Jazz in Bishkek
After a headline like that, I would expect to read, "there isn't any." In fact, I was subconsciously so convinced that there wouldn't be jazz in Bishkek that it never even occurred to me to go looking for it. That's okay, though, the jazz found me this time.
We got in to the hotel late at night after a time-consuming exodus from the aircraft and journey through the visa process. The rest of the cockpit crew and one of the flight attendants rode the aircraft back to Leipzig. Several more of the flight attendants dropped off, a technical term meaning the company gave them an allowance to get home and left it up to them to figure out how (or even where) to go. That left 3 flight attendants and myself who the company was supposed to book travel for out of Bishkek. They hadn't booked it by the time we got to the hotel, so we were in the dark as to when we were leaving.
Before hitting the sack, I figured it'd be good to eat. Three of us (Brad, Denise, and myself) met at the bar for dinner. After some mediocre high-priced fish and chips and a relatively cheap glass of Moldovian Cabernet (who knew?), I was ready for bed. Unfortunately, Brad got tied up with a comical and lengthy interaction with a boisterous girl from Moscow and her uniformed soldier boyfriend (or husband?). I hit the sack around 3 a.m. not knowing when I'd be leaving this rather remote pit stop on the ancient silk road. We all agreed, though, that we wanted to go out and check out the town the next day if we were still there.
I figured I'd sleep until noon. Around 8:30 a.m., I was wide awake (jet lag at its finest). I checked my schedule, emailed, chatted, and caught up on other 'stuff'. Later in the morning, Denise called to see about going out. Then she called back, this time to tell me she was going for a cup of coffee in the lobby. Then the other flight attendant (who I didn't spend much time with) called. Finally, I figured everyone knew I was up and I better get with it. Just before I got in the shower, Denise called again.
"There's drums down here," She said. I could hear the music in the background. It actually sounded quite good over the phone... and it was jazz. I figured I better make it a quicker shower and see what this was all about. Around noonish, I guess it was, I made my way down to the lobby where Denise was sitting. There, set up near the entrance to the restaurant, was a 4-piece jazz group made up of local-looking people (the Kyrgyz people are more eastern looking, not fair skinned like Russians or Ukrainians).
The coffee I ordered came in a clear glass cup with no handle on it, but it wasn't solid glass. It was one piece but more like a thermos, having a hollow insulated layer inside. Three sugars and a bunch of milk toned it down to really strong. There I sat, sipping my nuclear coffee listening to home-grown jazz in Central Asia, about as remote as you can get from its origins and still see any semblance of civilization as we know it.
After one song, they took a break. I decided to see if they spoke any English. The piano player, Alex, spoke some English, and the Bass player, Erkin, did quite well. Turns out, he spent three months in Boston and New York playing and hanging out with many a famous east-coast Jazz musician. It all started when he emailed Ron Carter...
I wound up sitting in for a couple tunes. I forget what we played first, but the second tune was Chameleon. I told them I had just heard Herbie Hancock play it a couple months earlier at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Between sets, we would talk about jazz. We learned a fair bit about these guys. Erkin and Kubon (the sax player) are brothers, and the drummer, Bakyt, is their dad. He also plays classical violin. And there is a conservatory in Bishkek where they all play, study, and/or teach. Erkin showed me pictures of him from his trip to the U.S., mostly with other famous musicians (Christian McBride, Victor Wooten, Bobby McFerrin, and the list goes on and on). Many of them sparked stories that connected the two of us in various ways, like his picture with Chick Corea and my story about not sending him a tape after he asked for one.
After the fun was all wrapped up, we decided it was time to find food. We bumped in to Brad and decided to go out walking. I got a map and a list of some places. I decided to ask where to go for local cuisine. They pointed us to a place not far away called Vostok Zapad. After a bit of an adventure finding an ATM, we made our way to the restaurant.
The outside of the building had the typical Soviet-era look to it. Inside, the place had been wonderfully decorated in what I can only describe as the perfect mix of Central Asian themes with Western touches and a side of orange (or maybe it was rust). The waiter was from one of the other 'stans' (I forget, maybe Tajik?) and spoke pretty good English.
We made our way through the menu, asking for recommendations along the way. Between the three of us, we settled on way too much food. Three salads, three soups, and three entrees later, we were stuffed. The food was excellent and the prices, to us, fairly reasonable. We were the only customers in there and the lady who owns the place came by at the end to talk for a bit. She's been to Indiana. Small world...
