If This Is Tuesday, It Must Be Miraflores

After passing another night at the old house in the Lince district, I did have an overriding thought. If one ever fancied living in the 1930's this is the place for you. I considered myself lucky that even though there was no hot water, there was still electricity and phone. Forget about cable or Wi-Fi. Imminent demolition does have its disadvantages.

Its a humbling experience to have to not just function but also do it with a smile on your mug, which a majority of Limeños I've met seem to do. This despite quite difficult conditions that would frustrate nine out of ten US urban dwellers. Most of the modest-income folks I've met are kind, helpful and quick with a joke (or a light up your smoke). Especially the cab drivers.

As I mentioned in my last post, these folks putter around in cars of varying makes and conditions either making a living or supplementing a meager income. Deisel-driven desperados. In fact, while watching traffic from the street, you wonder how anyone in Peru makes it past 20 years old. However, to my surprise, sitting inside a cab is a totally different experience. While you still are subjected to all manners of g-forces as you thread your way in and out of lanes, one oddly tends to develop a sort of zen way about it. After your initial stroke-inducing ride, each succeeding one becomes less so. I owe that to watching the driver. Having attained a ninja-like level of defensive driving skills unattainable stateside, it's clear the driver is the road and the road is your driver. I quickly learned to relax, sit back, look out the window and fork over my 6 soles to Obi-Wan.

Today the cab dropped us off at Peru's House of Graft...er, Congress. With the appropriately located Museum of the Inquisition alongside, it was a great place to start our walk that day.

Opting for the Museum of the Inquisition (for a peppy, clear your head, start) we walked in and through this massive wooden entranceway. The inside was quiet which, considering the subject matter, kind of caught me by surprise. Another odd thing was that I had not seen any foreign tourists since arriving in Peru. No sooner had that thought entered my mind when, as luck would have, it a tall young fellow in shorts and clean white sneakers walked in. I love it when things like that happen.

We joined the only other Spanish speaking person there, a sole Chilean woman, for a small three person group. Our guide was this middle age woman who despite her knowledge on the subject, clearly had led one too many groups on tour. She recited her script that with the feigned interest of someone who I'm sure wondered why she ever bothered to spend all those years in school studying for her masters. I totally felt like apologizing.

The information itself was really interesting but the wax exhibits resembled a second-rate version of a Ripleys exhibit. I figured Inquisition + Latin American museum = lots of fun! Alas, the joint was just good when it could have been really great. Apparently my mom told me that when she visited it many years back it was much more lurid and shocking. Which sort of made me pull a double-take and wonder why she wanted to return—with me in tow, no less. We chalked up the toning down thing to efforts to make it more family, or tourist, friendly. Which when you think about it, sort of defeats the purpose of having a museum on this in the first place.

Grabbing gore-hungry mom we then walked across the street to the heavily-guarded congress. Having seen the heavy artillery pulled out on occasion in Manhattan I wasn't too phased to see these guys planted all around the perimeter of the building. What was odd was the intensity of these soldiers. You could just tell these guys were a hair trigger away from spraying the street with an AK-47 if need be. Even hyper-alert is too mild a term to use here.

After the intense staredowns just walking past the building I was surprised to find out we could actually go inside for a guided tour. A quick flash of our IDs got us past the gate and a walk through a 15-year-old metal detector got us in. Just like that. One inside we were met by an affable young chap who clearly was a history buff in training. He knew the most arcane names and dates which, considering the Spanish custom of commonly using middle names, is no small feat. I easily pictured him getting picked on for being the first to name Ricardo Francisco Palma's mother's dog or something like that. His earnestness though was endearing. It was hard not to like the kid. He even volunteered to shoot photos at each room we stopped in. A personal tripod. I just hope he stays positive and doesn't run off to join some ad-hoc Woody Allen-led guerilla group when he realizes the true nature of Peruvian politics.

After the tour, we decided on something to eat and took a walk to a local tavern called Bar Cordano. Located right across from what was the train station building, Bar Cordano is one of those hundred year old places that my mom even remembered eating in her youth as well as her adulthood. Amazingly, it remained untouched. Including the waiter. The fellow was easily in his 70s and shuffled slowly along in the most casual manner. Unbeknownst to me I ordered the house specialty. A ham sandwich topped with shredded, pickled, red onion named Jamón al Dia (Ham of the Day). Needless to say it was incredible. Eschewing the traditional Cusqueño beer, I washed it down with an Inca Cola. The beer can wait.

