Friday
The next morning, Randy was gone, and I found myself alone among strangers—Greg and Dave from the Concom, not filkers, and they knew as little about me as I did about them, but they invited me to breakfast. In the U.S., people seem to prefer eating out: We drove to Eat’n’Park, a must-visit spot—you haven’t been to Pittsburgh if you haven’t been there—and I encountered my first authentic American breakfast: eggs. Bacon. Toast. So far, so normal—oh, and hash browns. For breakfast. Hash browns. It was delicious, and of course, extremely filling. Which was convenient, because that was to be my only meal of the day.
During breakfast, I found myself abruptly and unprepared in the midst of the campaign: David wasn’t just wearing a big Obama button—he immediately roped me right in. What did I think about Obama speaking in front of 200,000 people in Berlin the day before… Um… Did he? I knew he wanted to, but when it happened, I was right in the middle of the Atlantic. I had no idea whether 20 or 200,000 people had turned out—but I patiently explained the German national character, with special emphasis on sensationalism, the advantages of proportional representation compared to the American system, and the risks inherent in the German coalition system… I was amazed by all the technical terms I was juggling—terms I didn’t even know I knew—but I think I represented the Federal Republic of Germany with dignity during that breakfast. And I was very relieved that, even if not with Filkers, I was at least not dealing with Bush supporters. And I came to the conclusion that we could surely dare to include the politically charged song “Paranoia” in our concert without immediately being deported or, worse yet, booed.
Amid ongoing political debates, we finally reached the hotel, a luxury establishment with a smiling doorman who, along with the key card, had to hand me a greasy, lukewarm giant cookie because that’s what the special service of this establishment dictates (in the room I also found a quality assurance questionnaire that explicitly asked about receiving this cookie). What I hadn’t found yet were Silva and Kjenjo—they were supposed to arrive by car later that day—but I did find giant American beds and a TV. I realized how exhausted I was (still from the trip? Or from breakfast? Or from the political digressions?), so I claimed one of the beds, turned on the TV, and spent the next two or three hours (the convention didn’t start until four in the afternoon) watching American courtroom shows: Divorce Court, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Hatchett… The latter was my favorite. I wonder if that would have a chance in Germany: Richterin Hackebeil… And so I dozed off for the afternoon until it was time to sneak downstairs and watch the opening ceremony, even without Silva and Kjenjo.
But here I was to learn the first major difference between Filkcontinental and Confluence: There was no opening ceremony here. There wasn’t even a master of ceremonies like Franklin. You walked in, checked in, got your badge, and went your own way—visiting this workshop or that filk spot or chatting with a few people, all very laid-back—and unfamiliar. I had hoped to be introduced to the audience at an opening event so that I could strike up conversations with interested and/or interesting people afterward—but now I was on my own, and I, the most timid filker under the sun! While I was still indulging in my specialty, brooding, I suddenly spotted familiar faces in the line at registration: Tom and Sue, my host couple. Great joy on all sides, and now I finally had someone who could introduce me to the others!
One more note: Although Confluence, as mentioned, was a con for authors as well as musicians, and although the participant list included names like Susan Dexter or Tamora Pierce, whose books I had read and whom I would certainly have liked to meet, I didn’t venture outside the filk circles for the next two days. As far as the author-related events went, that was a shame—but I really wouldn’t have known of anything I would have wanted to miss in filk for that. In fact, at this con, the filkers live in their own little microcosm; they have a generally lovely but air-conditioned, freezing-cold room where concerts take place during the day and circles at night. And so, despite the two hundred-something attendees, it was a very personal and cozy convention for us, one that I can wholeheartedly recommend to any first-time overseas attendee: Although they were initially, with a few exceptions, strangers to me, I left them as a group of good acquaintances and friends who just happen to live on a distant continent.
There were too many wonderful people to introduce each of them individually, but there are a few I must single out in particular: starting with the godlike Judi Miller, one of the most extraordinary musicians I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Judi interprets filk songs in sign language. Although ‘interprets’ isn’t quite the right word: she sings for the Deaf, using her hands, her face, her whole body, music through and through, without uttering a single sound. There is such an otherworldly grace in her movements that at times I had to force myself not to stare at her constantly, but to pay attention to the actual musicians as well. And the most fascinating thing for me was that I understood her. I’d never seen American Sign Language before – but I understood it, intuitively, at least much of it, and whenever I struggled to follow the lyrics of a song, a glance at Judi always helped me. When Judi asked me if she could accompany us at our concert, I agreed without hesitation (and without waiting any longer for Silva and Kjenjo). Of course she could! The poor woman, she toiled away all weekend. She was part of at least half of all the concerts, always on the move, always in the music, and how she manages to grasp a song completely unfamiliar to her instantly and perform it perfectly, not just in terms of content but also in terms of mood, shall remain her secret. And very few people know that she herself has a beautiful singing voice: I had the honour of hearing her on Saturday evening in the filk circle.
The first two concerts on Friday were also well worth it: Dave Wells, whom I’d never heard of before, played some pretty good, rather non-filk music on unusual themes with good lyrics – I bought his CD when I heard he’d written a song about the legendary crime fighter Eliot Ness, about whom I’d only just read some interesting articles. So, no dragons or spaceships, nothing spectacular, but really good music.
The other was Lawrence Dean, an Englishman whose first CD I’d bought seven years ago (to which he reacted with something along the lines of “Oh, it was you?”): Undoubtedly a big winner at Confluence, as he was a Featured Filk Guest a few years ago, just as we are this year, but for none of Lord Landless was it such a lasting experience as it was for Lawrence, because during his guest of honour concert, a woman in the audience was captivated by his singing, and afterwards they struck up a conversation… They’re now married and live together in England, but they never miss the annual Confluence, and I can understand why. I should also mention that I really liked Lawrence; we really ought to lure him over to Germany – it’s not exactly a long way for him…
I, on the other hand, failed to strike up a conversation with any attractive American women or men, and it’s a real shame that Peredar had to miss out on all that. And while we’re on the subject of ‘missing out’: Silva and Kjenjo still hadn’t arrived. I managed to track down Randy – who, as is customary for members of the Concom, was constantly whizzing from one place to another, spinning like a top. I was already a bit worried – anyone who knows me knows how good I am at imagining the terrible fates that could befall a poor traveller: And Pennsylvania, covered in forests, offered plenty of scope for such fantasies. But when the two of them finally turned up – it was already dark outside, and the filk circle had long since lit virtual beacons for the lost travellers – it turned out to be only half as dangerous. Dr Seti, the filker with whom they’d stayed, was at first reluctant to let them go (‘Wait, just one more song!’), and then, since Silva is very interested in nature, had described to them the ‘Scenic Route’, the picturesque stretch through the Pennsylvania woods. Which, needless to say, is about five times as long as the motorway. But charming. Except in pitch-black darkness…
Great joy at seeing each other again, another hour or two in the filk circle, then off to bed. Or something like that – for the American beds presented us with a challenge akin to that of the princess on the pea. So many layers of blankets, sheets and mattresses that we hardly knew where to put ourselves… Reluctant to destroy this work of art, I squeezed myself between two sheets and felt, for the rest of the night, like an Egyptian mummy who’d been put in a straitjacket.