Vroeger, toen rock ’n roll net uitgevonden was en schier oneindig leek hebben we dat ook al eens meegemaakt. De generatie Pat Boone, Cliff Richards. Brave niks–aan-de-hand muziek uit het niemandsland tussen Elvis en flower power.

In die periode was het de platenindustrie die de dienst uitmaakte, en zoals we weten is dat een conservatieve sector, die gewoon geld wil verdienen, artiesten omrekent in verkochte units en altijd op safe speelt. Hoe meer mensen er denken:”Och, aardig deuntje.”, hoe beter. Zeker als er verder niks te beleven valt.

Gelukkig komt er dan meestal iets om de hoek pleuren waar niemand een antwoord op heeft behalve een welgemeend: ”RROAAAR! AAH, YES!! I wanna live…” De rockers, hippies, de punkers, de hiphoppers en de ravers sloegen alles weer op tilt en de grote maatschappijen reageerden als een olietanker bij het zien van een bootje Somalische piraten; traag, en een tikje geschrokken. Om even later weer bij te draaien om hun graantje mee te kunnen pikken, lees: hele korenvelden tegelijk.

Wat gebeurt er nu? Dubstep, ok. Geen wereldbestormend fenomeen met visie, maar een vormvernieuwing. Wel een fijne overigens, maar toch. Verder? Even kort door de bocht, voor de duidelijkheid. Hiphop is geïnstitutionaliseerd en levert voornamelijk inspiratieloos gezeur op over vrouwen en velgen, house is alleen nog maar monotoon en vaak net iets te hard om bij in slaap te vallen met een goed boek, rock is ingedommeld terwijl ze de jaren 80 en 90 aan het recyclen waren en reggae is gewoon gezellig. Kutzooi.

Amy Winehouse was echt, tot in de krochten van haar kapsel, met een stem die je nooit meer vergeet, en teksten die iets te vertellen hadden. Amy was niet van de zetbazen, ze was van ons. Als dank kregen we een fikse slok van haar ziel te verteren, straight up, no ice. Mark Ronson gaf t een mooi kleurtje en de  dodelijke coctail die ‘Back In Black’ heette was een feit.

Maar het blijft wel één wapenfeit, als we haar eersteling ‘Frank’ (terecht) niet meetellen als modern meesterwerk. En om iemand, hoe veelbelovend ook, na slechts één plaat tussen de rocklegendes Jimi Hendrix (5 studioplaten), Janis Joplin (ook 5) en Jim Morrison (6 studio- een liveplaat) te willen plaatsen zegt meer over onze honger naar helden dan over Amy’s oeuvre, tot zover aanwezig.

Nu is het wachten op de volgende revolutie. Om eerlijk te zijn zie ik nog niks. En terwijl we wachten missen we de troostende stem van ‘onze’ Amy Winehouse, zoveel is zeker. Proost meissie.

You Know I’m No Good

Spit Vicious, the killer clown...hehehehe!

