Can beautiful people really feel the Blues?

I first saw the movie, Bagdad Café, long before coming to live in the desert, but even then its haunting sound teased me with dark promises as to where a desert road might lead. When I first listened to the Blues, I felt very much the same way. I wasn't there yet, but it touched me in ways no other genre of music did. The Blues is like Guinness. Either you love its bitter taste, or you don't like it at all. And if Guinness is somewhat of a rarity in most Israeli restaurants and pubs, the Blues is almost non-existent on the Israeli music scene.

Why is it that Israelis have never locked into the Blues? It doesn't even appear as a genre on most Israeli music listings. The YES satellite music select station, which proudly offers over thirty music categories to choose from, does not include the Blues on its list. Nor does the Wikipedia page - Music in Israel - mention the Blues on its long list of popular Israeli music genres. Perhaps an Israeli foundation - The Israeli Blues Society - will help spread the word. It's not that Israeli music hasn't considerably evolved over the years. It has: especially Israeli rock. Why is it then that Rock has become increasingly popular with Israeli youth, but not the Blues? Are there age restrictions to feeling the Blues?

Some of us are born old. Old Souls. We flirt with this all our lives. And then time catches up with us and we are just old. That's how I felt the other night while listening to Lazer Lloyd and Ronnie Peterson play the Blues at a pub in Kibbutz Tlalim. They had come there, down a long desert road, to this little oasis in the middle of the desert.

The makeshift desert pub was full of young people - beautiful young people - for this musical event. It's not that I have anything against beautiful young people. I was almost one, once. But now my presence felt like a hiccup in the passage of time, as I appeared to be the only one over the age of forty.

My eyes slowly scanned the room as the young audience awaited the appearance of Lazer and Ronnie. What were they expecting to hear?  I asked myself. Were they here out of curiosity or had they somehow developed a passion for the Blues, down here in the desert? And then Lazer and Ronnie appeared. They sat at the front of the crowded room, without the benefit of the buffer of a large stage that usually separated them in their larger venues. Perhaps it was this that knocked them a little off-balance at first, or the strange quiet of the desert setting. Or the shock of playing to a young audience: an audience of beautiful young people with expectancy still in their eyes, Ronnie appeared to have a bit of a problem synchronizing with Lazer's changing chords. Lazer appeared to improvize, at times, as if slowly feeling his way into this irregular setting. Some people soon started to sway back and forth with the rhythm. Some simply nodded. And others just sat rooted to the spot, as the music washed over them.

Ronnie and Lazer looked at first like I felt: aged and washed out. But it didn't take long until Lazer found the groove. One might even say that he caught fire, carrying Ronnie along with him. And everything else did not matter. It was the Blues again. Only the Blues.

The crowd was appreciative. I suppose each person took away something different. And for those of us who were Old Souls, we said hello again to old ghosts, and felt the music take hold and rip out our guts, leaving us exposed, the pain a welcome old friend. And for a moment, I did feel truly alive.

Why Guinness always tastes better in Tel Aviv

How far would you go for a good pint of Guinness? A 5 minute drive? 20 minutes? How about two and a half hours?

There is a quaint little pub in the heart of Tel Aviv, neatly tucked away opposite the Dan Hotel, close to the American Embassy, and just a stone's throw away from the Mediterranean. One would think that I could find something a little closer to the middle of the desert, where I live. And yes, Guinness has been spotted in Beer Sheva, the sleepy southern cow town, known as the "Capital of the Negev". And yes, I have even tasted a pint or two there. But no, it cannot come anywhere close to a pint of Guinness at Molly Blooms.

So, what makes Molly special, so much so that she continually seduces me into making the long two and a half hour sojourn up into her arms from the desert? Is it the lure of the sea; the interesting assortment of people wandering in from Hayarkon Street; the unique  atmosphere created by parts shipped in from the mother country; the waitress who grows increasingly stunning as I work my way through the pints? Or is it the taste of a skillfully pulled pint, running through pipes religiously prepared for its journey.

I was once told, during my christening period into the wonders of Guinness when travelling through Ireland, that the taste could be significantly different from pub to pub – all depending on how it is drawn. It was there that I joined the quest for the perfect pint. Some feel that this quest is quite similar to the search for the perfect woman. Yet most, in their later years, seem quite content to sit back and drink their pints and watch their women, for the Irish know that both together are the closest to heaven that they will ever get – at least in this world.

A friend of mine first discovered Molly Blooms, when it was just opening, many years ago. He lives only a short jaunt away, but he convinced me to make the journey up to try out this new pub, and the rest – as they say – is history. Since then, this has become our "office" and we meet there whenever I can make it up from the desert. Ronald, my friend who will remain nameless, always waits to watch me take that first sip of Guinness. He says that my whole countenance changes. A sense of tranquility sets over me and I become a new person, or a better part of my old self. I discovered long ago that  Guinness is much more than just a beer: "mother's milk", I like to call it. Others may scoff at this. But I know what I know. My friend, however, can neither agree nor disagree, as he doesn't drink Guinness, even though he is originally from London. But at least he has left his distressing Carlsberg habit behind, now choosing a darker blend, even though it may only be Tuborg. But there is hope for him yet.

R, as I will call him, becomes increasingly insightful as he drinks.  I become amazingly brilliant, but then I am the one drinking the Guinness. We have come up with plans to become rich and famous, write the great American novel, solve the problems of the Middle East, know what it is that women really want … to have all these revelations of genius evaporate away on the train ride home. We keep promising ourselves that next time we will write it down. But we never do.

So yes, Guinness always tastes better in Tel Aviv. You know the feeling, where the best of friends meet, to share that special place and that special moment – and all seems well with the world.