Warsawa

After spending a couple of weeks travelling through Poland, I thought I'd try to squeeze in one last samba adventure before heading home. 

When I'm visiting a different city I sometimes have a quick search for local samba groups to impose myself upon. Hoping that the samba stars align, yet understanding that there is a fair amount left to chance:

- Finding a bateria online in the local lingo.
- Sending an hopeful email in English, asking if I can gatecrash a practice.
- Being in the right place, at the right time, on the right day.  
- Avoiding the summer shut down, when even the most ardent sambista pretends that they have a life outside of their band.
- Succumbing to the pressures of conducting a 'normal' holiday and taking some pictures of actual touristic sights.
- Distracted by beer.

However... my luck was in!!

Irek runs a very cool bateria called Bloco Central in Warsaw. A great group of friendly souls who play some wicked samba. He invited me to both rehearse with the team and play with them for the Warsaw Marathon (to enthuse runners in the final throes of twenty six miles of self inflicted pain and agony). Uber generous of them to offer, and I was well pleased for the practice as my caixa skills had suffered at the hands of cheap vodka and more kotlet schabowy than you waggle a stick at.

Go to Poland!!

Voodoo Samba

Where do you go to recover from the Coburg comedown? The mighty LSS assisted rehabilitation by allowing me to join their Notting Hill Carnival capers.

I was able to join a couple of Sunday rehearsals before the big weekend, down at the Waterloo Action Centre. A place where things happen. You can't just apathetically observe. You go there to get stuck in.

The main weekend was two full days of learning this years bewitching enredo. I attempted singing and playing at the same time but both suffered, which is pretty amazing, especially if you've ever heard me sing. I was eventually able to contribute a football hooligan style chorus where no Portuguese words were required. The rousing chants of voodoo were right up my street and the costuming of the various alas was a super cool theme well realised. 

The effort that goes into the weekend means the weather gods should definitely take heed and look favourably upon this mass of mortals putting their skills, ability and livers on the line for three days. Unfortunately, they didn't listen and it rained for the main Monday parade, which put the kaibosh on thronging crowds fighting between themselves for front-line action. However, spirits were high for the whole weekend and many spirits and alcoholic beverages improved harmony, just maybe not harmonia.

Massive amounts of thanks are due; It was an amazing weekend of music, camaraderie and good times.

Coburg 2015

After the rigorous reconnaissance of last year, the six of us returned home to Wellington and effused, emoted and excited others about the promised land of samba. Religious fervour could have taken a leaf out of our book. We thought an application for 2016 would buy us enough time to get people interested and financially committed to represent Wellington on the world stage. However, the organisers challenged us, by asking us to putt our samba chops where out mouths are and sign up for 2015.

Surprising even our own optimistic selves, we ended up with 25 sambistas throwing their natty hats into the ring for the trip. We also invited a few friends who lived in Europe, the amazing Mancunians from Global Grooves and rounded up a few other enthusiastic locals to join us on the journey.

We decided to bring a decidedly New Zealand flavour to proceedings with the use of Maori instrumentation and welcome for the start of each performance, sliding into Candomble style singing before our attempt to dazzle folk with a run through our smorgasboard repertoire. We've got heaps of material, so we split our favourites into two different sets. We got some cool feedback, which was really humbling and confidence building. Being stuck on the arse end of the world, away from the huge European samba community, validation and support from other performers was a real accolade.

Most importantly: We drunk lots of delicious German beer, met loads of old and new friends, and had a complete blast.

A proud moment indeed.

Coburg 2014

Coburg is a picturesque German town that for the last 23 years has transformed itself into a mecca for baterias. If you ever wanted to test your samba stamina (ja bitte!) but haven't made the real deal at the sambadrome, then these three days will sort the men from the boys. Test: If you make it through all the videos in this post, we'll sign you up.

Every street corner has a group proudly performing their repertoire with gusto. As you walk round the town it sounds like the place is being constantly shelled by artillery. Filled with childlike excitement you follow your ears to the next blinding flash mob bombardment. As you get close enough to one group, the rhythms resolve themselves. As you walk away the beats merge again into the cosmic background battery.

We were very lucky to get the opportunity to play with the London School of Samba for the weekend. The plan was to join them for the main parade on the Sunday (check 34:50 onward) but we ended up doing four performances (like here and here!). Sore arms, big cheesy grins and the first time I've been called a kunstler to my face and nodded proudly in agreement. Massive thanks to Maestre Tristan for sorting us out.

Reveling in the adrenaline rushes from performing was one thing. Watching some of the other bands on the main stages was something else. The costumes, choreography, dynamic directors, dancers and drumming were awesome.

From over 80 bands playing, here are a few that rocked: Samba Masala, Aquarela, Bloco X, Misto Quente

 We booked six months out, which is way too close to get accommodation anywhere near the town. We ended up in an old East German town called Steinach, which is nearly as remote as you can get while staying in the same country. So when we left the Hungry Highlander (which had non stop drumming madness outside the door) at three in the morning each night we relied on unrivaled German efficiency to bus us to the furthest flung town and then taxi the remainder. Our luck failed on the third night but the Orisha of Travel was obviously with us when a random brother of steel stopped his car and gave us a lift back to the hotel. Respect.

Next time we will be traveling with a fully operational Welly outfit. Coburg 2016, You have been warned!

A people interlude

To avoid burn out, any self respecting samba tour is only made all the more enjoyable through organising non-samba related activities. This time round, it was all you wonderful people that made the trip extra special...

The road to Coburg

Hearing about the German samba paradise of Coburg from other band members, 6 people from Wellington Batucada decided to combine their passion for drumming, enthusiasm for good times and family duties in the motherland in one grand tour.

