Gipsy King Of The Jungle: Part One

Retracting the cat claws from yesterday to tell you a lighter story today. This is one I’ve never been able to tell E. b/c HARK! it remotely involves an ex-boyfriend. (yes, we have one of those relationships…I’ve had to black-hole much of my past…all so very healthy)

Some years ago, a friend and I jetted over to New Orleans to catch some Gipsy Kings action. My college ‘workin’ in the music industry’ buddy (I call him Brutha Ministah from time to time…that can be his blog name) would regularly be in N.O. for a gig, and I’d steal a break from mommy duty to drive over and hang out for a day or so. I had a Gipsy Kings album or two, so, sure, let’s hang out. I snagged an old friend with a functioning car that had the promise of making a 5 hour drive without dying on the side of the road. (I have buried one too many a car on the side of an interstate. I’ve got baaaad car mojo.) And, off we went.

The show itself was decent. I had not been a die hard Gipsy Kings fan all my live long day, so it was one of those, “Oh, yeh, I’ve heard that one. Ummm, that one, I don’t know. No, definitely not that one. Ooh, ooh, something I recognize.” But, I still enjoyed all the music they had to offer. Just being in the atmosphere with all the lights and sounds and set design is always a thrill for me. Whether I’m a fan of the artist or not. (the first time I saw Radiohead, I only had a 3 day prior crash course in their music…but, man, was that an awesome show!?!…I forget what album they were pushing at the time, maybe Amnesiac?…but, the speaker set-up throughout the amphitheater made for a phenomenal audiophile treat)

I was asked several times during the Gipsy Kings show if I was latina. I really don’t think I look remotely latina, but took it as a compliment. (latina women are hot. there, i said it.) I might pass for a fair-skinned Argentinian, but I blow it with my Spanish accent. A ‘ll’ to me is ‘y’ not ‘j’. No, no me Jamo Maria. Me Yamo Maria.” (remember, I’m Maria out in public. Or, back in my SOOO SKINNY days.)

Show’s over, so we go backstage to wait for our friend to finish up his bizniz. We’re standing in a hallway watching the women with backstage passes drop buckets of tears over ther impending chance to meet the boys up close and personal. This is always fun to watch. Some fans really lose their shiznit backstage, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, it’s really him, it’s really you, ohmygod, I can’t believe this is happening, ohmygod, ohmygod.” I’m sure musicians really like dealing with that frenzy after sweatin’ their nuts off on-stage for 2 hours. And, then again, I’m sure some go for the ego stroke. Just hanging in the hallway, we wound up side by side with the Kings. Some complained about having to do the meet-and-greet and just wanted to go back to the hotel and snooze. Others seemed more up for the ego stroke. I joke with a couple of them, and BAM! we were off to the Ritz to hang out with some Kings.

[let's pull the emergency brake here for a moment. my friend and i made it very clear we were not groupies/hookers/partin' with our panties. it was just some hanging out in the lobby, drinking wine, and chatting with our equally limited Spanish speaking conversational skills. or so we thought. dum, dum, duuuummmm.]

I send my friend to relay the evening plans to Brutha Ministah, knowing he’ll be pissed. “Oh, thanks for coming to hang out with me. Have fun with those strangers.” Actually, she didn’t give him a chance to reply…she just ran in his office, grabbed her purse (see, i don’t carry a purse, but i make sure to hang out with someone who does), patted him on the head, “We’re off to the Ritz. See you in a bit.”)

And, off we went. With police escorts! Probably the only time in my life to be escorted out of a building, into a limo, and through town with police escorts. Others may have been overjoyed to meet the musicians; I was overwhelmed with the police escorts. My priorities are all screwed up.

At the Ritz, there was wine and chatting and some playing of the piano. I watched as each Gipsy King there (a couple had gone on to bed) paired off with a certain lady friend. I realized quickly what was going on. I had spent most of my time talking to one sweet man in particular (I’ll not name names…I’m still wondering if I can tell this tale without finding the Gipsy Kings brigade at my door in the morning). But, I also kept reiterating, “You know I’m not going to do anything with you, right?” Of course, of course, I wouldn’t dream of it. He was very polite and had interesting things to say about where he lived in the south of France, touring, living a life of music,…

Eventually, he suggested to both my friend and me, “Hey, let’s go up to my room. I want you to hear my solo album.” Hmmm. Now, how naive does he think these southern gals are? We decline, but he keeps on an on. “I promise. I just want you to hear the cd. That’s all.” We strongly state that nothing will happen, and if that’s what you’re looking for, we highly suggest you pick from the hoard of women in the lobby who seem up for that sort of thing. We’ll even help you pick a pretty one. Maybe one with a gymnast’s background. Because we’re pimps like that. “No, no, no. That’s why I want you to listen to my music. I know you’re not like these other women.” 0ooooookaaaaaaay.

So, up to the room we go. I felt like such a whore leaving the lobby with him, fully aware that the remaining Kings were silently, “KA-CHING! He scored TWO!”

Any of you with kids, I know are aware what happens when you get a break from parenting and the sun goes down and you’ve been on your feet for a while. You get very sleepy. Brutha Ministah would always complain,

B.M.: All you ever do when you come to ‘hang out’ is sleep. Let’s go out. Let’s drink. Let’s dance. Party like it’s 1999.
me: Or, how about I take a little nap?
B.M.: You suck.
me: ZZZzzzzzzz.

So, we’re in the King’s room, and he’s proudly going through his songlist. The cd was very mellow and very relaxing. Ha, I still laugh, wondering what he must have thought with these two boring, tired girls in his room. Buddy, I am honest if nothing else. When I say nothing is gonna happen, that means nothing is gonna happen and I might even go so far as to fall asleep in your presence.

Yes, I fell asleep in a cushy armchair. Because, I party like it’s 1999. Like I’ve been awake since 1999 and could really go for a nap right about NOW.

My friend got all googly-eyed when he showed off the contents of the mini-fridge. So, she downed his little bottles of booze and they danced to his cd and I slept in the cushy armchair. Good times.

Eventually, after periodic rousings to see them still drinking and dancing, I suggested we head on back to our hotel. Sleeping in the horizontal position was at the top of my fantasy wishlist. “No, no, no, dee, don’t go. You, friend of dee, can go. But, dee, please stay.” (Two things: 1) I gave up the Maria cover and went with my real name. They were Gipsy Kings. What Gipsy King is going to take the time to track me down? dum dum duuuummmm. 2) My friend was so pissed. “I entertain that guy through the wee hours of morning. You sleep upright in an armchair. And, he insists you stay and I go. I hate you.” Woops.)

Whatever. We exit the room, he offers to fetch us a ride and go with us to our hotel, we say, “No thanks, we can handle it from here.”

And, I kiss him goodnight on the forehead. Like a sweet little baby.