It was surprising seeing him coming to Trenčín, Slovakia to support Müller, with whom he recorded two albums. Müller hasn’t appeared in front of audience for some two years, since announcing his hiatus. The one-off gig was highly anticipated and proved how serious Müller’s condition is. Müller’s fighting demons of depression and consequences of years of drug abuse.

And Hiram? He beamed on stage. Audience loved him and he radiated energy, playing his guitar like a genius he was. Not a shadow on his face gave away what he was going through. I could never imagine I’d be writing these lines today.

For both of us at tm91, with great respect, we thank you for being with us. You’re going to be sadly missed.

Take The Beatles. I can link their music to the particular time of my youth. I was listening to Help! when I was in the seventh grade; Rubber Soul was my favourite in the eight one. White Album by the summer of that year, just before Let It Be took over completely. Lennon came next and Plastic Ono Band ruled my days as I advanced to the grammar school.

I remember discotheques by a DJ’s favourite track. T Club, a Uni club where I used to hang out while underaged — Forever Young. A high school ski trip — What a Wonderful World. A disco at school premises — I Love To Hate You. My last trip to the border of civilisation with a bunch of young mathematicians — Violently Happy. I could go on and on like that for hours.

Mentioning What a Wonderful World, there’s something else crossing my mind. Songs that are forever a part of one’s memory because of technology: people have learnt to set their own ringtones or alarm tunes that follow them through months until they become annoying and get changed. I had few ringtones replaced, yet I’ve been waking up to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s rendition of What a Wonderful World/Over the Rainbow since 2005, and it seems it’s not giving up.

Then, there are numbers that are shared and have untouchable intimate quality… ‘Cos one happened to listen to them while being with someone exceptional; and those are moments that are rendered unforgettable. It may be ironic enough that one can recall also tunes used to heal (or enjoy) a broken heart. How good is Stand by My Woman or Into My Arms? How weird can Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft sound?

And a very special category are the songs written for somebody. I managed to pen one or two clumsy ones (with indisputable Gabriel’s help) and seeing they work, they give a loved one goose pimples or make her cry — because she’s been touched! — is the most rewarding experience. Simply amazing.

Of course, fame and money would not hurt either. (But hey, that’s just me trying to be sarcastic to hide that I’m sentimental…)

“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.

— 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.

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.

Well, it is not the case.

The truth is that when we meet, we don’t work too hard. It’s understandable, having these meetings quite apart, we have to discuss what’s new, run through each other’s iTunes and go out! And when we come back, we’re either ready to pass out, or ready to watch some must-see classic. And then pass out. And then eat, and watch more movies, and go out again, and eat, and meet people, etc., etc.

However, it’s not totally pointless to catch up. When I stopped in London few days before last Christmas, we took the obvious path the night I arrived, yet, surprisingly, we finished a song the next day! Sadly, it wasn’t much of a new material, as it was a song we penned eight months earlier in Sydney. Honestly, quietly ignoring Gabriel’s email appeals for a revision, I though the song was ready from day one. Nevertheless, Gabriel insisted that there was line that was repeated and needed a change. Yes, I’m talking about a song called She has a soul, a tune I discussed ages ago (and which nobody heard so far but two of us).

After exercising different techniques to argue his truth, Gabriel finally got me to change the incriminated line. Sigh. Sigh. It took me about twenty seconds — and I have to admit that my admiration for a certain famous band played a role in writing such a line.

I changed the following:

she has a soul
she hardly bares to her men
she has a soul
that’s too hard to understand

to

she has a soul
she hardly bares to her men
the inner light
that’s too hard to understand

And that was it. I’ve never heard Gabriel whinging about this one anymore.

I appreciated Gabriel’s visit ‘cos not only brought he eight-year-old Bacardi waiting to be terminated by two displaced Slovaks, he also tuned my guitar. Thank you, brother. Would you have three weeks on your hands plus dosh to burn, pop in anytime, it needs tuning again. And please don’t forget the bottle!

