Pontification

It’s snowing in London. That sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. I thought it only snows in Europe when you’re headed toward a ski resort, but guess I was wrong. Been a minute since I blogged, bet you were thinking I’d settled into a proper English lifestyle, dating some third-rate party girl, gracing page six of News Of The World every couple weeks, and didn’t have much time for online love. You were wrong. It’s still the same old Julian, working, writing, watching movies, waiting for who knows what. The more I live here, the more I am aware of the fickleness that is London. Life here reflects the weather. One minute it’s all doom and gloom, Heavens brooding like an angry kid, and then the Sun blasts through, drowning everything. At times I feel like a cockroach running for the drain when the apartment lights get flicked. People are prone to strange emotional outbursts here, unpredictability characterizes this town. I walk down the street trailing young thugs caught up in iPods, intermittently vouging while rapping, urban whirling dervishes. Eastern European construction workers bump into me constantly. I finally realized they aren’t trying to start trouble, that’s just how they walk, I might as well be a lamppost. Last week I saw a car towing another car with a yellow rope. It’s surreal, medieval and magical all at once. Something about how all the women wear boots makes me scared, like they’re prepared for something I’m not. Next week I’ll be back in New York and that’s a good thing. A weeklong reprieve will put my nostalgia into perspective. Maybe hot dog vendors don’t sing in tune. Maybe cabbies aren’t omniscient oracles. Maybe pretty city girls don’t grow on bars. I feel like Atreyu standing on the edge of a great adventure. Could be cause I’m working on a cover of The Never Ending Story by Limahl. I’m easily influenced.

Un Jour A Paris

I’m back on the Eurostar, my second trip in little more than twenty-four hours (as per my newsletter if you get it – I know the sequence of these things can be confusing, like looking at timeline plot holes in Back To The Future II). On the way down to Paris, I was facing forward, but now I’m flying backwards through the French countryside. My life this past year has been like watching a movie on super speed rewind or fast-forward, can’t tell which direction. I can’t tell if I’ve experienced it all before or if it’s brand new, not unlike Guy Pierce in Memento, The Time Machine, or 60% of characters he plays. There are landmarks – Eiffel Tower means Paris, Big Ben means London, Katz’s Delicatessen means New York, the inside of a car means L.A. and pretty much everywhere else (for those of you keeping track that’s 5 countries, more than 15 states, 4 centers of culture, and something like 8 recording studios). I could have stayed in Paris till Tuesday with my friend Florence Curet, the queen of English-to-French subtitles (she translated Raiders Of The Lost Ark into French for chrissake). But I felt an urgency to get back to London, like I left the hot pot on. This urgency led to a near breakdown on an A&R man’s phone in the Virgin France office. My emotions are like a time bomb – yours would be too if you’d dealt with customs officers as much as I have. Yesterday on the whole was a bit of a nightmare: got booted from the Sebastian Tellier show @ the Pompidou Centre for being American, and was denied a Louis Vitton Fashion Week party. It’s enough to make a baby Rockstar cry. Thank god for Florence. She took me out, got me a belly fully of wine, and treated me this morning to a breakfast complete with Croissants and Eggs cooked in this bizarre French way. The bread is so good in Paris, it tastes like water. I know that sounds strange but think about it. Have to say I’m relived to be headed home. Sleeping in my own bed is one of few luxuries I have (please don’t think dirty thoughts), along with pouring myself into Facebook. I can’t stop, I dunno what’s wrong with me. My mind craves mindlessness. I am determined to review every movie I’ve ever seen on this frickin’ Flixster thing, as if watching all these movies wasn’t bad enough. Warning: under no circumstances are you to go see Jumper with Hayden Christiansen and Samuel L. Jackson! I liken it to operating heavy machinery on anti-psychotics. It’s all fun and games till someone loses their brain, which is very much what I’m after these days.

Meet The Band

Oh yes it’s check-in time from Starbucks. I’ve been to Ireland and traversed much of the British Island since I last wrote, only to find myself smack in the same seat, drinking the same bad coffee. One difference this time being I have an NYC original sitting across from me – Mr. Ari Hest. Ari’s been kind enough to visit me here in London, more than I can say for you lot. I made my record company fly him out on account of my terrible loneliness, which you’ve noted in my blogs. Mr. Hest has been my traveling companion the past few days, accompanying me on a karaoke adventure this past Friday, along with the rest of EMI/Angel, my label. It’s gratifying to know no one at my label can sing as well as me, even more assurance I’ll have a job at year’s end. Ari also rode down to Portsmouth last night for my last show on the Amy MacDonald tour, which has been an absolute blast - she’s a gem that Scottish lass! Portsmouth is a funny town, feels like an old seaside resort from 1920’s. I imagined myself strolling down the boardwalk, side by side with beanpole gentleman in striped bathing costumes, twirling their curlicue mustaches. I’ve seen a good bit of the UK this past fortnight: Newcastle, Sheffield, Liverpool, Exeter, Bristol, even Wolverhampton. It’s completely different yet surprisingly similar to touring the States, only with shorter drives. I’ve been in the company of beautiful cavalry, my brand new UK band. Three completely distinct characters I’ve been wandering the British countryside with in a splitter, which I call a van. Let’s meet them:

John Calvert a.k.a. Major Singon Smythe: John is a beautiful lad, proper gentleman, and a bass wizard moonlighting for Roison Murphy and yours truly. He’s London born and raised, skinny like a whip with the metabolism of arachnid. He can eat anything anytime of day and I applaud him for it. He‘s also had the same sneakers for 6 years, which he thinks is a sign of genius. He’s been my guide to British culture, introducing me to it’s many wonders such as Delia Smith and Alan Partridge.

