VidaKashizadeh

It was in Munich when I saw the headlines about Brian Jones’ death.

I was on my way walking towards the uni I believe. It felt strange.

He was certainly the first casualty on the music scene at the time as far as my interest was concerned.

When thinking about him while walking, although the road was on my left the right side of my face had an internal space fac ing a multi layered landscape of roads up and down the hill.
This of course didn’t exist in Schwabing.
Perhaps the closest you could imagine in London would be if you stood on the north east side of Rosslyn Hill in Hampstead (on the side of the road where Hampstead tube station is) and looked to the other side of the road where a narrow road (Greenhill?) connects in a zigzag shape to the main road, but imagine it on a much larger scale, wider with more roads and with various angles to each other.

I can hear ‘Say a little prayer for you’.

With the events later that year at a concert in the UStates the Rolling Stones lost many of their politically concerned fans – at least in Germany - and had to start all over again to gain new fans I assume.

As I remember they had hired the disreputable Hell’s Angels as guards for their gig. A black man got killed dubiously, and they had carried on playing despite of this.

Although the latter decision may have been caused by panic in the band, for many young people of that particular period of time - who were used to some rough anti Vietnam War and anti Fascist demonstrations - it could not possibly count as a good excuse.

So later when they were on a tour in Germany I didn’t even feel the slightest urge to go and see them live.

However, I believe they have already apologised for their behaviour some years later. And perhaps their judgement was badly effected by the shock following Brian Jones’ death. But if they have made any memorable songs since then I have not been aware of it.

I don’t mean that he was the sole crucial influence in the band, what I mean is that his creative energy was an integral part of the band which formed a whole. After his departure one way or the other they were just looking for another person with technique to fill the gap, but the magic was lost. Well perhaps I’m just talking about the magic for me.

I saw many rock and jazz concerts within a few years in Munich.

I can remember having seen Led Zeppelin, Frank Zappa, Leonard Cohen, Canned Heat – let me think – Eric Burdon, Eric Clapton, John Mayall, Keith Jarrett and managed only towards the end of the Pink Floyd’s performance to get in the hall, as it was sold out.

I even saw a woman I knew from the school days who had come all the way from Berlin to see their concert. She was one of the only three other pupils during the thirteen years in four different schools and a nursery I had attended who had the same first name as mine, and with a surname that means ‘someone one knows/acquainted’. She had a moody drugged look suitable for the concert for which she had the tickets already.

She was arm in arm with her partner but it didn’t look like it was for love but more for being a lost couple who now at last were going somewhere where they would be totally understood: ‘we don’t need no education’ etc.

Being an ardent fan she must have thought I couldn’t possibly be as cool as she was just popping in from the corner to see if I could get a ticket for her super band. I can say that because her initial nicely surprised look seeing me – having the same name as her, hence not ignorable – turned to a detached look of ‘I belong to the crowd inside’.

I must add that I wasn’t specifically a fan of this band. But I liked to see live performances at the time and in their case I got even more eager to get in when I found out it was sold out. And it looked good to look like a disappointed fan waiting outside.

There were others waiting outside, hoping to get in eventually at some stage. Even the fence was checked out by some, but was too high and unstable to climb.

The wait was worth it as the man I used to love from distance - but saw at the time as too dangerous for an inexperienced me - came around to say hello.

As a known anarchist (more Bakunin line) and SDS activist he was of course interested to check on people left outside, although my presence is likely to have been a bonus. I wouldn’t be surprised if he played a role in us eventually getting in. His name was Peter.

He was the most beautiful man I had seen face to face.
Of course I mean a beauty that spoke to me personally. I had seen some very beautiful men before but his beauty, voice and the sound of his laughter spoke to me.
He had thick black hair which had the shine of a raven’s feathers and had dark green eyes. When he laughed the change in his eyelids combined with his voice intoxicated my head while in his presence my body seemed to get in armour with ease and without any intensions.

For me he was the orgasm without the process of sex. But I understood this only with time. He really didn’t know exactly what to make of me. He dropped words during the rare occasions that I saw him like ‘asexual’, ‘Buddha’ and ‘in-a-gadada’.

I couldn’t help him to understand because my own feeling was new and I had nothing to compare it to. I even thought perhaps he resembled my mother.

