Cavort, Hanoi

Went to a butoh performance on the banks of the Red River Fiday night.  If you haven't seen this Japanese-originated style of dance before, it's strongly recommended. 

A troupe of twenty-five dancers in white robes crawled, crouched, and contorted their bodies along raised platforms in the middle of a deserted muddy field.  Five-stories bamboo spikes jutted out of the ground, a 'Lost World' jungle of menacing spikes and desolation.  Dry ice and artificial smoke cast a grotesque dreamscape under the naked moon.

They were led by a shaggy haired shaman, bare chested saved for a white tunic, his body caked with chalk and leaves.  The performance was a rite to worship the arrival of Spring.  The magician, ghost face and eyes bulging, glided across the stages, pantomiming his shadow in fluid grace under the glare of frenetic lights. Unintelligible cries for rain, spirits and warmth wove between a Wagner-techno inspired soundtrack that boomed over hidden loudspeakers.

And rain it did.  About three hundred or so bemused onlookers stood under the waters streaming sideways to witness the phantasgorsmic display.  The performance sent chills down spines and invited beliefs in the awesome power of nature again – calling out fears and wonders from their hidden depths – where childhood nightmares and that feeling of being followed while alone in a dark alley lay in hopes of memories' lapse.

Woland's Ball couldn't have been more terrible.

Thanks to Natalie for letting me know about it.  It was across the Long Xuyen bridge about 8 kilometers outside of town. I hitched a ride back with some expats – otherwise, it would have been a long trek back at midnight in the rain.

Yuppienomad, her friend Sharon and I crossed the river again on Saturday night to party with the entire expat community in Hanoi at Barracuda Bar.  Mamale, a French ska/jazz/punk rock band was performing in anticipation of their CD release. Formed a year ago at a Hanoi pub, the band now has a devoted (albeit small) following here in Hanoi. 

Midway through a performance where harmonica, dragon dance, saxophone, and loudspeaker were the instruments du jour in addition to bongos, drums, bass and electric guitars – the audience got rowdy and drunk and started to mosh — just like a typical bar scene in the West Village.  Of course, most of the drunk moshers were Aussies, expats trying to show-off to their Vietnamese girlfriends, and a band of backpacker runts.  The few bruises and bumps to be had were all in good fun.

Ironic – across the entire Pacific Ocean we would come upon a scene so familiar – straight out of our backyard.  I'm not sure how I feel about the expat scene.  It's comforting to participate in an home environment, but I'm too old for this shit, and I didn't come to Vietnam to be revisit a lifestyle only a subway ride away from Brooklyn.  Thank goodness the piss poor beer here is so watered down that I can keep my wits in tact.

Good things: the music was decent and it was inspired enough; and Sharon, who's heading back to Marseilles this week, bought Mamale's CD autographed by the band members for only $3. 

Now if they become a worldwide phenomenon [insert sarcastic rolleyes here], I can say that I was here in Hanoi, when they were just an upstart diversion to the expat community.