Life of Riley

The making of a headshot

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 21:06:00 +0000

Beba watched silently from a dark corner as I was being shot. "She knows all the poses," says photographer Irini Michopoulou of her trusted dog. "In fact, they used her for a TV publicity shoot. She's a model too!" There is something comforting about having a photographer's pet witness your headshot session. No grunt of judgement nor a bark of support but purely objective observation, exactly what's needed for an Actor's headshot. You need to be you, a blank face on which a casting director can project a character, but with enough expressiveness in the eyes to catch attention.

It is of course up to the photographer to bring out your best look, whether neutral, dramatic, cheeky or jovial. One only needs to look at a photographer's portfolio to know if matches your concept of mood and style. Now Irini has been a pro fashion and music publicity shooter for several years, and her attention to detail is immediately evident in her actor portraits. They convey a unique personal atmosphere with each individual, not an easy task considering actors are not models: stage presence does not always equal photogenicity.

And so it was that I found myself with several changes of black and white shirts at her central Athens home studio last week. Irini's allround experience meant she had stylistic facets covered. "They don't give you an assistant any more, so I do everything myself," Irini told me. The conditions for photographers in Greece are far from ideal, and so she frequently takes on projects abroad.

From a technical point of view, Irini's set up is basic but effective. One umbrella strobe and one flash diffuser aimed at the subject and a rolled-down backdrop respectively is all she needs in her 4x5. "The reflective black granite floor also creates an effect, as do the walls, so I know exactly what the room can give me." A Canon 1D Mark II fitted with a 100mm f2.8 prime lens rounds off the headshot equipment specs.

A pro set-up alone won't create great pics. Actor's need to be directed, so a photographer's coaching ability is just as crucial to getting great headshots. Irini knows what she wants and guides you through the motions smoothly, with the added advantage of digital being hat you get to see some shots immediately on the camera's screen, instantly setting your mind at ease that the shoot is going in the right direction.

My contact sheet will arrive within the next few days from which I will have to choose five favourites. Irini will then slightly retouch and adapt these to black and white where desired. A week or two later my smug mug should be hanging on a casting director's wall, or at the very least filed in one of their books, and round two of my quest for an IMDb listing begins.

Posted via email from Shot & Echo

Athens got Stiped

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 07:54:00 +0000

#remathens

The Athenian summer concert season just went out with a smashing bang thanks to Charismatic for the People purveyors R.E.M. What surrealistically started in June with local police locking up James Blunt's instruments inside the Lycabettus theatre (apparently the grandstand had become unsafe a few hours before the gig so lock and chain were applied for about 4 days) threatened to end in two Battle of the VIP Tickets playback pop overs between J-Lo and Madonna. But the saviour turned out to be an unlikely hero, MTV, who provided Athens with a free (!) mini fest headlined by Messrs. Stipe, Buck and Mills.

Now capturing Michael Stipe on camera is a music photographer's must, Danny Clinch has turned it into nothing short of an art form, but try telling MTV that who need the pit for their live broadcast equipment. So instead of spending 5 hours in line to get anywhere close to the first rows and then having to endure wannabe starlets, Heineken-wielding Britpoppers, and the mind-numbing commentary from "VJ's" who don't even bother doing an ounce of research (Hey Tim Kash, the album is not called "Accelerator" and this was not the end of their tour as we know it..) I watched the show from home. EVEN THEN Stipe managed to reach out to his audience. Bouncing on the edge of my big red sofa to Supernatural Superserious and singing aloud to The One I Love, I watched as the band tore down the "room", the classic Kallimarmaro stadium, and the whole city for that matter, right down to the last moment, when Mills cracked the head off his bass and rammed it into a amp. Take that, capitalist promoters!

P.S.: I didn't quite catch Michael's song of the summer, did he say Santa's Gold?

Momix: Detached Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 12:08:00 +0000

Who turned a promising dance performance into an overpriced slideshow?

Dance troupe Momix has come round to perform their show “Passion” at the Badminton Theatre, from December 1-7. The setup looked promising: a modern dance performance accompanied by the music of Peter Gabriel - written for Martin Scorsese’s 1988 movie “The Last Temptation of Christ”, itself based on the eponymous novel by Nikos Kazantzakis - and choreographed by Moses Pendleton, Momix’s Artistic Director and co-founder of Pilobolus.

Passion is not a new creation. Pendleton pondered on the relation between the human body’s earthly presence and its spiritual incarnation as far back as 1991. It enjoyed complimentary reviews back then, and not without reason. The performing dancers portrayed playful and astounding investigations into the body’s capabilities, a trademark of Pendleton’s, as well as collaboratively evoking ever-changing images in 21 separated micro-routines. Even the inevitable image of Christ on the cross was dynamically recreated within ropes of a trapeze, allowing for a maximum of movement of three performers floating and spinning in the air.

But choices made in the work’s conceptualization did raise a few questions. Why, if wanting to show the beauty and expressive capacity of the human body, mask it for the entire duration with a gauze screen? This theatrical technique, in which projections cover the proscenium frame on one hand and atmospheric lighting reveals subjects in motion behind it on the other, has been used to great effect on many an occasion, and if done thoughtfully can work up magical tableaus. But in Passion, the selected visuals, still-images of faces, spaces, and the occasional pantheistic reference seemed only to interfere with the on-stage action. On one occasion only do dancers interact with the screen, shadow shaping bendable sticks into flowing patterns. However, this particularly anticlimactic finale scene would be much better served by shifting it to the show’s beginnings, after which the fourth wall could have been dropped or lifted.

Perhaps it was Pendleton’s motive to create this barrier between the oft faceless entities on stage and their observers. Maybe this constituted the proverbial rift between faith and the faithful. When it finally does drop at the performance’s very end, the immediate effect is a sigh of relief (and a breath of cool, fresh air wafting into the uncomfortably warm confines of the auditorium). Here, then, our artistic interpreters are finally united with our imaginations. We had to endure a sequence of depictions of trees, deities, statues, pyramids (the glass structure at the Louvre now sadly an unintended reference to Brown’s Da Vinci Code) and ice blocks floating in the sea (climate change, anyone?). Was this at all necessary?

The magic of art is that it can invoke a different picture to each individual spectator. When a body of dancers clusters together, arms and feet outstretched and swaying, one person will see a tree of life, another sees the goddess Shiva. This is the history of spiritualization. It should be left to personal interpretation, rather than hewn in stone, or inscribed in a book of laws.

