My (Cultured) Cup Runneth Over…

When the French hear I’m from the Big Smoke, there’s almost a commiserating reaction to my move to Strasbourg…

It’s a lot smaller isn’t it?

Yes. The transport and rent is cheaper and it's a lot less manic too. I often reply that it’s a bel equilibre between the madness of Big City Life and the (supposed) dullness of a small town/village. Strasbourg is an international city after all. Throughout the year its cultural calendar boasts an impressive number of events. On that front, I shall not want.

I’m reminded of this the first weekend in June, when my diary fills up very quickly.

I’ve sorely missed the UK theatre scene since relocating. Apart from loved ones and the NHS, it’s just about the only thing thus far that I am nostalgic about living in London. Imagine my delight when I discover that the proverbial mountain will be coming to Mohamed. Two Anglophone theatre productions on the same weekend; a double bill by early 20^th Century theatre great, Terence Rattigan and a biographical one-man show about Chet Baker, one of my favourite jazz vocalists.

The Terence Rattigan two-piece is organised and performed by a community theatre group linked to The Organisation. I recognise at least one familiar face amongst them. The troupe might consist of volunteers but the output is pretty slick. These are amateurs in the true sense; lovers of the art form even if not financially remunerated for their efforts. I am oddly comforted to hear the various British regional accents in second play Harlequinade. The following week, when I email a link for my review to some of the cast and crew, one of the moonlighting actors pops round to personally thank me. Before I know it, I’m being asked to muck in with the team. I warn them that I am no actress. Besides, my short term memory lags behind my long term. Learning lines wouldn’t be my forte. Nevertheless, the team reassure me, I can make myself useful elsewhere. A suivre…

A day after the Rattigan-fest, I attend the final night of Scottish Jazz aficionado Mike Maran’s A Funny Valentine. After church is done, I wouldn’t normally go back out on a Sunday afternoon but heck. It’s for Chet.

At some point during one of my weekend jaunts, I find out that there’s also a free Hip-Hop festival –or Block Party Jam-taking place in the vicinity of the play. I stop off en route to watch …Valentine. It’s a hot and dazzlingly sunny day. I’ve gone traditional with a dress I had sewn on my too-long-ago trip to Naija. I’m vain enough to half-heartedly expect to turn some heads. The crowd is a mix of solo revellers, families on a day out and cliques. There’s a dance battle going on, at a fashion.

A graffiti artist does the rounds decorating installations erected for the event. When I arrive the DJ switches from Donell Jones’ You Know What’s Up to the not-so-obvious Full Crew remix of Craig David’s Fill Me In. Nice.

My admiration doesn’t last for long. The music policy shifts towards unfamiliar (to me) rap joints. There’s not enough spontaneous dancing going on, neither is the battle setting my heart a flutter. Thanks to sis’ lifelong interest in dance, I’ve been exposed to enough of the scene to be fairly elitist about what is impressive or not. I remind myself we all have to start from somewhere. It’s not fair to judge a dancer on the basis of one competition. They could be affected by any number of factors; the heat, nerves, an uninspiring tune, the competitive environment itself…

I decide to check back in after the play.

A Funny Valentine is staged at the mysterious-sounding Cabaret Onirique (roughly translated The Fantasy Cabaret); a converted barge that now serves as a bar/performance space. Basically, the Jazz Café on a boat.

Dressed all in white, Maran embodies heroin itself; Baker’s sole lifetime companion. He narrates Baker’s story as filtered through various biographies and Chet’s own unreliable accounts. Maran is a serious fan-boy but not an apologist. He injects sympathy but does not excuse. Let the fact, fiction and half-truths speak for themselves. He does avoid cynicism about the curious circumstances surrounding Baker’s untimely death. In spring 1988, aged 58 he defenestrated himself (or was defenestrated) from an Amsterdam hotel window; by accident or design, nobody really knows. Maran prefers to believe it was the former.

The audience are transformed into voyeurs. Baker’s life was a veritable, self-inflicted train-wreck from which you cannot avert your eyes. Through his own making this once strangely beautiful man, with his arresting bone structure and luscious dark hair, morphs into a cadaver. He looks like an octogenarian in his 50s. Of all the many Jazz tragedies, Baker’s is particularly affecting. Just as his voice encapsulates life’s sorrow, his story reflects both the beauty and tragic farce of the human condition. Self-destructive behaviour is not unique to junkies. There’s a Chet in all of us.

After the show, I air these thoughts in discussion with trumpeter Colin Steele who accompanies Maran alongside last-minute addition Alan Benzies; a trio of Scots.

I gatecrash the conversation Steele is having with another audience member who happens to have been sitting behind me during the show. We have already exchanged a few words in French and English. I tease him for mangling the lyrics of My Funny Valentine. We are later joined by Tatjana, who has also just finished enjoying the show.

I commend Steele for capturing some of the essence of Baker’s playing. Admittedly, I’m far less familiar with his trumpet than his vocals. I lament to Steele (and later Maran, when he briefly joins us) that the piece doesn’t give enough attention to Chet’s eerily gorgeous voice. Mike blames it on his own 'bad' singing.

Colin has lived with the spectre of Baker for decades. He explains that those close to Chet revealed how he valued his fix above all else; even music. He reportedly shot up a million dollars’ worth of the stuff over his lifetime. Baker was a natural musician who eschewed practice, something Steele would never countenance. He was talented enough to half-arse a legendary career. Perhaps it came too easily for him, I suggest to Colin. That was his undoing. There’s something to be said for the struggle, after all.

Despite the macabre subject, it’s a stimulating conversation. I say my farewells just as I hear a melodramatic groan from Maran downstairs. Steele rushes to his aid. I will later feel rightly ashamed for my hasty departure without first checking on Mike. Tatjana doesn’t look impressed. Nevertheless, I leave the Cabaret conversely buoyed.

Back at the Block Party, much of the crowd has dispersed as it creeps towards its close. The playlist has diversified somewhat. A couple of Fugees classics, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme tune (huh? Apparently, that’s a thing), Montell Jordan… After sitting out a few I find a spot where I feel more at ease to get down. Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Jump On It, a guilty pleasure, has me doing the signature rodeo moves. I lose it when the DJ drops Heads High by Mr. Vegas.

My insouciance catches the attention of a Franco-Vietnamese called Cédric. He sidles up to me. I’m relaxed enough not to be stand-offish. In between the boogie, we make polite but unspectacular conversation. I politely demure his invitation for a drink. It’s straight home for me to finish watching the New Edition biopic and eat a rare treat from Burger King.

Cédric graciously retires. His behaviour is far more becoming than that of the creepy gentleman who follows me on the bus home, asking me in broken English if I’d ‘accept him’. Thankfully, he promptly descends once I decline; firmly but politely (again- not characteristic of me in these situations).

Soundtrack of the week: Heart Break by New Edition.