Musical Interlude

One weekday in early October, I pass by one of the main performance venues in central Strasbourg. It’s a good one stop-shop for finding out what’s on the musical calendar each season. One flyer catches my attention. It promises a night of vibraphone and vocals, the following Saturday evening. I imagine an intimate acoustic set of jazz standards, accompanied by one of the most underrated but enchanting instruments. I am forever in awe of the immense coordination it requires to master the vibes. (Partly because I know my own hand-to-eye is rather pitiful.)

The event is free and in my neck of the woods. An all round win.

Saturday rolls around. I’ve made plans to meet Catarina that afternoon. We haven’t seen each other since the summer. We catch up on our news. She’s less surprised than I expected when I inform her I'll be leaving THRO the coming week. Like several of my friends, she sees the end of my contract as a blessing in disguise.

Look, she reasons, it's for the best if you weren't flourishing there...

Catarina fills me in on some of her own work drama. One of her colleagues lost all his belongings in the same fire that killed the little boy at whose memorial service my choir performed. She says the racially-motivated allegations have been discredited, according to the local press. I’m not convinced.

Early evening. I bid à bientôt to Catarina and head home to freshen up before the event.

It’s night fall. I decide to take the bus to avoid a long, solitary walk through my quiet neighbourhood. En route, I bump into my colleague Daphnia; also local. My affection for her has grown this year, having been a well-needed source of moral support during discouraging moments in the office. She asks where I’m off to. I show her the flyer, rabbiting on about a jazz gig. For the first time I notice that the publicity doesn’t actually mention the musical genre. I dismiss any misgivings. The organisers probably didn’t want to alienate a certain demographic. Some people find jazz intimidating and might not otherwise give the gig a chance. 

Daphnia kindly volunteers to walk me to the venue which, it transpires, she knows a lot better than I.  She doesn't hang around once we arrive, leaving to prepare for her son’s camping trip that weekend.

The show is to take place in an old barn now converted into a gallery.

I'm a little early.  Presciently, I choose a seat in the back row. You never know. I might wish to make a premature exit. 

The show doesn’t begin on time. Strange, considering the Alsatians' Germanic adherence to time-keeping. The audience drifts in at a fashion. I spot a highly apprehensive-looking little girl of about 8 or 9. She has translucent skin and lank blonde hair cut into a bob. Her accompanying adults usher her to the front of the room.

20 minutes or so after the advertised start time, a hush slowly descends. The room goes dark. The vibraphonist takes his place behind the instrument. The gamine female vocalist stands at the far end of the gallery. She shifts her head to the right and holds the position. 

Now, it’s my turn to feel apprehensive.

The show begins with a monologue; alternating between French and a Germanic-sounding language that could be Alsatian. She slowly steps forward. The vibraphonist plays a desultory rhythm of the Phillip Glass variety.

Wait a minute. I wasn’t preparing my mind for Francophone theatre. It requires a deeper level of concentration.

Calme-toi, I tell myself, don’t panic. Yes, it's an unusual start to a jazz concert but perhaps this is just to wake us up.

Any illusion of a relaxing night of the Great American Songbook or interpretations of Bossa Nova ballads is soon shattered. The vocalist proceeds to make the first of many disconcerting movements. She repeatedly joins her fingertips together and draws them away again -as if straightening an invisible piece of string-whilst shaking her head from side to side. 

After the strange soliloquy, her bell clear voice soars towards something resembling a melody (to her credit, she has good pitch and great vocal control). If this weren't disorientating enough, she starts to emit a series of peculiar, non-articulated noises; another ‘theme’ to which she’ll frequently return.

She intersperses these non-songs with jerky movements and more odd vocal emissions. I can only describe the ensemble as equivalent to a particularly musical form of Tourette's.

I see heads turning with polite trepidation. I imagine these are friends and family who, invested in this freak show, can't leave before the end without causing offence. 

I laugh at their misfortune and mine; stuck in a parody of experimental theatre. Loufoque, the French would charitably call it. My heart goes to the timid little girl at the front; the only minor in the room. This is more punitive than entertaining, even for adults. Poor, innocent child. What harrowing memories will she retain well into adulthood of this mind-numbing evening?

I too look around, to see how feasible it would be to leave. A man stands at the back, possibly the owner of the premises or an employee. He crosses his hands behind him. Something about this stance seems intent on intimidation. 

I feel a mix of incredulity, bemusement and anger. The young duo apparently don't care about connecting with the audience. This is not an evening of comforting jazz. No moment of transcendence. It’s artistic self-indulgence of the highest order. You have to have a certain contempt for your public to make them sit through this.

A moment of respite comes when the vocalist deigns to sing a discernable tune. She and her musician sit in front of the vibraphone. He strikes the ‘wrong’ end of the instrument with his batons.

My first impressions of her voice are on point. It’s clear, melodious and has a very attractive tone. Alas, she swiftly reverts to self-administered slaps, other frenetic movements and vocal ticks.

I’ve had enough. I’ve been in two minds about leaving mid-show.  As much as they’ve tried our patience, I wouldn't like to distract the performers. But life is short. I'm suddenly exhausted. I want to redeem what’s left of my Saturday night. As discreetly as possible I move my seat back. I notice my choker has slipped. I can readjust it on the way out, I reassure myself.

It would be a smooth exit if my stupid accessory doesn’t choose that moment to slip off, clattering against the wooden seat. I’m apologetic but resolute. I head to the door. The man at the back doesn’t stop me, nodding politely instead.

I am tempted to recount this musical theatre misadventure to Daphnia when I’m back at the office the following week. I change my mind however when, in the light of day, the kooky event fades into insignificance.