An Englishman in Copenhagen
No, I’m not having an existential crisis.
I heard Why? in a record shop a couple of weeks ago and I haven’t stopped listening to his album, Elephant Eyelash, since.
Here’s the video to Rubber traits, one of the best songs from the album.
I know most of you probably don’t come here for my music recommendations (in fact I don’t really know why you come, it would be interesting to find out what you like best about the blog) but I hope I’ve put some of you onto some good bands.
We had a party on Friday night.
I’m not sure our little flat was designed to accommodate so many people but it did us proud.
There were no complaints from the neighbours either which was a relief, given that we can hear the TV belonging to the people upstairs and the snores of the people next door.
Have a look at the pics here.
I don’t normally post links to news stories but this one was so good, I had to share it.
Apparently, several Japanese tourists in Paris are hospitalised every year when their ‘expectations’ of the city don’t match the reality.
In other words, the frogs are so bloody rude that it literally drives people insane.
I was out with a friend last week and she took me to a little cafe which doubled as a record shop.
I don’t own a record player but it was good to have a browse.
Anyway, my friend treated herself to an album of Ethiopian jazz fusion.
Which is possibly the most pretentious sentence I’ve ever written.
Anyway, if you’ve seen Broken Flowers you might recognise this lovely piece of music by Mulatu Astatke, which just happened to be on my friend’s album.
To be listened to while staring disaffectedly out your window and pondering life’s mysteries.
Why are Sundays so painfully depressing?
I once read an article by a sociologist or a social psychologist or an anthro-socio-something-or-other about this very matter.
He had some theories but I can’t remember what they were.
As far as I recall, though, he actually had some pretty conclusive evidence which showed that suicide attempts increased on Sundays.
It’s a bit too predictable to point to the imminent arrival of another week of wage-slavery as the reason for people’s black moods.
But how else can we explain it?
Is there some vague collective guilt at the fact that we now routinely ignore the day’s religious obligations?
My girlfriend vehemently disagrees with me on this. To her, Sunday is a day full of possibilities.
She looks forward to long autumnal walks, drinking coffee at a cosy cafe, snuggling up on the sofa or visiting a museum.
I enjoy all of these things but, to me, doing them on a Sunday is always accompanied with a vague feeling of dread.
Where Fridays seem alive with possibilities, Sundays feel laboured and funereal.
I just want to curl up and wait for the day to pass!
It’s frustrating because, come Saturday evening, I’m already dreading another bout of Sunday blues.
I remember one particular Sunday from my childhood which might go some way to explaining my negativity towards the day.
When I was around 10, my parents thought it was a good idea if I had some self-defence lessons and so I started going to karate at the Town Hall.
The lessons took place every Sunday and as far as I recall, I quite enjoyed them.
My dad would come and pick me up and, if we were quick enough, we always made it home in time for my favourite TV show – The Little Princess. (Before you ask, no, I’m not gay. Though maybe it was a close-run thing.)
One Sunday we came home and, to my horror, it wasn’t on.
Had we missed it? Had the series finished? What had become of my beloved little princess?
I have absolutely no idea.
All I remember is the crushing disappointment of that moment.
Sundays would never be the same again.
Given that Cafes and Bars is a category on my blog, I’ve decided that I should actually try and write about some.
To that end I’ve been spending my Sundays wandering around Norrebro in search of some nice places to write about.
For the past few weeks, these walks have taken me down Skt Hans Gade towards Sortedam Dossering and the lakes.
It’s a nice part of town. Antique stores jostle with boutiques while nearby Skt Hans Torv and Elmegade heave with the local trendies.
Cafe Gavlen (which I think means the Gable Cafe) is a cosy neighbourhood place with a French bistro feel.
I walked in and was greeted with the customary wall of smoke. It never ceases to amaze me how many Danes smoke.
It is almost as if that in paying so much tax they feel obliged to smoke themselves to death in order to recoup some of their outlay in hospital treatment.
Anyway, my first impressions were good. The clientele was pretty eclectic (well-heeled older ladies, a father and daughter and the obligatory crowd of hungover 20-somethings still with the fug of a Saturday night thick around them). Brunch was in full-flow but it wasn’t hectic.
