yet. It’s still much easier to blame things on externalities such as Spain and its vacation-driven culture that seems to be either rushing to get things done before vacation, enjoying vacation, or recovering from vacation. This is not to say that things don’t get done, especially here in Catalunya. In fact, a visit to Barcelona these days will probably leave you with the sense that this place is on a mission to become the newest, hippest, hottest, most modern and user-friendly city in the world. But the fact that most people here still take a ten-day break for Easter makes the month of March a guaranteed run-around. It comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion, or something like that.

I’m starting to remember now one of the reasons it has been a crazy month. This winter my friend Victor Paul came down to visit from Finland. I hadn’t seen him since our days living in Moscow in the early 90’s. Victor is extremely passionate about food and wine (not to mention art, fly fishing, boat building and historic building restoration), and somewhere in the middle of a rather raucous five course crawl-away dinner at Passadis del Pep down near the port, he asked me what ever happened to the Sutton Club CD. When I told him it was out of print, he declared that this simply could not be and that we needed to solve this problem. We then went on to solve many other problems that night, including global warming, world hunger, what Michael Jackson’s comeback strategy should be, why we didn’t realize until now that we love the Bee Gees, and to cap off the night, why bouncers tend to be large people who don’t like to discuss things very much.

The long and short of it is that, thanks to Victor, we are re-releasing the Sutton Club CD this spring. It will feature slightly more acoustic versions of the original tracks and 4 new tracks that I love. All of the recording and editing has been done high above Barcelona in the strange hilltop settlement of Tibidabo, at the studio of my good friend, Marcel Botella. After Easter week, we will bring things back down to sea level to mix and master. With any luck, the “new” Sutton Club CD will be out on May 16th.

Which brings up another reason why the month of March has been crazy. We have been invited to perform at this year’s Mamapalooza Festival and Conference in NYC on May 19th. This is a great opportunity, and the band is definitely going, but it has made for a lot of scrambling to put together a mini-tour of the New York area on pretty short notice. Enter the next heroes: the Knowles family and the Roger Smith Hotel. The Knowles have been undying supporters of my music from the outset. It was their idea to launch the original Sutton Club CD project during my days with the 8-piece barnstorming Euro country band. The idea was to promote the Roger Smith Hotel and its artistic approach to travel and lodging in the Spanish market, which we certainly had a lot of fun doing. In addition, the Knowles have always generously hosted my band at their elegant little arts hotel on 47th and Lexington, and so it seemed only fitting to try and release the new Sutton Club CD there on May 16th. If this all seems like a bizarre movie screenplay, believe me, it is.

I’ll be able to give New Yorkers more details on all of this in the April newsletter. However, if anyone in the tri-state area has any ideas about where the band might play on Thursday, May 17th, let me know. I admit it. We eat a lot, but we will more than make up for this by waking your neighbors with flamenco songs at all hours of the night. The 17th is our last open date on this trip!

Last month I promised I’d be reporting on some great news regarding the “Barcelona” CD. This, it turns out, was a lie. There is plenty of good news, but I can’t say anything about the great news until April. What I can promise for the next newsletter is an expert’s account of Catalunya’s favorite unofficial “holiday”, Sant Jordi, or St. George’s Day on April 23rd. This is the famous day of books and roses…but I will say no more until April…

Until then, please take care and have fun!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

Happy Valentine’s Day, wherever this e-mail finds you! It’s not exactly the traditional day of romance and love here in Barcelona (more on that in April), but if Hallmark has its way, we’ll all be seeing red on February 14th within a few years. It’s just a matter of time.

The almond trees are in blossom in the Collserola hills behind the city, pretty much as scheduled. As my Catalan friends put it, winter is more of a fashion opportunity than a legitimate season in Barcelona. The kids are already trying to sneak out the door without jackets in the morning, and by 10 am, I can pretty much see their point.