Since we were so near the Plaza Mayor we hoofed it over there and just took in the grand space. Whenever one sees a photo of Lima, nine out of ten times this is the place you see. Between Macchu Picchu and this Plaza no place is more photographed. And rightly so. With parts dating back to the time of the Spanish conquest in the mid-1500's its stunning in both its impact and history.

So, naturally, this is where you'll find every tourist. And every person trying to separate said tourist from his cash. From going to seeing none to being inundated by them in the space of a few hours was a bit of a shock to say they least. It wasn't long before I found myself taking a photo in front of a stuffed Llama and a criollo dressed like a fake herder. When in Rome...

Actually, what got most of my attention in this part of town was the myriad of fast food and retail stores. All in that "almost-got-that-stateside-look-but-it-wouldn't-be-for-not-trying" look. Like the stores in Tokyo, I'm endlessly fascinated with seeing how other countries appropriate cultures. From the names down to the little figures that they use as corporate iconography. So while tourists were taking photos of ancient cathedrals I'm shooting fast food signs. I received more than my fare share of "loco tourista" looks.

One of the amazing things I witnessed was how much stuff can be piled onto movable carts. Why stop at a cart I figured...just make a suit with tons of clips and waddle down any thoroughfare. But these carts and small news kiosks are everywhere. Japan might have the vending machine thing down to every block but Peru has the flesh and blood equivalent. They even give directions. Although they do look at you funny when you ask for the price of a chocolate bar. No doubt they figure, whats with this cholo, doesn't he know this?

After correcting a quick misstep into a sex-themed shopping gallery we headed to the hip neighborhood, Barranco, to meet the rest of the family for some "anticuchos".

Now anticuchos are tradionally meat skewers made of beef heart. In fact my mom used to make them until I found out what they were and decided to pass on them ever since. Mom thankfully appeased the yanqui in me by making steak kabobs while she and dad continued with the original. To my relief I found that this place not only made original version but also chicken, fish, and veggie too I think. Again, no doubt to appease the tourists who flocked here by the dozens. I opted for chicken.

Well, after a beer and some nudging by my aunt, I was talked into trying a small piece of her heart kabob. I figured, heck, if I'm here I should at least give it a go. It was flavorful and had a strong taste. Much like I remembered eating when I was a kid. Mom wasn't impressed. She said these were older cows and that meant tougher meat. The NY cuts were decidedly softer. That was one bit of clearing up I really didn't need to know.

Dinner (and the day) ended with some sweet potato fritters in syrup called "picarones". Excellent way to close the night. That is, until I was approached by a guy in clown-y drag who acted goofy and then asked for change outside the restaurant. After giving him the patented NY-brush off, I was surprised to suddenly find my aunt swoop down and escort me away. When I asked her what was up she said she figured I needed help. I thanked her but reminded her that I failed to keep a clown with makeup and fake boobs away from me in Lima then by all rights I would most likely be dead in NY by now. Lower East Side, 1985, anyone?

More pix on this link! Last post updated with an additional photo link as well

Nowhere is my Home

Well, not really, but I thought it would be a pithy way to start out this blog entry. New York is obviously my home, and while I was born in New York City, I do have the cultural confusions and paradoxes visited upon most first generation immigrant kids. While my Peruvian parents did a pretty good job Americanizing me, after many years they suddenly had their "I should have had a V-8!" moment. That is, in their haste to integrate me, they had forgotten to teach me much about my heritage. Oops. However, repatriating me to traditional Peruvian ways was harder than they thought. Those awful Spanish cartoons had nothing on Speed Racer, The Impossibles and their ilk. Not only that, I didn't get the music, the culture seemed odd—but the food was good (although some dishes had me shaking my head in disbelief.)

Well, eventually mom and pop gave up and it was only my own unending curiosity that eventually led me back to discovering more about my past. It was a slow process that often confounded me as much as enlightened me. Eventually I reached the unescapable conclusion that I had to visit Peru. Still, I put it off. Eventually, after stalling for several years, a well-timed layoff finally gave me the chance to take the plunge.

