rise of the saint

A few weeks before, when I was in Kharkiv, I met some fellows from Orkester Che. They invited me to play after the lead singer and the main writer did their performance. It was on a Friday night at the club, Divan on Kreshyatik. I've already described Divan at length, with it's two long rows of plush couches, filled with Kiev's punk and hipster population alike. On the stage were two chairs, one for Andrei, the writer, and the other for Che's lead singer and guitarist, Oleg. There were a variety of pillows laid out for the audience to sit on, up close to the stage. When I first arrived at Divan, for soundcheck, everything was a bit late getting rolling. I was in the upstairs room with the Che fellows, who had also invited to random girls up to hang out with us. We drank tea and ate pancakes filled with poppy seeds. Oleg was going over the lyrics to his songs, making sure that he had them well enough memorized. It was all easy routine for him, though he admitted to the girls that he was nervous. I myself didn't know how to feel. I was used to playing on streets and in front of small groups of people, but playing on an actual stage at a club with regular live music was an altogether different experience. I played my set, to make sure I had everything committed to memory, then put up my accordion and relaxed as best as I could.

Friends of Andrei were slowly showing up to the scene to wish him a happy birthday. Each person brought a bottle of whiskey or cognac and made their greetings and paid their respects. They opened up the bottles and the liquor began to flow. I kept thinking to myself, don't get drunk yet, you've still got to play. But as it happens, one drink turns into three or four or six, a magic trick that I had learned in Georgia. I was still well though, and by the time that Oleg and Andrei were on the stage, I was convincing myself that I wasn't drunk and I was downing some bottled Borjomi mineral water. Then I was up.

I sat down before the packed audience. I suddenly realized that, actually, I was a little bit drunk. Compounded with the sudden spout of nervousness, I found my right hand shaking. I needed that one steady, come on now, don't shake! That's the hand that has to play all the solos! I started with my usual, “Me and Bobby McGee,” but found myself playing the wrong notes. I stopped singing mid-verse, almost stopping altogether, but I decided to keep on. I just started singing again, pretending that nothing significant had happened. The audience clapped a bit, trying to be supportive, knowing that it was my first time on stage.

I was a little bit more at rest for “Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair,” though I still wasn't spot on, due to my shaking hand.



I felt that maybe it was my position that was giving me a problem the most, so I shifted a little to the side and then nailed the Russian folk song “Ochi Chiornie” and the Tom Waits song, “Hold On” spot on. “Pei Moya Devotchka” wasn't the best I had played, it wasn't rocking the Casbah or anything, but it was good enough. When I finally got to “If I Had Possession of Judgment Day,” I found myself playing fine and at ease, but still nervous and wanting to get off stage.



“Thank you, thank you. This was my first time on stage,” I shared with the audience. “Thank you.” I got up, set my accordion down, and immediately retreated back upstairs, where I downed another glass of whiskey to settle my stomach. I grew morose and leaned back in my chair, thinking of all the mistakes I had made, replaying them in my head over and over again. How could I play so bad in front of so many people? I thought to myself. Daria and Andrei were both there, telling me that I had played pretty well and I had nothing to worry about, but I didn't believe them, convinced they were being nice.

“You took some videos with my camera, right?” I asked Daria. I took the camera from her and listened to what I had done. They weren't bad. That was good, at least. I was a little relieved and feeling a little more sociable. Girls were in and out, I was making a collection of phone numbers in my phone, half of which I would try to remember who they belonged to in the morning. Then I nearly got into a fight with one fellow, about the Ukrainian hero Bandera.

“I just don't know how you can raise a statue to the man in Lvov,” I said. I forgot what brought up the subject. Maybe World War II had been brought up. It was a common subject in Eastern Europe, since Ukrainians and Russians are usually quite bitter towards Americans who think they that America had the sole responsibility for causing the fall of Nazi Germany.

“He was a good man,” a Ukrainian guy said.

“He killed thousands of Jews, Russians and Poles. The guy collaborated with the Nazis against the Jews and Russians, and then again against the Poles. I don't know how you can call him a good guy.”

The Ukrainian bent over the table and grabbed me by the neck. “Don't make me hurt you! Bandera was a good man! You are listening to the propaganda of Ukraine's enemies!”

“What enemies? Poles? Jews? Russians?”

“Ukraine's enemies are everywhere! Bandera shall live on!” He let me go and stormed out. Later he came back and apologized, bringing me something to drink. “Sorry, I just get excited about Bandera. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“I'm not against Bandera necessarily. Just you guys need to own up to it. I dig Andrew Jackson, but I also recognize he killed lots of Indians. It's cool man, it's cool.”