People are starting to show signs of recovery from the holidays. Restaurant, cinema and bar owners are smiling again, glad to see people with a bit of spending money in their pockets. It is also the time of year when all conversations begin and end with opinions about how the F.C. Barcelona soccer team is doing at the half way mark in their long 10-month season. So far, things are pretty much roses. FCB is still alive in all three (3!) of its competitions: The Spanish League, The King’s Cup, and The European Champions League. Without going into this too much, it’s as if the NY Knicks were competing in three simultaneous leagues: 1- the NBA, 2 - a parallel single elimination tournament that included all the NBA teams plus the nation’s best college teams, and 3 – an international league against all the champions of all the other basketball leagues in North and South America. Bring it on!

It is hard to describe the level of nervousness and insanity that pervades our lives here as the season gets into these exciting knockout months. How my friends suffer! I can’t claim total immunity from the madness, as my understanding and appreciation for soccer has grown enormously over the last 10 years. For example, two Sundays ago, I watched a thrilling (no joke) 0-0 tie between FC Barcelona and Osasuna, a modest Spanish League club from Pamplona. Barcelona was playing in Pamplona, and Osasuna was totally inspired for 90 minutes, creating all kinds of opportunities and giving heavily favored Barcelona nothing to do but hang on and hope that one of its mightily paid superstars would come through with a big, big goal. This did not occur, and Barcelona left the field at the end of the game not altogether disappointed with a tie on the road against a dangerous team. Those of us who had witnessed the tie in the cozy Bar Gerard (see photos on my site) all agreed that it had been an AWESOME game, and at this point I realized how far I had strayed from the mentality that dominated my U.S. sports experience as a kid: “a tie is like kissing your sister”.

So I’m out of the closet. I kiss my sister, and I love a good tie.

Three (3) reasons why I really LOVE soccer:

1 – like life, it is extremely unfair - small, humble teams beat mighty ones 1-0 every weekend and leave hundreds of thousands of fans shrugging their shoulders and wondering what the hell just happened. It teaches you always to watch your back.

2 –the players have 90 minutes to sort things out on the dead run, on their own, without stopping - the coach gets to intervene before the game and at half time, able to make only minor adjustments during the match. The best coaches, like parents of college students, just sit there and watch, knowing that it’s basically out of their hands.

3 – everywhere I have gone in the world, I have been able to go to a park and find a game of pick-up soccer. In this way, soccer is like music in terms of its ability to bring people together and get them headed in the same direction for a few hours.

Right after the game, my friend Nacho the bartender serendipitously zapped the TV directly to the Super Bowl. I had forgotten it was being played at that very moment back in Miami. All of those tragic years I spent hoping that the Minnesota Vikings would one day win the bloody Super Bowl came rushing back (Have they ever won?). Talk about stark contrasts. From a 0-0 regular season Spanish League soccer tie to the big mother of all sporting events. The Super Bowl! Nacho agreed to stay open for the first half, and I admit it was pretty much worth staying up until 2 am to watch it with him. Nacho’s general belief is that both football and baseball are incomprehensibly complicated American inventions created for the purpose of excluding foreigner audiences and selling large four-wheel drive vehicles. Way worse than watching grass grow. So I was happy that the game began with a 92-yard kickoff return. Even Nacho admitted that he kind of understood that play.

The strange thing is that they did not show any of the commercials that the Super Bowl has become so famous for. Instead we watched blooper films or classic TDs or bone crunching linebacker hits. The Super Bowl without commercials. Once in a while, they simply panned around the stadium during the (extra long) commercial breaks. Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain to a foreigner why, in the biggest, most exciting game of the year, all of those humongous players and coaches are standing around scratching their elbows and waiting for the little red light to go on?

I think it has to go down as the most surreal sports spectator night of my life - there, in a small bar in Barcelona, an expatriate FCB soccer fan recently come of age watching the quintessential American sports extravaganza through the eyes of a confused Catalan bartender, fighting back fatigue, nostalgia and occasional boredom with glasses of cold white Penedés and lots of baby squid sautéed in olive oil, garlic and parsley. Next year, and Nacho agrees on this, we’re watching the game ‘till it ends.

