La Vie Musicale Part 2 or God Loves a Tryer...Maybe

A day after seeing mum off at the station, I embark on a 24-hour cultural excursion to Paris. I’m off to see Justin Timberlake play at the Bercy Arena. En route I’ll stop off at the Arab World Institute to review their exhibition on the Suez Canal.

It’s an odd timetable for the middle of the week. It wasn’t my original plan. Timberlake was supposed to play a Friday night in June but postponed for unspecified reasons. The show is rescheduled for a Tuesday night. It requires a couple days of annual leave. Suspicious that JT might cancel altogether, I put off buying a ticket to Paris as long as possible. Historically my efforts to see Mr Timberlake have come to nothing. I’ve either been too broke or not had the availability. My sister meanwhile has seen him twice. A friend paid for her ticket for one show.

By the time the show rolls around, I can’t say I’m overly-enthused. I fear the fierce backlash he’s experienced since his comeback this year will hamper his performance.

My day starts with an early morning coach from Strasbourg town centre. Despite the unusually early itinerary, I make it to the coach stop in good time. I have both seats to myself.

The coach driver gabbles something about safety belts and a rest stop at Reims. I’ve brought my laptop along. I have a busy writing schedule and I intend to make a head start between snoozes.

We arrive in Paris half an hour later than estimated. I waste a further hour working out from which side of the road I need to take the bus to the Arab World Institute. By the time I find my bearings I have more than a 20 minute wait.

I arrive at the Insitute to find the press pass I had been assured is nowhere to be found. I am magnanimously granted entry on the strength of my word alone.

One of the advantages of travelling during the week is that tourist attractions like the AWI are less busy. I can work through the exhibition at a leisurely pace, instead of having to fight my way through the crowd as on my previous visit. Perhaps a little too leisurely. My early wake up call and fitful sleep on the coach are catching up with me. It takes me longer to process some of the information around the exhibits. I’m determined to take in as much as possible, not being very familiar with the history of the Suez. Before I know it, security is rushing us out of the building. The Institute closes earlier during the summer months.

I have less than two hours before JT hits the stage. I had made vague rendez-vous plans with an acquaintance/former frenemy. She recently tossed out a casual ‘If you’re ever in Paris...’ invitation. She has been decidedly less keen since I’ve taken her up on her offer. It works to my advantage. I have too small a window between the exhibition and the concert. I while away the time drafting my review of the exhibition at a hotel in the Bercy vicinity.

Making my way through security at the Arena is a mission in itself. There are several layers. I also learn that my seat has been reassigned. The balcony is closed. The security guard assures me it’s an upgrade.

By the time I locate my seat, that section of the Bercy is almost full. I miss most of the opening act, Timberlake proteges, The Shadowboxers. I’m excited at first when a DJ takes over. My optimism is short-lived. Track after track of the most uninspired commercial pop-R&B and Hip-Hop. I don’t know most of the newer tunes and the old school selection is nothing to write home about. Neither of the punters on either side look very impressed. Our whole section is rather sedate compared to the youngsters getting down in the pit. I try to make conversation with the lady to my left.

It’s not my sort of thing either. I venture

Her reaction is rather steely. I’m not sure if it’s the noise, my faltering French or she's just being stand-offish. Probably a combination.

I don’t care. I’m just waiting…

Further attempts on my part come to nothing. That’s cold-hearted Parisians for you.

Image courtesy of Mouv.

JT and the Tennessee Kids finally make an appearance. He comes out kicking on all cylinders and keeps up the momentum for two hours. Almost. The first half of the show is near faultless. The second half patchier in comparison but several redeemable moments. JT is all in. That’s why his tours are few and far between. He needs time to recover. He’s accompanied by a full band (including horns section) several backing vocalists and dancers. I’m pleasantly surprised to see a fuller-figured dancer amongst the troupe. Timberlake’s choreography is intricate, even balletic in places. He alternates between piano and guitar. JT is no cut-corners blagger, whatever his detractors say to the contrary.

