Summer Nights

Onwards and upwards.

Things are starting to wind down now summer is in full swing. The halls of The Organisation are becoming quieter as colleagues vanish on leave. Not yet the case for me. I’m still busy organising a few last minute activities before the summer lull truly kicks in. A rearrangement of personnel is making my life easier, I can’t lie. But that’s for another, later blog.

In early July my Strasbourg lifeline, The High Rock Gospel Singers, meet for the last time before La Rentrée in September. The effect of the summer hiatus is already felt amongst the already fickle membership. That Friday night, I arrive to find an empty rehearsal space. Not having a Whats App account, I'm usually one of the last to know if practice has been cancelled again. I send an enquiring text to one of the directors. On their way. Transport problems.

In the end, only four of us gather for unhealthy snacks and an impromptu singalong; me, fellow soprano Aurélie and choir directors Kiasi and Evan. At the behest of the latter, we end up singing makeshift tributes to some of our favourite 90s-00s pop/R&B and Gospel acts. Rihanna, Beyoncé/Destiny’s Child, Neyo (them), Justin Timberlake (me), Janet, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Brandy, Christina Aguilera (shared)… Well, it’s mostly three of us playing this variation of Karaoke whilst Aurélie searches songs on her phone with which she’s not familiar. Sometimes, our trio’s harmonies spontaneously blend in a most enchanting manner.

If there is any hint of discord, it’s more theological; by way of discussing a controversial, highly gifted former Gospel singer. Not for the first time I have the impression that Kiasi and Evan’s understanding of the Good News is highly customised. The lines blur between enjoying the benefits of God’s grace and simply cherry-picking palatable aspects of scripture whilst ignoring the tougher portions. Kiasi and I have had friendly disagreement over these matters before. Again, albeit rather more tentatively, I venture to give an alternative viewpoint. I’m hesitant to spoil the ambiance. I can’t quite square if it is cowardice or discernment but it doesn’t seem the right time or place to pick this battle. Tempted to fret whether I’ve made a good decision, I have to remind myself that it’s God’s job to convince, not mine. I scarcely have a hold on my own issues. I pray for my brothers and by Divine grace, try and work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

It won’t be the last time I cross paths with Kiasi before the long summer break.

Etoile Bourse, Bastille Day fireworks: courtesy of jds.fr

That weekend is Bastille Day - the French National Holiday. It falls on a Sunday. I forsake my usual evening of rest to catch the late night fireworks. I contemplate inviting some acquaintances but decide to go it alone. I quite like the idea of floating through the crowds unencumbered. Living in Alsace, it's become a statement of sorts for me to fly solo at these large scale events. It's a response to what I perceive as co-dependency amongst the Strasbourgeois. Even if they don't like their own company, it shouldn't mean I am averse to mine.

Although still in the Étoile Bourse vicinity, the event's layout is different compared to 2018. Large areas are sectioned off. The security is heavier and it's less obvious where the crowd should gather. Thankfully, I arrive early enough to be able to lose time searching for a sweet spot. I end up not far from where my journey on foot began.

Like last year, it's a worthy spectacle. I don't detect the sort of cost-cutting measures that have beset the London fireworks displays I used to frequent. The light dancing off the reflective surfaces of the Malraux Médiathèque are as stunning as the main show itself. I'm plugged into my music player and pick tunes on a whim. The combined effect of the audio and visual stimulation is quite a trippy experience. Amen to natural highs.

(c) Pascale Ronson

The following week I’m pleasantly surprised to see Kiasi on stage as the opening act and BV’s at a free open-air Gospel concert in Place Kleber. It’s a late starter for a school night but I’m grateful to have made the effort. I stumble across HRGS soprano, Michelle. Over the months we’ve fallen into a positive dynamic. She’s akin to my Caucasian godmother, at least in the choir’s contest. She’s compassionate, encouraging and makes me feel safe. We already have plans to reconnect that Friday night, now rehearsals are officially over for summer.

Amidst the crowd we spot choir members and affiliates, past and present, including Aurélie. She joins us later. The main act herself is HRGS alumna.

The DJ set is on fire if a little schizophonic. He doesn’t -or can’t -mix. No song is played for longer than a minute. He hops from Anderson .Paak back to early 20th Century Jazz standards and forward again to The Jackson 5, then to 90s neo-soul and R&B. It sounds more like his personal collection on shuffle. Fortunately for him, he has good taste. I make the most of the snippets to get my groove on. As usual, our little group are some of the few dancing souls amongst the typically rigid Alsatian audience. Michelle is catching some of the magic on her trusty digital camera.

Meanwhile Kiasi and co s'éclatent sur la scene. I notice Jeanne from church’s gifted housemate, Annalise on keys. Jeanne is somewhere in the mix but I won’t find this out until I’m already on the way home.

HRGS members in the crowd have the advantage of being familiar with much of the repertoire as well as the specific arrangements. The main act’s compositions are a bit too bluesy for my taste but it does not impede my enjoyment. I’m a woman of simple pleasures. A confluence of factors make this one of my most memorable nights out in Strasbourg. Good music, good weather, good company, good atmosphere, Good God.

The night bus calls and the gig isn’t ending any time very soon. I bid Michelle farewell and beg off.

Soundtrack: Money (single) by Michael Kiwanuka & Tom Misch, In My Element by Robert Glasper, The Blu James LP.

