Spring is for the Irresponsible

It’s an odd feeling that whenever I am at home in Arad, I also unavoidably feel like a tourist too: since I have not spent considerable stretches of non-holiday time here for a decade or so, I do not have a data plan on my phone, so I keep hunting wi-fi connections. Needless to say, it’s a silly thing, one of those symptoms of how our society has totally alienated us from others, and ourselves as well.

As I was waiting in a car parked next to a bus stop the other day, I noticed how everyone was either fingering their phones, or talking to someone- on the phone naturally. They usually spent a careful time staring at the screen, looking like they’re working hard at figuring out whom to call, and why. Just as I was about to become comfortably judgmental, it dawned on me how the most pleasant part of my day had been taking in the sun in the Pensioner’s Park- and discovering that there’s a free wi-fi connection.

It was kind of hard to decide whether it had been the sun to make me happy- or the wi-fi. I would say a combination of both, and, for my defense, I could also add that under normal circumstances, I would have settled for a book, but I happened not to have one with me. So as I was merrily browsing the Internet, I bumped upon an article about how February had been the hottest month on record, compared to expected averages.

And that made perfect sense, judging by the number of trees in untimely bloom I had just photographed. Generally, the whole of February had been on fast forward flower-wise: there used to be a time for snowdrops, and then a time of hyacinths and daffodils, and then a time for tulips. This year everything came in fits and starts, and all at once.

So I should have- panicked? Made plans to eat less meat, fly less, shower less, use less poisonous sounding household products? Maybe. But I was just happy for the sunshine, the wi-fi, the pink blooms. Spring is an irresponsible time. Or perhaps I am irresponsible full stop. Is being born in spring an excuse? I hope so.

What Was Left of February

Just as I was blabbering about how February is trying to be excessively kind to me this year, the sneaky bastard had a change of heart and bit me in the heel, first by sending a strictly no cameras Eagles of Death Metal concert my way and then by doubling the stakes with the mother of all end of winter flus. Well, actually, I can simply conclude that February is a heartless bastard to start with, and these were it’s vile intentions all along. So thank God for March being here in the meantime.

In March I will at least (hopefully, ideally) make it to a concert where they allow my right arm in as well- yes, it’s probably sad bordering on pathetic, but whenever I’m somewhere without my camera I tend to occasionally lift my arm to eye level, and then realize maybe I shouldn’t, and I pretend to have been just straightening my hair and the likes.

Even the much awaited Hail Caesar! felt a bit off, though that might have been on account of it being the first day I actually consumed solids after the flu incident. It’s of course still stratospherically better than most Oscar nominated films, but although I had a rather impressive guessing record- this year as well, let me brag just a wee little, even that left me slightly cold. The one thing I thoroughly enjoyed this February was Donna Tartt’s Goldfinch,  which is as addictive as it is long and leaves you with a total reading hangover which means most books you chance upon seem just too puny to even bother with anymore.

Actually, I might be overdoing the gloom and doom a little for effect- I quite enjoyed The Night Manager too- and not just because I am weak minded enough to hyperventilate over anything having to to with Tom Hiddleston and/or Hugh Laurie. To put things into perspective a little, I usually find Le Carré books and adaptations a tad too terse yet trying sophistication, but the first two episodes of the new series tickled me in all the right places nevertheless.

Monday Pleasures: New Names for Sziget 2016

I will be frank and admit I had two main hopes for the new Sziget line up announcement, which seemed to be pretty much in the cards based on the traditional beginning of year festival/concert schedule watch, namely The Last Shadow Puppets and LCD Soundsystem.  Both are returning after a long(ish) hiatus and kept filling their calendar with juicy spring/summer dates.

So my hopes were half fulfilled, though that’s not a completely correct assessment, because the prospect of Alex Turner and Miles Kane on the island is tantalizing enough in itself and has caused a case of whole day Cheshire cat grin unintelligible to the uninitiated. Miles Kane has of course graced the island before and gave one of the best concerts of the festival in 2014, whereas the Arctic Monkeys have sadly only made it to VOLT in the same year- because they were quite ridiculously in Japan during Sziget, which is something they should really avoid in the future.

The other big name for the indie crowd are Muse- technically of course Muse should be the number one name, but one cannot help but get the feeling that they are a bit past their peak of coolness, and the new album just falls on the wrong side of the paranoia/anthemic songs ratio. They should nevertheless still be a pretty spectacular headliner and an antidote to one of the yearly unmentionables- this time, the majesty of David Guetta is back to thump  minds and souls into numbness. Though I cannot refrain from the slightly evil thought that if you keep going to David Guetta concerts your mind and soul were most likely numb to begin with.

Róisín Murphy is a repeat offender on the island, but one cannot feel but delighted to have someone wrapped in shiny clothes and exciting accents to entertain us- plus her kids have the improbable names of Clodagh and Tadhg- yes I plead guilty to random perusal of Wikipedia, but the main point is that  Róisín is never boring. Bullet for My Valentine and Parkway Drive fall a bit off my map of interest, but I am always open to as many genres as possible being present on Sziget- the island is big enough for everyone to have their bit of well deserved entertainment.

