A Jazzed-Up Spring

 7 min. read

Two years on from the last lockdown, there are things I am still discovering about life in Brussels. It’s been nearly three years since my relocation but it feels that I’ve only properly started to get a measure of the socio-cultural calendar as of 2022. One thing I’m coming to understand is how much the brighter, warmer seasons are accompanied by music. Beyond what have become my regular haunts, there are numerous festivals. These include the Brussels Jazz Weekend at the end of May, as well as the Fête de la Musique in late June. Jazz appears to have pride of place during this seasonal shift. Well-known establishments like L'Archiduc launch a programme of weekly (mostly free) concerts featuring artists from all over the world, for instance. I take advantage of this gratis entertainment; whether flying solo or with acquaintances. 

One weekend at the end of April, I drop in on a live competition for young, up-and-coming artists at Le Senghor cultural hub. I recognise most of the Jazz contingent from my relatively brief exposure to the scene so far.

Whilst I’d always have been keen on such artistic indulgences, they have been a lifeline as I navigate the limbo that is currently my life.

As I write, I’m still waiting for the outcome of an interview I had on Good Friday. It’s been well over a month. At this point, that’s just plain rude. 

The interview itself seemed to go well enough and the panel appeared eager to fill the role quickly. I suspect they’ve gone with another candidate and simply forgotten to inform me. It's unprofessional, not to mention inauspicious. Seen in that light, it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise that they didn't recruit me. 

Still, the lack of clarity is unsettling. I wasn’t over-invested in the job but neither was I indifferent. I thought I’d struck a good balance. 

A few days after mum returns to the UK following her Easter visit, I realise that the uncertainty has affected me more than I thought. I increasingly struggle with gut-churning angst at the start of the week, to the point of having physical symptoms. The Monday after mum’s departure, and a few days past the deadline given by the potential employer, my psycho-emotional state takes a slow but noticeable dive. This depressive episode takes longer to lift, despite my efforts. There’s not much that can be done but to ride it out as best as I can.

And so I return as always to music as a solace. It can be as much a means for me to connect with the Divine as more traditional Christian fellowship. 

I don’t confine my appetite for live music to Jazz. For one thing, that crowd is too exclusive. Jazz musicians -and to an extent, audiences - tend to be withholding in their affirmation. 

One evening, after a meeting with the social action team at church, I pass by central Brussels for the monthly Brazilian jam at Café Merlot. I don’t necessarily intend to sing that night. However, the atmosphere is so laidback and conducive, I end up performing a couple of Lusophone classics. 

I frequent the weekly Afro-Jam in Marolles at least once a month. One of the regulars, a Belgo-Cameroonian curiously called Roland-Heinrich – has taken a shine to me. He has committed to memory almost everything I’ve said to him, whereas our interactions have barely registered with me. When he asks to swap numbers, I’m apprehensive. I’m not romantically attracted to him and our exchanges are unremarkable. Then again, it’s better if I’m not overly-committed. I can chalk it up to experience; a social experiment. 

Roland-Heinrich wants to meet up immediately. I tell myself it’s better to get it out of the way. I have a window that Sunday afternoon, anyway. The Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) have organised a solidarity barbeque that same day, focusing on the cost of living crisis. I can meet Roland afterwards.

The BBQ itself is more relaxed and informal than I expect. There’s more emphasis on food and fraternising than political education. I’m just content to be a member of a party that isn’t afraid to embrace radical policies and denounce imperialism. Whilst the PTB proudly owns its Marxist roots, you don’t have to be one to find a home here. If the present British electoral system allowed this choice, such a party would surely attract anybody to the Left of the current rightward drift in mainstream politics-the Labour Party included. Parties like PTB appeal to those willing to challenge the Neo-Liberal consensus or left homeless after the Pasokification of so many mainstream centre-Left European parties; socialist in name only.

(Image courtesy of Thermo Fisher Science)

Guests leave the BBQ promptly once sufficiently fed. I stick around until the end, more out of politeness. My interlocutors have drifted off and I don’t fancy trying to integrate myself into groups already deep in conversation. I’m not a fan of small talk, especially in French.