This trip was also arranged as way to have my mom not just meet her family, but also work through the final arrangements of a real estate issue involving the family home. Talk about a great way to kill two condors with one stone.

Yes, after about 80 years, the ol' homestead was to be demolished in favor of a new apt building to be built in its place. My job, as Mr. Shutterbug was to document the place. Having never seen the place since I was a child, it seemed like a simple thing and enjoyable project.

Come trip day we arrived at the Lan Chile terminal and began the long wait associated with any sort of international travel nowadays. After the typical security dance ('I SAID take out EVERYTHING!') we were off, just 15 minutes behind our scheduled takeoff time of 11:45pm. Lan is pretty decent airline; clean, polite, reasonably together. Amongst Latin carriers this was akin to taking the Concorde. All was well. I was willing to overlook the hastily taped up tray in front of me in favor of getting fed twice on an overnight flight. I'm flexible.

Arriving in Lima at the break of dawn was an awe inspiring sight. Beautiful peaks gleamed like a Paul Abdul's chompers in the sunlight--only to quickly disappear as we descended into the Lima's well-known (to Peruvians at least) AM mist. After working my way past customs I approached the arrivals gate with pride. Mission completed. The Eagle has landed. Roll out the barrels..etc. Needless to say that feeling quickly vanished after I was approached by about a dozen ad-hoc taxi drivers shilling for fares.

Now Lima (as I'm sure most other Latin cities) has an interesting transport system. I say interesting because as it once was one of the birthplaces of human civilization, I do try to cut it some slack. (Doing brain surgery while the black death was clearing out Europe has to account for something.) Years of military rule, crushing thousand percent inflation, and then the inevitable graft have taken a huge toll on what could have easily been one of the most beautiful South American cities. In fact, Legoland is organized better. Lima's Infrastructure barely holds everything together and that is most evident in the transport system.

Cabs abound. However licensed cabs are but a small part of the picture. Literally anyone with a sign...is a cab driver. Which, as tourist, is convenient as any ride is within $2-6. No tip. However for the average Joe, thats highway robbery. The majority of the populace relies then on "combis" or the larger "micros" which at between .35 cents and 50 cents a trip is a damn good bargain. The catch is it takes hours. And with no predetermined stops along the route, its literally up to you to yell for a stop. I loved watching the "barkers" who hang out the open side door of the mini buses, yelling destinations, as the bus catapults through traffic. I don't find it too difficult to picture one of these hardy little Choo-Choo Charlies getting tossed out, hitting the floor, dusting himself off, and then continuing on his way. Travel writer Bill Bryson had a great description which fits amazingly well here. 'It feels like your inside an arcade game'

Anyway, back at the airport. Luckily my aunt secured a "real" cab earlier and was waiting. In the past tourists were victimized by unlicensed drivers who just drove them off to the end of a pier where their buddies were lurking, ready to make their wallets lighter. Thankfully, this has improved quite a bit, however, it was nice to have someone arrange this part of the journey for us.

The first moment I realized I was not in Kansas anymore was when the cab driver immediately asked me to lock the door and pull up my window. When he saw me taking photos as we drove out of the airport, he asked that I put the camera away until we're well clear of that area. Adding that snatch and runs were not out of the question. I thanked Mad Max with a handful of gruel and quickly stowed my camera away.

The ride to the family home in Lince was not too far away. Located right above the upper class area of San Isidro and Miraflores, it was once smack dab in the center of a middle class area. A class division that really no longer exists. The area by comparison was run down and but there were still pockets of small business and homeowners bravely holding on.

The family home was large as I last remembered it. Stately wood cornices, a garden, a yard, garage, things that any middle class home had. Built in the late 30's, early 40s, by my great uncle, the home was passed on to my mom's family of nine sisters and one brother (poor guy, huh?). In the prevailing years it was the home to a lot of get togethers, weddings, and just general living. However as the years went on and the house was ceded to the remaining relatives, issues arose on what should be done with the house. Some wanted to hold onto it, others wanted to sell it. But, short of taking a buzz saw and separating the place physically into chunks, nothing was ever settled on. Until now.

