Nice Pirate Ship

By Nayeli - I never thought I’d get to say the phrase, “Nice pirate ship,” to a man wearing a skull and cross bones but last Friday, I did. At the laundromat. Well, sort of. It all began when I saw a poster claiming that Westbound Train and The Toasters were playing together in Paris. To a sane, normal, non-concert addict such a poster would be nothing more than a piece of paper stapled to the door of a pastry shop. But for me, said poster evoked the reaction of a high pitched squeal. Westbound Train AND The Toasters! Together in Paris. You have probably never heard of these bands, which is too bad. Check them out at www.westboundsound.com and www.toasters.org.

Back to high pitched squealing. I’d heard good things about The Toasters, but had never experienced their music for myself (I’m now very glad I did). It was Westbound Train that got my attention. Last spring my lovely friend Lyssa and I spent an evening on the darker end of New Scotland Avenue in Albany, New York for a concert at the surprisingly atmospheric venue, Valentine's an excellent bar/music hall which I highly recommend if you ever have the misfortune of being in Albany on a Saturday). From the moment our high-heels hit the pavement that night we couldn’t help rocking out to Westbound Train’s uppity up beat. They were the ideal opening band. Their sound was incredibly pleasing, and the crowd was instantly up on its feet. Thanks to my painful navigational skills however, we’d arrived too fashionably late to hear their entire set. Our tardiness and a hotel room at the slimiest Howard Johnson’s in town (which, considering this was Albany, was pretty slimy) were the only bum notes in the entire experience. I swore to let neither tardiness nor sliminess poison my Westbound experience this time around. Unfortunately, none of my Parisian pals can contend with Lyssa and me on the "crazy meter" and no one was willing to follow me blindly into the depths of the 13th arrondisement for “this really good ska band”. I don’t blame them. The show was in THE sketchiest quarter on the left bank in one of the industrial zones. Being the pragmatic, responsible type (why not?), I took the metro down to check it out in the semi-security of daylight that morning. I found the neighborhood – there was construction on the quay. Mack trucks, loads of stone, welding metal everywhere. It was DEFINITELY illegal for me to be walking through that construction zone; I think they were securing a water main. I ended up hiding out for several minutes behind a large crate with a concerned friend on the cell phone who was strongly advising me not to attend this concert. Friday came along and, of course I went. Let’s review: I trekked alone, through the cold, the wet, and the less-than odious metro stations; to Quai de la Gare (on the absolute opposite side of the city) for a ska-reggae band I heard open for some other ska-reggae band a lifetime ago in upstate New York.

And the venue? La Guinguette Pirate, an old barge cum "pirate ship" lashed with Christmas lights to an even older dock. Both boat and dock are currently undergoing heavy renovations.

Kiki, my culturally savvy French friend had informed me that “guinguette” refers to the old fashioned laundry rooms where girls sweated and slaved away washing linens with their skirts thrown behind their shoulders so as not to get wet. It was supposedly in such “guinguettes” that the Can-Can was born (because laundry always makes me feel like dancing).

This tidbit of historical information, while interesting, also concerned me as I approached the deck. I looked down at my own skirt and tightened the belt lest anyone get the wrong idea. Upon my entrance to this colorful club I noticed that half of the clientele had donned shirts emblazoned with skulls and crossbones. “Wow,” I thought, “they really go all out with this pirate theme.” It was around this time that the, “Nice pirate ship,” comment was made to one of these shirt-wearers (who enlightened me to the fact that the shirts were only pieces of Toasters paraphernalia).

It wasn’t long before I befriended Jeff, saxophonist for the Toasters, when I was asked to translate a fan’s request for the ban’s merchandise. Soon I was practically running the merchandise table- not my typical idea of a rockin’ time- but this occupation only lasted until Westbound Train hit the stage. While there were no historical reenactments of the Can-Can that night, I do believe the crowd and I successfully revived the “guinguette” spirit of revelry. (It occurred to me that this was the perfect place to see the Bostonian “Westbounders” who could have really gotten into the boat thing with some Boston Tea Party action if they’d wanted.)

The night turned out to be truly memorable when, on my way out, I was further implored to help several members of Westbound Train find the Eiffel Tower and a place to eat. I couldn’t bring myself to let the kids miss out on Paris’s main tourist attraction and starve so, with me now acting as both translator and guide, we snapped a few pictures of their singer with the armed guards at the Eiffel Tower and continued on to Pizza Pino (31 Ave. Champs-Elysees), the most popular Italian restaurant in Paris (with the latest closing time).

It was getting late at this point, and the band had a long haul to Germany the next morning, so before Paris’s many wonders tempted them to break their bus call, they took their pizza “emportè” we called it quits. Well, they did. I was still in a dancing mood. I went home and did my laundry.