October 2008
Mandalay
Lounge, Oh
Lounge!
Lyrical digression
Do you know you’re beautiful? Yes, you are…
yes, you are…
On that
very fine, if a bit cloudy September day we all went to the Organ Hall, to
listen to Carmina Burana (a cantata by Carl Orff), where a friend of mine had
to perform the baritone part. Of course, in the era of Britney Spears nobody
cares about classics anymore – we prefer smoky clubs where we can shake it a
bit, or, maybe, the fates of couch potatoes are more appealing to us, especially
when there are many interesting things available on HDTV.
Anyway, I’ve hit the
downtown much earlier than all other people in our little group, as a) I hate
being late, and b) I love roaming the city when no one is watching. I ate lunch
at a trendy bar, said hello to the bar manager, then went to wait for my
friends at another trendy bar, bearing the loud and clear title of a lounge
club.
Now, lounge
is a rather ripened and mature tendency dating back to the 1950s and 1960s,
when the so-called “supermarket music” came out for the first time. It is also
a fashionable word to use in glossy magazines, a lucrative industry, and an
entire subculture involving laidback clothing, loosened-up lifestyle (of
course, if one is a rentier or a heir, it’s easy for them to do absolutely
nothing and to refer to themselves to as loungers), and Jose Padilla
compilations in their iPods and sound systems. It’s more or less of a label,
like, say, rockers, Hells Angels, or Secretaries of State (just kidding).
Anyway. Back to the lounge club.
The
atmosphere was nice, if trivial: absolutely uncomfortable white leatherette
couches, low rectangular glass-top tables that made you stoop in a most uncanny
way reminding of Quasimodo, huffy arrogant waitresses (I wondered why, maybe
because they thought they had miraculous careers), red-black-white interior and
a rather decent DJ stand. I won’t tell you what I ate and what I drank, I was
(as I always am) interested in people in the first place. It’s interesting to
live in a small city (may this oxymoron be forgiven to me in such context), and
watch everybody shake hands with everybody, and seem to know each other way too
well.
I saw a young couple enter the room and shake hands with the bartender
and with the deejay, then sitting down and ordering some tea, then I got up as
gracefully as I could on my high heels and totally black and tight outfit, and
went to the DJ to ask whether they could play “Death by Chocolate” by De Phazz
for me. They turned out to be as haughty and watch-me-enjoying-my-miraculous-young-and-carefree-lounge-DJ-career,
and said that they have only ugly De Phazz songs. Now I, as a devoted fan of
the German magikians (reference to Robert Asprin, y’all), said firmly, albeit
kindly, that De Phazz had no ugly songs, and promised to get them “Death by
Chocolate” on a CD-R, as this is an old album and therefore a rarité. Anything for making connections,
but I didn’t keep my promise till now. Maybe that was because Carmina Burana
erased it from my memory.
Lyrical digression
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in
reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In
action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the
world! The paragon of animals! And yet, what is to me this quintessence of
dust!
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
The human
race is famous for inventing arts and crafts out of nothing – we probably took
and assimilated it from the Japanese culture on a global level, and we all know
that the Japanese are famous for their, say, art of untying the shoelaces – “shoelace-do”
and art of beating the cheating husbands with the frying-pan – “frying-pan-jitsu”.
Anyway, jokes apart, we made a fine art out of small talk, rest and relaxation:
that is why we have lounge clubs, lounge areas in airports, and lounge music.
Well, airports are another story – I can’t imagine anyone having a real good
time at Charles de Gaulle, but still, we all need places to emphasize our
smartness and the fact that we are actually so cool that we never hurry. The
art of relaxing also is, as the good old Prince of Denmark said, a mirror held
to the nature, and lounge venues do have lots of mirrors, to reflect, so to
say, the wonderful realms of far niente.
Yes, I
understand, I perfectly understand that successful people need places to show
off their success, but why, please, tell me why all the plasma screens in all
those cafés and clubs are stuck for good with Fashion TV? What is so relaxing
and comforting in watching stalking coat-racks and clothes you know you’ll
never afford, successful as you are? Well, I’m sure some of us can really
afford them, and this discussion of existential uselessness projected to the
fashion industry has no point or meaning whatsoever. And ladies! How can you
truly relax and find your inner goddess, or your inner poise, or your inner whatever,
in a place where all you can see on a TV screen is some perfect body and
perfect, if over-made-up, face? Will you really have a good time? The hell!