On the music front, it has been a pretty interesting month. I went to the MIDEM trade show in Cannes, France to try and get my arms around all that is happening in the music industry, with heavy emphasis on digital downloads. That was a mistake. The sense I got was that everyone is racing full-speed towards a pretty vague looking new horizon where CDs are obsolete and digital music is free. Yargh. Just when I had started getting the hang of making CDs. I am increasingly thankful to be a performing artist and able to lean more heavily on live shows. Viva la banda!

My only solace amidst all this technological confusion was to sneak away to the many excellent concerts that paralleled the 5-day show. It was great to see how many diverse acts are becoming part of the mainstream scene thanks to independent labels and the Internet. The bright spot, for me, was the performance of “afro flamenco jazz” vocalist, Concha Buika. Born in 1972 into a family from Equatorial Guinea, Concha grew up alongside a gypsy community on the Spanish island of Mallorca. She is the real deal, and I highly suggest you Google her as soon as you are through with this letter.

As far as “Barcelona” goes, I am amazed by what is happening on the Internet. We have recently made the album available on CDFreedom.com in addition to CDBaby.com, and that is great. But the real difference in my life has become iTunes. I cannot believe how many people from around the USA have downloaded songs. How do people have time to find me? These folks have some serious time to kill (and I’m glad for it!). On the European front, a very interesting Danish company called Base Point Technology is currently using my MySpace page to test a digital platform that will allow me to sell songs directly from that site. My thanks go out to these guys for choosing me, and I hope that many other artists will benefit from this feature in the near future. It’s a wild world out there.

Anyway, as always, I’d like to welcome those of you who are new to my monthly ramblings and thank all of you lifers who are helping to make “Barcelona” a big success. Next month I’ll have some news on the summer concert schedule as well as an interesting story about what is happening with the CD in Spain.

From all of us in Barcelona, please take care, have fun and keep spreading the word!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

It may be difficult for you to fathom this, your holiday madness safely behind you, but folks here in Barcelona are still finding ways to drive themselves crazy with last minute shopping, parades and family dinners. For tomorrow is Three Kings Day – the epiphany – and the great big gift day in Spanish culture. While we northerners experience our great catharsis on December 25th, the Spanish hang on until the bitter end of a two-week marathon that leaves even the best-behaved child frazzled. January 6th. The big day. This year it falls on a Saturday, but even when it falls on a weekday, schools do not reopen until 2 days later for fear that kids might simply go insane after so much waiting. This evening, the 3 kings will parade through neighborhoods and towns around Spain on enormous floats. In seaside towns and cities like Barcelona, the kings often make their initial arrival by boat. In the mountain villages, they often descend from the hills. They have a flair for the spectacular, these guys. The floats are filled with child accomplices throwing handfuls of candy into the anxiously awaiting throng of local kids and parents. Experts tell us that this year 15,000 kilos (30,300 lbs.) of candy will be chucked in Barcelona alone. The little kids are anxious to dive into the street to grab as much candy as their hands can hold, while their parents are anxious not to see their kindergartener run over by one of the kings’ float trailers or support vehicles, of which there always seems to be a few too many. These support vehicles are usually occupied by local politicians ostensibly on a joyride with their families. But there’s actually a more subtle danger. The typical candy is a hard caramel ball wrapped in paper that really stings if an overdeveloped 12 year old really hauls back and lets you have it. I spend most of the parade watching out for these fastballers and have actually been known to zip one back at an offending brat much to the astonishment of my more docile friends, who obviously have no problem with receiving a nice welt or potential blinding at the hands of one of the neighborhood kids.

Luckily, as foreigners we can exercise our option for Santa Claus instead of the kings and try to enjoy the two weeks after Christmas in the great outdoors away from it all. This year we took to the Pyrenees only to find bone-dry grassy fields and snowless ski slopes. Kind of a bummer. Global warming or anomaly? Just a random thought, but maybe we should join the rest of the world and sign off on Kyoto just in case? Anyone?

