He’s taking a gorgeous looking Telecaster instead of his Gibson SJ-200 and I think I’m pretty sure which song will follow.

“I haven’t played this guitar for at least 100 years,” he says.
“It was a gift from Laco Lučenič. What a pity he doesn’t see me now, he’d be proud of my virtuosity.”

Good to hear a hint of self-deprecation humor. Well, he has English mother after all. He plays one-chord riff as I expected, then stops and lets the band play the rest — that is Cesta zakázanou rýchlosťou, one of his rare rock driven tunes.

After seeing Miro “Meky” Žbirka for a second time in London, I’ve decided to mention it. Somehow. Besides, I have to count Miro among my influences, surprising as it may be.

His first concert was acoustic without drums/bass. It was great anyway; audience did sing along and everyone enjoyed themselves. Miro has a distinctive voice with enough strength to make his melodies captivating in any scenario.

For his second appearance in London on Friday he brought the whole band as he promised year and half ago, therefore able to play the aforementioned song, which deserves a full electric arrangement.

Now why is the song a core of this article? Is it his best song? I guess not. But if I’d ever have to play live again, I’d be certainly tempted to put this tune into our set now and then. Although more likely the English version — She’s Out of Control. Good work Miro.

It’s getting more and more difficult to categorise music. Once there was jazz, there was rock and there was punk. And others, of course, with their respective names. And if there was something in between, it could be labelled jazz-rock or punk-rock or whatever felt suitable and available. Today, musicians absorb and interpret so many influences that it’s impossible to classify a genre they play. And one has to be really careful not to offend anyone.

— I liked the way you jazzed — said I recently to a certain artist and I meant it. A fair comment, really, thought I.
— It ain’t jazz, dear. It’s our ownstyle.
— Sure it is. But can’t you call it jazz? I guess you can feel a vibey, souly, rhytm’n'bluesy, funky influences in there, so there’s certainly jazzy roots underneath, eh?
— It’s different.
— So what about those standards? Summertime? Sunny?
— You’ve got it all wrong.

I surely do. And I have to be more cautious before I open my whingy mouth next time.

Lately, I find it difficult to watch movies. So I don’t. I wonder if something’s wrong with me or is it filmmakers who have gone dull. And I’ve got a feeling it’s only getting worse.

Thankfully, though I haven’t seen as many movies as originally intended, there’s still something worth talking about.

1. Born Into Shit (2006) (Czech Republic)
Well, not this one, really. It’s advertised as a black comedy about dysfunctional family in suburbia. A hitman father, mum swinging from loving Jesus to loving a lesbian and a son getting his thirteen year old girlfriend pregnant during their first attempt at making love. It is a comedy, no doubt, yet quite superficial, a shallow attempt to combine a style of Ritchie, Tarantino and the likes — with embarrassing results. Fun to watch with friends, when everybody had a few, otherwise hopeless.

2. No Country For Old Men (2007) (USA)
I had to watch the one that snatched the Oscars this year. And I had to see it because of Coen Brothers. Going to see a movie with a clear expectation of an instant classic, being fed by a media craze and a past mastery of Fargo or Big Lebowski, it could have resulted in a disaster. Yet not this time. The Coens brought to life a great story set in enchanting scenery — and one of the most memorable villains of a silver screen, too. Javier Bardem’s Anton Chigurh joins the club of the ultimate anti-heros. For him and him alone, the movie’s worth the praise.

3. Blowup (1966) (UK/Italy/USA) and
4. Zabriskie Point (1970) (USA)
Antonioni. Twice. The first flick of the late Italian director I had a chance to see was Red Desert. I watched it on my own, in the middle of a wintery Australian night. Desolation was all over the place. If I ever needed a shrink, that must had been the time. Since then, I accepted Antonioni as a master of serious thoughts. Seeing other movies, they weren’t intended to be easy to absorb and they were certainly made to be watched over and over as a viewer could apprehend further clues or beauty of his works of art.

Blowup and Zabriskie Point are two of his three English-speaking movies, commissioned and produced by Carlo Ponti. They share few more similarities — they both became cult legends and they portrait young and restless principal characters who take numerous apparently mindless actions in vain, alienated from the rest by one way or another — which is in fact a common theme in Antonioni’s movies. And they seem to be — at times painfully — slow, that is also a recurrent matter in his work.

Blowup was shot in London and follows a story of a photographer who might or might have not taken a photograph of a murder. While this appears to be a major thread, most of the time the protagonist just hangs out or goes about his business as normal. In the end, the actual episode of a potential crime loses its importance altogether as Antonioni shifts his perceiving of reality. What matters?, one may ask when the movie’s over. Being puzzled after Antonioni’s flick is a standard.