Aangezien ik bij de linkse kerk behoor, iets waar ik door de rechtse kerk op gewezen ben, leek het mij tijd eens te bezien waar het geschreeuw precies tegen mijn kerk nou precies over gaat. Ik geef toe, kerken zijn meestal fout omdat ze een loopje nemen met God’s woord, maar die van mij kent geen goden dus dat is goed geregeld. Dat de hogepriesters van ons geloof zich vaak onterecht verrijken en schijt hebben aan het volk is menselijk, helaas, en van alle kerken thuis. Rechts heeft dat zelfs gewoon in hun catechismus staan. Het mag blijkbaar.
Nou krijgt mijn kerk de schuld van alles. Van ‘de toestand in ons wereldje’, zeg maar, vrij naar G.J.B. Hilterman. Hmm. Zou kunnen, niets cynisch is mij vreemd. Als Moeder Theresa een serial verkrachtster zou zijn geweest had dat mij niet verbaasd. Ik kan veel aan.
Er vanuit gaande dat er een machtspositie nodig is om een land in de ellende te storten moeten we dus kijken naar de regeringen in ons land sinds de Tweede Wereldoorlog.
“Naar zittingsduur in dagen hebben we deze coalities gehad:
Christelijk/liberaal 10142 dagen
Christelijk/sociaaldemocratisch 3832 dagen
Christelijk/liberaal/sociaaldemocr. 3804 dagen
Sociaaldemocr./Liberaal 2891 dagen
Christelijk (zonder toeters en bellen)2031 dagen
Ofwel: we zijn 62% van de tijd geregeerd door een midden/rechts kabinet, 29% van die jaren door een midden/links kabinet en 9% werd gevuld door een louter rechts kabinet.” (bron http://sargasso.nl/archief/2008/09/02/max-j-molovichrechts-is-het-nieuwe-links/)
Hmm. Zou links zo link zijn geweest dat ze als een groep duistere Illuminati de goed bedoelende rechtse meerderheid volledig in de luren hebben gelegd? Welke maatregelen kan ik me herinneren die Nederland geen goed hebben gedaan? Oh, ik weet er eentje: privatisering van algemene nutsbedrijven die diensten leveren als gas, licht, het spoor, parkeerbeheer  etcetera. Daar heb ik nog dagelijks last van. Helaas betreft het hier een rechtse hobby, dus die vlieger gaat niet op. De banken? Rechts, toch, merendeels, dunkt me.
Ok, iets meer m’n best doen. Asielbeleid! Hatsekidee, linkse hobby, zeker, maar dus altijd in nauwe samenwerking met rechts bedacht en uitgevoerd, blijkt uit het coalitierapport. Wij hebben nu het strengste vluchtelingenbeleid in Europa, mede dank zij… links? Rechts? Rita Verdonk? Vertel het maar. Thee drinken! Linkser kan bijna niet, behalve in Engeland.
Stel, ik heb ruzie met mijn buren. Kort gezegd kan ik twee dingen doen; oorlog of thee drinken. Ik ben tegen oorlog, dat kan namelijk altijd nog, en je hoeft er vaak niet om te vragen. Christenen schijnen daar zelfs twee wangen voor te hebben, al kan ik me Verhagen niet voorstellen in zo’n rol. Tsja, wat kan ik zeggen: tien jaar portier geweest, zonder ego mijn werk gedaan en heel-veel thee gedronken. Works like a dream.
Misschien moet ik het omdraaien; wat zijn nou echt heel erg linkse hobby’s, door de vermaledijde linkse kerk per decreet uitgevaardigd en kennelijk door grotendeels rechtse kabinetten uitgevoerd?
Nou, daar gaat ie dan. Ik kom op ziektekostenverzekering, pensioen, sociale zekerheid, vakantiegeld en woonrechten. Als jullie het niet erg vinden blijf ik voorlopig lid van de Linkse Kerk. Halleluja, Amen. En fuck you..;-)

Spit Vicious, DriveBy Disco

But given the fact that America is spending billions of dollars in a war on drugs that is currently being won by the other side, a bunch of lazy ass pot smokers and what not, one could carefully draw the conclusion that A: people want drugs really badly. B: they’ll get it anyhow. C: repression is too expensive and to top it of, D: it doesn’t work.

However, our government felt the urge to give the Grand Illusion of a drug-free Holland another go. For now its focus is on closing 43 coffeeshops situated within 250 meters from a secondary school. No one involved believes this is going to have any affect whatsoever, because a vigorously implemented law already makes it virtually impossible to sell soft drugs to minors. Furthermore, some school teachers foresee ‘delivery boys on mopeds’ who might have stronger stuff for sale as well. And let’s face it, no school kid was going to buy a bag of weed in plain sight of his own principals anyway.

Within the city counsel there’s still a lot of discussion on this topic and only the Christian-Democrats believe in their own radical plan to close all coffeeshops by 2011. Mayors all over the country have expressed their concern about this absurd target, and seem willing to revolt. It ain’t over yet.

2009 will be an important year for the future of Dutch drug policy. It seems that we have no choice but to make one, the old rabbit-out-of-a-head gedoogbeleid is no longer an option. We either legalize or ban soft drugs all together. Needless to say that, should we have the guts and clairvoyance to finally make the step to legalisation, God, the pope and all his merry men will be very sorry they ever brought it up.

