A Hungarian Surf Rock Band

One of the benefits of staying with a family while traveling is getting to participate in authentic local traditions. I eat traditional Hungarian food (ie pork), I take part in village customs (ie drinking Palinca, which we in the States call turpentine), and I go to traditional Hungarian surf rock concerts.

I go to the show with Hungarian rock drummer Dodi of Fishing on Orfu fame. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJj16gL-Xbs) It may or may not be legal to drive with passengers kicking around in back like a couple of sacks of potatos; I have yet to learn the Hungarian word for "illegal" or "big expensive ticket."

We get there early for the set up, and to my delight the bassist speaks english like a pro.
"You like surf music?" he asks.
"Absolutely," I say. "Surf rock. I love it. It's the best ever."
He's thrilled by my enthusiasm. "What's your favorite band?" he asks.
I panic slightly, not being able to even actually recall what surf rock is, let alone any bands.
"Oh you know," I say in a vague American sort of way. "There's so many."
The bassist entirely concurs with my analysis, and proceeds to list every surf rock band in the history of time.

I ask if it will bother them if I take photos during the show, and they say not at all, in fact would I mind being the band's video producer? A video recorder appears and Dodi illustrates how I should shoot this performance. Evidently recording a concert involves quite a bit of leaping from side to side, standing on chairs, and crawling on one's belly.

I dutifully carry out my video recording job for the first song, maybe even two, before it occurs to me that a video shot from the perspective of resting on a table top would be quite avante-garde, and if a ashtray or table cloth is in the frame for 1 hour and 4 minutes, well, it's all part of the artistic experience. Having satisfied my artistic undertaking for the evening, I indulge in my Hungarian vice of second-hand smoking and enjoy the rest of the show.

Surf rock continues to evade description, but if you're really curious search for Man or Astroman. It sounds the same in Hungarian.

After the show, it becomes immediately obvious that I am the only one who is capable of driving home (thank goodness for the American Teetotaler, they all think) so I am promoted from sack of potatos to chauffer. I am impressed by Dodi's grasp of "left" and "right" and he is equally awed by my driving skills.
"Fourth gear," I announce when I shift.
"Super!" says Dodi.
"Left," says Dodi. "Right."
"Super!" I say.
"Super!" says Dodi.
"Santa's chauffer!" says Dodi.
"Um...Nem irtem," I say, which means I don't understand and is an incredibly useful phrase.
"Saint Nichol," explains a sack of potatos from the back. "His driver." To be helpful, Dodi puts his hands on his head and wiggles his fingers in the air.
"Reindeer!" I say.
"Super!" he says.

And indeed, the Hungarian night roads are crawling with headlight-loving animals. Hares the size of large dogs and reindeer that are not much bigger. But they are no match for the eagle eyes of me and my Hungarian surf rock friends, and we land safely back at the farm where I sleep soundly, in an authentic, traditional sort of way.