In a Carpenters' State of Mind

Mid-July weekend. France is in jubilatory mode. Saturday is Bastille Day and Sunday will be the final World Cup face-off with Croatia. Ironically, I feel more intensely the mild depression I’ve been skirting round. Nevertheless, regretful for missing out on the celebrations during the Fete de la Musique, I am determined to make it to the late night 14 July fireworks display near Etoile Bourse in Strasbourg town centre. It would compensate for not being in the UK for Guy Fawkes' night last year, having already moved to Alsace.

My mood lifts as my usually quiet bus route fills up with revelers headed for the same destination. There’s a massive diversion owing to the fireworks. I ditch my original plan to make my own way

by foot from Les Halles and instead follow the crowd. It’s after 10pm. Dusk has finally made way for nightfall. Restaurants in the Etoile Bourse area are full to capacity, certain punters having decided to watch the display from the terraces. It occurs to me too late that I should have met up with Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro rather than fly solo. We text each other before and after the Light Show. She’s about but I don’t know where.

Despite the crowd I locate a suspiciously clear open space to park myself for the event, next to the temporary beach. My personal soundtrack to the spectacle is a collection of love songs by The Carpenters. Karen is one of my favourite vocalists but I mete out how often I listen to them. There’s something intrinsically mournful about her sublime voice. Even her happier songs sound ironic. Between that, the siblings’ less than cheerful backstory and Karen’s self-inflicted untimely demise, I can only take their painfully beautiful music in measured doses. But I am in that kind of mood.

There’s a sweet, almost twisted pleasure listening to Karen’s melodious hum as the sky lights up with multi-coloured pyrotechnics. It becomes clear why the spot I’ve found isn’t so busy. The view is obstructed by a decorative (yes decorative) crane. I shift around in a futile attempt to find a better vantage point that isn’t already occupied, before making my peace with it. In the end, it’s a serene half-an-hour spent. Life-affirming, even. Just what I need. Disruption to public transport and late hour notwithstanding, my journey home is auspicious.

The following day at church the kindly, avuncular senior pastor preaches from Psalm 23. He exhorts us to profit from the downtempo summer period to rest our weary souls. It’s a pertinent message that sets off much internal dialogue.

After the service, I hear a familiar voice calling out. It’s Serafine. I’m relieved to see her. I’d hoped our paths would cross. She looks fab in a traditional West-African print wrap-around summer dress.

She asks how I am doing. I don’t have the energy these days for pretence; at least not around certain individuals. I try to articulate my complex mind state as best I can in French. Whilst endeavouring to explain my pre-birthday anxiety, I burst into tears. Serafine embraces me. She needs to fetch her daughter from Sunday school but asks if I have plans this afternoon.

Not much.

Her offer to spend time is a small but significant gesture. It’s the tonic that I need that afternoon. We hardly know each other but have much in common. Half-Gabonese, Half-Austrian Serafine relates to my citizen-of-everywhere-and-nowhere sentiments.

Being mixed isn’t just about ethnicity. It’s very much cultural. She avers, citing examples of mixed heritage Africans who feel little connection to the West. I couldn’t agree more. I've met quite a few. In their eyes, I'm a lost little Westernised girl, ignorant of her roots.

Serafine explains that Strasbourg can be a lonely city. I don't get it. It's the right balance between the manic pace of a Megatropolis and the boredom of a small town. 

Serafine expounds. She's moved countries and cities several times. Because of the transitory lifestyle of mega-cities there are many individuals in a similar position. They arrive from all over, to work or study, with no family or relational ties. They are looking to connect with others in the same boat. Strasbourg on the other hand, is full of long established networks. Its residents are settled and have put down roots. It's tough for an outsider to make inroads.

I've never seen it from that perspective. So it's not just me.

Serafine and I find further common ground in our aversion to the reductive ideas about women within some Christian circles. Unlike one of the speakers at church who goes out of her way to distance herself from feminism, Serafine and I readily identify with it. Sitting in her car, with her patient and well-behaved young daughter looking on quietly, we swap notes about our similar choleric/melancholic tendencies (not that I’d guess from her mellow demeanour), our mutual self-defeating perfectionism and inherent idealism. She empathises with the difficulty of negotiating relations at work. I unburden about my crisis of faith. She listens, sympathetic. 

I count my blessings. It’s the second time that week I’ve been able to share with someone who listens without judgment; once with an old friend and this time with a relative stranger.

And of course, there’s my beautiful, loyal, patient sister and her ready ears.

Nothing has changed materially after these conversations but I feel understood. It makes all the difference. I begrudgingly acknowledge God’s love in such ordinary interactions. As much as I am looking for the Mountain Top/Burning Bush moments, I can’t turn my nose up at any experience of the Divine, no matter how commonplace.

(courtesy of The Wall Street Journal)

That evening, France’ celebratory weekend will conclude with resounding victory at the World Cup. The Blues take home the coveted trophy, 20 years on from their last memorable win against Brazil. Given that this has happened on his watch, President Macron’s expression is even jammier than usual.

Just as in 1998, the triumphant French team is significantly comprised of the sons of African and Arab immigrants from former Francophone colonies. I’m no football fan but there’s a multicultural sweetness to this glory. I send a congratulatory text to a few of my Francophone acquaintances.

Yeesssssssssssss is the ecstatic, Anglophone response from one.

This is the next best thing to living through the 1998 salad days. Footage of Paris on line shows a sea of red, white and blue gathered around L’Arc de Triomphe. I watch cars speeding past my window, horning furiously, occupants hanging out of the window, flag-waving.

I’m sincerely glad to be here right now.

Soundtrack of the Week: Still Crazy After All These Years by Paul Simon & Love Songs by The Carpenters.