We typically hang out together in a large sports hall with 40 other drummers, wearing ear plugs and making a lot of noise. This usually makes communication fairly reliant on body language: The knowing nod of nailing it, The samba face of deep concentration, The pained expression of limbs giving up the ghost, and The wild gesticulations of the frustratingly misunderstood.

All noteworthy relationships are built on these sturdy foundations. We'd be alright but what about the locals? How will they cope with the infernal tapping of feet and fingers? Or Samba Pattern Tourettes Disorder - randomly vocalising breaks and rhythms like a badly broken Brazilian beat box?


We practiced with the mighty London School of Samba on our first weekend to ready our samba chops for a slightly more frenetic pace than usual. This was made easier by having a formidable amount of dancers attacking the bateria in formation at the monthly Quadra night. Exciting stuff. Then down to the Windmill Tavern.

 



We traveled to Cambridge, midweek, to join the wonderful people of Arco Iris. They play a smorgasboard of rhythms and infuse them all with heaps of energy. I especially liked the democratic embodiment of a community group with half the people directing different pieces. Then off to the White Swan.

I lived in Cambridge for seven years, only 400 meters from their place of practice, so interesting that it took moving to NZ to get involved.

We tried to visit a school in Barking but they exhibited a break down in community group relations. A small political rift was followed by a physical altercation, so the practice was cancelled. Like any self respecting group of impassioned sambistas, there is a fine line between smashing the crap out of your drum (good, when in time) or smashing the crap out of another band member (bad, even when pummeling their bonce with some good swing).

Back in London with LSS, we were asked if we'd like to participate in the small, school oriented Waterloo Carnival. No need to be asked twice to don the whites!

A scorching day in London, some confused commuters in buses, many awesome costumes, the amazingly enthusiastic LSS dancers and one or two re-hydrating beverages at the Camel and Artichoke made for an excellent day.

Traveling on the Eurostar from St Pancreas to Paris took us to Sambatuc. These guys were practicing 9 hours over two nights to nail a set for a carnival in Liverpool. Needless to say, they were a precise and well oiled machine. The caixas were en masse, furious and had more swing than you can waggle a stick at. The composition was complicated, had some great choreography and included some challenging dueling surdos. Then off to a bar to watch Germany put another three goals past Brazil.

Seattle and Vancouver

I took the Amtrak Cascades train form Portland to Seattle. 

Long trip train travel is a noble pursuit that just asks for the Harris tweed to be cracked-out, along with the smoking pipe, a thoughtful tome and the odd knowing wink to fellow passengers. I didn't pack the first two items, the locals probably didn't care what I was reading (most were vacuously glued to their iDevice) and I thought it best not to try the latter without expecting carriage rage. Most locals still seem to fly or drive, but if you do have some spare time on your hands it's much more scenic, comfortable and affordable way to go.

Brief encounter

I already hooked up with the Vamola crew via email and was looking forward to two practice sessions whilst in town. However, devil is in the detail. I walked a fairly long way with my drum to participate in Sunday afternoon practice, only to find that I'd written the wrong address down.

Although I'd completely ballsed up, rather than spend the whole evening cursing myself, I realised I was close to the Neptune where The Heavy, a favourite over recent years, were playing. Strangely, the venue didn't have a coat check so I had to walk around the venue with my damned caixa in tow. One security guard actually asked me if I was part of the crew. The indignity!! I am bloody artiste! I fielded a few worried glances from the crowd until they realised the drummer had joined the band from stage left. The Heavy rocked the joint.

I have also been stalking Kristi, professionally, for years, so it only seemed right that I tracked her down since she moved to Seattle. She kindly took me to some cool cocktail bars and for some very nice pub grub. It was great to see a familiar face, get past the typical traveler's small talk, straight into the meat and potatoes.

Gas Works

Gas Works

And, at least I now knew where I needed to be for Wednesday practice! Vamola were rehearsing a set for a gig on the weekend and had a really interesting and diverse repertoire. I especially liked the Maracatu piece (it sounded a bit like this). It was good to see that the post samba pub session was also a staple, even on a school night. Thanks guys!

 
Caught the Amtrak again to Vancouver, but the samba train stops here. I assume the locals are either at Brazil Camp or had already been forewarned.

Either way, all was not lost on the music front: The barmaid at Funky Winker Beans recommended I go to Burger Fest, where diabolical, brootal metal meets a BBQ and plenty of beer - the holy trinity, right there. Although, I now question my faith, as I didn't make it through all 36 bands on the lineup. The next day countered with Latin Fest, which was definitely more family friendly, but had a distinct lack of body odour, piercings, where's Wally style tattoo coverage, and the loos didn't resemble a Trainspotting prop Danny Boyle turned down because they looked unrealistically gruesome. It was probably worse off for all those points.

Alone, I was the only man or woman without extensive tats or facial hair at Burger Fest

Beaver and tails, they got it all covered down at the Latin Fest.

 Before leaving, I squeezed in a North Shore mountain bike adventure, ending up in a very different kind of gnarly rock and roots fest. I also took-in a concert with the Melvins. Unfortunately, some goon threw a glass at the lead singer, after which he walked off stage, never to return. I sincerely hope the dude got a really good kicking from the bouncers, in lieu of 1,000 fans waiting to lynch him. Pain is relative, and the the dude should count himself lucky.

Last but not least, a big shout goes out to Perry and Trish who were rocking out on their porch, myself being the third person in 15 years to; A) demonstrate an interest and chill out with them, and, B) relieve Perry of one is beers for the pleasure. That is a criminal statistic, which has the following moral:

Throw away your social media crutch! Turn off your internet connected, banal, brain numbing content delivery device! (pause to note irony) And go down the pub, listen to some music and talk to real people! Someone you haven't spoken to before! Engage with the world!! DRINK!!!!