“it’s another cover band”

I’ve been rolling this one over in my mind for some time.  Well, yeah, since I got here and started to seek out authentic experiences.  

I’ve had quite a few.  I’ve eaten real shawarma and stuffed grape leaves along with my egg rolls.  The curry is always hot hot hot.  Had a great time discovering that biryani rice and chicken is a staple in so many places.  Vegetable korma is easily come by.

Beyond food I’ve had a chance to see bellydancing, gone biking and 4-by-4ing  in the desert, rode a camel (for about five minutes), witnessed hothouse cucumber farming, had my petrol refilled at filling stations built to look like old forts, received a gift of a lovely abaya, had a picture drawn of me in burqa by my students (as close as I believe I will ever get) and smoked (almost said “smoken”...shouldn’t it be smoken?!) plenty of shisha while sipping my chai in my flower-lined oasis town, where stone fountains pour forth the sustenance of life.

Get my theme?  If I'm being too vague, let me be clear.  Nothing is from here.  EVERYTHING is from somewhere else.

Okay, so I realize I live in a country that is the same age as I am.  I certainly don’t claim to be fully realized, and although I have my baggage (as light as I try to travel), I don’t have nearly as much of a split personality as a newly-forming country does.  As old as it is, it is also brand, spankin’ new.  And heck, even the old stuff is bedouin.  It’s a mobile culture fed by an ancient spice route.  Even the old is borrowed and adopted.

So, when you get here, you do all your obligatory touristy things, until you find people who know the country who can show you some real life.  Usually in another country. You travel.  Oman.  Thailand.  Sri Lanka.  Jordan and its neighbor.  India.  Bahrain.  Greece.  Egypt.  Nepal.  Kenya.  Lebanon.  Some of the many places that are easily accessed from here.  For authentic experience.

(It reminds me of a dream I had long ago, inside a mountain at a waiting station, where every time you stepped through the liquid-like nothingness, you created a brand new experience, a brand new learning...and yet, there was always the station...)

Meanwhile, back in the Emirates, you are dealing with all of these different places at once.  Saturation in one culture isn't really available, so for me, I didn’t experience the culture shock people talk about when they talk about culture shock.  In fact, I was a little disappointed that if I really wanted to, I could go to Burger King or Starbucks as easily as a Lebanese restaurant.  There is comfort to be had.  I can even indulge in salt ‘n’ vinegars with cottage cheese (hey now, don’t knock it until you try it).

After you get over the thrill of the newness, you begin to differentiate between cultures.  People’s dress, driving styles (yes, I can identify a Pakistani driver from an Emirati from a western driver within seconds before even seeing the person). You sense the differences, you know?  

And then...and then, it’s about the right time to start missing the familiar, even if you haven’t had too much of a shocking experience from the start.  You seek out the expats, surprising yourself with how familiar they all seem.  You start to find places with western music and places where you might indulge in a Corona (or Patron, when you’re really  missing home).  You start to go to music shows.  Most of which you really wouldn’t want to go to back home at all.  (I’ve been so torn...should I or shouldn’t I go to Snoop Dogg?  Do I even know one of his songs at all?) It’s about the kinship, though, and certainly not about the music.  

That must be what the music industry here is thinking.  All these expats.  Let’s give ‘em a little something so they stick around and work for awhile. 

The other weekend, I went to Abu Dhabi to visit a friend.  A group of us were planning to go to a jazz bar.  Jazz bar?!  Fantastic!  Right?  My dear Billie.  Or Sade.  A little Django.  Morphine, that would be my ideal.  Can’t wait...

What we got, was a dance-pop band.  A dance-pop...cover...band.  Another cover band, who played more of the shallow stuff the only English radio stations here ever play. The only English music you ever hear.  The band had good singers, we all agreed.  Apparently the bassist and the guitarist weren’t even plugged in.  Oops.  Jazz, (but apparently not pop) is a little challenging without actual instruments...Oh well, it was a ton of fun.  Thanks to the great company and the gin and tonics...and the tequila shot.  

There is a major entertainment promotion company here that has the monopoly on bringing in music from the west.  There is a minor importer of musak for hotel lobbies and malls.  All of it really shallow, top 40 stuff that passes in name only as music.  Okay, that’s a little harsh, but I’m on a roll. (I do like the Christmas tunes during Eid in the hotels.  How can you not, if you are a lover, or even a mild liker, of irony?)  

I’ve learned to like genres I never gave a moment to before.  (Yes, even the club can’t handle me now, here in this concrete jungle where dreams are made of.  In fact, I have a feeling tonight is gonna be a good, good night.)  I’m actually sad I missed the outrageously suggestive Filipina salsa singer girls before they were replaced at a local hotel.  (Damn, I heard that was really a spectacle not to be missed.)  Lately, I am entirely too grateful when my students pick the Spongebob song as their reward for a great day, for chrissake! (That horrific stint at the Mariott, for those who know, was worth something after all.) Thank goodness for a moment of WOMAD (world’s most famous world music festival.)  I was so sick, but I needed real music, I tell ya, as much as I needed medicine.  (Still heartbroken that I missed Jimmy Cliff.)

Being the music junky that I am, I am jonesing in a major way for some authentic singer-songwriter to come to sing to me about all of my innermost philosophical observations, or for some cowboy punk band to scream my big “YES!” anthem, or geez, even for someone to cover really, really good music.  With actual instruments.  This place is crying, bawling loudly for some authenticity.  And in the order of urgency, I hope that it comes in the form of an actual saxophone.  A classical guitar.  An oud would be divine.  Heck, I’ll take anything.  A penny-whistle. A kazoo.  There’s a spoon on the table here...

Well, you know, maybe it’s time to think about how I could be proactive.  Maybe I have found my real-life location for the great supper club that lives in my mind.  You know the one, with the potted palm trees and waiters in white tuxedos and brilliantined hair, a live big band, a dance floor, me in evening gown and feather boa, step stool to the top of the piano...  Or maybe it’s time to break out of my shell and onto the karaoke stage.  (“SU mer TIIIIIIme....and the livin’ is eeeeesaaayyyy...”) Maybe that, too.  (“yyyoooourrrrrr DADdy’s rich!   And yo’ maamaaaahzzzz goodlookinnnnnn, so hushhhhhhhhh little baybehhhhhh, don’t you cryyyyyyyyyy....)  ahem.

Until then, I have my itunes and KXCI, Tucson’s fabulous community radio station tuned in on my iphone.  (Interesting observation: Indian drivers in particular seem to find the habit of singing and dancing in your car a rather odd, yet amusing practice.) In so many ways, traveling sure wasn’t as easy as this even 10 years ago.  I almost feel guilty for importing my own authenticity.  But hey, it IS, after all, the way of the locals!

Happy traiiiiiils to youuuuuu...