Peter Gabriel’s score on the other hand leaves the gate open. Passion’s music is of a timeless quality which features the ephemeral voices of Yousou N’dour, Gabriel himself and the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, never laying on a particular style but merging earthy drones and worldly rhythms with melodic gravitas. It would have helped the flow and pace of the performance had the music been segued, without falling silent in blackouts between tracks. This became very repetitive, tedious, and in no way helped the show’s approachability.

Accessible art thus became last night’s theme. The show might originally have set out to ask “What is wrong with the world today?” Instead, it inadvertently posed the question “What is wrong with the world of arts entertainment today?” Supporting artists for their creations is a privilege. It is also heartwarming to see a modern dance performance fill up high capacity venues such as the new Badminton Theatre. However, with front section seats going for €70 euros a piece, this was one pricey slideshow, and at that sum one would almost expect to see Peter Gabriel perform the music live.

Next up from promoters GMI Corporation is Woody Allen with the New Orleans Jazz Band on the 28th & 29th of December. Yes, Mr Allen will be there in person, playing live, but it will set you back between €60 and €165. That’s right, €165.

Of course, you could always see Woody’s latest motion picture Cassandra’s Dream at your local cinema for €8. That’s a temptation many a Christos or Christina will be much more eager to give in to.

Two Englishmen and an American (and a Corsican) in Paris

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 13:58:00 +0000

“Now there’s three of you in a band, you’re like a proper band. You’re like the policemen.”
Flight of the Conchords manager Murray, Episode 12

In the early summer of 2005, driving back into the Hellenic capital with impressions of Sting’s Broken Music Tour concert still fresh in my mind, a sense of nostalgia hit me. Not mine necessarily, but that of the Englishman whose on-stage renditions of Roxanne, Message in a Bottle and the Punk anthem Next To You hit home a sense of longing for days gone by. He may not have been conscious of it at the time, but below the surface three people were simultaneously sending out an S.O.S.

“With Sting’s memoirs out,” I concluded a review of his Athens show, “Andy Summer’s One Train Later on the way and Stewart Copeland’s home movies of The Police years collected in the documentary Everyone Stares, maybe the time has finally come for the old mates to get together again for one penultimate tour?”

So when one morning late last year the jazz-bassist-turned-Punk-Rocker-turned-pop-renewer-turned-lute-player suddenly rolled out of bed and thought “What would surprise everybody now? What would surprise me?” the logical conclusion came to be a phone call to his manager. “I want to get the band together again.” By February the 13th 2007, a day after The Police opened the 49th Grammy Awards, the whole world knew that one of the most influential trios of the 70s and 80s were back together again. A special fan club concert in Vancouver kicked off the world tour on May 27th, a tour that is setting a fair bunch of records in highest grossing tours and sold-out venues.

Last weekend The Police were out in full force in the French capital Paris. Inside the majestic Stade de France, 80.000 people gathered on both nights to see the blonded bandidos de do do do their thing, while outside every conceivable police division made their acte de presence, on horseback, on scooters, in riot gear, and as gendarmerie. One wondered what they were there for. Did they expect a bunch of 30-somethings to go near-ballistic like in 1981 when The Police turned up 4 hours late at a gig in Le Bourget due to heavy snow? Were they using the show as a training exercise for the Rugby World Cup later that week, or has this show of force become the daily norm in President Sarkozy’s security state?

The early days of anarchistic Punk behaviour, both the bands’ as that of their fans, have long passed. The Police may only have started out as Punk band by design of founder Stewart and his manager brother Miles Copeland, but the subject material was sharp and edgy in its observation of personal angst, societies under pressure and destructive politics. To The Police’s great credit, the messages booming out of the immense sound system are still as strong now as they were back then, covering everything from loneliness (So Lonely) to human rights violations (poignant photographs of children during Invisible Sun).

But the most lasting quality of this trio has to be its musical prowess. This was to be expected of three individuals whose backgrounds have evolved to excel in jazz (Andy Summers Trio), soundtracks and operatic scores (Copeland’s Holy Blood and Crescent Moon) and Elizabethan era music of melancholy (Sting’s interpretation of 16th century composer John Dowland.) Nevertheless, the decision was made to stick as closely as possible to the original sound of The Police, keeping Copeland’s rich rhythmic complexities, Summers’ exquisite rock solos and Sting’s brilliantly layered bass accompaniment and vocal superiority. This makes the band sound fresh and recognizable at the same time, with all the advantages of 21st century technology and visuals to create a blast of a show.

Especially Stewart Copeland reigns supreme within his elaborate yet grounded drum set, raising the musical plateau even further when taking gems as Wrapped Around Your Finger and King of Pain to ethereal levels on his percussion rig. The man is truly in his element and gives 100 percent at every instant. Showman Sting seems to relinquish his usual front spot to give his band mates the attention they deserve, but is undoubtedly the cardiac epicentre of this body. Andy Summers has aged well, to say it with suitable British understatement, and serious glances of rock-god concentration give way to broad and tellingly infectious smiles. As an icing on the cake in Paris, the three were joined on final encore Next To You by Corsican Henri Padovani, the band’s original guitarist before being ousted by Summers.

It’s clear the band is having the time of their life on this long overdue reunion. As a comfortable bonus, each may well walk away with $50 million at the end of this tour, not counting the additional income from Best Of compilations, memoirs, lyrics and photographic book sales, DVD’s and other merchandise. But these are not the only records being broken. To be a true fan these days almost requires being a millionaire. Regarding the tour as an opportunity of a lifetime to see their favourite band live again, hard-core fans are visiting over 10, sometimes 20 performances on this tour. With ticket prices ranging from €67 to $250, if not above, this is a steep investment by any account. Add to that travel and accommodation expenses, not to mention a $100 fan club fee for access to 4 pre-sale tickets, and you’re looking at digging well into your pension fund.

That’s all very well for a reunion tour that might be their last. But what if, and Andy Summers has already indicated the door is open to this, there were to be a new album? Then the whole thing starts all over again. Perhaps promoters would be so kind as to consider dropping the cost next time round. At the end of the day the fans are a band’s lifeblood, and judging by Paris alone, a full stadium resounding with eyoh’s on Walking On The Moon, and choruses of CHA! on Can’t Stand Losing You/Regatta de Blanc, there’s a lot of them.

My First Attribution!!

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 09:21:00 +0000

From none other than the lovely Miss Norah Jones.

Thanks dear!

