Christmas and the Blessed Mother: Part 1

(routard.com)

A week before Christmas, I collect my mum from Gare Centrale. She has been fortunate to catch one of the intermittent trains from St. Louis during the ongoing strike action.

It’s my third Strasbourg Noel. Despite her numerous visits, this will be my mother’s first in the 'Capital of Christmas'. Seeing this is most likely the last December that I’ll be based in Alsace, I have a full itinerary planned. I want mum to experience all the things that make Christmas in Strasbourg special for me. I hope to squeeze in some of the sights I haven’t had a chance to show her before.

The day of mum’s arrival, I run around putting the finishing touches to a warm Yuletide welcome.  I illuminate the decorations for the first time since putting them up.

I arrive at the station a few minutes later than scheduled but still in good time. Mum's in high spirits; relieved to be away from the post-election turmoil and recrimination.

At home we unpack her laden suitcases. Any guilt over my list of special requests soon evaporates. Mum’s heavy cargo is mostly her own doing; bringing a bounty of treats for which I have not asked. I knew very well she might improvise. I tell her off for being an enabler and insist she takes a good portion back with her. Still, it’s a relief to see my almost bare cupboards filling up.

On the first full day of her trip, we make our way to Kehl. Having had to wait all morning and half-the afternoon for my water meter to be read, by the time we leave it’s a mad dash. We hope to make it ahead of the last minute Christmas rush. On arriving, it’s clear others have had the same idea.

Thanks to mum’s UK haul, we don’t have too much to worry about on the food front. The most important item would be the capon; proving somewhat elusive on that side of the German border. Back on the French side, my local butchers don’t give any assurances it’ll arrive before Christmas Eve.

I can’t worry about that now. I am already running late for the last street outreach session of the year. That evening we’re joined by Luc, one of the founding members of the team. It’s his first outreach since he married in the summer. The girls are delighted for him. Sherrie, originally from Nigeria, is especially pleased. You’re a man now, no longer a boy!

The women receive our festive treats eagerly; even those who claim not to have much of a sweet-tooth.  Pull the other one. Luc chides.

By the time the session is over and we’ve done a lengthy debrief in the cold, group-leader and co-founder Sabrina drops me off long after midnight. I warn mum ahead of time that I’ll be back late and she should eat dinner without me. She waits up all the same.

That weekend is dedicated to showing her Strasbourg in its full Christmas splendour; best seen after nightfall. I’m in a good mood after spotting some bargain capon and picking up mum’s gift for a steal during the morning shop. We set off late afternoon with a view to catch the live nativity in the vicinity of the cathedral before attending a carol service at Temple Neuf. La Creche Vivante plays in quarter-hourly loops. The cast is comprised of adult volunteers, children of the parish and real life sheep. We glimpse the final scenes, after the angels have appeared to the pint-sized cherubs. I’m pleasantly surprised to see Mary played by an African/Caribbean woman with dewy skin. She has the patient, beatific smile down to a tee. Too bad her pale baby doll bears no resemblance. Must take after the robust-sized Joseph by her side.

By the time we reach Temple Neuf, there’s no more room at the inn. We’re turned away by the austere pastor’s assistant (he and I have a little bit of beef from a while back). Hanging outside in vain, I hear someone call my name. Gloria from my church translation team has also made a fruitless trip with a friend to the Temple for a Christmas sing-along.

The truncated itinerary is a blessing in disguise, giving us more time to catch the Christmas sights and sounds. Mum and I head back to the Live Nativity to watch some of the elements we’ve previously missed. Some of the young cast have been replaced to give the others reprieve. One impish little shepherd is having trouble controlling her excitement. The director doesn’t look amused. Neither do the sheep.

