I'm going to treat gig-going in two cities as one experience, because booking one led directly to the other. I won't include gigs in Belfast, my nearest city, even though I saw Billy Nomates and Mogwai in May as well.
I read that Warpaint were to play Dublin in May. I've liked the band for a long time; since the moderately successful single "Undertow" was realeased in 2010, actually, but I'd never seen them play. In fact, I'd accidentally missed them at around the time of Undertow. They had a Belfast performance, but since I'd only heard one song, I dithered about buying a ticket for a few days. When I decided I wanted to go, it was sold out.
This time I was definitely buying a ticket as soon as they were released. When I saw them for sale on the website, I noticed that the Dublin gig was part of a European tour, and I whimsically decided to see them twice. I considered Amsterdam, since I've been there, and even know where the venue is (Paradiso), but then that didn't seem adventurous enough. I decided on Brussels, where I'd never been, and was unlikely to choose other than for a Warpaint performance.
Then, a few days later, Kim Gordon's Facebook page announced a Brussels date just three days after Warpaint, in the same venue. I hadn't booked travel or accommodation by then and could plan a 4-day visit. I bought a gig ticket, and then the plane and bus tickets. I booked a small Brussels apartment on AirBnB. One of Kim Gordon's songs is called... AirBnB.
My local train station in Whitehead has services direct to Lanyon Place, Belfast, which is the base for trains to Dublin. The two journeys together take about two and a half hours. I made it a relaxing early afternoon trip, and arrived at Connolly station before three. I'd never used the Dublin trams before, but I'd researched how to do it, and got one to the South side of the city centre, next to the Grand Canal.
I'd struggled to
find a value-for-money hotel room, but had eventually booked an
executive suite at 
the
Mespil, sitting prettily on the canal. My room had a quirky layout,
being essentially a ground-floor flat on a quiet side street, but
access from the hotel was on the first floor (and a 10-day hike from
reception). It's the first hotel room I've ever seen with a hall and
flight of stairs.
My reason for choosing the canal-side location was that the gig venue was also near the canal, and it was a pleasant walk between the two. That section of the Grand Canal has lots of tiny Georgian houses, one-storey and two-storey; presumably once canal-workers homes, or similar. It's very scenic, and I'm sure the houses are expensive now.
I went out with time to spare so that I could have dinner, and came upon a canal-side Italian restaurant, i Monelli (it means "the Brats"). I had melanzane alla parmigiana, which I'd last eaten in Naples, and it was every bit as good.
After the meal, I walked on towards the venue, the National Stadium, originally a boxing stadium, but now branching out into other disciplines. But it was still too early to get in. I went into a busy pub and sat at the one free stool at the bar. As I was sipping my pint, I heard the couple to my right talking about Warpaint. I put the new album cover on my phone screen, and flashed it at them, to bonhomie and general merriment.
They
wondered out loud if there was a support band, and the barman said
"Yeah, I think there is." Then the solo girl on my left
piped up with "The support is called Low Hum." So we were
all going to the gig.
Low Hum were OK. Nice to listen to, but forgettable. Warpaint were the business though. I really enjoyed their whole set, even the amost acapella 4-part vocal piece. At the end of it, Stella and Jennie Lee, on their way back to their playing positions, did a cute little dance with each other.
I walked back to the hotel along the canal tow path, but it was still quite early. I carried on past the hotel to Leeson Street Lower, which has a good selection of pubs, and had a drink before bedtime.
I'd booked my
homeward train for a 16:00 departure, giving me time for a little
wandering and cultural activity. I took two trams to the city centre (I was
really getting the hang of it now) and got lunch in one of the many
places around Temple Bar. Then I walked to the National Museum's
Archaeology building, although by then I only had a couple of hours
left. A flying visit.
I got a tram to the train station (easy!) and started my journey home. Nothing to report.