The Chi of Cha

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 08:35:00 +0000

A long essay on the most miniscule aspect of my favourite band's performance

In a world where Yeah-Uh’s and Bleep-Bleeps have saturated the music industry, one band’s Eeaayo is once again resounding in arenas, stadiums and music halls across the globe. The Police have come back to Roxanne fans and new converts in a Pangalactic gargleblasting reunion tour that has already broken every ticket-selling record known to man, at least the men who run Live Nation and Ticketmaster.com. Or is it women. Live Nation France is run by Jacqueline Lombard, so let us say the tour has broken every ticket-selling record known to person for political correctness. No offence to women. Or men. Or hermaphrodites.

But despite all the bona fide hoo-ha about the 70’s-80’s punk-turned-reggae-well-not-really-actually-rock-sort-of group returning to the world stage for one (?) penultimate tour to settle a never officially announced break-up, deep within the bowels of the band’s fan base, a small chorus of disenchantment has reared its little head. It’s quite small. Almost like a miniskirt in the sixties, short and suggestive, but not quite revealing the goodies. Nevertheless it’s significant in many ways. Some would even say profound. Massive. Humongous. But not as big as climate change or the Middle East peace process, mind you.

On June 21, 2007, at 02:22:06 AM on America’s west coast, just under one month after the dynamic trio’s Reunion Tour kicked off in Vancouver, a member of thepolicetour.com fanclub posted a small question on the site’s community message board that would change the lives of many other members forever. Or at least until their next Police live gig. The designated poster by the name of Charliearnold posed the following seemingly harmless but poignant question:
“Is there even one single "CHA!" in the entire set?”

One of the first replies gave an inkling of the mammoth proportions this thread would take on. “You can't get more esoteric and inside-baseball than this. I think we all enjoyed the band's ideosyncratic flavor,” said jerseyfan, and a few posts further scully9712 pondered even deeper by posing: “what the hell is a "cha" anyway, is it kind of like a "doo whop? I think i'll lose sleep over this one ...very philosophical question....what is the basis of the "cha" what does it do, what does it mean…what happens if we do not cha?? can we take a cha and give one as well (sort of like giving a s--t and taking one). I think I need to meditate over the cha.”

Indeed, the whole issue warranted a serious soulsearching session accompanied by a hotly brewed cup of tea, steeping profoundly on the stove to attain full flavour. What was our personal affinity with CHA? Why do we miss it, and more importantly, why has Sting omitted it from the songs that received their powerful potency from this three-letter word? As it turned out, the answer to the first two questions were not all that easy to decode, not even with an Enigma, Deep Thought or the weird scroll thingy with letters on it as used in that ominously badly written novel by Dan Brown. The answer to the last one however lay in the mind of only one man to whom access was not within everyman’s privilege.

The first sighting – or sounding – of the CHA came in 1979, on the band’s second album Regatta de Blanc. Voices Inside My Head on The Police’s third album Zenyatta Mondatta firmly positioned Cha among the eeyoo’s and eyayo’s so inextricably linked to the band’s sound, and the follow up Ghost In The Machine had Too Much Information with not enough Cha’s sealing the deal. Eeyo’s and eyayo’s may easily be considered as a simple yet effective conjuncture of vowels characterizing a pleasant configuration of the vocal tract without the build-up of air pressure above the glottis to create a resounding accompaniment of incremental chords, the charged, consonant top and vowel release of the CH-A attracts a much more endemic observation of its origins. Regatta’s title track brought forth a chorus of syncopated exclamations of what appears to the human ear to be CHA! Although, The Police having ventured their Punk foundations into reggae fusions, it would be conceivable that the utterance could originally have encapsulated a religious calling. “The word is actually JAH, the Rastafarian reference for God,” said sadandroid, adding that it “possibly arrived musically by Sting listening to the Beatles (at the end of Hello Goodbye...hella, ava hellooo um jah, um jah.... McCartney was also influenced by early reggae roots)” As the official lyrics never made a mention of Cha, there is no official documentation as to Sting’s intended source of the chant, adding to its mysticism and growing cult status among fans.

The allusion to a kind of “life force” is nevertheless not far fetched. Cha could be a police-ism for the ancient Asian concept of Chi, believed to be part of every living thing that exists, as a “spiritual energy” or “energy flow.” Had the 4th century BCE Chinese philosopher Zhuang Zhou (also known as Master Zhuang) lived today and been one of The Police’s most fervent fans, he may have indicated that cosmic Yin and Yang "are the greatest of Cha," describing Cha as "issuing forth" and creating profound effects.

The discussion's founding cha-ther, charliearnold, argues that Cha is the yin to eeyo’s yang, and therefore the Police are unbalanced without it. The contemporary TPT community philosophist arecev said that “the sound transcends the spelling and the meaning. It is neither. It is a feeling. Perhaps CHA is not the expression of just one feeling. Perhaps it is the culmination of several feelings: joy, angst, energy, sorrow.”

As TPT member jerseyfan explained, Cha’s versatility had no bounds. “Listen to the Synchronicity concert DVD. The first song- Synchronicity- ends with several Chas. But Chas can also start a song, or Sting can work them in at any moment. That's the beauty of the Cha.” When the almost inconceivable reconciliation of the band became a fact at the beginning of 2007, fans went wild at the thought of hearing their favourite chants put back into their intended context of Sting on bass and vocals, Stewart Copeland on his illustrious drums and Andy Summers on guitar. But when the reunion tour finally kicked off in Vancouver at the end of May, all the eeyo’s were in place, but no Cha was to be found anywhere. Hardcore Cha-ists were dismayed.

“Cha is one of the signature sounds of the Police,” wrote Message board Police Chief plutonic. “A Police show is not complete without Cha. It's like doing the show without Andy.” And so the quest was on to raise awareness about this discrepancy in what was otherwise a dream-come-true reunion, with message board members across the world rallying to bring back the Cha. Signatures were cha-enhanced, profile images were cha-ified and strategies were drawn up to get the CHA! Going at upcoming concerts with the help of cha-leaders. The movement demonstrated the deep cha-sm left by the word’s omission, and short of cha-stising their heroes, it became clear the revolu-cha-n would not stop until cha-stice was done.

Armed with white t-shirts emblazoned with large, bold letterings projecting CHA!, the movement of cha people made their way to stadiums and arenas, acquiring strategic seats at hefty prices close to the stage to get the man’s attention to their strife. But apart from brave comrades as donnanj and plutonic getting their image onto the show’s jumbo-trons, swaying sting’s position on the omission has so far proven fruitless, giving rise to an ominous conspiracy theory.