Sam “Blue” Agard: Sam is a curious fellow, member of Corrine Baliey Rae’s band, and a monster of a drummer, or he likes to refer to himself, “head of the percussion department”. He’s obsessed with PSP, Nando’s (a gourmet fast-food chicken joint) and Tango (kind of like Tang). His favorite band is Mint Condition and he insists on putting absurd polyrhythmic fills in my songs. He’s also one of the best drummers I’ve ever played with. Sam brought his two kids to our show last night, Rishon and Kieran. They are the most beautiful things I’ve seen in a long time, have made me give up my vow of never to speaking to children again, as per my years as a Pre-K Gym teacher.

Francois Pare a.k.a. The Canadian: Francois is the first Canadian I’ve toured with, hopefully not the last. Believe it or not, they are just like Americans. If I can judge by Francois, they also love Burger King, KFC, and the band Toto. Francois is a front of house god, choosing the work me after a year long stint with the Hoosiers. We both agree on a love of Phil Collins and are working to re-create the vibe of “Something In The Air Tonight” for my live show. He refuses to call me buddy, for which I respect him greatly.

So yeah, that’s my crew. Next time yerr at a show, come say hi and share some of these personal details with them. They will welcome you with open arms. They will also beat me later on in the van, er splitter.

What's a Super Bowl?

Yes ladies and gentleman, I’m in a foreign country all right. This time last year I was downing chicken wings and gulping draft beer on 33rd and 8th with birthday boy Tommy Merrill, eagerly awaiting each mind-blowing commercial. Now I’m writing you from a Starbucks in Queens Park, wearing a scarf and sipping espresso. Times have indeed changed. I know I’ve been bad at keeping in touch, please don’t think I’m one of those lousy boyfriends (even though, in truth, I am). This past month was a hectic one: finishing the record here in London, doing photo shoots, planning a music video, renting an apartment, err… flat, finding a band, and perfecting my Rockstar pout. From all accounts I have arrived. I walk into rehearsal rooms now to find my gear setup. A far cry from lugging 88 keys up 4 flights of stairs, stepping over sleeping derelicts along the way. Some things are the same. I feel as confused and bewildered as ever, maybe even more so. Crossing the street is a dangerous proposition here, pedestrian etiquette nonexistent. People constantly step on your heels in overcrowded bars. And I’ve seen enough asymmetrical haircuts to last a lifetime. Women are pretty much the same – moody, brooding, and way more interesting than men on the whole. But I’ve made mates here for sure, one of which is my fellow Friday night solider Miles Christie: suave Ear/Nose/and Throat man by day, voracious master of ceremonies by night. He’s a great companion to have in London, knows every pub, club, and hotspot like the hair on his chin. I keep telling him to start a series of travel books, setup a nightlife information booth or something. Rolling with Miles is like having a walking, talking copy of Time Out at your side. You should definitely look him up when you come to town, he’s well up for it. Am I having a good time you ask? I guess. It can be rough and lonely, but so can NYC. I’m starting to think I’d be rough and lonely wherever I am, even in friendly places like Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Indianapolis. Plus rough and lonely makes for good songs. God forbid I get settled and satisfied. What the hell would I have to look forward to then?

End Of An Era

Here am I again at my folks place with the Christmas blues, feet on a footstool in the living room, playing with the Siberian cats, those miniature tigers from eastern Europe. Been poking them with a bamboo cane for half an hour and they seem to enjoy it. Cats are strange creatures indeed. The holidays are a rough time. I always get depressed. Something about glossy, phony music being pumped out on to empty city streets makes me sad. Maybe it’s a suppressed childhood memory of a Salvation Army Santa spanking my ass, but more likely a byproduct of being part of a Jewish family that doesn’t celebrate anything. I get so bored! My only defense is movies – Seen 4 in the past 72 hours, and that’s only in theater, not including DVDs. This year is a little different. By the end of next week I will no longer be a New Yorker. If you had told me this time last year that I’d be moving to London, on the verge of my greatest adventure yet, leaving behind everyone and everything I know and love (a bit melodramatic, but it makes for good cinema), I wouldn’t have believed you, I couldn’t have believe you. For those of you who don’t know, this past summer I signed a deal with EMI Records in the UK. 2008 is my big shot I guess, though I think every year is my big shot, and at the end of every year I’m proved wrong. How many big shots can you get? If you ask a Zen monk, every day is a big shot, or no shot at all. Before I get too confused, lemme say I’m gonna miss this city so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much. The grid that is Manhattan is forever stamped on my soul and I swear to never lose my NYC twang, no matter how many flats I live in, lifts I enter, fags I smoke, crisps I eat, pubs I drink in, kips I take, etc. Already I feel my loneliness turning to inspiration, these very strange British words making their way into my lyrics. Don’t worry about me kiddos, I’ll be okay, just take care of yourselves. Before you know it, I’ll return triumphant, strutting down the boulevard with a Barnett haircut and skinny jeans. Robert Smith got nothing on this.