Being a very striking personality, unstable, beautiful and a favourite student of the late Adorno in Frankfurt, this guy was desired by many women of all ages and was demonstratively available to them all as if he was on a campaign to challenge traditional hypocrisy of his familiar society.

Years later in 1990 I was shocked to see a c lose up of a photo of my great grandfather which my cousin had given to my mother to keep before leaving Iran.
This picture together with other old pictures used to be hanging high up on the wall in my aunts old house’s bed room. But I was too small to reach them and be able to have a close look at the faces. And many were the photos of her husband’s side of the family. So I was not familiar with the face of my ancestor at all.
When I saw the face on the photo I realized I had worshiped a man for seven years who was a replica of my paternal great grandfather. I wonder if their voice and laughter would have been the same as well. Obviously I don’t know about their chins and lips as my great grandfather has a beard in the photo perhaps like most Iranian men of his time.

The whole thing of course fits perfectly with the old Chinese belief that considers the origin of religion in the worship of ancestors. According to their history people began to worship their ancestors after their death and made offerings to their spirits for protection (see I Ching).

Anyway eventually we were let in as standing audience for the last - and most famous - song of the Pink Floyd on that evening.
They had a style too deliberate for my taste.

As for Led Zeppelin, I remember they were quite late, so the German audience booed and rightly so, as the band didn’t even apologize. In those days all outlandish musicians and bands wanted to get a chance for performance in Germany because they were paid well and DM had a good exchange rate, but at the same time they despised Germans.

I tend to think that Germans were very tolerant of the performers, perhaps because in those days there was an unspoken guilt feeling amongst Germans, and foreign - especially the English - bands took advantage of it.

To put you in the right picture, at the time the kind of audiences that these musicians attracted were in most cases up to ten times more sussed out, revolutionary and interesting than the performers themselves, there you go.

Many students for instance could discuss Shah’s dictatorial regime with good knowledge and I was never asked where exactly Iran was located either.

Yes and as mentioned before I saw the incomparable Jimi Hendrix in Frankfurt (January 1969) in two consecutive concerts during one evening, together with one of my school time friends. She was also a fan visiting her relatives in Frankfurt at the time.

During his first concert that evening we had I believe two front seats on the left side but got up and moved forward to lean on the same side of the stage. Many others were standing next to the stage as well.

In the second concert that evening our seats were in the middle to the right and the audience were more adults. I believe no one was standing next to the stage but everyone stood up with excitement at the end when he started his act of sexualising his guitar followed by smashing it.

The people of Hessen being tall we had to stand on the chair to see what was going on but also we were the real fans and had to be in a higher position than the others I suppose.

I think he enjoyed his audience for the first concert more than the second one, and I believe there was no guitar smashing at the end of the first concert either, perhaps because it was an early evening performance with a younger audience or that he had only one guitar to smash for that evening.

In fact at the end of the first concert he looked quite peaceful and leaving the stage while following the other two musicians he looked to his left seeing us as we were clapping with our arms stretched out forward. He waved all of a sudden so intensely with his arm stretched waving only his hand with a fast movement and his body leaned forward while disappearing from stage.

It took at least five seconds before Shahin and I looked at each other’s faces.

Hers had a question followed by an exclamation mark expressed on it. I’m not sure what she saw on mine.

Obviously being fans this was amazing but I saw a bit of puzzlement in her face and it took a while before we verbally and very briefly acknowledged our subdued joy having been noticed by the man himself. But we weren’t the types who would even dream of waiting outside to speak to him.

I had a bright cerise shirt which had frills in the front not unlike the shirt he was wearing on that evening. It was a kind of gypsy colour that was almost too much for the eyes. I remember this especially because I had usually a black top and rarely got into the mood of wearing colours, although I always liked to keep some coloured clothes in the wardrobe for my special moods.

Another coloured dress memory I have was when I went to see Leonard Cohen’s performance in Munich.

I had this wonderful vintage blue satin dress on, which gave me a bit of a gypsy look but more like in films that tend to romanticise gypsies and emphasise their mystical allure, as a kind of the other side of the fake coin that tends to make all gypsies look like cheats etc.

Again I ended up standing next to the left side of the stage with a lot of other young people.