Just moments after secretjourney1 posted a youtube clip ( http://youtube.com/watch?v=wmNeZLVnJGc ) of The Police performing an extended version of Regatta de Blanc and I Can’t Stand Losing You recorded at Miami’s Gusman Theatre in October 1979, in his failed attempt to prove that the CHA! was in fact a bastardized JAH!, a possible explanation for the missing CHA was thrown into the ring. “That clip was freaking amazing,” said dinak of the raw, young energy displayed by the band. Having examined the clip, I chucked away the kebab I was devouring for dinner and drew an assiduous assumption. “Is that the same Sting on stage as the one in the reunion tour now? It's almost leading me to believe in a conspiracy theory similar to the Paul McCartney one, whereby the real Sting got killed in the Amazon by a school of Piranha's, and the record company brought in this look-alike to take his place. Too far out, I know, but mind you, it would explain why the 'new' Sting has no affinity with CHA! whatsoever.”

The gathered evidence, including the mystery of the missing mole below pre-Amazon Sting’s lip, right side, led more people to concur that something was fishy. And sticky. The crusade to get the truth behind the Cha’s disappearance temporarily sought to extract the answer from a case of exchanged personas. Freud and Jung would have has a field day, not to mention Gil Grissom. The plot thickened and became the basis for a screenplay about a rock-star’s mid-jungle doppelganger switch at the hands of peroxide activists being uncovered by a female conservationist starring Sandra Bullock and Jude Law (copyright pending).

Another valid explanation may be that the passing of time, the ageing and wisening of Cha’s creator has transcended the need for its utterance. The great Chinese philosopher Confucius may well have put his finger on the pulse when he said: “The [morally] noble man guards himself against three things. When he is young, his Cha has not yet stabilized, so he guards himself against sexual passion. When he reaches his prime, his Cha is not easily subdued, so he guards himself against combativeness. When he reaches old age, his Cha is already depleted, so he guards himself against acquisitiveness.” Could Cha be sting’s unwritten life story?

The fact remains that the longer the world tour continues without Cha, the more fans and auxillary family, friends and pets are jumping on the Cha bandwagon, eager to get the 55-year old bandleader’s attention. This may already have happened, as plutonic’s efforts at cha-miming the trio have resulted in an oblique reaction, even a possible single cha sneaked in by Andy Summers as an act of friendly provocation towards the frontman. It’s all very well having a young generation reviving CHA in popular R’n’B music (Pussycat Dolls: Don’t CHA wish ur girlfriend sang CHA! like me) but can a Police reunion tour ever be complete without them?

Will the true meaning of Cha ever be revealed? Will our heroes be able to bring on the night with a crowd-generated chorus of CHA? What is the real reason behind the missing Cha, and does it have anything to do with a grassy knoll in the Amazon? If the Cha does not return, will Sting at least answer the movement in a corresponding post, open letter, or even autobiographical book (Broken Cha)? Has writing this essay truly been a totally useless endeavor?

Perhaps it is best left to an avid cha-ist, plutonic, to make the plea, direct and to the point. “Mr. Sting, I humbly beseech you. You yelled "CHA!" repeatedly in my ear for the better part of a decade, in my formative teen years, so I'd really appreciate hearing just one, on Mic, from you the Papa of CHA! I've waited 23 years, paid a fortune in tickets and tickets. Why deny me, your humble ombudsman? I mean, come on, you got me to sing such inanity as your ode to Doo doo: De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da. A little CHA's not gonna hurt anybody.”

Talkin' About a Revolution

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Mon, 11 Dec 2006 12:16:00 +0000

King, Kennedy, Castro... and a mouse

A short scroll through history will show that 1963 was an eventful year. Martin Luther King delivered his “I Have A Dream” speech on the steps of Washington DC’s Lincoln Memorial, in front of 250,000 participants of the March for Jobs and Freedom. USA’s first discotheque, the Whisky a Go Go in Los Angeles, was opened and USA’s most notorious prison, Alcatraz, was closed. Fidel Castro visited the Soviet Union, Johnny Depp, Mike Myers, Elle McPherson and Brad Pitt were born. But ‘63 will be remembered most as the year President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, on the 22nd of November.

Another significant yet much less known event also took place that year. A young inventor and philosopher at the Stanford Research Institute by the name of Douglas Engelbart, in his quest to augment human intellect through the improved use of technology and information, developed a device that would revolutionize the way the world would interact with their personal computers. A small wooden box with a red button, a wheel mechanism touching the surface of a desk and a connecting chord became the world’s first mouse. Ironically, Engelbart never received any royalties for his invention, partly because his patent expired in 1987, before the personal computer revolution made the mouse an indispensable input device. "Stanford patented the mouse, but they really had no idea of its value,” he said in an interview. “Some years later I learned that they had licensed it to Apple for something like $40,000."

Apple indeed became the first to produce a consumer mouse of plastic in the early 80’s, which accompanied their Lisa and Macintosh computers. Much like Engelbart’s invention it had one button and a mechanisms of wheels, which this time however registered the movements of a small tracking ball. At the same time, on the other side of the Atlantic in the Swiss town of Apples, two former Stanford graduates and an ex Olivetti manager founded Logitech International. The start-up had evolved from continued research on the device conducted at the École polytechnique fédérale de Lausanne. By 1984, Logitech had brought out its first mouse, a major bet in a yet uncertain market. But 25 years on, with Swiss precision and future vision, Logitech has become a household name in computer and audio peripherals. Their latest offering has been hailed by the company as the world’s most advanced mouse to date, so obviously I had to take it for a spin.

Freewheelin’
The new Logitech MX Revolution aims to live up to its name and completely change the way we master a mouse. Cutting the chord is by no means new, but by using its own wireless technology - complete with USB dongle - instead of Bluetooth the MX has already stepped ahead. My Apple Bluetooth keyboard still indiscriminately gets stuck on a keystroke every now and again for no apparent reason, with the only option left to turn it off an on again. The MX has so far never missed a beat and is on the whole delightfully stick-free. It has an extremely precise tracking laser which works impeccably on almost any surface (yes, even my jeans).