This was to be the house's last stand as it was to be razed in favor or an apt building where each relative could do as they wish with their stake.

My own memories of the house date back to when I Iast visited it as a child. My grandfather buying me Sublíme Peruvian chocolates, listening as he played music (he was a composer), and just amazed at the size of the house. Which to a kid was impressive. I had to see the house one more time before it was gone.

Upon arriving at the front, it looked just as I pictured it. Old, rickety, dusty, but still with a veneer of stateliness, that the surrounding newer homes did not seem to have. While some of the other homes resembled blocks stacked on top of each other, this place had a spirit. A look of a place where lives were well lived. This was a home...not just a place to sleep.

While I felt a sense of history as my mom and aunt pointed out the various spaces and what had happened here and there, I could not help but feel sad as well. I'm sure my mom must have felt that more intensely. It must have been a grand place in its day. Not even the termites which had bored huge holes in various areas outside could take that away,

After a quick go round we headed off for some food. Peruvian chicken of course! Opting to start with something semi familiar we headed to Pardos which is like the chain chicken master of Peru. But waaaay better than any chain. The West Village has an outlet...the first outside of Lima. I heartily recommend it. Tell them Jeff sent you.

While it was great to eat something familiar it was also nice to eat with four of my aunts. In a family of seven aunts (two passed away) and one uncle (in NYC), Having four of them sitting at one table is not something you tend to forget that quickly.

After the satisfying meal and another wacky taxi ride back to the old home, we met up with one of my cousins who had thoughtfully purchased tickets for a historic cemetery tour....at night.

The tour took place at Presbítero Maestro a famous cemetery where much of Peru's high ranking military dead as well as past presidents were buried. However, it also held the crypts of famous writers, poets, and even children of Japanese/Peruvian decent. But the biggest surprise was that my mom's uncle, who was the builder of the old home, was also interred there. However with the pitch darkness and no idea of where he was...we opted to skip the old guy. Sorry tío!

Getting to the cemetery was odd in that us ticket holders were neatly cued up to take a charted bus to the site. Why we didn't meet there I had no idea. Maybe to catch some pissed off spirits off-guard?

Once we took off, the old 50's bus amusingly cranked and wheezed its way through the city streets. The driver arm wresting the gear shifter all the way. After running a few red lights, were there. What was funny was that while this was a historic tour, there were a large percentage of HS age kids there. And not chaperoned mind you, but on their own accord. I highly suspected they saw the tour as a Skooby Doo adventure and jumped at the chance to give the girls some chills. Sure enough a short while into the tour I hear one chap trying to get his girl to walk down am unlit tomb area. The response was not only predictable, but universal: "Ayyy, noooo!"

The tour director was an amazing fellow. Not only did he have a through knowledge of the historical figures but, as the best guides can do, was able to make you relate to them. And let me tell you, there's nothing like hearing a tale of sadness, woe or bravado delivered in Spanish. His passion was also inflected with piousness and sincerity which even made the more religious of the attendees cross themselves and whisper "May god bless them". It was a stunning display of respect and love of a subject. Something Shaggy teasing the girls in the back missed out on. Doofus.

More pix here!

Hanging with The Alligator Man

The news of Alex Chilton's death this past Wednesday came as a huge surprise to many, arriving as swiftly as a sweltering summer thunderstorm and leaving in its wake a collective shock throughout the semi-geeky, underground music world. As many have stated over the past several days, the man that melded pathos with gorgeous harmonies will no doubt be missed. If not just for his legacy but for the tenuous hope that you can carve out a successful creative career and still be fiercely dedicated to carving out your own path. In fact, the most eloquent and touching eulogy of them all was written by his close friend Paul Westerberg in the NY Times Op-Ed section the Sunday following his passing.

Chilton was a faceless entity to me until 1984. At that time I was fervently involved in the sixties garage punk scene in NYC and hightailing it to many performances all over lower Manhattan. So, when one of the city's seminal garage bands, The Vipers, were slated to play at Irving Plaza, there was no doubt in my mind I was to find myself there. It was a big show for the band. Having honed their act at a tiny club by FIT called The Dive, they now found themselves headlining this immense venue.