We take in much of the length and breadth of Strasbourg bathed in Christmas glory.  My mother’s eyes are aglow as we stroll down the usually quiet Rue des Orfèvres; now overflowing with human traffic. We stand underneath the colossal Christmas tree in Place Kleber. The giant baubles change colour at indeterminate intervals. From green to jade. The last time I saw them they were purple. We wait several minutes for this violet transition before giving up to make our way to Krutenau. We plan to surprise my friend Gael at his Afro-blend café. On entering I bump into Gael’s sister, Claudette for the second time in the space of a week; her daughter in tow. We have met by chance at a supermarket the weekend before. Gael and mum exchange warm salutations. We both comment on his weight loss.

Live Nativity (photos-alsace-lorraine.com)

Claudette is expecting some friends, themselves formerly in the catering business. Once they arrive she orders multiple sample dishes and is generous with their distribution. For our part mum and I order delicious beef-based dishes, multiple rounds of the crepe-like Kenyan chapatti and shito sauce. Gael even convinces head chef (his mother) to make the finely-ground caramelised peanut brittle I adore, just for me. Towards the end of the evening I enter a heated discussion with Claudette and friends about the current strike action taking place across France. They appear to be rather Let them eat cake about the affair; more worried over the understandable short term inconvenience than the long-term stakes. In addition, they confound the violent anarchist elements of the Gilets Jaunes with the legitimate concerns of the trade unions over Macron’s proposed retirement reforms. As I passionately defend the union’s cause, mum glances from face to face, head turning as if at a tennis match. I just knew you were talking about politics, she shares after we leave. She believes I should have toned it down. I am a tad defensive, feeling conflicted. I don't like to leave on an awkward note. Yet, I feel it's important to present a different perspective to those otherwise seemingly too removed from the struggle to empathise.

The Sunday before Christmas, mum accompanies me to church. She’s a hit with some of the members yet to be of her acquaintance. Isn't she pretty? one of them admires. Indeed she is, I reply; not for the first time in life vicariously enjoying the compliment on mum's behalf.  After the service I take her to St Aloysius church in Neudorf to admire the epic nativity scene; spanning cultures and millennia. Mum is duly fascinated, filming the display from every feasible angle. In the evening she entertains herself with another epic; Martin Scorcese’s The Irishman. I can’t really commit. Mum’s much more a fan of mafioso drama than I’ve ever been.

Low Season, High Season

Demonstrations in France against Macron's proposed retirement reforms
(connexionfrance.com)

The weeks leading up to Christmas are a bewildering blur of joy and pain.

Anxiety about the UK General Election is punctuated with moments of hope, only to be dashed by a heartbreaking outcome. Still, hope lives on. I am comforted by the sympathetic reaction from friend and fellow HRGS soprano, Michelle at a rehearsal the day after the result. I have willed myself out of the flat. It’ll be far too glum staying indoors.

Michelle has kept abreast of the news from Blighty. Believing the Brits to be conservative by nature, she’s not so much shocked by a Tory win but by how much. She tells me not to worry about Boris in the long term. The clown will go back to the circus, she quips.  (The crown analogy is misleadingly innocuous, I warn.)

Michelle also points to the success of the recent strikes across France in protest of Macron’s unpopular proposed retirement reforms. The trade unions have been revived thanks to this wave of industrial action, she explains. All is not lost.

A few days later, I briefly join trade unionist chum, Catarina and comrades on the picket line in central Strasbourg. The initial plan is to meet up for a hot beverage after I attend a careers fair near her office. When she informs me she’s on strike and intends to join the demonstrations in the city centre, I wonder why it hasn’t yet occurred to me to lend my support. Vive la solidarité ! At least the French put up a fight, I tell my francophone acquaintances. I am frustrated by what seems to be the docile acceptance by too many Brits of detrimental policies.

It’s my first time demonstrating in France. Red smoke bombs are let off. The sound of hand-held sirens give the march an eerie urgency. Many establishments are closed in solidarity, including my usual post-work haunt, the Malraux Médiathèque.

Elsewhere, the Strasbourg Christmas frenzy continues as normal. The decorations seem even more enchanting this year. The world-famous Christmas market still disrupts life in the centre of town.