There are the standard left and right click buttons, smoothly carved out of the same curving surface. The extras start with a specially assigned One-Touch Search button behind the scroll wheel, which will open spotlight in Mac OS X, or the find files window in XP. On the left bevel, which hangs above a swooping rubber ‘cocoon’ designed as a thumbrest, are two assignable thumb buttons, that depending on which application you’re in can scroll, click, cruise, open a document, eject a CD, control the volume…pretty much anything short of making a nice hot cup of Fortnum & Mason tea.

Within the svelte curve is another little treat, a two-directional, spring-loaded thumb wheel which also acts as a button. Pushing it forwards or backwards switches to another application, or zooms a document or the entire display. While the button function can again be assigned to multiple actions in the control center software, I find limiting the wheel to just switching applications and zooming to be a bit, well, limiting. Adding a horizontal scroll function would surely have been one obvious option to include. Having used Apple’s Mighty Mouse I find its effortless left and right scrolling capability very enlightening. The MX does have a horizontal scroll facility by tilting the main scroll wheel left or right, but it is slow and staccato compared to the Mighty Mouse. Word for Mac does not always respond well to horizontal scrolling and it strangely doesn’t work at all in Safari, probably my only frustration about the MX’s many functions.

The major revolution however can be found in the MicroGear Precision Scroll Wheel, and its ability to change from ratcheting scroll to a continuous free roll, enabling you to sweep swiftly through a long document or web page. According to Logitech it can run through 10.000 lines in an Excel sheet in 7 seconds with just one flick of the finger. If you want to change back to ratchet, just click the wheel once and you’re going line-by-line again. The wheel is also intuitively responsive to application switching. If you’ve set it to automatically freewheel in Firefox and you click on iTunes, the MX’s SmartShift technology will autonomously switch to ratchet. It navigates easily through most websites, but even the MX can’t make some animation and video-heavy MySpace pages roll any smoother. Here’s an idea for Logitech: couldn’t chapter-markers in blogs like Engadget be recognized by the mouse, so that you can free-scroll the MX wheel until it automatically stops at the next blog entry?

Of Mice and Men
On the whole the MX Revolution weighs up nicely to its name. It’s battery life is excellent, running for 3-4 days at sustained use, and the green LED indicator lets you know when it’s time to place the device in its charger. The only thing that worries me here is the fact that it is a non-removable battery, meaning that when it eventually dies out after (hopefully) years of usage, it effectively becomes an expensive paperweight.

As far as ergonomics go, I still find myself moving it around with the tips of my fingers, my lower palm still floating in the air rather than riding on the MX’s back. Slightly smaller hands may well fit comfortably, and for the ladies or notebook users there’s always the MX’s sister, the VX. The good news is that I have not yet gone back to my Mighty Mouse, even though I miss its omni-directionally scrolling mini ball. But I do wish the granite MX would also come in Mighty white, MacBook Pro silver (like Philippe Starck’s swish Intellimouse), or even iPod Nano Product Red red.

The final question is of course if at the suggested retail price of €99.99 it’s really worth the whistles and bells. In my opinion, when it comes to buying new gear, gadgets, and electronic devices, there are two camps of consumers. There are those who are confused by too much choice and feel an anxiety as to whether a certain device will be the right purchase or not. In the end they may be swayed by a friendly price, slick design, or a catchy campaign, and following that, either be satisfied until it falls apart, or flog it on eBay at their next upgrade.

There are however others who read every conceivable review and acquaint themselves with all the latest technologies before making a choice, having a specific wish-list of features the device must possess. Nowadays, a mobile phone needs to have at least a 3-megapixel camera, play music and video, have high speed Bluetooth for wireless stereo headphones – watch this space for a future review of Logitech’s FreePulse - as well as synchronize all your contacts and appointments. Personally, I’m waiting for nothing less than Apple’s rumored iPhone, and have hence not spent a cent on a new mobile since 2004. With every innovation, man becomes more demanding. Present us with new possibilities and we will be prepared to pay the price. Show us a shorter way and we will walk it, and with each step forward we’ll set our eyes on the horizon, and see the promised land. I have a dream that one day all gadgets will be united as one, and will guide us into our salvation from entangled cables, incompatible platforms, system segregation, and utterly boring design.

Yet for those of us living in the now, most of our daily time is spent with a hand wrapped around a mouse, clicking and scrolling ourselves into fame, fortune, or oblivion. Should we satisfy our contemporary demands with a more sophisticated peripheral or will the beige, PC-bundled, no-name, 5-euro tracking device suffice? Should you embrace Logitech’s 7 clickable wonders? In the end, size is all that matters, and as history has proven over and again, revolution lies in the hands of the people.

Marq Riley for echo.fm

Familiar Features of Broken Music

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 09:14:00 +0000

We owe a lot to Sting. From the onset in 1977, his work with The Police brought about nothing short of a musical revolution. 7 years later the famous three abruptly broke up, to the dismay of thousands if not millions of fans worldwide. But the music continued as the Dream of the Blue Turtles introduced to a fresh solo sound of crispy pop blended with high-end jazz musicians. For yours truly, this album was the start of a rich musical exploration into the extended worlds of saxophonist Branford Marsalis, the late Kenny Kirkland and beyond. For his latest tour, however, Sting has decided to strip down to rocking basics, with a bass, two guitars, a drum set and a voice recalling things that it sung from the late 70’s to the early 90’s. He returned to Athens last Friday for a night in which the Greek crowds were not only given a rousing retrospective, but were also treated to a very promising outlook by his own offspring.

It is a summer’s evening in Athens, July 16th 2006. It is warm and the National Highway heading out of the city is flowing freely after the inevitable Friday exodus jams in the centre. The road is bumpy as always with impromptu patches, and the low orange glow of the setting sun shines blindingly onto our windscreen. My girlfriend, Cecilia, two friends and I are driving up to the forested concert area called Terravibe some 30 kilometres north of the Greek capital, to see an Englishman whom most of us have been following for many years. We recall his past gigs in Greece and grumble at the outlandish hike in ticket prices over the years. In 1995 the event cost 5000 drachmas, equivalent to 18 euros, whereas tonight’s show goes for 64 euros a head. Nevertheless, the side road leading up to the venue’s entrance is packed with parked cars. The police wave us on to find a different parking space, which we eventually do around the corner at a deserted bus stop.