Upon entering the main hall, I came upon the opening band just starting their set. The songs were unfamiliar and when I asked someone who it was, they mentioned that it was the guy who sang "The Letter". Having that as a reference point I figured he was an oldies act, sort of apropo for a night consisting of 60s themed music. Camera in hand, I took a few shaky photos of the lead singer and watched. The more I heard, the less I understood how he fit into the whole picture. It was definitely a confusing yet interesting experience. He did close with "The Letter" though.

Fast forward about three years and I'm seriously in the midst of my Paul Westerberg/Replacements worshipping period, having been baptized by a show at CBGBs in 1984, The Mats (as us überfans called 'em) summed up everything my young self had experienced up to that point in my life. Anger, sadness, despair, hope....all in a compact 3 minute song. So, by the time 1987's "Pleased To Meet Me" came out, us die hards were all chomping at the bit for some more sonic autobiography.

It was around this time my fellow Mats buddy Lisa Papania convinced me to go see an Alex Chilton show. Since the Mats sang about him on "Pleased To Meet Me"...then he MUST be good, the logic went.

So we headed to The Knitting Factory (on Houston St at that time) and bought tickets for the early set of Alex's show. High Priest had just come out and Chilton was doing a 4-night stint to promote it, two sets each night. The opening band were The Gories, who I was later to find out were produced by Alex. Already fully familiar with the punkier aspects of garage music, The Gories proceeded to deliver a noisy, shambolic set that was itself to become what other groups would revere and strive for years later. This guy knows how to pick his openers I thought to myself.

Chilton by comparison was extremely laid back, but, just as interesting. Fussing with the sound, turning down requests, he exuded this nervous energy that sort of kept me wondering what was going to happen next. I started to slowly understand why Westerberg and crew were fascinated by him. Here was a brilliant songwriter, basically screwed by the music business, seemingly turning his back to his sudden indie-cred. Very, uh, Replacements-like. Avoiding anything resembling his pop roots, his set consisted of old standards, R&B covers, jazzy covers and a very small handful of decent, if uninspired, originals. Yet, much like The Mats, flashes of brilliance would eek out in spite of himself. His guitar playing was second to none, and if he wanted to, esoteric jazz chords would fly out of his guitar with ease. We stayed for the second set.

That was the start of a long and amazing journey following the man. After that day Lisa and I caught the next night, and the next. On Chilton's second trip through the city that same year we returned as well. We ended up catching him at every gig in NY and Hoboken for the next several years. Even bass player Ron Easley once mentioned "Oh, its these guys again" when he saw us at one show. But, unlike other fans, we never approached Chilton or asked for his autograph. We didn't want to become his buddy...we just wanted to hear him play. If Lisa and I happened to catch a bad show, instead of lamenting it, we'd stick around for the next set. Sure enough, nine times out of ten it would be better.

Now one could argue that his lack of professionalism was deplorable. A slap in the face of people paying good money to see him. True, but knowing his background of record label letdowns, lost opportunities, and shattered expectations (all before his mid-twenties!) it wasn't too difficult to see how this came about. Being "professional" not only didn't work for him, but was also a sure ticket to misery. Take him or leave him...your choice.

When you see someone perform over and over again you also tend to see nuances of their personality emerge. It's very easy to write off Chilton as jaded, surly and difficult. Which I am sure he was. Regardless, small things stick out in my mind about him. Like how once at The Knitting Factory, a music collector friend (and sometime roadie) Joey Decurzio made Alex come to him for a light instead of the other way around. Hilariously, the people around me were aghast...but "Al", as Joey called him, took it in stride...even thanked him. No doubt because Joe treated him like any other guy.

Another time a solo show was in danger of being cancelled because of a water break in the vicinity of The Knitting Factory (now in the Leonard St. location). When I walked into the club there were only candles lighting the interior since the power was out. I felt like I walked onto the set of "Interview with a Vampire". As I stood around with a handful of hopeful fans, Alex came out and invited everyone into the candle-lit main room. He placed a stool in the middle of the floor and, acoustic in hand, asked for requests. Laughing when he could not remember certain "classic" Big Star songs, he did a short 7-song set and thanked the 30 or so of us for coming. Then, to my surprise, we had our admission refunded to us.