Zabriskie Point, shot in California, is even more puzzling and that may be a reason why it was considerably less successful than Blowup. In other words, it was a disastrous flop. Yet today, it is a respected art example. Showing a hippie stealing a plane and hooking up with a occasional secretary along the way, it leaves the crowd asking far more questions than it answers. I guess the only thing we learn is a fate of a bohemian title character — an issue that is commonly left open in art flicks (or great pretenders). Well, this is Antonioni’s way.

I liked both those movies and I can see myself getting back to them at some point, however they’re not too easy to chew. They ask for more time to settle in one’s brain and a final judgement may linger in thin air for ages. Well, if I make up my mind, I may share my thoughts. If I come over any.

As if it mattered, I hear Mr Antonioni swiftly pointing out from around the corner.

I appreciate live music, an experience of being there while the sounds are created and enjoyed by musicians and a crowd alike. I don’t differentiate, one can see me watching Prince or U2 as well as a local jazz band. In fact, I have a strong feeling that I do prefer a local jazz band over anything else.

Having lived in Prague for just a short period, I am not acquainted with a lot of people around but through a lucky coincidence I got to know a lovely young lady called Leona Prokopcová. Leona is a jazz singer and a regular in a downtown jazz venue Agharta.

Seeing Leona on stage is always an occasion — unlike a large number of other musicians, notably those who perform a deeper genre such as jazz — Leona is not afraid to communicate with the audience, poke a joke or tell a story to introduce a song. I guess it’s often the attitude that makes all the difference. Of course, she’s also an impressive singer — hearing her live is an uplifting and stirring event without fail.

Unfortunately, I just cannot get my timing right — I missed her last concert not knowing she was to perform and I’m gonna miss her next one this Saturday as I’m out of town. And I’m seriously worried how many more chances I get to see her as she’s supposedly leaving Prague for Denmark in few months.

So for those of you who have a chance, go see her gig, it’s well worth the time. But if you run into me afterwards, please don’t rave too much, all right? I’m already sorry I’m not gonna be there.

Being insomniac, homeless and unemployed opens unseen opportunities for an everyday man. Or a woman, of course. Amongst them reigns my favourite one — late night shopping.

Shopping as such does not thrill me. How can it? There’s no passion in pushing a supermarket trolley for oneself or — to be more accurate — to push a trolley for one’s mother, girlfriend or girlfriend’s mother. That’s exactly how I remember shopping for some thirty-plus years. Of course, there’s always a bonus of having to avoid collisions with a myriad of other trolleys, ill-mannered kids and then — when the crusade seems to be almost accomplished — there’s a never-ending snail-paced queue to be conquered.

How cool is that? One is sweating or freezing, depending on an air-con settings, can’t wait to get out of there and then the cashier cannot find/scan an item or there’s a dispute about a bill. Or the computer system goes down. Or anything.

On the other hand, there’s a late night shopping. And I do mean late by saying late. ‘Cos in Sydney, many people think a late night shopping is shopping till 8 pm. They’re wrong, obviously. Late night shopping means shopping late at night. Like, let’s say, 3 am (my favourite time). Obviously, one has to live in a larger city and in a proximity of a non-stop shopping centre, sometimes called a hypermarket.

Now, before we move further, let me explain etymology of a hypermarket in short. Once, there were ordinary shops. Then, there were supermarkets; those were selling more or less anything from groceries to toothbrushes. And then, later on, hypermarkets took over. If super means kilo in a marketing newspeak, then hyper stands for mega.

A hypermarket is a place where you can buy almost anything you may need late at night. A fresh apple. A toothbrush. A Milli Vanilli CD. A plasma TV. A bicycle. A new sofa. Anything you please.

Imagine such a hyper vast space, no customers, a tranquil night — and it’s yours to shop. That’s what a late night shopping is all about. There’s no screaming children, there’s no trolley traffic jams, in fact there’s no need for a trolley at all, unless one’s getting more than they can carry, and there’s no queues at registers. It’s like a sci-fi in making. All but masochists and slow-witted must understand definite advantages for a a human being — time saving, mental health protection and the like.

I have enjoyed shopping at night ever since they had opened a hypermarket close to my home about a decade ago. Back then, it was me encouraging friends to go shopping after 11 pm, and now again, it’s me strolling through isles when everybody sleeps. Clearly, it’s a great way to fight insomnia. Having been shown keys to a new pad in Prague recently, there’s also lots to shop for. During my first night, I bought myself blankets, sheets and pillows. A number of small appliances followed. Then a book or two.

Hm… That reminds me that I was planning to get an armchair tonight. I’ve heard it’s simple to beat insomnia sitting in an armchair, reading classics and listening to some, too. Maybe Kafka & Dvořák will happen to be a good combination, being in Prague. I just get that armchair first…