After 20 minutes of pacey footing we finally enter the woody venue, not wanting to miss out on the opening act. As we pass the ticket checkpoint, security frisk and promotional teams handing out chewing gums and condoms, we realize the show has already started. The sound of Fiction Plane is sifting through the trees, and a distinct voice with an eerily recognisable rasping bite rises out above them. We draw closer to the stage and see a large crowd attentively head-bobbing to the band’s driven indie rock. For many this is the first contact with Fiction Plane’s music, so singing along is not yet an option. But the willingness to join in is perceptible, foremost due to the bands’ engaging stage presence, and in particular to the front man’s familiar melodic inflections and infectious energy. To the common listener, Fiction Plane with Seton Daunt on guitar, Dan Brown on keys and Pete Wilhoit on drums, is a great live band that holds up handsomely to reminiscences of the Eels or Coldplay, but for the rest of us there is an additional buzz of recognition as the singer wields his bass, gets airborne and jumps down on the acts’ closing drum-roll. This is Joe Sumner, first-born son of Sting.

The official press release to Sting’s Broken Music tour makes no mention of the fact that this is his son’s band. Whether this choice was made to promote the band in their own right or to avoid accusations of nepotism is not clear, but word got around and expectations were high. Fiction Plane manages to capture the crowds accordingly and bring a smile to fans’ faces, because it’s obvious some strong musical genes have been passed on and put to damn good use. Without there being a direct resemblance music wise, the analogy doesn’t escape us that whereas The Police started out with a powerful punk foundation back in the late 70’s, Fiction Plane is influenced by today’s counter culture of garage bands and Seattle grunge rock. It’s even more impressive to witness, on the same stage and the same night, the continuation of a man who shaped much of the late 20th century music scene. It’s a very appropriate choice seen as the Broken Music tour is based on Sting’s eponymous memoir, in which he gives a candid and moving rendition of his own youth, growing up in Newcastle, and the years leading up to The Police’s world success.

Quite by chance I meet up with Joe after Fiction Plane’s show, and he greets me like an online friend. “Hey, I recognise you from MySpace!” The popular web community has done wonders for budding bands, and brought more musicians closer to their followers than any record company has ever managed. I’m chuffed, of course, and that’s my understatement of the year. “We only got in 3 hours ago from Turkey, I haven’t even seen the city yet.” We banter about the show, the tour and discover we both first visited Greece in the early 80’s as very young lads.

A round-faced punter who has waddled up to us momentarily interrupts our conversation, his finger pointing as he starts to speak in a heavy Greek accent.
- “Excuse please, you are Sting Junior?”
I catch myself being quite taken aback by this. In my early days as a pop fan, this might have been the kind of thing I would have accosted someone with. I have been through all the phases myself: admiration, inspiration, imitation, obsession and never really knowing what to say should I be face to face with my idol. Trying not to trip my tongue, I silently await his reaction.
- “Joe. Yeah, I’m Joe.”
I’m impressed by his calm diplomacy in what must be an almost daily recurring event. In only four words, he had established his own identity without denying the legacy of his father. For all the songs of frustration and cynical outlook of Fiction Plane’s first album Everything Will Never Be OK, I find Joe to be a very positive and cool guy. I wonder whether a song like Hate is meant to be an ironic response to our generation’s lost causes, and bands being spiteful just to capture a market segment of disillusioned teenagers.

We’re cool, we’re different, and we hate things,
yeah we hate things, we hate people.

The Police’s early years were equally modelled to ride the angry punk wave.
A friend of mine remarked that the difference with Fiction Plane is that Sting came from a background of limited means, his own father a milkman in the poor suburbs of Newcastle, whereas Joe has probably had a more advantageous environment to grow up in. Those comparisons for me are beside the point. Life in the bleak streets of Wallsend may have been instrumental to Sting’s urges for escape and fame, but you are born with talent regardless of background, and it just takes a vehicle to make it go further. Growing up in a creative environment sure helps, but from what I’ve heard so far, it seems the gift is hereditary.

In Sting’s case, Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers were ideal travel mates. His solo career peaked artistically with Nothing Like The Sun and Soul Cages. In his 50’s, now that his life has become more settled and the kids start making a living for themselves, Sting is looking back at his own career. The classics Roxanne, Message in a Bottle and Every Breath You Take, together with gems like Voices inside My Head and Next To You still sound just as potent as when they first came out. Dominic Miller and Lyle Workman’s gripping guitar play and Abe Laboriel Jr.’s drum work comfortably accompany Sting’s masterful musicianship. But even when every little song they do gets so close to its original sound, some magic is still missing. When we’re taken back so far to the roots, nostalgia sets in and eventually turns into melancholy. With Sting’s memoirs out, Andy’s One Train Later on the way and Stewart’s home movies of the Police years collected in the documentary Everyone Stares, maybe the time has finally come for the old mates to get together again for one penultimate tour? We’ll be watching you.

Fiction Plane’s latest EP is called ‘Bitter Forces and Lame Racehorses’
A new Album will be out soon on Geffen Records
Broken Music is published by Simon & Schuster

De La Guarda's Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Thu, 02 Mar 2006 13:35:00 +0000

Do you consider yourself to be free-spirited? Are you someone who is not bound by conventions or lets their lives be dictated by the confines of socio-cultural rules? Does Free Jazz and BeBop dominate the playlists on your iPod, which you differentiate from the other 15 million iPods in circulation by listening to it with specially imported, noise-reducing earphones rather than the supplied white ones?

There have been plenty of motion pictures, books, songs and performances that have dealt with the subject of social identity. Oftentimes the conventions discussed and despised so vigorously in these works are sadly also confined by their own formats. A song is still dependant on a structure to get its point across. Books, and articles like this for that matter, have to formulate their facts though the clear usage of language; a means of communication for those who know it, a barrier for those who don’t. Theatre, for all its diversity in styles, shapes and sizes is frequently sectioned off from its audience by an invisible fourth wall, effectively creating two worlds, that of the stage and that of the comfortably seated audience. Even if the play in question causes you to cerebrally contemplate the notions of freedom, persona and life’s values, these passive ponderings will come as an afterthought to an emotion...if at all.