On the musical front, it has been an action-packed month. The performance highlight was our show during the Sant Boi Flamenco Festival, where the band played outrageously well. I loved seeing the expressions of the crowd turn from confusion (who is this yankee crackpot?) to amusement (not half bad even if we don’t understand the words) to actual enjoyment (his band is awesome and we’re having fun so we forgive him for doing this to our music). That show dispelled any doubts that we might have had concerning our upcoming shows around Spain this spring.

The other good thing is that “Barcelona” is now available on Apple iTunes. I’m still not sure what this is going to mean for any of us in terms of paying the bills, but it is pretty interesting to see the popularity index of the songs being downloaded. Just when you think you know which songs touch people the most, iTunes comes along to remind you that you are the artist and you’d better just butt out when it comes to picking the winners. Anyway, you can visit iTunes and see for yourselves. I will say no more. Here’s the iTunes link:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewAlbum?playListId=208157617

Finally, welcome to those of you who have recently signed on to the mailing list, and thanks again to all of you who are already spreading the word about “Barcelona”. That’s the only way it’s going to work. This CD would be nowhere without you, and every positive review or referral helps the snowball grow. I am convinced we are going to have an excellent year and do great things together.

Take care, have fun, and we look forward to playing a show for you soon!

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

The holiday season is now in full swing here in Barcelona. The lights were thrown on all over town last week, and the annual yuletide ritual madness – i.e. company lunches and dinners – began in earnest. People are already showing signs of distress and over-caffeination during working hours, and by the 15th all productivity will have pretty much drawn to a screeching, overstuffed halt. Messengers have all but stopped delivering small packages and envelopes and now dedicate themselves to transporting cases of wine or Iberian ham legs deftly around town on their scooters. When in doubt, throw food and drink at the problem! Maybe it will go away!

I feel somewhat removed from the whole dynamic this year, as so much of my attention has been dedicated to other parts of the world where our new CD, “Barcelona”, has been taking its first steps on what will hopefully be a long and enjoyable journey for all of us. Yesterday a Spanish friend of mine asked jokingly, “What are you going to do when you are rich and famous?” I was reminded of the answer that good friend and novelist Ron Carlson gave when asked a similar question after a reading at Hotchkiss School in 1991. He said, “If this book made me rich, tomorrow I would write.” That’s pretty much how I feel. “Tomorrow I would sing”.

As my holiday gift suggestion to you, I would like to urge that you buy a copy of Yann Martel’s novel, "Life of Pi". I read it from cover to cover on my two transatlantic flights with the band this fall. It is the best and most important book I have read in many years. It is entertaining as hell, and I am sure you will love it! If you have already read it, please take my second suggestion and buy a copy of Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s novel, "The Shadow of the Wind" (La Sombra del Viento). It is a beautifully written literary mystery thriller set in Barcelona during the Franco regime. Couldn’t put it down.

Have a great holiday season, and we’ll touch base with you again sometime around the New Year.

Life and love to you and yours!

Always,

Sam

Dear Friends,

There is a wind blowing straight down the coast today that feels like it started in the Alps, picking up moisture and momentum all the way across France and blasting its way south towards Africa. Not every day is perfect in Barcelona, but I’m not complaining. Thanks to the miracle of Internet, I have just discovered that far away in the US of A, “Barcelona” has reached this week’s bestseller list on CD Baby.com. What a cool thing! Therefore, once again I am moved to thank everyone who has taken part in our independent grassroots campaign so far.

People have ordered copies from as far away as Austria and Denmark, and I am continually blown away by the British passion for seeking out and finding new music. You people are cool, and I can’t wait to go back there and play for you! I hope that those of you in the States have a great Thanksgiving with your families this Thursday. As for the rest of us, we’ll have to wait a bit longer to kick off the holiday season.

Take care and, above all, have fun.

Always,

Sam

Dear friends,

We are back from our foray into the UK, and the trip was a great one. London is such an amazing town, and the band enjoyed being in a city where music is taken so seriously. Before giving you a rundown on the shows, I thought I'd take time out to poke some fun at our friends from that demi-paradise, that other Eden, that place called England.