Shortly before that evening I had read an interview with Leonard Cohen including his statements about ‘free love’ which was a fashionable expression in those days and which meant in fact ‘free sex’.

During his last song he kept repeating ‘don’t pass me by’ which was a part of the song but it felt like he was building it up in order to encourage a groupie to visit him. Then he suddenly added ‘gypsy in the corner, don’t pass me by’ and repeating it a few times I believe.

I got very embarrassed and made a face that would say to those watching me that my English was not good enough to have understood that sentence.

A few days later in Schwabing a couple of people passed me by and the woman walked back to ask me if I wasn’t the woman in blue who was standing next to the stage at Leonard Cohen’s gig. Then she asked me if I liked the gig and said a few things about the performance. So you see I had already one star helping me to have my 15 minutes fame in Munich.

Today I can say that starting with the death of Brian Jones followed by Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison within exactly two years, and the disappearance of Saba the young cat, a whole phase of my life was also over.

When returning from my holidays in Iran, my room was deserted. I found some of my records scattered on the floor with foot prints on them. Many of my 120-140 records’ collection had also disappeared together with some lovely clothes I had made myself before having got the chance to wear them at least once.

Later in that year I even saw a woman wearing my black long coat which I had made with thick Iranian velvet. She was in a pub in Schwabing and her body was screaming: This coat is not mine.

The beautiful Peter who had just become homeless before I left for Iran and who asked to rent my room for a few months while I was away had already moved to his new place leaving my room in shambles, and said to me on the phone ‘you had too many things’ although I had only asked him about the cat and had not mentioned my things at all. Was he feeling guilty after all?

These were the times that a bit older anarchists in SDS were clearing other students’ conscience I suppose. And I was the person of the time of course.
I never said a word about my things; after all it wasn’t a totally wrong feed back.
I gave away my record player, left my second hand furniture behind and rented a furnished room in a different area. Gradually I sold most of the remaining records.
One year later in 1972 I moved again, this time to a very small room and got a radio which had a liberating effect.

There is something obsessive and limiting about having the choice to listen to the same music over and over again. Each album had about 20 minutes on each side which created its own ritual. A cigarette smoke that took 15 minutes and it was hard to do anything else during that time as music can never really be in the background for me.

Outside is dark, music and the sound of the waves (again Natural Woman), the ornamental palm is reflecting the light in its stripes of leaves.

I am surrounded by exotic plants. Two tables further on the left a couple are having a vigorous conversation. It’s in French; the man’s voice is low.

The darkness outside makes me feel solid and secure; it’s like being embraced by the night.

A shimmering black horse is galloping in my mind’s night.

Nikos Kazantzakis author of Zorbas the Greek and The Last Temptation of Christ is supposed to have his self penned epitaph on his grave in Iraklion (in Martinengo Bastion): “I hope for nothing, I fear nothing, I am free”.

Yes the queen of soul Aretha carries on. The German guy walked away from his table.

Now is…

The music is so moody Greek jazzy Brazilian style.

It reminded me of a time when I was small and it was light; a garden party in one of the Oil Company’s clubs in Abadan.

A band was playing mambo. And I was sitting at the table watching my parents, who after having asked me if I was going to be alright joined their friends for a dance.

I was sitting alone at the large table watching the band and the couples dancing. The women’s dresses looked amazing. It was in the 50’s and the band was intense, so were the dancers.

There was a part of the song which sounded strange but precisely that made the tune and the scene to be recorded in my memory.

There was a sentence that puzzled me even though it was in Italian I believe. It made me wonder if the band was really foreign or Iranian

It sounded like: chapin-e necro famo… then suddenly this: jigareto beram debaio… lavin de compomba….

It couldn’t be but it was and that’s why it stayed in my memory.

Oh this really sounds Brazilian.

[Later in November 2005 / added when typing:

When the German guy returned to sit at his table he kept looking at me and my notebook while I was writing. He had a very friendly smile which was meant to show that he would like to know more about me. A smile that was not typically German.

Lone travellers should not be ignored they are knowledgeable. I smiled back and said ‘you alright?’

We had an easy and fruitful conversation for the rest of that evening.

He was Dutch and a keen walker (Crete is ideal for walking and attracts many hikers from the rest of Europe). I remembered having seen him on the hills when I was checking for other beaches to the east of Lendas.