Brussels is mostly French-speaking, although embedded in Dutch-speaking Flanders. Whose idea of a joke was it to create a country composed of two communities with dissimilar languages? Anyway, all the place names and street signs are bilingual in Brussels, even though, as I say, a large majority speaks French. So I'm going to stick to French only for place names, except for "Brussels", which is English.
I decided that I would do my trip entirely by public transport rather than burn fossil fuels myself. But I had to get to Dublin airport for a flight at 06:50. Allowing for the usual delays, that meant taking the airport bus from Belfast at 01:30. The last train to Belfast arrives at 11:20, leaving me with two hours to kill, late at night. OK, I thought, I'll find a late-opening pub and have a couple of pints. That will fill two hours nicely.
According to the internet, the pub I chose stayed open until two, but according
to reality, they started asking people to leave at about 12:15. That
left me roaming the streets at night for an hour. It give me a little
insight into how homeless people have to live.
That apart, my plan worked very well. Well, there was one minor hitch. On board the plane, the first officer and captain spoke on the PA to say that they were waiting for a delayed member of the crew. Given that I'd heard the flying part of the crew speak, I deduced that it had to be a member of the cabin crew. Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, I spotted her. Running across the tarmac in the rain. In high heels. Carrying two small suitcases.
The delay at the gate meant that the plane had missed its departure slot, so that we were an hour late taking off. However, it was all smooth after that. I arrived at Brussels airport and went downstairs to catch the train to the city centre. I was in the Grande Place by 10:30.
One of my guidebooks had recommended the St. Catherine area for lunch, but I didn't find many likely-looking options. The Mer du Nord/Nordzee seafood stall is famous, but I'm not a fan of seafood. I did find a nice restaurant and had what is apparently a Belgian specialty, Stoofvlees in Dutch, or Carbonnade in French, which is beef in a creamy stew made with beer. Frites accompaniment, naturally.
I'd arranged to meet the apartment owner, and made my way there via a supermarket where I bought breakfast for the next few days: coffee and croissants. The apartment is in an old building with narrow, creaky stairs, but clean and bright inside. Yabo demonstrated all the "facilities" and gave me the keys.
The first of my two booked gigs was that very evening, and I could have an early dinner before it. I walked into the city centre (10 minutes) and explored. I saw the stage door and loading bay of the venue, Ancienne Belgique, with the tour bus parked outside, but I couldn't locate the main entrance. My problem was solved later when in the restaurant, I checked the actual address from my ticket, and got my phone to show me it. Bob's your uncle.
For the restaurant,
I was feeling like a pizza, but couldn't find one at first.
Eventually I did, and had a very nice pizza, although service was
very, very slow.
The gig was great. I
saw Warpaint's Emily and Theresa at the side of the stage watching
the support band, Low Hum. Theresa was holding a child, presumably
Emily's 5-year-old daughter. Auntie Theresa.
The little dance between the other two, Stella and Jennie Lee, after their 4-part vocal song, was identical to how I saw it in Dublin. That's what professionals do: it's scripted, but it looks spontaneous.
I walked home and "borrowed" a beer I found in the fridge.
The loud bells of the old church opposite are mentioned in several of the AirBnB reviews of the apartment. Actually, it's decrepit but not that old -- MDCCXV it says -- but was abandoned for a period after the French revolution.
The bells don't ring at night, but they do go back to work at 7, and do a special extended routine to celebrate.
I got up at 9, had a shower and a coffee and croissants, and played
around on the internet for a bit. The apartment had an ancient iMac
(I'm not sure if I was actually allowed to use it, but I did.) It was
probably 11 before I went out.
Just down the street from the apartment is a public elevator which takes you up to a higher level of the city. There are great views from the top: you can even see the Atomium in the distance. A short walk takes you to the Boulevard de Waterloo, which is the location of the expensive shops of every luxury brand you can think of. I didn't buy anything.
I was actually on my
way to Matongé, supposedly the African quarter of Brussels. I was
slightly disappointed, since it wasn't as African as I had hoped.