And now, it's back to life as usual... just like that...
V-
We got in to the hotel late at night after a time-consuming exodus from the aircraft and journey through the visa process. The rest of the cockpit crew and one of the flight attendants rode the aircraft back to Leipzig. Several more of the flight attendants dropped off, a technical term meaning the company gave them an allowance to get home and left it up to them to figure out how (or even where) to go. That left 3 flight attendants and myself who the company was supposed to book travel for out of Bishkek. They hadn't booked it by the time we got to the hotel, so we were in the dark as to when we were leaving.
Before hitting the sack, I figured it'd be good to eat. Three of us (Brad, Denise, and myself) met at the bar for dinner. After some mediocre high-priced fish and chips and a relatively cheap glass of Moldovian Cabernet (who knew?), I was ready for bed. Unfortunately, Brad got tied up with a comical and lengthy interaction with a boisterous girl from Moscow and her uniformed soldier boyfriend (or husband?). I hit the sack around 3 a.m. not knowing when I'd be leaving this rather remote pit stop on the ancient silk road. We all agreed, though, that we wanted to go out and check out the town the next day if we were still there.
I figured I'd sleep until noon. Around 8:30 a.m., I was wide awake (jet lag at its finest). I checked my schedule, emailed, chatted, and caught up on other 'stuff'. Later in the morning, Denise called to see about going out. Then she called back, this time to tell me she was going for a cup of coffee in the lobby. Then the other flight attendant (who I didn't spend much time with) called. Finally, I figured everyone knew I was up and I better get with it. Just before I got in the shower, Denise called again.
"There's drums down here," She said. I could hear the music in the background. It actually sounded quite good over the phone... and it was jazz. I figured I better make it a quicker shower and see what this was all about. Around noonish, I guess it was, I made my way down to the lobby where Denise was sitting. There, set up near the entrance to the restaurant, was a 4-piece jazz group made up of local-looking people (the Kyrgyz people are more eastern looking, not fair skinned like Russians or Ukrainians).
The coffee I ordered came in a clear glass cup with no handle on it, but it wasn't solid glass. It was one piece but more like a thermos, having a hollow insulated layer inside. Three sugars and a bunch of milk toned it down to really strong. There I sat, sipping my nuclear coffee listening to home-grown jazz in Central Asia, about as remote as you can get from its origins and still see any semblance of civilization as we know it.
After one song, they took a break. I decided to see if they spoke any English. The piano player, Alex, spoke some English, and the Bass player, Erkin, did quite well. Turns out, he spent three months in Boston and New York playing and hanging out with many a famous east-coast Jazz musician. It all started when he emailed Ron Carter...
I wound up sitting in for a couple tunes. I forget what we played first, but the second tune was Chameleon. I told them I had just heard Herbie Hancock play it a couple months earlier at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Between sets, we would talk about jazz. We learned a fair bit about these guys. Erkin and Kubon (the sax player) are brothers, and the drummer, Bakyt, is their dad. He also plays classical violin. And there is a conservatory in Bishkek where they all play, study, and/or teach. Erkin showed me pictures of him from his trip to the U.S., mostly with other famous musicians (Christian McBride, Victor Wooten, Bobby McFerrin, and the list goes on and on). Many of them sparked stories that connected the two of us in various ways, like his picture with Chick Corea and my story about not sending him a tape after he asked for one.
After the fun was all wrapped up, we decided it was time to find food. We bumped in to Brad and decided to go out walking. I got a map and a list of some places. I decided to ask where to go for local cuisine. They pointed us to a place not far away called Vostok Zapad. After a bit of an adventure finding an ATM, we made our way to the restaurant.
The outside of the building had the typical Soviet-era look to it. Inside, the place had been wonderfully decorated in what I can only describe as the perfect mix of Central Asian themes with Western touches and a side of orange (or maybe it was rust). The waiter was from one of the other 'stans' (I forget, maybe Tajik?) and spoke pretty good English.
We made our way through the menu, asking for recommendations along the way. Between the three of us, we settled on way too much food. Three salads, three soups, and three entrees later, we were stuffed. The food was excellent and the prices, to us, fairly reasonable. We were the only customers in there and the lady who owns the place came by at the end to talk for a bit. She's been to Indiana. Small world...
And now, it's back to life as usual... just like that...
V-