Nothing can really prepare you for a show by De La Guarda, for the simple fact that there is nothing like it. You will realise this from the first moment you are ushered in to the ‘playing arena’ with 500 plus of your fellow spectators, into a rectangular space which has no visible stage and is covered by a canvas of thick paper. You are standing. This in itself is a triumph, for how is an audience expected to actively participate in art when they are seated, or slouched against a wall at the side of an auditorium? For five minutes you are reminded of the daily conventions which you are cooped up in, a cage perhaps, a low ceiling and the claustrophobia of being packed closely together with strangers, accompanied by the nervous chatter of people, clucking like chickens. A continuous drone rises in volume, momentarily outsounding the human cacophony, bright yellow spots in all four corners are pushed to full intensity when suddenly…

What follows is mystical, enchanting and at the same time unsettling. Shadows of bodies turning overhead, silhouetted on the canvas, a kind of embryonic universe with shapes coming to life, the spatter of rain, human tadpoles swiftly swimming across the width and length of the suspended sky. At this point we are still the spectators, oohs and aahs emanating from the Athenian crowd, mesmerized by a hypnotizing mιlange of sonorous hums, glows and rushes of light, timed impeccably to unexpected movements. Just as the wonder of creation itself turns into playfulness, the element of curiosity takes over. What (f)lies behind the canvas? What awaits in the world beyond? Unavoidably, the urge to penetrate this exclusive membrane brings about a ripping sensation and we, the spectators, become the spectacle.

From this point on De La Guarda becomes a celebration of creative energy, a show that will sweep you off of your feet, even literally for a lucky few, arouse a lustful passion within you as you see these hyped-up artists evoke your childhood dream, one of being able to fly, whizzing through the air in showers and storms, driven by thrusting rhythms and flashing lights. The party also comes down to earth, but the mentality still very much high with adrenaline. There is an anarchic quality in their shouts and screams, an unreserved impulse-call to let go and join the party.
De La Guarda’s stimulation is of such honest conviction that it is in fact infectious.
It leaves you wishing you could be this uninhibited at everything you do in life, whether it’s dancing wildly in the rain, chanting indiscernible vowels from the top of your breath in congregations of new-found friends, kissing the boy or girl or baby beside you for the beauty of it and just because you feel like it. That, after all, is the real you. How often do you catch yourself resisting an urge because it is generally not accepted behaviour? How often do you conform to social patterns, when every iota in you wants to do or say something else? After having seen De La Guarda, you’ll realise you’re still a lot less free than you thought you were. This is exactly why you should not miss a moment of this show.

Congratulations to Adam productions for daring to bring such a cutting-edge production to the otherwise unexciting Athenian entertainment scene. One hopes the flying Argentinians will also be able to inspire other Greek promoters and raise the public expectation of what we like to see, hear and feel from a cultural night out.

Writer's Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Tue, 25 Oct 2005 22:20:00 +0000

Welcome, kalimera, goedemorgen and bienvenue.

There are pretty much three things I have been doing consistenly all my life:
1) travelling
2) writing
3) making pictures

In this capacity you may have
a) met me on one of your or my journeys
b) read any of my various articles, plays or lyrics
c) seen (or been a subject of) one of my pitures.

As I turned 30, compiling another CV for another prospective job, I realised there were so many things I've done, seen and been through, some of them documented on paper, memory sticks, stage or screen, but most of which remain part of a rich network of memories. Some of these memories are too precious to be left unexpressed. That's why you're reading this now.

From this date, an expanse of thoughts will come your way. See it as a travel(b)logue of one person's course through life, one which could go virtually anywhere. The beauty of the colourful people around you, the scenery, the sounds. and every once in a while a delicious piece of strawberry cheesecake. Yum!

Keep in touch,
Q

Get Out Of The City!

noreply@blogger.com (Marq) — Tue, 25 Oct 2005 13:07:00 +0000

Excellent exit strategies No. 1: Ioannina – Kerkyra by Seabird

Consider the following: An everyday afternoon in central Athens. You are snailing your way down Vasilis Sofias avenue and suddenly realise motion has become more sluggish than usual. Yes, you have just been initiated into the club of car-driving bus-lane victims as the result of a very commendable drive by the Hellenic state to get more citizens out of their oversized SUVs (Supermarket Utility Vehicles) and into overcrowded SOWs (Saunas On Wheels). It has seen previously slow-flowing 3-lane avenues compressed into two bottlenecked strips of even slower traffic so that the occasional and infrequent blue bus may zoom by without hindrance of anything from roller-skating civilians to low-flying zeppelins. You are not happy.

Solution: Get out of the city! In fact, just to be on the safe side, get out of Attica all together. Not all at once, though. Sneak out when your neighbours least expect it.
Plan your exodus carefully. Find out what alternative modes of transportation you have at your disposal.

The fastest method of escape must be by plane. Or so you thought. What are the chances of getting tied up in a demonstration by the olive-growing industry at Spata Airport with farmers protesting against the oncoming closure of Olympic Airlines, threatening their yearly multi-million-Euro orders for in-flight olives? This may sound like a strange example but reality can often be even more absurd. For whatever the unforeseen reason may be, fact is that the phenomenon of airport delays are increasing in occurrence.

Why not, and here’s a crazy thought, follow the fine example Mister Karamanlis is giving us? Let us leave our cars in the garage (or on the sidewalk) and take the bus. KTEL services cover the whole country, most of which leave from a lovely terminal in a pleasant industrial area beside the National Highway. Please note the words “lovely” and “pleasant” are used with a certain degree of poetic licence.

Nevertheless, the frustration you save by being driven more than makes up for the additional journey time. Half the fun of holidays is the travelling itself (unless it’s done around the national mass exodus of Easter and August 15th) and it is the simple pleasure of gazing out at the passing world that makes these trips so amazing. The trees, the mountains, the lakes, the villages, the people, the animals, the coast, the clouds. It is your own personal road movie to which you keep a mental diary of scenes and images.
The further you go the more the scenery changes, there’s always something new around the bend, over the hill, through the tunnel. It’s like being a kid again on the back seat of your parent’s car, the busdriver becomes your surrogate dad, fellow passengers your brothers and sisters on a family outing. You enjoy every minute of it. Until the bus breaks down and everyone has to disembark in the middle of nowhere.

Green fluid is leaking from the engine. All the men who have read magazines on motor engineering group around the driver who has now become a spanner-and-hammer mechanic; students and fashionistas take up a more distant position to smoke a cigarette, lest the green liquid, whatever it is, should be is flammable. A worried old lady tries to reach her relatives at the destination on someone’s mobile phone…no signal. We are in a dead spot, the cast of ‘Lost’ stuck on a desert mountain. Soon we shall run out of supplies and will have to start eating each other. Half an hour later an empty bus appears, we are saved!