It ain’t over until the Southern Kid starts singing one of his more banal hits (Can’t Stop the Feeling). After wandering around the building trying to locate the exit, I make it out of the Bercy just in time to beat the crowd and make my coach. I spend an uncomfortable night in an aisle seat and arrive back at my flat in Strasbourg exactly 24 hours after my journey began.

It’s a short working week by the time I return to the office that Thursday. I decide to round it off at a rehearsal with the High Rock Gospel Singers (HRGS) who wooed me at their 20th Anniversary celebration a fortnight or so earlier. Muriel, who introduced me to the choir, has kindly agreed to accompany me. As a foreigner, I’m a bit trepidatious about venturing into a part of town with a dubious reputation. Muriel thinks I’m overreacting but humours me nonetheless.

The chorale rehearse every Friday. With one major event behind them and many members already on summer holidays, practices are mainly for forthcoming smaller performances such as weddings. It’s quite an informal affair. Members wander in at all hours. I join in the warm-ups but have to bow out for the main numbers. I sing familiar tunes from the pews when I can. Choir director Kiasi and his deputy, the confusingly-named Evan (originally from Benin) are two very special characters. These playful divas are determined to outdo each other in flamboyance. Evan wins hands down. He does funky club moves and handstands whilst directing the choir.

I am in my element. I ache to join the choir on stage. 

Kiasi frequently stops mid-flow to reprimand the members for missed cues and pitchy harmonies. Judging by their good-natured reaction, I take it his indignation is in jest. Kiasi code-switches between rapid-fire French and equally fast, idiomatic English. 

He has the voice of an angel to boot, as do several of his co-choristers. They seem to master English pronunciation of their mostly Anglophone repertoire much better than many French vocalists I’ve heard.

I’m absolutely fascinated by Kiasi’s linguistic acumen.

You should hear Evan. He speaks like a scholar.

Neither of them have ever lived in an Anglophone country. Just holidays, school (really?) and an interest in the English language. Later that evening, as Muriel and I kiss our goodbyes and Kiasi waits with me at my bus stop, we talk about our travel experiences and favourite destinations. He’s not a fan of London or its American counterpart New York. He dreams of LA living. I pick his brain further about his prodigious language abilities. My joy over the musical soul food I’ve imbibed that evening promptly turns to despondency over my own linguistic inadequacy. He’s encouraging of my efforts and warns me of being too hard on myself. It’s counter-productive he says.

Too late for that. I’m overcome by a heavy, self-flagellating funk. A well-known Nigerian saying comes to mind. Kiasi doesn’t have 10 heads. If he can become adept in a foreign language having never lived in the country, why can’t I with all the opportunities available to me?

"...They've got a name for the winners in the world, I wanna name when I lose..."

I’ve at last realised a long-held dream to live in a Francophone country. Eight months into my sojourn and nearly 30 years since my first French lesson, it appears I’m no closer to my goal of fluency. Au contraire. My confidence is through the floor. I know so many talented polyglots. I've been surrounded by them for years. Try as I might, I am yet to acquire their facility with languages by osmosis. The mediocrity I’ve fled all my life has caught up with me in Strasbourg.

Back at my flat, I sob into my light midnight meal. I recall every domain I’ve tried in earnest but failed to crack. Whilst I graft at being a better wordsmith, I just found out the winner of The Caine Prize 2018 is a crypto-currency code writer; a prodigious enough natural talent to fluke a major literary prize on her first go. I can't even get shortlisted for modest competitions.

Trial, error, repeat. It’s been the story of my adult life thus far. The only thing for which I am sure I have a natural propensity is persistence.

They say God loves a tryer. I’m still waiting to see how that turns out.

Soundtrack of the Week: My J. Timberlake mix + Everything is Always a Process by Bluestaeb.