The rest of the new names sounded a bit esoteric to me- there’s just too many bands out there these days and too little space in a lifetime to listen to people who are not Arctic Monkeys or ALT-J, so I decided to give them all a quick listen and come up with a first verdict as a result.

The Lumineers look like friendly local baristas and made me google The Courteneers, who are decidedly livelier, but the Lumineers should be able to pull off better heartfelt singalongs. I therefore pass them. Years and Years sound like an average British electro act with a slightly squeaky lead singer, probably because that’s exactly what they are. Borderline, at best.

I then discovered that I do know Jess Glynne, for her song Hold My Hand is often played as youthful shopping music in H&Ms, which is exactly where she belongs. To the borderline pack she goes with Years and Years. K.I.Z. is the yearly compulsory German acquired taste, but at least the rapping puts my language skills to test, so I pass them on grounds both of intriguing oddity and first chorus that actually stays with me after the one listen.

The Neighbourhood sound exactly like another band I can’t quite put my finger on, mostly because I don’t want to, plus the writing your name as a consonant cluster gimmick is really tiring by now. However, as a reward for spelling the complete version of their name the right way I might consider them if no other options are available and the beer queue is not too long, but a fail for the time being. (The Youtube autoplay sensed my despair, and after a couple of Neighbourhood songs, promptly jumped to Arctic Monkeys. Big Brother is listening and has good musical taste.)

Datsik has a song that features Snoop Dogg, but it’s not half as good as Snoop narrating nature documentaries, and he drops the base about a million times too often. Either he plays clips of Snoop explaining the feeding habits of the honey badger, or I mercilessly fail him.

Kovacs and Rico and Sticks are Dutch, and since everyone who is not Belgian on Sziget is Dutch, it is most natural that the organizers would cater to their needs. Kovacs is a bit of a mind-bend for a Hungarian speaker, for she’s a young lady with a rather classical jazz voice, which could go anywhere in the long run, she therefore receives a pass on the already invoked oddity grounds. Rico and Sticks on the other hand rap in Dutch. And here I rest my case. There is only one band in the world who can rap efficiently in a language originating from the Netherlands, and they are Die Antwoord.

To end the post on a high, do revel in some Miles Kane and Alex Turner being awesome separately pictures, as a warm up to this summer’s Miles Kane and Alex Turner being awesome together action.

When February Thinks It's March

I have always been at odds with February, and, judging by past events, February was often at odds with me. Looking back, I can recall two types of February, or more precisely one: bloody awful Februaries. The other type would be Februaries I really can't remember, odd brackets of time between January and long awaited March when something must have definitely happened, like I probably ordered pizza, watched some football and forgot the most important item on a shopping list. 

This year, however, I have a strange feeling that February is trying to mend our relationship. Mainly, by pretending to be March. At which it will fail, because the holiday planted in its middle is not the sublime Guinness drinking fest of Saint Patrick's day, but the 'let's recycle unused red wrapping paper' and 'let's bridge the marketing no man's land between Christmas and Easter' monstrosity that is Valentine's Day. I pity poor Saint Valentine for all the slack he gets, but he really could have chosen something wiser to be the patron saint of, like maybe trade a country with Saint George or something. This being said, the mild weather (which I am mentioning here only as context, you see) means many usually March timed flowers have already started to pop up at the florists, and I have duly purchased my first daffodils of the season and then ran into gerberas and roses during my coffee shop rounds, in Budapest Baristas and Espresso Embassy respectively.

I have also managed to finally stray off the beaten track and made it to The Goat Herder's- which is actually only a twenty minutes walk from Oktogon, so my only excuse for not having gone there is being both lazy and a slave to my habits. The twenty minutes of jolly walk in the balmy February sun (note more efforts to be March, or straightaway April) were rewarded with coffee, which was excellent, but even more so with tea, as in real English five o'clock tea with milk and cake and a touch of Mad Hatter's tea party about it. While pottering about the same area, and getting just a bit lost for a few minutes, I also wandered into the lobby of the Bethlen theatre, to discover a dazzling array of retro stuff complete with chintz and dubious china and stumbled upon a building with decidedly pleasant stained glass windows, which happens to be the Bethlen square synagogue. 

Returning to the Művész coffee house on Andrássy was however a letdown- the drinks are ridiculously expensive and there's about a gazillion plastic flowers too many for comfort. It's outright painful to see that a place that could focus on keeping the old coffee house culture of the city alive chooses to stray into murky tourist trap territory instead. I shall therefore stick to the safe haven of places such as Massolit, where you can have both coffee and a great cake at the most decent of prices, and indulge in a peaceful read or conversation on the side.

February's final flurry will be the premiere of the Coen brothers' Hail Caesar, which I look forward to with the most giddy of excitements, but until then I shall indulge in some recommendations I found beside a table in Castro Bistro- a table I was grumpy about at first, due to it's not so strategic positioning close to the door-further evidence that fate so very often simply knows better.