It is just after 19:00 as the bus pulls into the KTEL terminal of Ioannina. An hour’s worth of daylight still remains to make my first impressions of the city that Ali Pasha once called home. Arriving at the western shore of lake Pamvotida it isn’t hard to imagine why. With a magnificent view towards the eastern mountains, Ioannina city nestles itself comfortably on the lakeside. Remnants of Ottoman rule are immediately visible as a minaret towers out above green trees of the kastro, its walls creating a calm island beside the vibrant bustle of predominantly young students and couples at popular cafes. In the light of sunset I amble along the embankments, caringly laid out with ample room for pedestrians; tasteful sculptures align the sidewalk and adorn the view. It reminds me of Montreux on Switzerland’s Lac Leman, and in fact prompts the thought that a major international Jazz festival in Ioannina would not be out of place in a city which has managed to balance its influential history with modern trendiness.

Ioannina’s castle dates back to 528 AD under Justinian. It endured throughout the Byzantine era until it was handed over to Turkish rule in 1430. In 1788 the Albanian-born Ali Pasha became the head of the city by cunning and violence. He had the walls renovated and another outer limit built, securing the northern and southern acropolis to this day.

Under the aegis of European Historical Monuments and the municipal administration the kastro has become a flagship of archaeological preservation. You are not walking amongst ruins, but complete structures and streets. One acropolis houses the municipal museum, but the really fascinating location is at the ‘Its Kale’ where Ali Pasha’s caged grave can still be seen. The grounds have been so well preserved that you feel as you have stepped into a time gap. In the twilight beyond the minaret a full moon rises above the distant mountains, on the other side hundreds of migrating birds swirl and twitter in a reddening sky. A converted cooking house has served as the museum’s “canteen” since 1992 but this year came under new management (Ioannina’s ‘Stin Ithaki’ taverna). It serves drinks and coffees during the day and a variety of interesting dishes from 20:00. The Pasha’s former cookhouse has become the centre of attraction once more for people in search of tranquillity and beauty.

The food is surprisingly good. Baked Feta with capers and tomato, Epirus Vegetable Pie and Veli Pasha Chicken filled with Gruyere cheese. Even the intriguing Kazan Dipi, a dessert made of milk and rice juice, captures your taste-buds and imagination. How do you squeeze juice out of rice? If after all that lovely food you don’t feel like walking too far to catch a good night’s sleep, just opposite the ‘Its Kale’ gate is the traditional hotel Kastro. At 75 Euros for a double room in the most historical and quietest part of town your Ioannina experience is complete.

The next morning a short taxi ride brings me to Perama on the northern banks of the lake, known for its fairy-tale cave of stalactites and stalagmites, found by chance in 1940 when inhabitants were looking for a safe shelter against World War II bombardments. Instead of going underground, I’ve come to Perama for a different reason; to be swept up, up and away.

A small octagonal kiosk serves my point of departure. I buy a ticket and my baggage is checked in. It is a calm, windless morning. A few hundred metres away a fisherman in a small rowing boat wades his way through the slight haze hanging over the lake, followed by a paddle of ducks. In the distance the silhouette of the Kastro’s northern minaret breaks through the haze. It almost feels like I’ve stepped into a 60’s spy thriller, waiting for my connection on the banks of the Bosphorus. I don’t light another clandestine Russian cigarette. I can’t; I don’t smoke.

Suddenly, the faint hum of a twin-prop engine fills the air, coming in from the west. I have visual contact, a small dark speck descends towards the city, then turns 180 degrees to make its final approach. I can make out its wings now as it slowly levels with the surface of the lake. Smoothly, calmly, it skims the water letting up a symmetric spray as it jets in towards us. The ducks are unperturbed, as if one of their own had just drifted in. Here it is, the reason for my journey, Greece’s brand new AirSea plane service.

“Welcome on board, I’m first officer Petridis and our flight today will take just under 25 minutes. Please fasten your seatbelt, life vests are under the seats and emergency exits are located at the front and two at the back. Enjoy your flight.”
The de Havilland DHC-6 Twin Otter is untied from its dock as the captain starts up the engines. I have a clear view of the cockpit from my back seat since I’m the only passenger on board this morning. As the Seabird pulls out onto the open lake, the propellers rev up to a sonorous hum. We gather speed and the green of the lake’s algae whizzes by underneath. Without even so much as a bump the plane effortlessly lifts up out of the water and passes the kastro on the right hand side. I’m airborne for Kerkyra.

The Ioannina – Kerkyra service was initiated by AirSea Lines on July 12th 2005, following the successful reintroduction of the seaplane into Greek airspace from Kerkyra to Paxos Island in September 2004. (Athens used to have a Seaplane base at Flisvos in the 1900’s.) Expansion plans are moderately grand but even seaplanes can’t fly through Greece’s stubborn red tape. Bureaucratic procedures have delayed the mounting of way-finding signs in the surrounding area. The company itself has also been slow in marketing the new connection to Ioannina locals. The Kerkyra-Paxos route however is well established with many passengers lining up to fill the 19 seater. Floating docks are being installed in Patras and Cephalonia and the recent cessation by Olympic Airlines of the Ioannina-Thessaloniki route opens up a possibility for the fledgling Seabirds. There are even discussions taking place to enter the Aegean Sea, with Paros as an optional base. The flight’s cost (60 Euros between Ioannina and Kerkyra, 35 between Kerkyra and Paxos) is balanced out by the speed and sheer thrill of the trip. Without the hassle of crowded airports and hazardous highways, Seabirds actually put the fun back into travelling.

After 25 minutes flying low over clear mountaintops, flight PEV 502 descends over the Ionian sea towards Kerkyra. As smoothly as we took off, the skimming touchdown is hardly noticeable. Apparently I’ve chosen a perfect day, yet I wonder how enjoyable the landing is on a choppy winter sea. The algae green of lake Pamvotida is exchanged for the aquamarine green of Gouvia Marina. This is where you really feel the luxury element, floating past thousands of sailing yachts. The plane ties up next to another seabird, the props wind down and I am helped ashore by First Officer Petridis while Captain Daniel Englund, A Swedish seaplane pilot who flew this model for 4 years in the Maldives, carries my baggage to the terminal. How often do you get your luggage personally taken care of by the Captain? I am completely satisfied.

Well, perhaps not totally, for now I have to make my way back to Athens by an 8-hour bus ride. I’m left wishing I could hop on another seaplane to Flisvos. Or perhaps I should convince officials that the Schinias Olympic Rowing Centre could be put to good use again as an alternative ‘Spata on water’. Hold that thought.