Still, the fruit and veg shops had fine displays outside of yams and
cassava and okra and other things which I could not identify.
Continuing my random exploration, I came to the little Place du Luxembourg, facing the European Parliament, and had lunch at a very nice and genuine Italian restaurant.
After lunch, I took a walk around the Parliament site, but didn't bother with the "visitor centre", Parliamentarium. The complex is a grand, inspiring place, with a sense of European community and cooperation. Thinking of Brexit, Charlton Heston's rant from Planet of the Apes came to me: "You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!"
I walked back toward home through Matongé. That's the thing about Brussels: all the different areas are right next to each other. Louis Vuitton and Gucci on one side, Parliament the other, and Africans in between.
My rented apartment was on the edge of Marolles, a sort of shabby, bohemian neighbourhood, with shops and restaurants, but the other end of my street was all galleries and antique shops. (There is one shop called "Sorry, We're Closed", which probably seemed a clever idea at the beginning, but...)
Oh, and there is even Royalty. I saw the King's palace, and sat in the
pleasant park opposite for a while. A talkative Moldovan told me it's
the primary gay cruising place in Brussels. Then on the way home, I
found another little park, this one with a Peter Pan memorial. (A
bronze hare with a shepherd's crook, and "Peter Pan,
Neverland... Still Alive" on the plinth.)
After a rest at home, I went out to the small Lidl supermarket which I'd spotted on my first venture out, but turned the wrong way on the street (which, oddly, is called Rue Haute, even though you reach it down steps from "my" street.) So I got to explore Marolles properly, and reached the fortified Port de Hal, which marks the end of the district.
Retracing my steps, I found the Lidl and bought a couple of essentials, went home and changed for dinner.
It was Brussels Jazz Weekend, and there were stages in several open-air locations. There was a band at my neighbouring Place de la Chapelle (just at the city end of Rue Haute) but they were taking ages to set up and soundcheck, so I gave up on them and set off in search of food. Actually, I wandered for quite a while until I spotted an establishment with food to fit my mood. It was an American-style diner, and I had a burger and a beer.
The big stage was in Grande Place, naturally, which was packed. There were long queues at the festival bar as well, leading me to seek a smaller venue. At the old stock market, the Bourse, which is wrapped in plastic while they turn it into a shops and restaurant location, there was a stage with a multi-ethnic band that sounded a bit like Morcheeba. Or was it Jethro Tull? No queue at the bar, so I bought a beer and listened to the music.
After the first beer, I must have been feeling the flow and getting into the spirit of things. On my initial visit to the festival bar, I'd heard the girls speaking Dutch to each other. (Brussels is mostly French-speaking. Cheap labour from Flanders, probably.) Without realizing it, I ordered my second beer in Dutch. This resulted in a beer (fortunately) but also a stream of rapid Dutch which I didn't understand, except it was something about dancing behind the bar to the music. I agreed. The music even got me moving. Slightly. Toes tapping.
It was a lovely evening with the golden sun setting from a blue sky. I loved the music and felt really happy. I walked home and was in bed before midnight.
I had looked up the details of the church opposite my front window.
Église des Saints-Jean-et-Étienne was built for the Governor General of the Spanish Netherlands, Maximilian-Emmanuel of Bavaria, and completed in 1715. However, when revolutionary, anti-clerical France took control in 1796, the church was closed, and remained unused under Protestant Dutch jurisdiction until Roman Catholic Belgians gained independence in 1831.
That might account for the poor condition of the exterior. Since 2020, the church has been in the hands of the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter, renegade Catholics who reject the Second Vatican Council and conduct mass in Latin.
I was up and washed and fed, so it wasn't an annoyance, but at 09:45 the main bell rang continuously for three or four minutes. I could see that the front door was open. They were calling the faithful.
Not me. I was going to the motor museum, Autoworld, in the Parc du Cinquantenaire. I plotted a route by foot: about a half hour. Easy.
