The Making of "Rahwana's Cry".

In January 2004 I travelled to West Java, Indonesia to record an album with the amazing-modern-gamelan-orchestra-with-attitude, Sambasunda. Here's the first part of the story, a bit long, I know, but if you're interested let me know and I'll post some more. Even if you're not I'll post more anyway. BTW the results can be heard on the album "Rahwana's Cry" on Network Records of Germany.

In the 1600s it could take 7 or 8 months to make the journey from Europe to the Indonesian Archipelago. Now I leave home looking forward to a 26-hour journey from a wintry Berlin to my destination of Bandung, the regional capital of the West Javanese province of Sunda, nestled among the volcanic hills some 5 hours drive from Jakarta. My mission is to produce a new album for the very wonderful and unique ensemble Sambasunda.
I arrive at Jakarta airport at 8 in the evening. Although by my watch it's actually 2 pm. I know it's best to adjust one's watch immediately and try to acclimatise but I stubbornly stay in my personal time-zone until it's futile to further resist.

At the baggage claim I see a number of bags on the carousel bearing logos of UNESCO and other Aid agencies , obviously en route to the tsunami-devastated region of Aceh in West Sumatra. Java is a long way from there and surrounded by different seas and here life is going on as usual. Through customs and into the brouhaha of the airport terminal to be met by the unmistakable and omnipresent smell of Indonesia : the sweet perfume of clove cigarettes.

Happily I'm also met by Yadi and Asep, my old friends from Sabah Habas Mustapha's exploits with the Jugala Allstars, and now senior members of the Sambasunda troupe. They've made the 5-hour drive from Bandung to pick me up and drive me back there. I'm honoured to be in the company of such gentlemen. We climb into the minibus and I am given a bottle of mineral water and a packet of chocolate-chip cookies. They obviously remembered my cookie habit from the last project.

Although it's only 7.30 in the evening, it's already dark. The sun sets at around 6.30 all year round in this part of the world. There are only two seasons : wet and dry. Now it's rainy season and the air is damp but warm. We set off along the modern motorway leading into the city of Jakarta. We pass scores of poor kampongs, many of which could be described as shanty-towns, which then give way to the high-rise apartments, office-buildings and shopping malls of downtown Jakarta. The elevated freeway gives spectacular views of this teeming megalopolis of uncountable millions - some projections put it as over 17 million.
Most pay no taxes, there's no welfare system, many live in makeshift shelters, some of them under the arches of this motorway. Quite a few live in large houses and drive BMWs, and then there are the millions inbetween. We follow the freeway out into the suburbs and onto the two-lane to Bandung.

At this point Ive been travelling for some 22 hours and am inhabiting the twilight world of half-sleep where you occasionally surface to find your mind on free-associative forays. Im sure we all know that moment when you catch yourself in the middle of a meaningless and absurd train of thought. How do these ideas get into my head? How did the Pope get that job in the tobacconists? After all, Henry Sainsbury's third wife was a knuckle-brained Peabody whose brother, an otherwise reliable horologist on the Left Bank was sorely tempted to take up knitting in order to escape the unwelcome attentions of his ravenous shipmates. Soon, on a postcard from Venus, came a stuttering voice as if from a chip-shop, signalling the end of the Second World War. Much to his consternation it coincided with the onset of his origami class. Fearing the worst he threw the waxwork figure of his uncle overboard and the rest is history.

Out of such reveries I awake. We're travelling through the hill country. We pass through small towns: a flurry of lights from roadside shops and food stalls. I know we are approaching Cipenas, the favourite watering-hole for many travellers on this road. A score of restaurants line the roadside. We pull into the carpark of our favourite, the Sari Indah. It's midnight but the place is cheerfully busy with whole families enjoying a midnight snack. The television on the wall is showing a live broadcast of a concert in aid of the Tsunami victims in Aceh. Many top Indonesian Pop stars are taking part led by the king of "Dangdut" music, Rhoma Irama, formerly a wild young rebel in the 70's, now a born-again Moslem wearing a white suit and black electric guitar, singing of Allah like a muezzin while his band churn out a funky Dangdut rhythm.

You really know you've arrived in Java when the waiter comes to your table balancing an array of small plates on his arms which he proceeds to unload in front of you. It's a sort of Indonesian Tapas : small portions of a variety of culinary delights, some recognisable, some challengingly mysterious. The waiter returns bearing larger plates with mounds of white rice. You take your choice from the items in front of you and mix them with the rice. Most eat with their fingers. As usual I stick to my tried and trusted favourites : prawns in chili sauce, chunks of fish in a milder green sauce, or fried in a chili coating, varieties of exotic vegetable dishes. All deliciously spicy enough to have your tongue lolling about like a beached whale within minutes and reaching for your glass of soothing warm tea. I still didn't summon the courage to try the folded reams of tripe lounging in a yellow sauce, or the dried tongue - at least I think it was tongue - or the smoked grass snakes. Maybe next time. But not today.

Back in the car and on the final stretch to Bandung. Out there in the darkness are the miles of tea plantations, rice terrasses hanging on the hillsides, ebullient swathes of tropical forest, countless small villages. But I see none of this. Once again my body yearns for its distant bed and my mind switches on to automatic pilot darting in and out of conciousness.
I'm reading an imaginary book. The words are forming on the page as I read. A quite nonsensical but complex story that my waking brain would never have formulated. So who wrote this? (At time of writing this, I am reminded of a passage in Ian McKewan's brilliant new book Saturday. The main protagonist's mother suffers from Alzheimer's disease and her conversation consists of the same kind of disconnected ramblings spliced together from once meaningful memories that are the stock-in-trade of the dreaming subconcious - at least thats how it is with me I'm afraid).

Well anyway, its unlikely that the British population will cease to eat more potato chips per capita per year than all the other European countries put together. Ignorance and Obesity are rife, alcohol is the universal panacea and the last train is about to leave St. Pancreas. What has happened? Where are the artists unwilling to play the game of Mammon? How can it not be unhip to accquiesce to corporate sponsorship? Why are design and Lifestyle the source of so much banality? How about a nice cup of tea? Suddenly, I become aware of the approach of our final destination.

Part 2 continues soon.........