A week in May: Day 1
A logistical nightmare. Forget about sleeping. Murphy flaunts his Law, bares his fangs, incredulous almost. “Wait. Let me get this straight. You’ve invited a Belgian rock band to play, ánd host children’s music workshops? In Ramallah? The hills of Hebron? On the dark side of the moon?”
I shrug, reluctant to humor the cynical legislator.
“Who’s your dope dealer? Man, I’m changing suppliers, that’s all there is to it.”
Once more I shrug, cut short the inner dialogue. It’s past midnight and a bunch of guys with side-burns and unusual-looking suitcases mosey past the glass waterfalls of Ben Gurion airport. Rumplestitchkin consists of Koen, Olivier, Wim, and Thomas. A manager and cameraman are along for the ride as well.
We have one week, a tiny budget from the Flemish government, a GMC van, cyan blue, and a schedule that leaves about as much room for error as would fill a scientist’s Petri dish. The band crashes at friends’, left and right, on sofas and bunk beds. Rock and roll sans the glamour. In stead there will be falafel sandwiches. Lots and lots.
After a token nap we head downtown, and drink Turkish coffee from a street cart. A dawn gullywasher can’t dim our spirits. “Where you from?” We’re showered in various intonations of the question. Kids will be kids. Olivier’s rather Slavic complexion incurs a whole lot of “Shaloms” to boot. Murphy wrings his hands, hopeful. “Yes! Politics, finally.” We saunter on however, uneventfully, and arrive plenty on time for rehearsal at Al-Kamandjati music center in the Old City of Ramallah.
Sa’ed plays the Arabic lute. Phenomenally so. We also meet Kamal, who will chime in on electric guitar, and Boikutt. He’ll be our rapper for the day.
Olivier meets the available drum kit. It’s no love at first sight. His brow moves up a notch, like a doctor inspecting his gangrenous patient. Before Murphy can say a thing we rush to a nearby music store where serendipity hands us an exact match of skins. We’re saved.
“For now.”
Shut up, Grumpy’s Law, we’re not listening to you.
You put a bunch of widely different musicians in a cauldron and they’ll cook up an amazing thing. I leave the magicians to their devices, fire up the GMC, or “Gims” as Palestinians call these big-ass vans, and scrounge about town for amplifiers, speakers and assorted gadgets. There’s a show on tonight, troops to rally. Murphy calls it a day when a competing barbeque is called off at the last minute. All systems “go”.
“Okay, you win… today.”
I try very hard not to gloat. Beers are set cold. Word of mouth pitches in, and slowly but surely our venue fills to the brim. Steamy windows. The rain slashes hard against them from the outside, but avail it does not.
Musicians that visit Ramallah are often famous violin players, fêted pianists, folk singers, rappers even, but thoroughbred rock is a rare thing.
The night explodes.
What these guys have sewn together is no chimera. Seamlessly, East meets West, as the cliché has it. The lute embraces guitars. Heads are emptied, as are many bottles of Taybeh, drowning whatever’s left of the day’s concerns. So many are sold in fact that the publican decides Champagne is in order to celebrate his windfall. The night is imbibed, showered under. You’ve never seen so many armpits in Ramallah.
Murphy resents these things, pouts, and tries to conjure up a plan for tomorrow.