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PBS just
showed a 6-minute Norwegian film called "80 Degrees East of
Birdland."
An American
jazz band -- very bebop, four out of five of these guys are black, there are
berets and North African headgear -- gets lost in the deep nowhere of rural
Norway.
A local old
geezer who doesn't speak a word of English takes them in and helps get them
straightened out.
Over coffee
in his living room, he shows them an amazing collection of American jazz
records. A Smithsonian-grade collection of incredibly rare
vinyl.
He explains
to them (in Norwegian, which nobody in the band speaks) that his brother in
America sent him all these records. His brother says everything's better in
America. Maybe he's right. This guy has never been to America, he's never been
out of Norway. He's never played the records, because he doesn't have a record
player, just a radio.
The musicians
are tremendously impressed at his record collection and his obvious religious
devotion to American jazz. They escort him outside, plunk him in a comfy chair,
and play him a live set of the finest American bepop on Earth.
He's delighted and thrilled; this sort of thing doesn't happen in his
yard every day. Then he gets in their car and guides them to the nearest big
town, everybody's having the time of their life.
Do you folks know about Oleana? Every kid in America (I think)
sooner or later learns this song, but has no idea what the heck it's
about.
Oh to be in Oleana
That's where I long to be
Rather than live in Norway
Wearing the chainst of slavery
Ole-Oleana, Ole-Oleana
Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole Oleana
In Oleana little piggies
Run through the city streets
Inquiring very politely if
A slice of ham you'd like to eat
Ole-Oleana, Ole-Oleana
Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole Oleana
Okay so I finally found out about this verkakte song. (David
Mamet has a play, "Oleana." Has everybody heard my vulgar David Mamet
joke?) It was originally a Norwegian song.
Norway's most famous 19th century musician, one of Europe's
mega-superstars, was the violinist Ole Bull, on a level with Paganini and Fritz
Kreisler (sp?).
So finally Ole Bull becomes convinced that his native land is
not paying him sufficient honor, statues, postage stamps, that sort of thing. So
he leaves Norway in very loud public disgust, swearing never to return, and
founds a Utopian community somewhere in Pennsylvania USA. Which lasts less than
a year, it completely blows up in bickering anarchy.
So the Norwegians wrote this song about him to say goodbye. (I
think he crawled back to Norway.)
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