Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 1

In France, the summer solstice coincides with the National Day of Music.  Last year, through ignorance I missed out on what sounded like a world of fun.  I won't make the same mistake. For a start, it falls on a Friday night; the weekend invitingly stretched out ahead.  Furthermore, choir practice has been cancelled; possibly because several members plan to skive off to catch some of the action.

The list of events looks tantalising. I have a few showcases in mind but first I hope to support my manager Sophie and her husband Marcel's Brazilian percussion band. It will be their swan song gig.  After 15 years performing Batacuda as an outfit, Marcel wants to focus on other ventures.

My evening timetable is scuppered pretty early on, however. I leave work much later than usual owing to a last minute hitch.  A friend from London texts me for prayer and moral support.  I call to see how she is doing. It's a half-hour well spent.  Unfortunately, I miss the kick-off of Sophie and co's ambulant performance. I wander the streets of Broglie, heading to the Cathedral; trying to follow the route that Sophie has outlined.  In my percussive pursuit, I pass a couple of sound-systems that mildly pique my interest but I can't allow myself to be distracted.

Peine perdue. I can't locate them. I don't even hear drums in the distance.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg heave with activity. Crowds gather around Zumba dancers and impromptu drumming. The main stages are large scale festival-style affairs. No expense spared. The sun is out.  The smell of over-priced street food, from different corners of the globe, fills the already humid air.  It's the closest Strasbourg gets to the Notting Hill Carnival-sans floats, Calypso and Soca.

I drift from one stage or sound-system to another in search of enticing grooves.  Without much trouble I work my way to the front of the main stage in Place Kleber, trying to avoid the panoramic gaze of the cameras. I stifle giggles during the set of a Jazz/Funk/Pop outfit. The musicians are solid but I'm tickled by the lead singer's cheesy nasalised vocals, English-as-second-language lyrics and overall corny demeanour.  I've seen enough here. I head to Petite France for a DJ set promising Electronica and Soul amongst other things.  Cutting through Grand Rue, I stumble upon members of the Extreme inter-church Outreach Group sharing the Good News with revellers. One of them is incredulous that I'm out alone.

I'm a Londoner. We do what we want.

This concept appears somewhat alien to the Strasbourgeois. It's the same old story. Everywhere I look, people hang around in their tight cliques. Very few, if any, are solo travellers and none are female from what I gather.  I feel a mixture of bemused fascination over this compulsion to group and smugness about my seasoned independence.

On the other hand, spontaneous encounters with like-minded individuals are far less likely to occur.

There isn't much dancing going on either. When I arrive at the Petite France sound-system, punters are sitting around in groups (naturally); smoking, talking, eating...All things they could do at home.

Place de Kléber, image courtesy of France 3 Régions

I hang around a little to check out the music policy and people-watch. The music isn't bad but it would be odd to be dancing when no-one else is. As a lone female, I don't want to attract unnecessary attention.  I send some update texts to the UK in the meantime. When I look up, I notice some chancer has sidled up undetected whilst I've been distracted. A tad unnerved, I make an early departure. Nothing really to see here.

The next stop is the 'urban' stage at Étoile Bourse. I circumnavigate the crowds by taking a scenic detour via Lycée Pasteur, exploring new corners.

A couple of the lasses from my choir, HRGS, will be putting on their dancing shoes for a set at la scène urbaine. The atmosphere is vibrant, no question. The peninsula is rammed. It's difficult to breathe smoke-free air. There's a concentration of security in the area. The DJ sets are underwhelming; non-descript commercial Afrobeat, Ragga or Hip-Hop fodder that sounds like knock-off Drake.

I'm bored.  I've spent the evening searching in vain for an above-average sound system. I'm a woman of simple pleasures. That's all I ask.  Alas, even that seems too much. This town has a way of disappointing my expectations before I realised I had any.

First world problems.

I text fellow chorister, Claire to check when she's scheduled to perform.  I didn't plan to stay late but I'm here now. She's on her way. She suggests I look out for her partners-in-dance; mingling in the crowd near the main stage. Whilst searching for them a young, all-female troupe commence a raunchy routine to a bass-heavy medley.  The audience go into a frenzy. A few of the girls are dancing in their knickers. Literally. T-shirt & panties. Squatting and shaking their exposed bum cheeks. I avert my gaze. Still, much as I don't care for women self-objectifying, I have to hand it to them. It takes some temerity to do a vigorous dance routine in public dressed in little more than underwear. As they exit, one of the larger girls grabs her right buttock and, with a sly smile to the audience, jiggles it.

I can't see my acquaintances.

I spot some other revellers climbing up the steps of the André Malraux Médiatheque next door. I like the idea of the expansive view from the top and follow suite. A couple of floors from the top I lose my nerve. I can see straight down through the griddled metallic steps. My vertigo kicks in. The holes also allow a group of little pot-smoking perverts to look up my skirt whilst I climb to the next floor.

I give up on the third storey, fearing there's not enough to protect me should I lose my balance. I sit down on the steps to text Sophie an apology. To my surprise, she texts back right away. The band are around the corner from the Cathedral. I toy with the prospect but know I won't make it there and back in time to catch Claire & co's performance. Shame.

I rejoin the crowds for more monotone tunes. I'm just killing time at this point. The anticipated dance routine is impressive from what I can see at a distance, with no glasses. Two Senegalese siblings from the chorale, Fatima and younger sis Farida in particular, prove themselves skilled Afro-beat performers. But no sign of Claire. I text to find out why. I'm injured, is the response, I was just filming the show.

The crowd is by now so dense that I only emerge from the Presqu'ile in time to see my bus disappearing into the distance.

On my way to the stop, I bump into a glamorous and outgoing colleague from The Human Rights Organisation, out with her family.

So how've you found it? she asks

Meh, as the Yanks would say.

I enjoyed the people-watching but... and proceed to list my Fête-related quibbles.

I love the typically British moan-y response. She teases.

(For one thing, I don't consider myself that British.)

Dancing en masse in the streets? Hardly. She tells me to adjust my expectations. She's lived in different cities around the world.  There's a limit to how excitable Strasbourg gets. This is it.

Donc, je sais maintenant.

Still en route to the bus stop, kept company by K-Os' 2010 album Yes! (far better than anything I've heard all evening), a couple of lads pass by. The Caucasian one mouths something in my direction. I remove my earphones.

Pardon?

Vous etes ravissante.

Ah, merci.

Je vous vraiment en prie.

Ego-boosts from handsome blokes. I'll take some of that.

Maybe this night wasn't a complete wash-out after all.

Soundtrack: Yes! by K-Os.

Part 2