My name is Paul Gabor. (In Hungary I'm also known as Kaponya. The word means a drinking cup fashioned out of a secret part of ther skull). I'm a rock musician and producer in New York City and, ocassionally, in my hometown Pécs, sometimes Budapest. Lacking a better term I'd call my music Art Rock and No Wave - as my numerous live appearances in the legendary New York clubs of yore, Max's Kansas City and CBGB attest to it. Somewhat like David Bowie, I never repeat my projects, my styles. Presently my most important projects are: the Art Rock block (the biggest), The Poems of Ady (the most challenging), the older Science Fiction, the brand new Blend (called by an A&R director at Universal Music "the Pink Floyd of 2000", and the Retro block (the revival of my early works with my band "The Funny Fools" in the Fabulous Sixties.
Bartók and I.
So. "Where did you get this 'Bartók' thing?! Aren't you a bit snobish, not to mention self-aggrandizing?!"
Yes. I am. And more...
Bartok, the genius, to whom I can only hold a candle, and me, little old beatnik-hippie-zombie, have some valid paralells. We both were born in that enchanted land called Hungary. We've both had sizable success early in our music carrier - however far apart - and later, under pressures our country is so infamous of, we both emmigrated. To the same place. New York. Whereas we both have struggled, yet produced works of certain value.
I sense his presence here.
I'm walking the same streets. I'm riding the same subways. I'm sharing with his presence the bittersweet drink concocted of loneliness, the call of creation, pain of those whose home is nowhere. A drink? A Manhattan?..
He was not happy here. Nor am I.
Yes, I've had my share of fun, of love, the grandeur, the pursuit of dreams, even success on some level.
But this is not Home. Nor was it His.
Manhattan, New York, America: I still salute you.
Because you're Free.
So. "Where did you get this 'Bartók' thing?! Aren't you a bit snobish, not to mention self-aggrandizing?!"
Yes. I am. And more...
Bartok, the genius, to whom I can only hold a candle, and me, little old beatnik-hippie-zombie, have some valid paralells. We both were born in that enchanted land called Hungary. We've both had sizable success early in our music carrier - however far apart - and later, under pressures our country is so infamous of, we both emmigrated. To the same place. New York. Whereas we both have struggled, yet produced works of certain value.
I sense his presence here.
I'm walking the same streets. I'm riding the same subways. I'm sharing with his presence the bittersweet drink concocted of loneliness, the call of creation, pain of those whose home is nowhere. A drink? A Manhattan?..
He was not happy here. Nor am I.
Yes, I've had my share of fun, of love, the grandeur, the pursuit of dreams, even success on some level.
But this is not Home. Nor was it His.
Manhattan, New York, America: I still salute you.
Because you're Free.
The picture below comes from the grand opening of the small but spiffy and international airport of my home town, Pécs. The city, with its population of less than 200 000, is nothing major but proud to the extent of snobism; but then, it will be Cultural Capital of Europe in 2010. This is where I grew up in a music scene I had helped to create and what was, in those old and happy days of beat, and even under socialist doctrine, dubbed "Hungarian Liverpool".