You’ll order diet cheesecake instead of something healthy like a big fat
brownie (just kidding, I wanted to suggest hot chocolate), you’ll ask for
aspartame instead of sugar, and you’ll go home or to your next glossy-glittery
party loaded with stress and insecurity. Do you need this? Whoa, stupid
question. And my advice to the bar owners is to change it to Animal Planet or
Discovery. Perfection in wildlife is something we can bear while sipping our
mocha-frappucinos.
And now
from the sublime to the ridiculous… or is it vice-versus? I left that extremely
cool place (after eating some very decent sushi), and went – how ironic – to
Mickey D’s, as I had to wait some more, and I got tired of the stale atmosphere
specific, as I noticed, to expensive eateries. I actually welcomed the change,
as it was warm, and noisy, and full of vivacious young people with their shiny
eyes, loud talking, crazy outfits, and milkshakes in black-nailed hands. I
bought an orange juice – you don’t mess with the stomach ulcer, you know – and
I lost myself in thought and observation of that very lively set.
Now, the
fast-food issue is one big controversial mess, except for those poor African
countries where, I believe, no one would turn down a big juicy hamburger filled
with those wonderful chemical compositions that have virtually obliterated our
spoilt Western papillae. A friend of mine says he’d step over the threshold of
the Mickey D only when the U.S.
army gets out of Iraq U.S. ,
and Iraq
So, that evening I
just sat there, enjoyed my Minute Maid orange juice (full of chemicals as well,
I believe), and watched all the squirming, the buzzing, the giggling – the big
SpringChickVille ant hill. Who cares about lounge cafés with reasonably
$20-priced cappuccinos and people so prim and proper that you instantly have
the feeling that you entered UptightSnobBurg? I’d rather sit under the big
fluorescent M, the beacon of globalization, sip on some of the Chemical
Brothers (usually known as Coke, Fanta, and Sprite), or chemicalized orange
juice (which, for sure, hasn’t been anywhere near a real orange), and watch
those girls, one in bright yellow, the other in black, like a true emo girl,
discussing boyfriend trouble and laughing their cropped capri pants off.
God, I
miss those days when boyfriend trouble was associated with laughter, not with
seven vodka martinis on an empty stomach, a bleak mood, and really bad language
(well, I know Russian, and you haven’t been sworn at if you haven’t been sworn
at in Russian). Lord is my witness, I don’t want to go back to my teens – it’s
a horrible time for an intricate personality, but I’d rather laugh in Mickey D
than cover the market in “fucks” and “shits” at the Penthouse Café. Alas.
Just as
when I was ready to leave, full of nostalgia – well, it was mixed with a good
dose of self-mocking, truth be said, they played this Arash video – Chori
Chori. For those who don’t remember or don’t watch crap on music television,
let me remind: the video plot is all about shooting, bombs, and aggressive people
with obvious Middle Eastern appearance. I snorted into the remains of my
orange-cum-polyvinylchloride juice. I realized globalization was quite an
ironic thing. Talk about Happy Hezbollah Meal.
And then
there it was: the Carmina Burana. And there are no words. This is a true
masterpiece, pure enjoyment for the ears, the mind, the soul, and the social
life – I met really nice people after the concert, when we went backstage to
congratulate our friend the baritone. I even peeked in the men’s dressing room,
but that was a genuinely accidental peek. Feel free to call me a liar. My only
justification is that I was high on a healthy dose of Carl Orff, and it was a
real trip. By the way, the concert was conducted by a woman – this is very rare
in the classic music world, and she was astonishing. Her conducting moves
looked like a dance. May I just say: long live Ms. Ilona Stepan! And that’s
what I call lounge, really.
Still,
there is a je ne sais quoi in lounge
music, especially when you are in love, and listening to dulcet tones, romantic
melodic themes with a soft beat is relevant. I’m not an expert, really. Last
time when I was in love I listened to hard rock. As for the casual fashion,
it’s not a prerogative of the lounge style. So, what is lounge, then? There is
no deep philosophy here. It is pretty much summed up by Timon and Pumbaa:
hakuna matata!
Even if your alarm clock is set for 8:00 AM, even if you work
your ass off to be able to afford going to expensive lounge clubs, you can
still be a lounger. The main thing is to have a flexible mood, and generally to
be able to be in a good mood. I’ve never seen a pining lounger in my entire
life, and I saw a lot of them. So, the good mood is the key, the Café del Mar
is the soundtrack, the Sisley jacket and Dsquared chinos is the wrapping – what
else? The mood?
Yes. The mood. The goal is to relax like there’s no tomorrow,
to relax with all your might, to put all your efforts in the relaxing. Looks
like a job to you? Add a box of Ferrero chocolate liqueurs and do your best to
oversleep the next day. And welcome to the ranks of slackers! Because that’s
all there is, baby.
No comments:
Post a Comment