Ida Maria and the Gainsbourg connection.

I’m diving head first into a dream of fresh lunacy on a night of no writing at all. At best this is what comes out on a stretch of wordless beats at the keyboard. I’d like to use the word typewriter here, it seems like such a warmer, more nostalgic word when it stands beside the cold, sterile Keyboard. But what can I do, we’re no longer in the days of Hemingway now are we. It’s the time of broken hard disks that’s upon us, just wait; your fucker will soon crash too.

Enough of the nonsense, get to the business, stop twitching and get the words going.

Visiting the fortress of Ida Maria is nothing like going to the Norwegian pop oriented meat market displaying fresh but oh so sour meat on retail. The mill that produces music in this country is grinding the corn, but the bread isn’t always that tasty when you slice it up. Ham won’t make the bread better, but mustard may drown the bad taste.

An artist that don’t need to be drowned in mustard or mayonnaise to get the taste-buds going is our, yeah I say our, Ida Maria, born and raised in some nowhere town in Norway called Nesna, far off from the so called hip community and beggar capital Oslo. They do know how to make music elsewhere too.

The moat that surrounds her fortress is filled with attitude and the birds flying over the walls are colorful creatures. The town folks sing-along to “I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked” and on her throne she sits like the evil queen, offering an apple like a fairytale witch. And by God do I let myself slip into that realm of hers, longing to sink my teeth into that apple.

I do want to be naked with her when the town folks sing her song, and aren’t we all “just another guy”? Don’t we all want to be that guy when we hear that song? Well, it’s a song showing how to dress up with a sexy attitude without almost showing “some mo’ pink” like every other female artists out there are doing, fronting the F**k-fantasy concept just to get the shallow flash of the spotlight in their direction. And again, mustard and mayonnaise is not needed here as we speak of Ida Mari.

The next song the troubadour lines up for us on the stage at the market square is Oh My God. Like some acid inspired frenzy he screams the lyrics into the air, spits each word out at you like it’s a chameleon tongue hunting insects. Beside him a fiddler stumps his feet on the stage floor and rips at the stings like the damned thing is trying to escape his cutting bow. But it’s all for fun, Oh yes it is, fun for the madman as the town folks try to analyze the song to death, but there is nothing to understand here folks, just sing along to the words and scream at the end.

From the tower another song crawls down the brick wall like a spider, another song is scratching its claws on the stone wall. Bad Karma is its name and I try to catch it like the little devil was a butterfly instead of this creature sticking its tongue out and smiling like a Joker.

At the end it’s the Homage I appreciate the most. Gainsey, sweet old “Rest in Peace” Gainsey, stains the song with his greasy voice on Cherry Red and I remember, or would like to remember, his escapades with Brigitte Bardot, lying naked on a grand piano in some Paris hotel, fucking, singing, creating, throwing great pieces of music into the air, pieces those tabloid gulls can choke on as they try to stir up yet another fake scandal. IT’S JUST A SONG, god damn it! When Cherry Red enters the Gainsey zone, I flash back to a time and place I’ve never visited but if you saw the movie it is a substitute, if nothing else. Watch it, the man with the nose is hysterical.

One thing is for sure, the castle makes me hungry. I wander inside the dream looking for a place to eat but weirdness comes blending in like watercolor on a blank sheet of paper. A bistro materialize before me and all I can think is; Give me a Rob Zombie on a stick, give me a plate of little kittens swimming in grease, a glass of piss smelling beer and couple of Chinese Baluts to top the dinner off. Boiled embryos inside the eggshell, that’s what I call a treat. The speakers inside the bistro is blasting all my favorite tunes, bare breasted women serve raw meat and the dream ends with the awakening sound of the alarm; The Black Keys’ Next Girl drags me into the post-sleep phase and all I can think is: Whatta fuck was that dream all about? Man, I gotta get some rest.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balut_(egg)