The suffusion of light isn’t the only thing to gladden my heart amidst the grim weather and political climate. I meet up with my Guardian Angel, Gordon; a former THRO colleague. He treats me to a smoothie and uplifting conversation one lunch time. There’s been a lot of changes at The Organisation in the relatively short time since I left, according to other former colleagues. I can’t help but feel a little vindicated on the news that one of the problematic managers has been ‘reassigned’. I hope that isn’t vindictive, I ask Gordon. No, he reassures, it's understandable. A thoughtful and sweet-natured individual, he’s exactly what THRO needs but somehow still manages to be too good for them.

I have more special festive dinners than I know what to do with. It takes some strategic manoeuvring and disciplined day time eating to make room for it all. I skip out on at least one.

Thanks to my church house group, I have my first ever traditional raclette experience. About blinkin' time.

It’s the Alsatian equivalent of fondue. Regional cheese is melted on a grill and consumed with potatoes, sliced meat preservatives, salad and whatever else is at hand. I’m a little uneasy at first. Being one of the few foreigners and unfamiliar with the raclette set-up, the group leaders regularly ask for feedback. It makes me even more self-conscious. I’m still not entirely at ease in certain Francophone social settings. Small talk is no less of a chore. It takes me a while to unwind but relax I do; no small thanks to the warm welcome from Cape Verdean, Magda and her lovely family. She encourages my efforts to speak Portuguese. I spend much of the evening chasing her curmudgeonly toddler for a cuddle.

My choir also organise an end of year social. One Sunday evening we gather for a buffet at a capacious Chinese restaurant a stone’s throw from my church in La Meinau. En route, I greet some of the Girls waiting for clients. I recognise them from previous outings with the street outreach team.

The dinner is a rather raucous affair, particularly where the choir directors are seated. Their rambunctious chat and laughter startles star soprano, Nicole’s baby girl. The usually placid tot bursts into tears. A little FOMA starts to niggle. My mood is tempered by an earlier sartorial mishap that forced me to swap outfits. I’m not entirely comfortable in my replacement wear. The food selection is respectable. Psychologically however, I can no longer bring myself to eat to bursting as I once would have done at such establishments. As I settle in, chorister Elisabeth asks about my future plans. I explain that I’ve postponed my departure for a month or two. She says I’ll be missed. She has observed I’m breezier and more at home in my skin. I’ve come into my own. I explain that I’m not shy by nature; or at least only in limited contexts. It’s just I still feel like an imposter speaking French. I’m not as quick off the mark as I’d be in English.

Le Palais de la Meinau, Strasbourg

I greatly appreciate her words of support, nonetheless. Leaving HRGS behind might well be the hardest aspect of moving on. It’s been an integral part of my Strasbourg experience and, without a shadow of a doubt, the source of most of my happiest memories here.

The following week alone I participate in two choir-related activities; a memorial service for the victims of last year’s Christmas market terrorism and a charity event for a young man, Lazare, who has been in a coma for over a year. It’s a joyous occasion in spite of the circumstances. More precious memories made on and off stage. Musical director Kiasi meets his match when he calls on Sylvestre, Lazare’s football coach, to help him lead an audience participation segment. He is a natural entertainer who knows how to work the crowd. I can’t sing for laughing. It’s forever refreshing to see a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Soundtrack: The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker, Christmas mix (various artists)

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The weekend following the HRGS recording session will also be musically-inclined. But first, I attend the long-awaited opening of the Afro-blend themed bar of Strasbourg BFF, Gael. Following months of uncertainty and construction hitches, Jabiru is open for business. The official launch party is scheduled in the new year. For now, it’s an informal gathering of choice acquaintances alongside passing clientele.

I’m one of the first to arrive.

 A partition made from traditional wax cloth opens into bright surroundings. Drink crates covered with more ornate wax cloth have been converted into seats. The walls are decorated with Asante Adinkra symbols alongside their French, English and German translations.

I comment on Gael’s weight loss. He’s gym-honed bod has diminished to simple leanness. I blame the pre-opening stress.