]]> http://eklectic.nl/weekly-articles-coffestop/feed/ 0 http://eklectic.nl/dikke-dennis-the-man-inside-the-legend/ http://eklectic.nl/dikke-dennis-the-man-inside-the-legend/#comments Mon, 31 Jan 2011 20:32:46 +0000 jaro http://eklectic.nl/?p=155 Dikke Dennis. If you don’t remember him, you haven’t met him. It’s as simple as that. His presence is undeniable, and not only because he goes accompanied by a formidable and entirely tattooed belly. It doesn’t matter how big his body gets, Dennis’ sprawling personality will always be bigger.

He’s a tattoo artist. That is, when he’s not busy touring the country as guest singer and general mascotte/guru for Peter Pan Speedrock, the Great Dutch Hope of dirty ass rock ‘n’ roll, or playing himself in a commercial. His shop in De Jordaan is legendary in certain circles. It’s been there for 18 years. There’s always something going on, and it might not have anything to do with tattoos. Let’s say the place attracts some of the more colourful protagonists of the great urban circus we call Amsterdam. In fact this small tattoo parlour boasts more stories than the Great Pyramid and, for better or worse, they’re all true. Welcome to Dikke Dennis’ lair.

The street has been renamed so everybody knows whose turf this is; a fake street name sign reads ‘Dikke Dennis straat’. We must be getting close. The shop is easy to recognise. It’s the only one that doesn’t sell itself in any way. Its unique selling point is sitting inside, dressed in a pair of comfy sport pants and nothing else, playing a dice game on the computer. He looks at the screen in contempt.

‘I bought this thing only six months ago. My first ever. I really don’t want all that crap, but it’s getting harder to order stuff if you’re not on the internet these days. But I plan to keep away from all that communication bullshit for as long as I can. Don’t have a mobile phone and don’t want one. I’m not that mobile. I’m here if you need me. Telephone’s right there.’

Dennis lives in the shop. It has his name written all over it, judging by the bizarre and sometimes creepy artefacts scattered around the place. Dr. Caligari’s cabinet of horrors seems like small potatoes compared to this. Snakes and embryos floating in formaldehyde, plastic tattooed arms, a small bottle of Hitler beer, and his priced collection of personal cocaine boogers, locked in a jar for prosperity. Looking at the seemingly hard brown mouldy content I can’t imagine for the world that this actually came out of anybody’s interior. ‘That stuff just falls out of my nose sometimes.’ Dennis adds cheerfully. ‘I’ve been saving it up for a while now.’ Mad scientists everywhere must be extremely jealous.

He sleeps in a kind of upgraded crawlspace right under the floorboards. It’s kinda cosy, and the hustle and bustle upstairs doesn’t seem to disturb him when he’s sleeping in.

‘The water would have to reach my lips before I wake up. I’m a tight sleeper. Been living here for 8 years now. I used to have a regular house but they kicked me out. That was so weird. I was three months behind in rent, so they sent me a letter with a trail date. I immediately paid the whole damn thing and that was it as far as I was concerned. Until one day they show up on my doorstep; ’Hello, we’ve come to evict you.’ I was flabbergasted. I asked them if I owed them any money. ’No, but you didn’t go to the trail, so the judge annulled your rent contract.’ Too stunned to react, I just gave them the keys. Fuck that.’

‘This is my home. For now. Sure I would like a normal house again at some point, but that’s not easy. I was born in Amsterdam but I can’t get a place. Yeah, for 1500 euros a month I could live right around the corner, but I’m not spending that much money on a house. I can’t buy anything, because I don’t own anything. All this is my ex-wife’s. I don’t even get paid officially. When I need money I just take some.’

Dennis has ambivalent feelings towards modern society.

‘You know, I want no part of it. In fact I don’t really exist. I tried to get my passport renewed a while ago, but they wouldn’t give me one unless I explained them where I had been for the last 5 years. Right here, I told them. But on what income? I said: ‘Nothing. I’m a drug addict and I’m fed by my mum.’ They didn’t believe me. Shit, I even told them: ‘He, what do you know? You don’t know my mum.’

