Blogging the blues

Posted on May 16, 2007

5


Having received the little flyer from the cutie at the S.O.S. music festival for Blues on the Rocks, I made my way down to the Sakia last Sunday, along with Amnesiac and some of her friends. However, in order to seduce Amn into going thence, I first accompanied her to a showing of a documentary film called “My Denmark: Arab Letters” at an indescribably grubby place called the Cinematic Culture Centre, downtown. I arrived first having been misdirected so many times and walking to and fro so much that I confirmed everyone’s suspicions that I was a Lady of the Night (or Afternoon). A middle-aged man finally pointed me in the direction of a small wood-panelled room fitted with a screen at one end. My entry into the tiny cinema caused an eruption of cat-calls and elbowings from the 20 teenage boys who were the only other occupants of the room, and whose presence manifested itself also in a pervasive smell of layered sweat. Two stylish women in their late thirties followed me in. All of us took one look as the assembled mass of testosterone and proceeded to sit in the first row of seats, various unpleasant epithets issuing from behind us. Eventually one these women, in response to one of their witticisms – “we should have gone to cinema Metro, hehehe” – arose and delivered a ringing diatribe that caused them to gibber apologies. She requested that they produce membership ID (which made me nervous) but she appeared to be bluffing. I was in utter admiration of her authoritativeness – there is no way I can see myself shutting up a horde of lustful adolescents like those. Amnesiac walked in then, but her blonde hair did not elicit a single whimper, so cowed were they. She took one look around the centre and said conclusively: “government!” and sat down. To our astonishment, the young men behaved themselves for the entire film, despite it being in Danish and subtitled in English. However, various middle-aged gentlemen and one so old his hair was yellow made quite a bit of noise. He persisted in exhorting his neighbour to stop making so much noise with his plastic bag, said exhortations far exceeding the plastic bag’s decibel level.

The movie was great by the way. Maybe it was because it had 10 directors, but I’ve never seen so little bullshit surrounding any depiction of Muslims in the west. The people interviewed just talked, and they were moving and open and weren’t trying too hard to get any “messages” across.

Before the blues show started we were all grumbling to each other about how the great bluesmen would be spinning in their graves (or around their walking sticks) like pigs on a spit if they knew that blues were being played somewhere in complete and devastating sobriety. We were forced to settle for a coffee and a chocolate bar each, which we secretly wanted more than a beer.

Shady Ahmed knocked my socks off. He has the charisma, the voice, and the hotness, despite wearing a T-shirt which actually said “Mr. Wrong”. I shouted to Amnesiac “I want to keep him in my pocket and nibble on him like a chicken nugget,” to which she responded “What?! MISH SAM3AKI!”

“He’s a CHICKEN NUGGET!” I screamed. She gave me a look somewhere between puzzlement and disgust and as I could not decide whether she had not heard or hated chicken nuggets, I subsided into silence and enjoyed BB, and Albert, and even Tracy (and I hate her).

However, it proved that even I could be blued out…so after about an hour and a half we took off, even though I had hoped to be given a chance to coo at this Shady and make eyes. Amn firmly decided that a highly vocal and INTENSELY annoying girl behind us was his girlfriend and so off we went to enjoy the more reliable pleasures of shisha.

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