I fear I might be over-dressed for the occasion. A couple of male punters give me the eye, including an older gentleman whom I at first believe is Gael’s dad. Both refute it.

But I’m not black, says the older man. I point out that Gael is of mixed-heritage.

This does not dissuade the elderly lothario. I’m polite but try as much as possible to focus on the novel I'm reading, the Afro-blend snacks I ordered or speaking to Gael’s mature, pre-adolescent niece.

Aperitifs are scheduled for half-7 but I won’t hang around. I have choir practice that evening. I make an early exit feeling too conspicuous sitting on my own. There’s only so much Gael can entertain me in between taking orders. I settle the bill and promise I’ll be back very soon.

I’m a woman of my word. The next day I introduce Afropean acquaintance, Zainab to Jabiru. We met several months previously in one of those random, pleasant moments of happen-stance.

Zainab is impressed by the café's chic interior design and ambiance. I order a couple of helpings of a hard, caramelised snack that I've fallen in love with. She's less enthused.

I have plans for an early night ahead of a busy Sunday. Zainab nonetheless insists I join her for an evening of carols organised by a French Caribbean association. I’ve run out of excuses. It’s only a hop and a skip away.

We arrive at St Madeleine church tucked away in a secluded corner of the city. The main hall is buzzing with activity. Zainab introduces me to her acquaintances. 'She is anglophone' or 'she speaks English'. Between this needless (I hope) additional info and her regular correction of my French, I have the impression she's unconsciously embarrassed for-or by- me. We'll have to speak about it but not now.

The atmosphere is convivial.  It will be one of the most informal carol services I’ve attended. Snacks and vol-au-vents are circulated. Hymn books are distributed for those who wish to join in. A motley crew of singers gather on the makeshift stage. I spot one of the recent recruits to HRGS amongst them. We exchange les bises.

You’re a busy bee!

Most of those in attendance talk over the singing. I speak to a couple of Zainab's friends about the purported (not-always-so) friendly rivalry between their respective islands; Guadeloupe and Martinique. They assure me that it's mostly jest and deep down there's much solidarity, especially amongst the first wave of migrants to France.  I make a gamely effort to keep up with the singing, unfamiliar as I am with the vast majority of the selections. I’m nevertheless heartened by the unadulterated references to the Christian themes of the season. It’s a refreshing break from all the Black Friday, pre-festive commercialism. Advent is barely under way and it’s already feeling like my most authentic Christmas experience in Strasbourg. 

Wolfisheim Christmas market

There’s more French Yuletide cheer at church the following morning. A specially-invited troupe take over proceedings for their own interactive spin on the Nativity. It’s a bit chaotic as these ‘family services’ tend to be. On the other hand, my French church isn't given to much festive themed music. It's a welcome change.  I wasn’t well-acquainted with the francophone version of O Come All Ye Faithful, for instance. For the second time that weekend I find myself singing the French equivalent of one of my holiday favourites, Angels We Have Heard on High.

My first weekend of advent concludes with a HRGS gig at a modest Christmas market in Wolfisheim; a village in the Alsatian environs. It’s brass-monkey cold and we’re expected to perform outside. The venue resembles a cross between a fortress and a barn, transformed into an enchanted castle by the Christmas illumination. The performance is dodgy. We sounded better in rehearsals. Co-director Evan pitches us too high a couple of times, throwing off some of the choristers. As usual we have too few male singers present and performing outside brings with it challenges. Yet as is normally the case with HRGS, we enjoy ourselves all the same. More beautiful memories are made drinking our complimentary hot drinks and munching crepes under giant fairy lights.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker

No Time to Play...Well, Maybe a Little

Downtown studios, Strasbourg.

Strasbourg-aka the Capital of Christmas-is in full festive swing from late November. The landscape is barely clear, if at all, of its majestic autumnal display.  Yet winter has made a head start with the biting temperatures. Across the city, various fixtures, lamp-posts and trees light up with some of the prettiest Christmas décor you’re likely to see.