‘My parents don’t understand the way I’m living at all. They were young, 17 and 18 when I was born and their generation was about working and re-building the country after the war. I don’t know where my sense of humour derives from, but it sure as shit didn’t come from them. My mum’s name is Rietje (which, apart from being a girls name means a ‘straw’ in Dutch), so I once told her: ‘Funny name, Rietje. You can fuck it, drink through it and snort through it.’ Swear to God, she didn’t even think that was funny.’

When it all boils down, life ain’t to bad for the wicked, though. ‘I just need to get away from the whole charade once in a while. And that Peter Pan Speedrock thing propelled me into another world, in a way. You know, when you’re young and you see those bands in Paradiso? That’s what you want! And when I was on stage, like at Lowlands festival, I was Mick fucking Jagger. But, you know, in the morning, you’re just another Keith Richards in desperate need of drugs.’

For a moment the philosophical side of Dikke Dennis gets the better of him, and he says: ’I’ve been thinking of moving to Eindhoven. No seriously, people in the south are for real. Here, you always get a shitload of bluffers and bullshitters. In Amsterdam everybody’s got a big mouth, but when it comes down to it… You wouldn’t believe how much money people owe me.’

‘On the other hand, this is my city. I belong here. Once a policeman came to me for a friendly neighbourhood chat. until after a while I asked him to leave because my dealer was getting nervous, driving his car up and down the street.’ He smiles and snorts a luscious line. ‘He left. Only in Amsterdam, my friend.’

Amsterdam seemed huge to me as child, and back then I probably wondered if I would ever get around to seeing it all. Three times a week my Ma would take me to Artis to hang out with all the animals. Around this time I must have developed my taste for remembering utterly useless things. ‘okapi’ was one of the first words I said.

Life was great even though playing in the street was difficult, even dangerous. But everybody knew everybody. The hookers were nice ladies who gave you candy. The Chinese came across as eternal aliens who sold each other an inexplicable array of goods that no one else seemed to want. The Surinamers, who had revolutionised the fine art of walking down the streets, were the coolest looking bunch and some of them even played in a band! I loved my neighbourhood.

My parents however decided that I needed more space to play in, so one day we moved to Mars. Or so it seemed.

Nieuw West had arisen. It was an absurdly positive sounding name for this cross between Legoland and a bomb crater. In those days, city planning was done by evil blind people–mad scientistsówho were curious about what would happen if we take thousands of young couples and their millions of children and dump them in one spot. They should have known better. They could have just read Lord of the Flies.

Yeah, it was spacey all right. The four-storied buildings were brand new and behind them lay the wastelands that would one day become Rembrandtpark. As children, we rampaged through these wetlands and taught ourselves what we needed to know in this brave new world: arson, lying, fighting, running away, theft and frankensteining innocent mopeds into Messerschmitts. Nieuw West naturally evolved into one of the nastiest neighbourhoods imaginable for a child–unless you felt strongly about becoming a criminal of the violent persuasion. (The experience numbed me enough to later work the doors of the Melkweg for over a decade.)

At school we picked up enough chemistry lessons to make a bomb, but not enough to blow up the main building that night. No one that I know actually made it to graduation. We roamed the streets with astonishing amounts of disrespect. We called everybody else fascists while efficiently disposing ourselves of our teenage brain cells in huge, but happy, quantities. Many of my old friends are dead, crazy or in prison. One zombiefied homie even managed to die in a police cell.

Make no mistake. This city is in my blood.

My Mokum could never be a list of pleasant eateries where small bits of food are stacked up by domino freaks. My Mokum is not about dead art museums or other non-smoking areas. Itís not about over-rated architecture. Itís not about scenic reflections in the murky waters of the Styx–I actually see faces in those canals. My Mokum is not even about the bars and brothels, although Iím sure they help.

I could never be a decent tour guide. I donít have a list. Amsterdam is inside me, and every stone and every corner has pieces of me in them. I feel whole, as one, when I walk these streets. My Amsterdam is all the beautiful and ugly people that cross my path. Itís the squares, the bridges, the building–including the hideous ones. Itís total acceptance. I donít judge this city any more. I love her too much.