6 posts tagged “summer”
The arrival of warmth and sun in Copenhagen always completely re-introduces the city. I was biking the other day around sunset (8 pm now, and only latening until July), and I realized how pretty this place is. I haven’t been struck by the loveliness of my foster-city in eons, and I think it’s simply because I haven't seen it in six months. It’s been dark, or raining, or cloudy most days, and I’ve been walking around in my Gore-Tex burrito, trying to keep the climate out. The definitive image of winter for me is always the top of my front bike tire, because it’s often too cold or too windy to look straight ahead when I’m on my way somewhere.
It turns out, though, that Copenhagen exists above the first story. And I own clothes that perform more than heat-trapping mummification. And there are colors in this city beyond the gray and sepia. These things only strike me when we finally get all full-spectrumy in the spring.
I’ve been reading ‘Gilead’ by Marilynne Robinson the last few weeks. It’s a slow, dusty kind of book, one that should be read to you by your grandpa in a rocking chair. It starts out
I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren’t very old, as if that settled it. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you’ve had with me, and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don’t laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother’s. It’s a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I’m always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsinged after I’ve suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.
I know, right!?
The book continues in this vein, a dying father writing to his adolescent son, through a few decades of the postwar Christian midwest. I’m not quite finished with it, but I feel a ‘Dancer in the Dark’ caliber moan-and-cry is waiting for me on the last page.
So this has been my spring so far. Long bike rides in the low-watt sun and droning geriat-lit. By the time summer rolls around, the only thing heavier than my mood will be my quadriceps.
This morning I got up early and headed down to the beach. It's the middle of summer here, but New Zealand gets all of its air directly from Antarctica, so it has 30-degree weather with 8-degree wind. This more or less means that you pack your parka and your sunscreen whenever you leave the house.
The beach was whitecappy paradise, and I hung out at a cafe, slowly choked the life out of The Dissertation That Wouldn't Die, and watched kayakers get gust-raped.
Tomorrow I'm off to my favorite new Alps for a surreal summer crispmas. I don't know what proper kiwis do to pageant-up this unholy celebration of a Jewish deity's sketchy birth, but we'll probably end up eating barbecued ham or something.
Due to assorted personal busyness and internet-connection clusterfuckery, I've been out of blogging distance the past few weeks. Updates:
So the last few days here have been in the 80s, which for Denmark is the downright bayou. This, combined with the 11 pm sunsets, means that of the last 48 waking hours, I've spent roughly 47 of them outside. Here's a few pics from the first sprint of Danish summer.
I'm in serious awe of the Roskilde Festival lineup this year. I was already 8th-grade-girl excited, but they just announced 100 more bands yesterday, and now it's getting ridiculous. There hasn't been this much good music in one place since I made mixtapes for my Civic. Check it:
Arcade Fire: Even their sophomore slump is better than like 90 percent of the albums clogging up iTunes
Arctic Monkeys: I don't even like or care about this band, but I'll mention them just to make people jealous
Basement Jaxx: Hey, Americans. You know that throbby shit with empowered female vocalists you hear coming from convertibles in gay neighborhoods? That's this band. It's acceptable for heterosexuals to enjoy this kind of music on more historical continents, and I'm looking forward to seeing my breeder brethren sing along.
Beastie Boys: I'm only going if they promise to do 'Brass Monkey'.
Beirut: This is more or less all we listened to on the Italy trip last year, so hearing it at Roskilde is just going to make me think of hot sun, salty sea, and scorching heartburn.
Bjork: I only make music with grunting and whisper
Camera Obscura: Haven't heard of their songs, but they're constantly compared to other bands I like. Bring it on.
Clipse: Am I the only one who feels really over rap music? Nonetheless, I might go to this one just to watch the Danes squinting at all the slang.
Dizzee Rascal: The man who blessed the world with the line "Guilty, betrayed so innocently / Us natives act immigrantly."
Dune: Four uncomfortably good-looking 17-year-olds from the Danish peninsula. Or possibly The Shire.
Exposions in the Sky: 12-minute long, wordless drum-and-guitar mope ballads. I'm gonna bring a crepe.
Grizzly Bear: So last time I saw this band I ended up talking with them afterwards, and it turns out the bassist is from seriously like half a mile away from me in Seattle. Him: "Yeah, I'm from Everett, around 160th St." Me: "I used to go to your Taco Bell!"
The Killers: Did you know the lead singer's Mormon? I'm checking for long johns...
Klaxons: Another overhyped British band, but whatever. One of them is probably porking Kate Moss (or will be by July), and might have some good between-song anecdotes.
LCD Soundsystem: Yes! Festival's quota of meta: Fulfilled! I imagine the stage setup for this will just be the band in between two giant pairs of ironic quotation-marks.
Machine Head: Why God invented the devil-hand-symbol.
Matmos: Two French dudes who produced a Bjork album. I'm gonna need drugs for this one.
Mika: Juuuuuust in case Basement Jaxx wasn't gay enough.
Moi Caprice: The Danishest band ever. Has anyone even heard of these dudes outside of Scandinavia?
Muse: Hiyo!
My Chemical Romance: I think I've seen this band before. There was an afternoon at a music festival about two years ago. That much I know is true. However, a Jeep, half a bottle of vodka, and a beer garden have Eternal Sunshined away any other memories of that day.
The National: They're from Portland, but I tell everyone they're a Seattle band. Gotta represent Cascadia.
Peter Bjorn & John: Why is every good band from Sweden nowadays? And no, it doesn't make up for Abba.
Queens of the Stone Age: Dave Grohl's modern-day Wings.
Red Hot Chili Peppers: I'm having more and more trouble caring about this band. As Brock put it, "Fuck their new album. It's just gonna be more songs about California." I'll still go, though, if only to see how far away you have to be before you can't see Anthony Kiedis's creepy veins.
Speaker Bite Me: I've never even heard of this band. I just want to convince Laust to go.
Taxi Taxi!: Two 15-year-old Swedish chicks with harps and piano. I saw them play a few weeks ago in Copenhagen, and it was unexpectedly awesome. I have a feeling the audience for them at Roskilde is going to be like 75 percent trenchcoat, though.
Tiesto: You know that song 'Sandstorm' that drove you crazy like five years ago? Well, he didn't do it, but if he could've, he would've.
Trentemoller: The famousest Dane since Hans Christian Anderson and that Bond villian.
The Whitest Boy Alive: I'm trusting Dan's judgment here.
Wilco: The soundtrack to every Clinton-era indie kid's unrequited love. The audience for this is gonna be a bunch of skinny Danish guys crying and carving 'Susan!' into their arms with housekeys.
The Who: It's gonna be weird seeing a troupe of half-mummified Brits singing 'teenage wasteland!' but whatever. This at least gives me an excuse to say "That pinball wizard has such a supple wrist!" all weekend.
Seriously, is there anything in the world that beats Scandinavia in the summertime? Today was the first properly sweaty day of the year, and I spent nearly all of it outside, basking in the low-angle sun and checking out the bare, muscled arms of this country's only decent scenery.
In my continuing effort to be permanently becamera'd, here's a few snaps of Scanda-Saturday:
I didn't mean to capture that poor girl's asscrack, I swear. Anyway, here's some more.
