No Escape for Vlad, Part I

Sometimes you stumble into things. Sometimes you stumble into things you wouldn't have stepped into on purpose. Sometimes you get trapped there.

Last night, Mark and I were convinced we were on our way to a goth night. We were convinced of this because the bar El Comandante, the owner of which is very attached to the famous image of Chez Guevara, has been in the habit of allowing a handful of rogue DJs provide “goth” music for the handful of us in Bucharest who like to go out and listen to it with other people of like minds. This generally happens on Monday nights, from 7 p.m. onward.

When we arrived, things seemed normal enough. Anna Maria was playing somewhat hard-hitting music that, to my ears, sounds industrial. (You have to be careful, because people who have devoted their lives to classifying music are always waiting in the rafters with giant hammers with which to bonk you on the head.)

Anna Maria is as much of a delight to watch as the music she spins is a delight to hear. Few human beings exhibit such obvious enjoyment as she does, dancing and smiling in the booth as though she were on Cloud 9.

At any rate, when the night's organizer, a personable guy named Tudor, came to say hello, and we put in a good word for the dancing DJ, he said, “Yes, but it's not a good night for music.”

That didn't sound nearly portentous enough to match what actually happened later.

In the meantime, Stephan, another of the DJs, whose name is pronounced “Schtefan,” and his friend Vlad, with whom he shares a band, came and sat with us. I was going to ask him if he'd impaled anyone recently, but he was having a Seinfeld moment.

That moment was going something like this: Some of my coworkers are here, and I will have to walk by their table if I leave, which I want to do now that “it is not a good night for music,” but I don't want to look as though their presence is driving me away, because that would seem rude.

He explained that he worked as a cameraman for one of the local television studios. One of the tables on the bar's lower level was full of actors whose sitcom pilot was to air that night. Their presence in El Comandante meant that is where the premiere party was going to be, which meant there would be no goth, industrial, darkwave or any other kind of music for very much longer. So Vlad wanted to leave. Without dissing his colleagues.

Stay tuned for the conclusion of this hair-raising saga.