As my friend said, the BTS in Bangkok is one of the best places for luxurious air conditioning.
I don’t know why, but I love this sequence of this bright, little girl.
Apologies, as this is a bit out of order, being placed in the middle of the Bangkok series, but I have just returned from a trip to Bucharest, Romania where I had the great fortune to see Sir Richard Bishop perform at a club, thirty-one years after I had seen him for the first time at a hardcore show in DC.
I’ve posted the introduction to his interview below, but if you should read the article in it’s entirety here, at The Attic. A very nice piece of synchronicity.
It was 1984 in Washington, DC, at the height of that city’s legendary hardcore punk scene. We were young, aggressive and frustrated, and though not dumb, the amount of things we didn’t know were huge. We had no idea how important that punk scene was in DC. We had no idea that we were in the last year of hardcore punk, that the next year, the scene would just collapse into fragments. We had no idea we would survive and grow old and sit in chairs at desks for decades to come. And we had no idea that the visceral, instinctive and emotional wave of hardcore punk that surprised us and filled us with ideas and growling intensity was a feeling we would never feel again.
One of the great surprises was at a JFA show in DC in 1984 at the 930 Club. The small club was packed as usual for a well-known out of town band, a band whose logo was easily drawn on jackets, skateboards and walls. None of us knew the opening band, but back then, we had no information except for paper magazines and we were hungry for most any music. The opening band came out and the guitarist with his head wrapped in an Arab keffiyeh head scarf, started to sing in a high falsetto, like a feminine muezzin, chirping out a call to prayer. This went on for minutes. No accompaniment. This was at a time where hardcore punk fans would abandon their favorite bands for daring to play a song less than faster than the speed of light.
People started to leave. A few here, more there. Than a constant stream of people headed for the door. Hardcore punkrock took in and embraced many different musical flavors (The Pogues and The Butthole Surfers for God’s sake) almost because there was no place else to go. But a challenging avant-garde, experimental trio? Sometimes, people just wanted to thrash. For the few of us that stayed, and it was a fair amount, we were enthralled for next hour. All I remember thinking was, Who the fuck are these guys? And where the fuck are they taking me?
During one sequence, the drummer was standing, sticks just barely brushing the cymbals, in a trance, the band letting the tension build. When the break finally came, the drummer descended on his kit and I saw a drumstick shatter but did not see where the top half went until the guy in front of me turned around, blood streaming from his face. We filled in the gap he left and closed ranks to get closer to this crazy band. Who were they, I asked someone after the show. Sun City Girls. I bought their album that week and drove my friends nuts with it for months. I don’t even remember JFA playing.
Thirty-one years later, I was in Bucharest for a week, there to photograph the people and the streets. This musician I had met that night before took me to Club Control to watch a free, improvisational duet of violin and percussion as she was friends with the violinist. This show was an unexpected choice and I was enjoying the performance and oddly proud of the size of the crowd in attendance for such an experimental performance. Then some guy named Sir Richard Bishop came on. I had assumed it was going to be a DJ since it was a club. I had no idea. Bishop brought out a gorgeous small body 19th century guitar and started off with a song, heavy in the Phrygian mode, playing fully off of the North African mode. Unexpected again. I heard his voice in between songs. Definitely American. At times, percussive and at times, trancelike, I sat on the floor beneath the bar and let myself get taken along for the ride.
It was afterwards, outside in the terrace that I found out that it was Richard Bishop from the Sun City Girls. Well, look at that. We had both survived.
This image was the result of my being lost in this weird trap of a neighborhood for two hours. Right before I finally found the exit, I had been following this canal that had appeared out of nowhere. And then this man revealed himself.
One of my favorite moments of this trip, one of my favorite shots.
He’s like the sentry, asleep on duty, to one of the gates of Hell. I found the way to leave this neighborhood a few minutes later.
Before I left my hotel, I scouted out the neighborhood I wanted to explore that day. On Google Maps, it looked pretty simple. Take the BTS to Victory Monument stop, proceed in a northeasterly fashion to the area I was going to explore.
What of course happened, is that I became stuck in this interim neighborhood for almost two hours, sweating my ass off, going down streets that turned out to be dead ends a few minutes later, going into parks that had no other exit but the one I used to enter, jumping concrete barriers to cross highways.
Frustration, copious sweat, and a lot of backtracking.
Such is the life of a street shooter when you try to leave yourself open to chance and whim.
But because of this meandering and exploring, I found some great opportunities and such hidden treasures, some of which made it onto film. A very strong shot which will be posted next, was only possible because I became so helplessly lost on these crazy streets.
Such is the way. Enter a crossroads and like the wandering samurai, toss a stick in the air to see which path to take for the next few hours, the next day, the rest of your life.
This shot below is nothing unusual or worth nothing except for the fact that it was the exit I found, the only way to leave the neighborhood I had been trapped in for hours. I was so elated, I took a shot.
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