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In 2001 I visited Amsterdam enroute to meet my wife in Poland.
Being alone, it is always an adventure in cities like Amsterdam,
especially if it's still something so new and fresh.
I was very excited to simply "do the do". To see
people, watch the crooked old buildings along the crowded,
and even the quiet streets. To venture randomly into wherever
it would take me. I am the guy who likes the old stuff, so
I knew where to go here, had been here once before.
I was craving a beer, so I worked my way toward a popular
haunt called Leidseplein, a place that at one time
hundreds of years ago served as a carriage stop for farmers
travelling from Leiden, a town nearby.
Now it serves as the grounds for musicians, and other types
of street musicians. Leidseplein is simply a great place to
relax and watch people. The streets kind of disapear a bit
down tight tramway littered streets. The buildings are all
speckled with beer logos, and it's simply a place of energy.
Out on the street the lanky locals cruised through on bikes,
tugging kids, dogs, phones, books, grocieries, spouses, you
name it, and they rang their little bike bells on the "scooter
or bike only" paths that tourists seem to think are sidewalks,
gettting people to move off their track.
I was still studying the large square, and it's not boring.
This was hangout central, but I didn't really want to sit
alone. Waiters walked in and out like ants, into bars, and
back, hauling demi-liters of cold bavarian and local favorite
beers. It was around 3pm and just kicking in; plenty of street
stuff going on, jugglers, comedians, and what I always look
for: guitar players. I am a guitar player, not a great one,
but I can play some tunes, and as I walked through the square,
there was one good looking spot littered with tables and umbrellas.
I found a table with a few guitarists sitting there. I walked
up, and asked one curly haired fella if I could sit and jam
on his guitar, which he obliged, but I had to fork over some
guilder, so I gave him a nice piece worth about 5$. He handed
me his beat up axe. This guy's name was Steve. He had a tooth
missing, and spit a little when he talked. He told me he was
beaten up in Prague a few weeks ago, and was trying to save
up for a new tooth. He sat rolling a smoke, and sipping a
beer. He did admit he shouldnt of charged me, he did say the
money would help fill in the hole in his mouth, so I was fine
with it.
As I picked around on the axe sloppily and not really caring
much to play hard, Steve began to explain the "territory
rules" of the little game going on in "his square".
He owned the tables full of tourists. He had pinned this spot
down all summer and served as the manager of "who gets
to go first", and then he was in charge of waiting a
long while, so that new fresh customers could fill the seats,
and eventually fill new hats, or whatever they were using
to collect some money.
The tourists, or Steve's next victims, smiled, drank, and
watched one guy hacking away at English tunes for them. We
ordered beer after beer, a few more stopped in to hang, we
rolled more smokes, talked and met literally ten or more musicians
within just an hour. These guys were holding guitars that
had cracks with leather belts strapped around em to hold em
together. They must sleep with them or on them! There were
cracked ones, big ones, small ones, old ones, and vintage
ones. The guitarists would do their little show and then beg
for coinage. They would come back to the table with a hat
full of coin, adding up to maybe $20- $30 american dollars
worth. It was amazing.
Later, one guy came by and sat. His name was Brian. He was
a very cool American guy from Boston. He had been on the run.
Apparently, his house burned down while attending a prominent
music school in Boston, I think Berkeley, and the house was
full of marijuana he was selling. So, he's this amazing musician,
on the run, living in a tent in the camp grounds, and we're
hitting it off big time. He's jamming his guitar like nothing
I have ever seen. Jamming blues, strumming way up high on
the guitar ever so smoothly and beautifully. the others knew
his talent, and they stared in awe, watching him whisk away
these rusty metal strings. This gig finally ended; it was
getting cooler, the sun was dropping. Orange colors rang off
centuries old buildings, the neon started to take control,
the alley's got loud from bars, and the night took over quickly.
A few years later, I walked back into Leidseplein with my
wife. She knew I was looking for these boys. None were there.
We watched, drank a beer, and waited. Finally, Mick, the Brit,
walked through with his guitar, I ran up to him, and said
hi, almost wanted to hug him. He was one of the nicer guys
in the group I had hung with two summer seasons ago, he smiled,
and said he remembered me. He told me the cops finally ended
the run on the guitarists who had at one time taken over the
city street scene. They kicked out the guitarists, and all
I saw on this trip were odd types of musicians playing boring
stuff - not the same as it was before. Mick said: "look
around you. You see performers here, but no guitarists!"
It was a sad day. |
Travel Writers: Amsterdam Axe By Jack Countway