I’m continuing my in-between job schedule of studying, searching for work and appointments with municipal employment agencies. Somehow I also find time for church activities, writing workshops, meet-ups with chums, telephone conferences on UK GE campaign strategy and, of course, choral events. After a tame start to the Rentrée on the performance front, the High Rock Gospel Singers’ diary has suddenly become quite active.

On the last Sunday of the month, the choir directors book an all-day session at a studio in an obscure location not too far from the central station. I’m still a relative recording novice. It’s been a decade or two since I was last in the booth. We gather in front of the cave-like establishment on a chilly weekend morning. I've hitched a lift with a kindly alto.  The choristers turn up in full force except, as usual, for the men. The idea is for this recording session to be a test run for the album. Instead of trying to knock out a track during an intense afternoon session, the administrative team thought it would be more productive if we take our time over the course of a day. It turns out to be a fruitful gamble.

To our astonishment, the studio is far more modern and inviting than its less than prepossessing exterior. (It's to discourage thieves, according to the proprietor) The spacious brick and wood-panelled surroundings would be an ideal setting for a making-of documentary. I expect the establishment to be presided over by a young-ish fellow of African-descent. Instead we’re greeted by an ageing Frenchman, not nearly as curmudgeonly as first impressions suggest.

The day begins with some relaxed warm-ups. We then proceed to record a Gospel medley – chosen for its relative ease and familiarity. I also happen to sing the opening solo. We begin by attempting to record the bulk of the track separately according to harmonies; sopranos and altos together, then tenors and the solitary bass on his own. We discover by chance however, that the sound is richer and more cohesive when the first three registers record in the same room. This aspect of the recording is far less painful than anticipated.

It’s time for lunch. I abstain from the specially-ordered sandwiches, hoarding mine for later. A baguette won’t go down well with my vocals.

It takes a while for me to unwind during my solo. Although I have a booth all to myself, I am overly-aware of the other choristers listening in the main mixing room. The directors sense tension in my voice. They give me some pointers to help me relax ‘Take all the time you need...try and be a vehicle for the lyrics...think of Whitney...’

Chief soprano and occasional choir director Nicole, gives me a measured but supportive pep talk. By the time other members start adding their two pence however, I’m overwhelmed and a tad peeved. I remain polite; maybe more so because it would be hard to get the nuance of my feelings across in French without sounding curt.

I mention my self-consciousness around the rest of the choir. The directors ask them to clear the room. I further suggest it would help me to relax if I sang whilst lying down. The engineer graciously adjusts the microphone and equipment. He adds some reverb to set the mood. After a few takes, just as I begin to get the hang of it, I’m summonsed to the mixing room. The choristers are called back in. The directors are happy with some of my rough drafts. Very rough to my mind. Left to my own devices I would do a couple more takes.

The rest of the choir are effusive with praise. My British-influenced unease with compliments rubs up against my vanity.

There’s more trial and error recording the medley intro. We experiment with various configurations. Finally, each register is whittled down to a handful of vocalists to ensure a better blend. It’s the first time in the day a hint of demoralisation sets in. Choir director, Kiasi is a little cranky. The team decide to cut their losses with the best take of the bunch.

It's been a long day. Just after 5pm, most of the choir are released into the late autumn evening. A few of us stay behind for the finishing flourishes. Kiasi and Evan record some killer ad-libs in a handful of takes; like a couple of seasoned pros. My improv goes down well. So well that Kiasi sings it back to me in a voicemail later that evening.

But it’s the same-ol, same-ol ad-lib I always do!

Before leaving we listen back to the days efforts, as we have been doing periodically. Nicole and the boys pick up on a quarter-tone’s difference between the intro and the main medley. It’s difficult to know how we missed it. We routinely checked for pitch.

A few weary expletives fly around. The engineer reassures us it can be adjusted in the final mix. We manage to wrap everything up by early evening. Despite some of the tuning issues, we’ve had a blast.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker