Everything for the Blues (In Memoriam Mariëlla Tirotto)

We discovered that the smallest venue in my hometown had a blues afternoon every Sunday afternoon, organised by the Dutch Blues Foundation. Of course we had to be there and we became regulars, went even to Theater Borra on horrible rainy afternoons. It always was a pleasure to be there. Most people were our age and I found myself foot stamping and thigh hitting along with the music, just like the other men. I once wrote a little article about it and it found it's way into the magazine of the Foundation.

Most peculiar were in my eyes the moments when the fans recognised and or admired a song: they would run forward with their cameras and smartphones to the stage and made a picture. I never understood that. How can you arrest the feeling for a song in a picture? My wife sometimes made videos of songs, these can still be found on YouTube. In my mind that is the only way to keep a song that was sung in a great way alive forever. 

After a few sessions there was a show by Mariëlla Tirotto and her band, the Blues Federation. She was absolutely fabulous and I felt she really deserved a far bigger venue than this small stage in a bar.
We saw her a few times, got to know Mariëlla a bit. During breaks we sometimes would sit outside with her on a small wall or just the kerb of the street. She needed to smoke and smoking indoors was not allowed. She apologised for smoking to us. No need for that of course, but she went on. Stopping was too difficult for her and according to Mariëlla the smoking was also needed to maintain her voice. "Everything for the Blues!", she said. "Of course", we laughed.

One day we got an invitation for a far bigger concert with two supporting bands in a venue called "De Kelder". At the end of that afternoon some of the musicians joined together in an "all star band".
They played "Window of my Eyes", a Dutch classic, originally a song by Cuby and the Blizzards.
There was a sort of electricity in the air, the whole audience was flabbergasted. The regulars even forgot to take pictures. Mariëlla was unbelievable. After the song was finished there were even a few seconds of silence before the ovation started.

We were sort of living in two countries at the same time, living in the Netherlands and the UK.  Mariëlla and her band were very interested in possibilities doing gigs in the UK. We had some connections and there was a bit of contact, but it soon became clear that doing a tour in England would be quite costly for the band. The idea was dropped.

After we moved permanently to the UK, we kept being in contact at first. We bought the latest CD. Like all contacts it became less and less. At a certain moment we heard that Mariëlla was very ill, she got cancer. It was very surprising how soon she died. 
Of course we still have that CD, but the feeling we got listening to "Window of my Eyes" on that Sunday afternoon can never be retrieved.
I can still remember Mariëlla saying: "Everything for the Blues", which she did.

                                                Mariëlla Tirotto
                                                (19-3-1960 - 04-01-2017)   

Cheers

On the net I got in contact with the very gifted American singer/songwriter Reni Lane. (Nowadays she is part of the band Fever High). There was a big surprise when I read that she would do a gig in my home town and the surprise got even bigger when I saw that she would do her show in the smallest venue available, Theater Borra.

The weather was quite bad and I even doubted to go, because it would mean a trip through the rain on my bicycle. In 15 minutes on a bike you can get really soaked. At the last moment I decided to go anyway; I sort of promised Reni that I would be there, so she at least had one fan attending the gig.
When I entered she was sitting behind the piano and I thought I was too late. Maybe my watch had drowned in the rain?

It was not the case, she managed to wave at me and guitar player David Patillo told me that she was "sound checking". I could have sworn she already had started, it sounded magnificent. There were a few other people, mostly sitting at the bar drinking their beers. Nobody but me seemed to pay any attention. Reni Lane seemed to get more and more lost in her adventures on the piano; to me it sounded like she was writing a new song. At least she was getting ideas for one.

When the moment arrived that the gig should start, David went up to her and told her so. She nodded, David signalled the rest of the band and they took their spots.
The concert was great. I remember the owner, Willem Borra sitting at the - for him- wrong side of the bar and giving a deep sigh: "That girl is far too good to play in a dump like this!" I did not totally agree with him, because the bar really is very nice.

After the gig the band busied themselves, they had to clear out their instruments and PA system. Reni had played the piano so had nothing to do and ended up sitting next to me at the bar. She asked me what I would recommend to an unexperienced drinker. I think I ordered a Kriek beer for her, which she really liked.
"I'll tell you a secret", she said, "this is my first beer ever. I would be breaking the law at home, in the US. Cheers!" Because of her very experienced way of performing I never thought anymore of her age. She was only 19 at that moment. The way she talked was not really like a teenager.

I was about to leave when she offered me a drink, David Patillo joined us and the three of us drank together while the bar slowly became more and more empty. When Reni had to go the toilet I asked David what her parents thought of her travelling the world with a band. He shrugged, not giving an answer on this, but stating that experiences like this one would be good for her to develop her talent even more and to become more resilient.

After the tour Reni Lane kept a bit in contact although it became less and less. Once in a while I would see something about her popping up. I know she broke with David Patillo, joined the band Fever High and wrote a film score. Later I discovered that she unfriended or unfollowed me on the social media. Maybe that small gig in my home town and the guy who was there was not a welcome thought anymore. I will never know, but I really like the idea to have been there at the beginning of her career.

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Insecure?

My wife and I admired a painting in an art gallery, regretted it already had a red dot next to it. The price was very reasonable and we both liked it a lot, but it was sold. We still discussed it when two men came up and remained standing in front of it too. They were both about our age, very grey, but both were very slim.
My wife could not help whispering to me: "Do you think they have been ballet dancers or such too? I would dare to bet that they are gay. They are great looking guys."
I nodded.

"You're not from around here, I think. Am I right?" My wife had to find out, of course curiosity won.
"No, you heard that very well. We're from Dallas, Texas. Had a great holiday on your lovely island, but we have to fly back tomorrow", the slimmest of the two answered.
"But you are not from here either", he added, pointing at me. (Even after years in the UK, I can't conceal my Dutch origins.)
I admitted that I was from the Netherlands and he was delighted, had been in Amsterdam twice in the seventies. And I could add to our connection that I had visited Texas, had been in Dallas once.

It resulted in a nice conversation between us, while the other man first listened to what we were talking about, later seemed to get bored and eventually started to look like he was irritated.
It was not my problem.
The slim guy and I went on a bit longer until the other man said: "We should go; we don't want to miss the ferry, don't we?"
"You are right. Of course you are right!", was the reaction with a big smile.

He patted me on my shoulder, shook hands with me and said goodbye: "It has been very nice talking to you." I agreed on this, I had the same feeling and wished him a safe journey home. He thanked me and followed his partner.
My wife asked me if I had observed the other guy. He had been really irritated.
We both thought he showed a bit that he had a controlling character, was very insecure in this relationship. If you are already feeling like this when your partner talks to a straight man, how will it be when he gets in contact with a nice gay person? Not exactly a guarantee for a long life together.
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Uncle

My father's older brother was a bit different. As young children we already were aware he was not considered to be a normal person. He lived in an institute near the house of a sister of my father. Often he would visit and bring things from his allotment, like green beans. He would bring bicycle bags full of them or other vegetables and my aunt would be embarrassed. She would thank him, but after he would be gone, she would complain to us. She had no idea what to do with these vast amounts.

Once he came over to my family. It was not clear to me if he was invited or came spontaneously. He was chatting a bit with my parents, but often disappeared to the bathroom. He came back with wet hands and red eyes. He constantly had the need to clean his hands and his eyes, because they were dirty according to himself. When we were sitting together and had our evening meal, he hid his hands under the table and knocked.

"They are here already! They are coming for me!", he moaned full of fear. We whispered to another that it was himself who was knocking. My father went to the door, opened it wide.
"Nobody! You see!"
Uncle nodded, but the same scene was done again during the meal. My father showed again that there was nobody.
He started moaning that they were observing him through the windows. (The curtains were closed.)
My parents started talking about other things and distracted him from his fears.

The man went to bed even before I went and my parents talked about him.
"We can't do this with the children...", I heard my father say.
I was sent to bed, just like my oldest sister. Way before our normal time to go upstairs.
The next morning I woke up because of a van driving up to our house.
Two men in white nurse outfits came out and I ran downstairs, because I was curious.
The men came to collect my uncle; meekly he went along with them.
"I know, I know, I have to serve my life sentence. Will I ever be released?"
My father seemed to be on the brink of tears when uncle was put in the van.

Years later it became clear to me what was wrong with him.
During the Second World War the Germans wanted to build a defence line along the Belgian and French coast: the Atlantik Wall. From all over Europe people were put to work on it and my uncle had been one of them. Work was hard, food was bad, treatment was also bad. People died during the building and it was not even finished when the Germans lost the war. During the fighting workers were killed as the Allies attacked the defence line while the building and repairing went on.
When finally the fighting was over, the workers were allowed to go home.

Because there was no organised transportation my uncle had to walk most of the way between the North of France and the Netherlands. Maybe once in a while he got a ride from a farmer; how he got his food while on his way is not clear either.
He must have seen awful things and must have been forced to do awful things in the North of France. That is why he constantly wanted to clean his hands and his eyes. So sad that he never was able to talk about it.
I can still hear his words: "When will my sentence be done, when will I be released?"
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Ego

It was quite obvious that my marriage was going downhill, more and more we tried to do things apart from each other. The children kept us together in a sort of suffocating prison. There were things planned for doing together a long time before and there was no escaping these. Like the subscription on the theater. My wife had booked some concerts; famous and not so famous bands coming to our city. I booked a few plays, always had been interested in a good story staged by good actors.

This evening we had a very famous female actor doing a monologue. I had been a bit late with booking this and so we ended up in the front row. I never like that too much, especially not with comedians because you will run the risk of being the one they make fun of.

The play was quite gloomy, was about emotional neglect and abuse. Soon I felt it: she started focussing on me. It made me feel guilty on behalf of all the men, but especially I felt guilty of being me, being a man. I tried to look somewhere else, maybe she would take her eyes of me that way. She did not, it felt like she had intruded my guts and my soul. I could not avoid it: I was looking into these very expressive eyes again. There were parts in the play that were so awful that I had crawled under my seat if that had been possible. Leaving my seat was not an option.

I suffered under her verbal lashes for more than an hour. Tears were running over my cheeks at a certain moment, I wiped them away. It felt double: of course I could become emotional, but did not this show how weak I was of mind?
My wife did not notice my distress; I saw her glimpse on her watch from time to time. I felt annoyed by that, saw it as an insult to the actress. I admired her a lot and that evening she made me very aware why.

After the play I had the feeling I had run an emotional marathon, was exhausted and wanted to go home. My wife had a different idea: "Let's have a drink in the foyer".
I agreed, maybe my mind could get to rest before we would cycle back home.
There was only a small queue and soon I could sit with her and sip at my beer.
She wanted to know what I thought of the play, so I told her in a moment of honesty how I had been the focus point of the actress.

She laughed scornfully: "What a rubbish. You silly man! Building your ego again or what?"
Behind her I could see the actress coming into the foyer, looking around, like she was searching for somebody. When she saw me, she headed in our direction. She stopped right behind my wife, talked to me!
"I do hope I didn't cause any distress for you. Making you feel uncomfortable. This is a difficult play to do and my way of doing it, is to find a focal point, somebody I talk to."
I swallowed hard, could utter the words: "No, it's okay. I'm okay."
She nodded: "Thanks anyway." With that she turned around and was gone as quick as she came in.

My wife refused a second drink, not a word was spoken when we went back home.
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Letter to the ex

I never asked you to visit me; you wanted to see my new cats.
I never asked you to have sex with me; you wanted to see the house, we ended in the bedroom.
I never asked you to move out your parents house; you just showed up at my pleace with your things.
I never asked you to find a job; it was obvious my salary was not enough for two.
I never asked you to have children with me; after a year of pleading, I gave in.
I never asked you to quit your job to care for the children; the other choices were: both with half a job and not enough money to live on OR me quitting my job and starvation for all of us.
I never asked you to estrange my friends from me; after some years I saw that all my friends were replaced by new friends, your friends.
I never asked you to cry so much; there was always a reason: parents, brother, addicted prostitute who was a friend.
I never asked you to listen to hear about my problems; there were only your problems that mattered.
I never asked you to be miserable during our holidays with the children; you made it look like it was me.
I never asked you to be sneaky and have chat sessions on the pc while I entertained the children.
I never asked for a divorce nor was it a joint decision to have one; you wanted it and later told everybody it was me.
I never asked you to take everything away from me; I have to admit I gave you every chance while having our property estimated by the wife of your brother and going along with a ridiculous evaluation of everything in the house.
I never asked you why you wanted my cat; even after three months of not seeing me, he recognised my voice, jumped in my arms. I was in tears when I left your flat.
I never asked you to take the car; you said you needed it and within a fortnight it was replaced by another leaving me with nothing.
I never asked you to tell stories about me to the children; it was very effective: now they are your's only.
I never asked for your sympathy, but it is strange that while my problems are visible and I need continuous medical care, you tell people that I simulate my pain.
I never asked you to spread lies around about me; it was certainly not me who has cheated while we were married, but you got what you wanted: your friends are just that, your friends.

I would never ask for you to be unhappy for the rest of your life: you deserve it, but I could not be bothered thinking about that.
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Meeting my chum

In the days that I was a lot on my own I spent a lot of time on the net. I started a group for people with the same name on MySpace. (MySpace used to be a popular thing in these days.) I named it Planet AL and was pleasantly surprised how many Albert, Alfreds and Allen joined my silly thing. There were even some celebrities getting in, I remember a trumpet player and a violinist. But above all it was great to get a blues and jazz crooner on board: Albert Cooper.

Soon we talked a bit more and we became sort of befriended. There was a quarrell on his page with the lady who quite soon became my wife. I managed to soothe it and Mr.Cooper asked me to visit one of his gigs when I was around. Almost a year later I was going over to my wife in Norwich; for five years we were not able to really live together. We travelled to each other's place in England and the Netherlands whenever we could to be together.

Norwich was also the city where Albert Cooper lived. Almost a year later he got word that I would be in Norwich for a few day and he invited my wife and me to a gig he was going to do in Poringland. First I misheard the name and asked my wife where Boringland was. She had a good laugh, but we did end up at the gig. Albert Cooper seemed to be a great guy, we had a talk, he named me his chum and he even gave me a goody bag in which I found a t-shirt and a few CDs.

The concert was quite entertaining, Albert was a real showman, singing jazz standards and the audience was very enthusiastic. He kept himself going with a former jamjar filled with brandy.
After the show he immediately got surrounded by female fans, who obviously were not letting him go in a short time. My wife had a short discussion, we decided not to wait till Albert Cooper was available again. We phoned a taxi and were ready to quietly leave the venue.

My wife's walking was not great, so she had to walk with a stick and often had to steady herself. On our way out she almost fell, but could get hold of a table. It was loaded with an amazing amount of empty glasses and bottles and had one bad leg. The table collapsed with a thunderous sound and we were surrounded by broken glass. I could catch my wife before she got into this. A few of the staff came over and apologised, I should not worry about paying for damage. We got out and got home safely.

A few months later Albert Cooper had blocked my wife everywhere on the net, he remained friendly towards me. That changed later, I still don't have a clue why. My wife assured me that this was the way he always acted: there were loads of former friends to be found in Norfolk.
A few years later we were shopping in the inner city of Norwich and saw him walking towards us on the street. I was already starting to offer him my hand when he suddenly turned around and walked away, even straightening himself like a haughty peacock. We had a good laugh, I hope he heard it.
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Monkey nuts

In the good old days my parents were amazing at keeping us all fed and clothed, even when my father's salary was not very high and they had six children. Shops were a bit different in these days and so were drinks and snacks. Our lemonade was most of the times tap water, but on Saturday evening my eldest sister and me sometimes got a treat: we would have a bit of syrup topped up with water.

In these days chips and other snacks did not exist. If we would become peckish, there would be a slice of bread. Saturday evenings definitely were different. We would have that special drink and with a bit of luck this would become even more enjoyable. My mother would put a newspaper on the dining table and put a load of monkey nuts, like we called them on the table. The monkey nuts you would have to crack open to get to the peanuts, the shells would be thrown on the newspaper. Afterwards the newspaper and the shells would be thrown in the coal stove to be burned.

My mother died last year - not unexpectedly - aged 94, but even then, she is missed.
Last week I was shopping in our supermarket and saw a bag of monkey nuts. That name was even on the bag. So I could not resist and bought a bag. One evening I wanted to try them and they were very disappointing. My wife had a laugh: "These are raw, not roasted. You got the wrong bag."
We noticed that the birds love these nuts when you mash them, so they will be eaten anyway.

And the other day I bought a bag of roasted monkey nuts. The right stuff! So I now only have to wait for a suitable Saturday evening. I have the nuts, I have a newspaper. There will be a difference: I will use a bowl for the nuts. Maybe I will read the newspaper while eating the nuts and think of my mother.
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Spring

Two figures are on the beach, on a sunny spot, shielded from the wind by the flood wall.
They sit close together, the woman with black hair and the one with grey. The black haired one has her legs on top of the other one's, a double cross.
As they are in deep conversation one is drawing doodles in the sand.
Mother and daughter?
No, the grey is a modern colour, becoming more and more popular.

They get up, brush the sand off and walk away. First holding hands, changing this in putting their arms around the other's waist.
The grey haired one puts her head on the shoulder of the black haired, her face against the other's.
A delicate surrender.
After a few steps they stop, to kiss.
It's not a conquering kiss, it's a kiss of acknowledgement.

They walk on, the head resting on the shoulder again.
I watch them until they are disappearing from my sight.
Their spot on the beach has been taken.
A man playing with his dog.
He is holding a wrecked ball in his hands and the dog is trying to pull it out.
The dog is growling in a playful manner, the man laughs very loud.

It's time to walk on.

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Sonja

After being tested as a boy with a very high IQ I when I was 11 years old, I was destined to go to university. The secondary school I had to go after primary school was not one where people of the working class normally would send their children. It was in a posh area of the nearby city and I needed a bicycle to get there from our village.

I did great the first year, scored really high marks and was a very dedicated student. It was always a struggle to find a quiet place in our crowded house, but I managed to do my homework every day. It did bother me a bit that I was such a small boy compared to my classmates. The older students looked like giants to me. That changed in the second year, suddenly I grew like a beanstalk becoming skinnier and skinnier. My clothes were all a bit unfitting, the legs of my trousers too short just like the sleeves of my shirts.

My view of my fellow students changed a lot too, I had only eyes for one girl: Sonja.
She would sit two desks away in front me. I would stare at the back of her head all day, admiring her blond shoulder length hair. At home I could see it, while dreaming away, instead of doing my homework.

One day a teacher asked me something. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about and started stammering. The girl of my dreams had turned around and I could see she was miming something. It took a while but then I realised she was actually giving me the answer. I understood her message, gave the answer and the teacher was satisfied. He did add that he would be pleased if I would try not to sleep during the lessons. I only blushed, not being able to say anything.

During the next break I wanted to thank her. She was together with the big girl with the funny glasses. I waited till that girl would get away, did not dare to go to her. I just stood there and watched. The big girl went to the toilet and Sonja was on her own. I wanted to go to her, but remained where I was, sort of paralized. I made a decision: I would speak with Sonja at the big school party at the end of the week.

During lunch break I went to a nearby park and sat at a bench with my sandwiches and self hate. A few old ladies walked over and looked at me. I was very aware that they would think that I was a weird boy and felt ashamed. I got up, the old ladies sat down on the bench and I walked towards another one. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Again I decided: Friday night would be my finest hour, I would talk to Sonja. Maybe we could become friends?

Friday evening I cycled to school, much to the surprise of my parents. "You? To a party?" I had mumbled as a reaction and just went. There would be a famous dixieland band playing.
The party people were mostly the older students. I felt out of place with my short legged trousers being not elegant like theirs; it seemed to be fashion to wear blazers and not a stupid coat like mine.
I was as tall as most of them, but I was very aware how skinny I was. Some of the boys were quite muscular. The girls were wearing colourful dresses, they all looked so mature. Yet none was as nice as Sonja. But she obviously was not there.

Yet a couple of the boys asked me if I liked to come along. They had a stash of beer hidden. This was only meant for the oldest students and the teachers, but they said they had nicked some.
I drank three bottles of beer and felt a bit more at ease, talked more in an hour than in the last year.
Not being used to drinking I started to feel ill and I told my new friends I had to go home.
I found my bicycle and hurried away from school, had to stop after a few mile because I had to vomit. I felt very sorry for myself and very stupid: of course Sonja was not at that party. I cried for miles on my bicycle.

The torture of my being so shy went on for the rest of the year. I failed horribly and had to change schools. Never saw Sonja again.

Years later I became a member of a website "Old Classmates". I found an old picture of the old class, saw my skinny old self standing at the back of the group. In the foreground sat my first idol: Sonja.
I even got in contact with her and we chatted for some time. She told me that she had been a very unhappy teenager, certain that she was very ugly and unattractive. None of the boys would ever speak to her and most of the girls were treating her bad. I told her of my secret love for her and she admitted that she had always hoped I would come to talk to her. She was too shy to get to me, never dared.
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Thank you

On alternating Mondays our bin is being emptied; one week it's rubbish, the next it's recycling waste. We all have put the house number on our bins, so not to become confused and to be able to trace them back when the garbage men leave them in the next street. In our little corner of the street we managed to become a bit social about this. Whenever a neighbour is not there, another will bring the bin back to the house. It's to prevent them to get all over the street or blocking the pavement. Often there is a lot of wind and an empty one can be blown quite far. Sometimes we have to search for them.
Because I'm a pensioner, it's often me who will do it; even for one neighbour who is home.
She is a little old lady, older than 80. I never asked her her age. She had a busy life as a midwife and is now enjoying her old age.

One day I noticed that the black insert of her recycle bin was seriously damaged. I told her so and advised her to get in contact with the island council. It is very easy to get a replacement.
Normally she is very clear in her words, but not this time. She mumbled a bit and it was obvious that she could not be bothered. Two weeks later I told her again what she should do. She is living on her own, very independent, so very capable to take of things herself. It's not nice to patronise elderly, that is why I did not want to do it for her. She mumbled again. I left it with that.

This Monday I was not there when the garbage men came, had to visit the dentist. When I returned, I noticed my bin had been put back to it's spot next to the house. My old neighbour had also taken care of the other neighbour's bin. She was busy putting her own back and I shouted a "Thank You" across the street. She gave me two thumbs up and I went into the house, complaining about the misery of my mouth to my wife.

An hour later I had to throw some tins in the bin and I noticed a black insert in my recycle bin without a number on it, heavily damaged. I knew that insert and it was definitely not mine. The little old lady had solved her problem, she now had a decent insert in her bin.
I had a bit of a laugh, tried to order a new one through the website of the island council. After five tries I realised something was wrong and phoned the number that was mentioned on the site. It took almost half an hour before I got a person on the line. She confirmed that the website was not working. "It has been reported." I will get a new insert for my bin within ten working days. I already have a plastic sticker with the house number for it.

I told the woman on the phone what happened and she had a good laugh: "How cheeky!"
A bit naughty indeed. I thanked the lady and ended the call.
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A Different Honeymoon

Nothing seemed to go like we had it in our minds. Instead of organising celebrations for our wedding we had to plan the funeral of my mother in law. We knew the risks of this international marriage and we certainly had to endure them: soon after the wedding we both were living again in our separate countries. My wife in the UK and I in the Netherlands.

We both were involved in a crowdfunding system for music, Sellaband. Once in a while parties were organised by the organisation itself or (groups of) artists. Because of being quite active members we would get invitations for parties and gigs all over Europe. Both of us had a job, so we could not appear on all these things. We already struggled to keep up a sort of marriage, having the Northsea between us. An invitation for a party and gig from three bands in Vienna in February was something that started us thinking: why not attend and combine it with our honeymoon?

The start of what we named a honeymoon started weird enough. I flew straight to Vienna from Amsterdam, but my wife flew to Bratislava in Slovakia and had to go by bus to Vienna. I arrived first and waited till she popped up in the hotel. After all these days we finally could enjoy each other's company again and so we did. The hotel was quite basic, but everything was there and the bed was very acceptable.

We realised this was not an average honeymoon, we had a lunch appointment with members of the band Solitube, their manager and some poeple of Sellaband. We had to hurry!
Our map of the city was quite good and we knew we were at the right track, had to cross a very big road, four lanes and a special lane for the bus.
While we waited for the light to get to green to be able to cross, a car stopped on the bus lane. A man got thrown out of the car and two men followed. While the man was on the street they kicked and hit him in any way they could.
It stopped when they got green light; the assailing men jumped in and the car drove off. The victim got on his feet, dusted himself a bit and walked away from us. Nobody seemed to worry about this scene; I had feared for his life, but he walked away like nothing had happened. Very surreal.

The restaurant/bar was not hard to find, but like we had feared, we were last to arrive. The others had almost their drinks and were ready for their meals. We both ordered an Austrain wheat beer, what had a great taste and sat down with the others at a big table. The food was as good as the beer and the manager of Solitube turned out to be a very entertaining host. The guitar player of the band was a bit silent but I thought that this was caused by his less mastering of English. What really amazed me was that everybody in the restaurant smoked like they had to heat up the place by doing that.

After the meal we said our goodbyes and did some sight seeing, like good tourists. We doubted about using the carriages drawn by horses, but decided not to. It was February after all and we would have our behinds about frozen off. Instead we did everything on our own feet. We stopped one to eat a Sacher Torte in a Konditorei. In Vienna you do have to eat a slice of that. It's a must. We also bought some Mozart Kugeln for the homefront. Not really my favorite, but something tourists buy.

After that we had a little nap in the hotel. In the early evening we walked towards the venue where the concert would be. We already knew that halfway there was a Vietnamese restaurant. Never tried that before. It was quite good, but the serving was a bit slow. That is why we ended up at the venue much later than we were expected. At the entrance a girl demanded that we paid, even when I assured her that we were VIPs. It was not that expensive and I did not feel like having a lot of attention on the street, so I paid.

We thought we might get the money back later, but it totally slipped my mind when things started to happen. We only just got used to the lack of light in the space. It was a huge basement and we decided to walk towards the part of the venue where the most people were gathered. A group of women said something to us: "They are waiting for you!" I didn't know these women and had no clue what they were talking about.

                                                    Mandana

We reached the stage and the band Solitube was busy with their sound check. The singer, named Mandana, saw us and jumped of the stage. She hugged us, welcomed us and introduced us to the band. The guitar player we met before, just like the manager of the band who also popped up. He had a choice of T-shirts and handed us a few. The musicians jumped back on stage and went ahead with their preparations.

A young girl approached us and greeted. I had to think a bit, but soon realised this was Kati, the singer of the band Rooga. Of course there were hugs again and we even had a photo moment. It's all a bit different when you are involved in something like Sellaband. There was a lot of contact between artists and fans/investors. It is something I had never experienced before and I don't expect to happen again.

The bands played there stuff and we enjoyed it together with their local fans. The three bands were all Austrian. Solitube played a sort of bluesy rock with an oustanding harmonica player. Rooga was more poppy rock. The third band, Kontrust, I did not know a lot about. My wife told me that day that she had tried their music and that I was in for a treat. I sure was! Their style was quite different, I would describe it as post-punk with a wink. The singer, Agata, was a Polish girl and I could imagine why the band had joined forces with her. She had a very powerful voice.

                                                    Agata

That became more obvious when their was an encore at the end of the show. They did a sort of all star appearance. Agata's voice almost drowned the voices of the other two singers. But we all sang along and had a good time, probably helped by the drinks we had.
There seemed to be an afterparty but we had enjoyed enough music and beer for that day. So we said our goodbyes and sneaked out of the building.