When I got to the park, I found that it was the start and finish of a 10k run that day, but my timing didn't match the race and I didn't see any runners.
The museum had a special exhibition, "One Two Three Four, Cars and Rock'n'Roll", so you had a pink Cadillac, Eddie van Halen's Lamborghini, the same model of Mini that Marc Bolan died in, the same model of Lambo that Linda McCartney accidentally rolled into the swimming pool... That sort of thing. But also the museum's standard stock, from the late 1800s to the present day.
I went to their cafe, but found that the choice was either very light, small dishes or gigantic meals. I chose the former.
I decided to take the metro back to the city centre, rather than the long walk. I did get a bit confused in Schuman station before I realised that the first level down is the regular train station and you need to go down another flight for the metro.
I went home for a rest and freshen up, and decided to try the cafe
across the road, Café des Minimes. They have lots of tables outside,
clustered round the church, and it was always quite lively. I had a
very good teryaki pork, which I understand is NOT a Belgian
speciality, and a Belgian porter, which was quite like Guinness.
I walked in to the city centre where the jazz had already started. The big stage in Grande Place had your standard squonky sax jazz band, and I passed on to the stage at the Bourse, where the theme was swing and jitterbugging. I'm pretty sure that the dancers weren't just random punters. They were too skilled for that. Some club, I expect.
It was fun to see (I was approached by a lady and asked to dance, but declined). But it was unseasonably cold that evening, even after I wormed my way into the heart of the crowd, I was too chill to stay late.
The forecast was cold, with occasional showers, and indeed rain just started as I ducked into my neighbourhood Arab restaurant for lunch. It's called Pois Chiche, and gets good reviews online. When I sat down with the menu, the first two songs playing quietly on the PA were by Death in Vegas and Killing Joke, so I knew I was in the right place. Then came "Underwater Love", which I recognized, but couldn't remember who did it. I looked it up there and then. Smoke City, if you're interested.
I had the "brunch bowl" -- quite expensive, I think it was €17 -- packed with all kinds of vegetarian items. Couscous, falafel, fried halloumi, a stuffed vine leaf; all kinds of things. I couldn't quite finish it. I accompanied the meal with a small beer, which obviously is haram, but if they're selling it I'll drink it.
By the end of lunch, the rain had stopped, and I thought "I might as well go and see the blessed thing."
The area around the
Manneken Pis (bizarrely, called Stalingrad) is the most touristy part
of Brussels I saw, with lots of shops selling cheap mementos. The
statue himself is only about 60cm tall. I don't know what the fuss is
about.
I returned home, dry, but quite heavy rain started soon after, and I didn't go out for the rest of the afternoon.
It was still raining slightly when I went out for dinner and gig. I first called at the railway station to buy a ticket for the airport, saving time the next morning. When I came out of the station, the rain had stopped.
Sorry for the lack of imagination and effort, but I went back to the American-style burger place. I had worked the times so that I just had to walk round the corner to Ancienne Belgique and go straight in.
In the lobby, where
there's a bar, the DJ was playing some good stuff, keeping me
entertained until the support band came on: Pretty Happy from Dublin,
who were supporting Kim Gordon on all her European dates. PH are hard
to categorize. Shall we just say "very, very noisy"?
Kim Gordon came on
looking stylish in leather shorts, white silk shirt and black tie. It
was a great performance, mostly from the No Home Record album, the
exception being a cover of DNA's
Blonde Redhead (which I didn't know previously). She said it was one
of her all-time favourites.
Afterwards, I went straight home to pack.
I had to be up early, but I didn't need to set an alarm. The big stone alarm clock across the road would definitely wake me.
I walked to the train station and caught the suitable train to the airport. With the new, modern system of online check-in, you don't have to queue for check-in any more. You have to queue for "bag drop".
Then you have to queue for security, and then you have to queue for boarding. Everything ran on time though, and I got the bus from Dublin Airport to Belfast, and then the train home to Whitehead. Time for tea.