How is this possible? Two of my favorite bassists on one day and staying in the same hotel as myself. A conspiracy is afoot. After two days with not a hint of a wink, we finally arrived in Perm. Lovely city. Much of the original 18th century architecture has been preserved, either because the city was never bombed, or the merchants of concrete (the Soviets) decided to pour their gargantuan concrete bunkers in other parts of their sprawling empire.
I bumped into Laswell, or Billy as I call him, and the distant echoes of the Naked City and spare sounds of old Cuba filled the air between my ears. The lobby was sweaty, and Billy was a bit pissy, but perhaps his muse was speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear: "get the hell out of my face," it said.
In contrast to MC Billy "get the hell out of my face," was the suprise of seeing a tall, bald man in the breakfast room of the hotel. Holy crap that is Tony Levin. A sweet, affable man, Mr. Levin was a pleasure to speak to. Very kind man. Little me was shy, but big me invited him to our show this afternoon.
Rubbing extremities with the grizzled and velveteen artists. What fun.