Somebody had been nice towards us and had phoned a taxi, which was already waiting in front of the building. The walk towards the venue had not been more than 15 minutes in total, so after having been driven around for almost 20 minutes I started to question the taxi driver. I wondered where he was taking us. Did he know his way around? The man became very irritated, blamed the one way traffic for the slow progress, but we were not very convinced. Finally we arrived at the hotel, I paid and the man said: "Normally people here give a tip on top of that." So we reacted that we normally tip too, but only when we get quality service for our money. He spat on the floor and raced away.

The next day we played the perfect tourists, used the U-Bahn and went to see the Danube and the St.Stephens Cathedral and more things like that. In a Backerei we enjoyed a lovely coffee and a slice of Esterhazy Torte. (Another must!) It was very cold and we were glad the hotel room could warm us up again.
The next day we flew together to Amsterdam, had planned some more days together. These days were quite limited: we got a phone call from the police in the UK. Waterpipes in the house of my wife had been frozen and had burst causing the bathroom floor collapsing in the living room.

Sellaband only lasted a few years, went bankrupt. The system had provided in making a cd for artists, there was no marketing, promoting or distribution. The artists were supposed to do that themselves. For most acts that is impossible, taking part in a crowdfunding system is already proof that you can't expect a lot. It made artists getting disappointed, just like the members/investors. Some had expected to be involved in massive selling cds.

Solitube split right after finishing a cd, made possible by Sellaband; Rooga made two cds without the help of Sellaband and Kontrust even four, having a gimmick being dressed in local gear. Both bands are still touring. I ended up with 100 cds of Solitube, given to me by a disappointed investing friend.
I was able to give away a lot, but the rest went into a dustbin when I moved to the UK.

                                   

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Chunky

After a few months I was used again to being alone in my room in the office. It had been a great time with Rick. He had always been good for a laugh with his silly things.
He often would sing along with our radio. In his own way: he would sing totally out of tune. When a song finished, he would look at me, saying: "Wasn't that great! Yes, that is why they call me the Voice."
He also had magic hands, saved me from severe back aches a few times. Last thing I heard about him was that he was hired by a professional football team in a city in the north as a masseur. He lives over there nowadays.

It was quite a surprise when one of the managers came into the room with Irene. I knew her from the olden days, when I just started working. She had been quite a big girl, but now she was huge. I wondered if she would fit in the standard chair. But she managed to get seated and the manager explained that she was going to be my new roommate. He expected from me that I would help her a bit, getting started with the same work I had been doing for years.

In the first days it was just amusing to talk about the old days, former colleagues and catching up on each other lives. Later I had a bit enough of the constant blabbering, I wanted to get some work done. She told me everything about her life, her family, her diseases and more. She would even phone to me sometimes to tell me that she was ill and would describe what type of fluids were leaving her body. Furthermore there were the continuous complaints about her body weight. She was desperate to lose some kilos, but gained instead and she could not understand why.

One day I was about to drink coffee during a little break with my friend John. He worked in another part of the building, but sometimes came over to me. I just put the phone down and sighed, pulled a face. Of course John wanted to know who I had been talking to. I told him about the story I just heard. She had vaginal discharge, probably caused by the menopause and she had described to me what it looked like and what it smelled like. I had been planning to eat one of my lunchtime sandwiches, but suddenly lost my appetite.

John had a bit of a laugh and we discussed my roommate a bit more. My friend mentioned her hugeness and I told him about her desperation to loose some weight. He could understand this. While drinking coffee he played a bit with her drawers. Normally they would have been locked, but not on this day. The top drawer contained pens, pencils and paperclips, the next one made him look up in amazement.
"You really have to see this!"
I walked over to him and looked at the drawer. It was filled with KitKat Chunkys and empty wrappers of the chocolate bars.

We said it at the same moment: "KitKat Junky!" Had a good laugh.
I never mentioned to Irene what I saw.
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