As it happened, Gabriel also unintentionally brought the vibe with him. So much for the chances.

That night we penned She has a soul, a subtle piece about a girl searching for Mr Right. As it’s widely known and I’m happy to discuss it over and over would the need arise, there’s no Mr Right — but Gabriel and/or myself.

However, our heroine overlooks Gabriel and has never heard of me. She might be sort of drowning, instinctively searching for meaning of life and love. For the record, I’m quite aware that meaning of life is 42, though I’m not sure if our dear audience knows that meaning of love starts with Gabriel’s or my telephone number. (For these who are about to call: Gabriel handles northern hemisphere, I do the southern one.)

Without knowing the reason, composing was a piece of cake. Straightforward. Summer breeze. It wasn’t until Gabriel returned to U.K. that he realised what was behind the breeze and consequent ease. It was a girl. A genuine babe somewhere out there, radiant, peachy, vibey, relaying waves of desire and motivation over the oceans.

Indeed.

However, by the time we realised who the lucky one was, she was gone. Never mind. Her long distance vibe inspired a tune. That is what most struggling songwriters long for. Including lousy pretenders like Gabriel & me.

It’s hard to believe that just 3% of the music on the average iPod is enough to lock users into buying only iPods in the future. And since 97% of the music on the average iPod was not purchased from the iTunes store, iPod users are clearly not locked into the iTunes store to acquire their music.

Well, this is all nice, but somehow, I just can’t buy this argument. Those 3% (or whatever number that really is) are most likely favorite music one has and wants to listen to right now (i.e. on an iPod).

On the whole, I honestly don’t know what to think of his essay.

David Gilmour and company, minus Roger Waters, were in town. They were playing the Strahov stadium, the largest concert venue in the world. And I thought to myself: well, they’ve been around for such years, they’re gonna be around for some more. I don’t have to go. I’ll see them next time.

Well, as hippie as I was, I didn’t foresee there wouldn’t be any next time. The tour of 1994 turned out to be their very last. As a matter of fact, they only made it back to England and by the end of October, there was no more Pink Floyd. Finito. Until, of course, all of them, meaning incl. Roger Waters (minus the Crazy Diamond Syd Barret) stormed Hyde Park during Live8. While I was in Prague again at the time, I couldn’t make it to London. I felt so sorry!

But I was given one last chance. It was sort of a consolation prize, however it was still worth it. Roger Waters (minus the others) came over and knocked on the door in Sydney. It was the opening gig of his 2007 summer tour appropriately named The Dark Side of the Moon. Meaning he was to deliver the album in its entirety.

Roger, who’s gonna turn mccartneyan sixty-four this year, is dividing his shows into two parts, first consisting of Pink Floyd essentials and some of his own work (like Leaving Beirut with anti-Bush rhetoric) and the second including complete DSOTM and few encores. Sydney was no exception, he even played the same list he’s carrying around since last year.

The show was carefully scripted, visually stunning and sophisticated, one could see direction of “the creative genius of Pink Floyd” behind it. However, there was something a bit unexpected (at least for these who didn’t bother to read reviews of previous gigs) – Roger didn’t sing many of the Dark Side songs! He left former Dave Gilmour’s vocal parts to guitarist Dave Kilminster, meaning that he could play bass and bludge for a larger part of the second act. Audience was surprised but understanding and rewarded the new Dave with their goodwill and sincere applause.

Though everything was more or less prepared, Sydney got a revised version of Roger’s flying pig with a new graffiti, asking for yet another David, David Hicks, Australian held in Guantanamo for five years to be sent home. It’s about time, I guess.

It all finished as planned: after Comfortably Numb, the group was gone in a flash. Lights went on and some twenty-thousand Floyd-hungry fans with different degree of greying hair dispersed to their homes, reliving a dream come true. Walking down the stairs I could feel tranquillity filling the space.

Wish there were more experiences like this one.

Hope he went straight to hell, where he belongs with all other legends. They’re gonna have some more fun, no doubt. Let the jam begin!