I take a leisurely stroll towards town and still arrive far earlier than I’m scheduled to meet Roland-Heinrich. He doesn't live in Brussels. I either didn’t know or forgot. 

I pass by L'Archiduc to confirm there’s a free concert that evening. I’d already suggested it to Roland. It saves us wasting time finding something to do. 

Whilst waiting at De Brouckere, a man approaches me. He has that poetic directness that I've come to associate with being chatted up in mainland Europe. His name is Aziz. He’s in a wheelchair and appears to have some kind of palsy, which makes his speech sometimes difficult to understand. We nevertheless have a pleasant and innocently flirtatious exchange, much to the bemusement of a group of men sitting nearby. Aziz asks if his disability would be a problem. Instinctively, I say ‘no’. I’m uncomfortable with the framing of the question. We’re all made in God’s image, I reply. Yet, whilst it’s not the sole consideration, I do demure politely (with a smile) when Aziz asks for my number. I’m wracked by guilt that some ableism might be at play. Either way, Aziz seems quite pleased with how the interaction has gone. I thank him for the compliments and kiss him on the cheek before he moves off.

Roland-Heinrich shows up shortly afterwards. 

A multi-instrumentalist himself, he appreciates the musicianship as we catch the tail-end of the free gig at L'Archiduc. Once the music is over, the venue clears out almost entirely. 

Roland-Heinrich swiftly moves towards making his intentions known. He lists all his credentials (a paediatrician with a MSc from an American Ivy League institution. A stint with UNICEF...). Whilst I welcome honesty and commend his expressed appreciation of black women, I'm unhappy at how quickly the conversation takes this turn. We barely know each other and his interest in me seems largely based on the physical. That's far too little on which to go by for him to be making grand declarations. I feel obligated to itemise all the reasons why I’m not interested in him beyond the platonic. By the end of the night, even vague ideas of friendship are less appealing. 

Roland-Heinrich isn't taking no for an answer. I suspect he plans to bide his time.  I dislike that pressure and let him know outright. Apart from the absence of any physical attraction from my side, I don’t see much compatibility beyond our shared enthusiasm for music. Roland-Heinrich's far too comfortably indifferent about my political interests. He also comes with particular baggage. He has a young daughter living overseas. I love children but have my own personal reasons for not wanting to wade into that kind of situation. Roland-Heinrich replies that 'at our age' (he's quite a few years younger than me), there tend to be more complications. On the contrary, I riposte. I know several childless men in their 30s, 40s and older. Roland's attitude towards the mother of his child also leaves a lot to be desired. He seems to think that by being dismissive of her, this would win me over. Nope. 

Speaking to a dear male friend on the phone the next day, he assures me my appraisal of the non-date was not too harsh. On reflection, I’d rather not hang out with Roland-Heinrich again, even for politeness' sake. It just means things would be awkward if/when we see each other at the Afro Jam.

There’s more political engagement that week at the annual Worker’s Holiday festival in central Brussels (1 May). I’ve volunteered to help run the stand for Intal; an internationalist anti-colonial, peacebuilding initiative that I’ve recently joined. They have no shortage of folk willing to help but it’s a long shift. The more personnel to relieve the pressure, the better. 

I’m new to Intal. As I ease into the task, I need the more experienced members to be at hand. I eventually hit my stride, nonetheless. I feel useful and have a lot of fun. From my experience thus far, the Intal crew are a warm bunch.  I purchase a T-shirt commemorating the 50^th anniversary of Allende’s thwarted revolution in Chile. One lad from PTB’s junior collective approaches me at the stand, assuming I’m only slightly older than his 22 years. 

Why, were you trying to recruit me? I ask, chuffed at the thought. His response is ambiguous, a tad bashful. It’s been that kind of (long) weekend. When it comes to male attention, it tends to be feast or famine.

Later that evening, I connect with Dawn- a good acquaintance from church. Whilst she's lived in Belgium twice as long as I have, we've both had our seasons of feeling relationally disconnected. 

Dawn initially makes plans for a get-together with a larger group. She valiantly perseveres as others drop out. 

And then there were two. It works out fine all the same.

Soundtrack: Love2 by Reel People, Love is Energy by EMAMKAY.