He told me about the ruins of an ancient healing place on the north side of Lendas which was not mentioned in the two books I had.

I told him about the Samaria gorge in the west of Crete which is the longest gorge in Europe. This has been recently disputed by a site on the web:

“Samaria is said to be the longest gorge in Europe. Well I am not sure about this. As far as I know the ‘gorges du Verdon’ in South France are a little over 20 km in length. Similarly, the gorge of Tripiti which runs west of the gorge of Samaria is about as long, but almost nobody knows it”

However the word gorge means a deep and narrow valley. Gorges du Verdon has more a canyon like character than a gorge. And the French now wisely advertise that aspect in particular.

Samaria gorge on the other hand has a more human size scale and looks for the most part as if one walks through a straight narrow split in the mountain.

Anyway the Dutch guy wrote very slowly in my notebook how to get to a very beautiful spot for a day trip in the area. He looked like a very happy child while writing, perhaps for being allowed to write in another person’s very personal notebook?

His name is Herman and this is what he wrote:

“6:30 bus to Vasiluki. Go out of bus and follow direction Krokos. At fork with signs take left road direction Tripiti beach. At next fork take road in the middle which goes left again. Then you pass a type of factory. After that you cross the most beautiful part of the itinerary through a kind of gorge. After this you reach the beach. Approx. 2 ½ hrs. Take a rest and swim, have a coffee and something to eat. Then you have to walk another 2 ½ hrs to get to Lendas. Just remember that when you reach another fork, that you go left.”

When I went to the other room where the bar was and also two computers behind the door I saw the actual German guy from the bus going to one of the computers. He was taller than Heman, almost the same hair cut and the bleach but with a smooth skin and an arrogant face that only a German blond yuppie can make. Yes even yuppies can sleep on the beach if the beach is cool enough.]

After 3 a.m. Full moon above

Sunday 18^th Sep2005

I Woke up and couldn’t sleep. The electric device with the tablet to keep the mosquitoes away has effected my eyes; I can hardly open them.

The waves are still noisy.

As south of Crete is the only beach of Greece facing Mediterranean Sea (this part called the Libyan Sea) I believe it is the only place in Greece where I have experienced a turbulent sea. Other islands and to some lesser extend the north beach of Crete have relatively shallow and a quiet sea.

It is a drawback of warm places that they have mosquitoes.

My fear of malaria is probably the main reason I have not visited any tropical countries yet. Two of my friends who did so both returned with malaria. And another one who had a jab before going there came back with all the symptoms of malaria without actually having it, which proved again Hahnemann’s point that vaccination introduces a disease to the body unnecessarily which leads to complications later in life.
Some acupuncture treatment and a dose of homeopathic remedy cleared this friend’s symptoms of recurrent low fevers…

So the day I become indifferent to malaria would mean a new adventure as well.

The oleander flowers in the moon light. And the light on the neighbour’s balcony makes the purple colours so velvety and thick-looking in texture. So does the dark green of the leaves. As if some extra dimension were added to them; the 4^th dimension of the oleander- the malaria not to be caught –the beauty of malaria. My mother had it as a child. And did she decide that I wasn’t going to get it?

Oh and - will everyone will - catch my train of thoughts or am I going to get a phantom, writing about a mosquito named anopheles?

Okay, and when the knights had to get back home when the joust was cancelled Kharzahreh went on his four and started to lick the laptop’s screen while his young wife lashed him with an islamically blessed whip and in this way they jumped from the 13^th century into the 21st century.

The Kharzahreh’s aims and objectives became to help other incarcerated knights on donkeys to turn from having been journalists to becoming future presidents. And the more banal their speech the more he identified with them.

And it was in this way that the Kharzahreh on his donkey remained a forbidden flower of Abadan, while Oleander of the Mediterranean on his white horse vanished with his temptation into the horizon of the sea the day my mother died on the 5^th July, 1999.

Meanwhile the snoring sound coming from one of the rooms has been going on harmoniously with the waves hitting the shore; it must be Niko rather than Rhea.

A cat of many colours is now hanging around. And this oleander looks presently so complete that it cannot possibly be touched.

And the moon shines through the tamarisk tree’s leaves.