It's not every day that you have to sort out London with a seven-member band from Barcelona. First, there is the unbelievable saga of the London airport situation. There seems to be a contest for which of the city's 73 airports can present the greatest number of awkward situations for inbound travelers. And here, the thoroughness of the London security process cannot be questioned. The probing, prodding and searching has reached such an amazing level of earnestness, in fact, that Juan Flores my percussionist was actually asked whether his ponytail was real or fake. No less than two airport employees actually had a pull at his hair. Let's face it friends, this stuff starts to add up. And let us not overlook the new international security code that bans guitars from being carried onboard but allows you the option to buy additional seats for them if you can afford it (?!). This new norm provoked exciting conversations for us both in Barcelona and London. The return trip conversation was marked by much Latin hand waving from the band and lots of tastefully watered-down translations by yours truly in the face of the London authorities. And how is it that I always forget that the journey from the airport to downtown London can cost nearly as much as your plane trip and take nearly as long? Road managers beware when planning the budget and the timing!

Of course, once in London you can relax by throwing all of your money directly onto the street in front of you because that will be more therapeutic than actually trying to make ends meet. Ah, London, home of the 9£ (17$, 14€) hamburger and the 3£ coffee. Once this situation became clear, we all agreed to “eating” pints of Guinness, as this was the only possible way (for under 6£) to achieve that wonderful full-stomach-and-happy-headed feeling we all seem to be looking for when we are on the road. For a splurge, go ahead and treat yourself to the 25£ cab ride home, what the heck!

Luckily, we were spared what would certainly have been a major financial spanking by the gracious hospitality of Dave and Karen Brush and Doug and Kerri Henderson, who so kindly opened their homes up to us. We love you guys!

And the concerts were pretty unbeatable. First we played the famous Troubadour on Old Brompton Road. With the ghosts of Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan lurking behind every table and chair, we did our best to produce something close to legendary. The turnout was fantastic, and we thank all of you for making that club feel like home to us. Thanks especially to Dan Subin and Peter McNally for arranging the show and doing such a good job of promoting it. As I seem to be saying with great frequency these days, we could not have done it without you!

Saturday night brought us to the beautiful home of Scott and Kate Collins near Primrose Hill (down the Primrose Path?). There we performed to a comfortably seated and incredibly responsive crowd who had gathered to bid farewell to Alison and Dominique Lemaire, two of our biggest friends and fans. The Lemaire family has moved back to the New York area and will be sorely missed by their fellow Londoners. We were touched by the invitation to perform at such a special event, and we wish Alison, Dominique and family an easy transition back into American life. In fact we have unselfishly offered ourselves for a performance at the welcome party, whenever that happens. Any friends of theirs are ok with us!

No matter how much fun we have on the road, there is nothing quite like flying into sunny Barcelona to regroup with our families and settle back into our “normal” routines. When we arrived Sunday, it was a killer day…sunny and 72 degrees with no clouds. Lucky, lucky…

On another front, the new CD is up and available at CDBaby.com. On Monday morning, Parker Gilbert’s first magic e-mail went out as an experimental forerunner to a larger e-marketing campaign he and I have been working on. Actually, the campaign is a fun excuse to be back in touch with hundreds of people with whom we have not communicated in years. We weren’t really focused on the CDs, but the results were awesome. Our apologies to those who checked their e-mail just a bit late and found the CDs already out of stock! We honestly never imagined the response would be that massive.

When things really started popping yesterday, I received a polite call from a guy named Davie at CDBaby headquarters in Portland, Oregon. “Yo, Sam from Spain, send us more CDs, we’re totally out!” Tom Wallack, our friend and savior from Flying Horse Records in NYC, was on the case immediately. Thanks to the wonderful world of FEDEX, we should be up and running again today. Sorry for the inconvenience!

Anyway, there’s never a dull moment. I cannot tell you how good it feels to be playing music again! It brings me back in touch with so many people from different places and phases of my life. Despite all of the problems and questions we associate with the Internet, I have to say that it is one awesome device when used in the proper way. So please take advantage and drop us a line to say “hello”. Also, please let us know if this kind of communication does not suit you. No hard feelings, ever.

Until next time, take care and have fun.

Always,

Sam