In another instance, I arrived early for a show at Fez, located underneath the Time restaurant in the East Village. Having never been there I wandered around the upstairs eatery before someone took pity on me and informed me the performance space was downstairs. Since the doors weren't open yet I was told to come back. As I was leaving I turned the corner and ran into Alex Chilton trying to open a locked side door, beat-up guitar case in hand. He sees me and asks me me how to get in. I told him I had to figure it out as well and showed him the entrance. Then, taking a page from Joey, I said "Oh, Al, what time are you going on? They wouldn't tell me". He stopped, thought carefully about it, and told me he was sorry because he also was in the dark about it. I thanked him anyway and we went our separate ways.

Personal interactions like that filled out my portrait of the person many were all too happy to write off for decades.

Musically, surprises also abounded. Like suddenly deciding to kick out a frantic version of Warren Smith's rockabilly classic, "Ubangi Stomp", another night, the Stones' "Brown Sugar" (with an audience member on guitar), and then one particularly memorable guest spot.

In November of 1987 a Replacements gig coincided with a Chilton show in NJ. Lisa and I naturally bought tickets for both. As soon as the Mats show ended at the Beacon theater we made a beeline for the tiny stage of Maxwells in Hoboken. I still remember Lisa coming up and saying excitedly "He's here, he's here" meaning Mr. Westerberg. Sure enough that night we were all treated to a fantastic version of "Little GTO" with Paul sitting in.

Near the tail end of Chilton's solo tours I lost touch with Lisa but still continued to attend the shows, running into other familiar faces from show to show. When his 60s soul/pop group The Box Tops announced a reunion, I was elated but also a little skeptical, having seen Chilton's mercurial ways test the patience of even the most seasoned session musicians. I wondered how he would fare with his former bandmates. To my surprise The Box Tops shows were among the most enjoyable gigs I ever saw. Chilton was smiling and genuinely happy to revisit this part of his past. If he had ghosts of the past haunting him from that period, they seemed to have been finally exorcised.

Around the summer of 2001, the city sponsored a summer music festival downtown that offered lunchtime music for the financial crowd. To my surprise The Box Tops were slated to play one afternoon. Having a FT job uptown though sort of left me wondering how to finagle my way into seeing this show. Finally, the day before the show I told my boss I had an urgent "appointment" and might be gone for a couple of hours that afternoon. The ruse worked and the next day I found myself downtown — at the World Trade Center Plaza. The gig was fantastic and as I looked over the towers looming over the sun drenched stage I could not help but feel this was a great, great, day. All that would change just a few weeks later.

By the time the Big Star gigs came around the idea of an intimate Chilton solo gig was less and less likely to happen. The tradeoff though was, we did get a chance to hear those classic old songs once again. Except for "In The Street", and even less frequently, "September Gurls", none of the other Big Star tunes were ever performed by him when I saw him solo...at least in NY.

The last time I saw Chilton was November 2009 when Big Star made an appearance in NYC. The price was a hefty $35. A far cry from the $10 sets at the old Knitting Factory 23 years ago. Once my friend Paul and I were inside the large, ornate, Masonic Temple in Fort Greene, we shimmied our way to a good viewing spot. The immense crowds made it difficult to get close, but again, the music was what we were here for.

As soon as the band started you could tell this was going to be a special night. It was a few years since Big Star last played in NY and the anticipation of the fans helped percolate a good atmosphere. As those old familiar tunes washed over me once again, it was as if I was hearing them for the first time. That small intangible thrill you get when something deeply personal resonates was still there. And from the looks of the crowd, I was not alone. Apparently, the band felt it, too, as a haunting, passionate "Daisy Glaze" delivered by former Posie Ken Stringfellow all but confirmed it. It actually earned him a Chilton smile of approval. Impressive.

The closing one song encore (Todd Rundgren's "S-L-U-T") was adequate but the lights quickly went up as soon it was over. Alex was done. As we made our way out we passed a sweaty Jody Stephens standing by the exit, personally thanking the audience for coming. No doubt feeling a little guilty. As a Chilton fan, I'd experienced this before, no surprises here. I was just happy to have been transported to pop nirvana for that short while. Besides, I figured they'd be back for another show soon anyway....