We found a couple of leather armchairs in the corner and sat back and leafed through the free mags.
I noticed a TV in the corner and I expect they show footy in the evenings.
Sometimes it’s difficult to really tell why one cafe stands out from any other. Copenhagen is blessed with dozens of cosy little places like this, after all.
I guess it’s just a feeling at the end of the day, your personal sensibilities dimly agreeing with the sensory data.
Or something.
Where: Ryesgade 1, Norrebro
Website: Cafe Gavlen
This is kind of a repost from my last blog but it’s so good I wanted to show it again.
I hate you forever is a lovely song by a French band called Domotic.
It’s a treasure trove of a website, so have fun.
And while I’m on, here’s something from a band called Asobi Seksu which you might like.
If not, well, tough titties.
Work sent me to a meeting today at an IT consultancy out in the suburbs.
My taxi driver arrived in his gleaming Mercedes. I got in, leaned back on the black leather seats, and started to feel like somebody important.
I think it’s the first time I’ve actually been inside a car in Copenhagen and it really helps you see the city in a new light.
Cycling is the best way to explore and to get from A to B but there is something languorous, decadent almost, about a taxi journey.
We made our way through the city centre down long, wide boulevards I’ve never seen before, past museums I never knew existed, apartment buildings I’d kill to live in.
We passed cyclist after cyclist, their faces as blurred as the spokes on their wheels.
My driver pushed on, out to the motorway, and I felt my mind wander.
How had I arrived at this point in my life? How on earth could I be in a taxi in Copenhagen, on my way to interview a bunch of IT consultants about a project I knew next to nothing about?
I thought of all the people in the world’s important capitals, moving from place to place in taxis, trains and planes, meeting with one another, making small-talk, doing business, earning money, spending money.
I thought of all the people I’d seen in airports and in cabs, clutching briefcases, laptops, selling their expertise, gathering information; now I was inside this world.
My burgeoning sense of being someone, of feeling part of something, reached a crescendo. Life is what you can grab, I thought, and I had finally arrived at the trough!
The cab pulled up at my destination and I gave the driver one of our company’s taxi vouchers and got out.
I started towards the building, and realised, too late, I had forgotten to get the receipt that work had instructed me to remember at all costs.
Oh brave new world…!
Shortly before I left for Copenhagen, I saw a TV programme presented by Michael Palin in which he talks about his passion for the Danish painter, Hammershoi.
I had never heard of him but was struck by some of the paintings shown in the programme.
In several, you are given the most fleeting glimpse of the capital. Rooftops, a street stretching away.
He seemed to be in love with windows, and the sense of what you may or may not see through the windows he paints is what I like best about his work.
He uses muted tones. There is a lot of grey and the feeling you have is of a sepia world on the cusp of modernity.
When I move around the city, everything is windows. The streets, almost uniform in pseudo neo-classicism, seem to lull you into a sense of controlled tranquillity.
Windows stretch up and along, symmetrical.
But I don’t have a sense of what I am looking at. There is order and regularity but it’s cold and clinical.
In Hammershoi’s interiors, the figures he paints are often downcast, they inhabit anonymous corners of anonymous rooms.
The absences in his paintings say a lot about Copenhagen, I think.
Maybe it’s an architectural reflection of the national character.
It is an inscrutable place. Occasionally, hints flicker like the reflection of candle light in the windows, but are quickly extinguished.
As guerilla marketing for a fairly average website goes, this is a pretty fantastic video.
Maybe I can hire someone to do something similar to promote Something Rotten?
Any budding artists out there, feel free to get in touch!
Maybe some footage of me wandering aimlessly round Copenhagen spliced with long tracking shots of beautiful Danish girls on their bikes?
In fact, stuff the footage of me, let’s just go with the Danish girls.
I’m not sure how we’d relate it to my blog but I’ll leave the details to you.
My accountants have told me I can up the marketing budget to about a tenner this month so if you’re looking for your first big break, let’s talk.
I have between 20 and 40 readers, what better way to showcase your work?
Call me. You know it makes sense.
