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

...Plus La Même Chose

My experience with the male

population hasn’t been wholly positive since moving to France. Any interest usually comes with mixed motives (again, that’s where my heartache has been a respectful exception). Creepy Thomas has at last disappeared into the ether after he alludes to me being withdrawn. I explain that his overly-tactile manner leaves me feeling uneasy. He feigns much indignation. The texts and ‘language exchange’ requests come to an abrupt halt.

Benoit’s behaviour is also of increasing concern. When we bump into each other, as we do fairly often working and living so close to each other, I notice he’s far more excitable. His olive palate flushes red; he perspires and is short of breath. In turn it makes me feel very uncomfortable in his presence. I start to wonder if our interactions are hazardous for his health. I wouldn’t want him having a cardiac episode on my account. Death by infatuation; I think not.

I receive a random text from him one morning.

Hello pretty. I've been thinking of you.

I'd rather he weren't. Not to be a cynic, but I fear what that might mean.

During one birthday-related text, Benoit brags that he knows all about me, including my age. I call his bluff, knowing that my internet footprint doesn’t give much away. Unbeknownst to me he takes it as a challenge.

The next day there's another chance encounter on the way to the local supermarket after work. We discuss a novel he's lent me by French bestselling author Pierre LeMaitre. To Benoit's credit, it's a good recommendation. Thrillers aren't usually my thing but it's a highly intriguing and original escapade; albeit involving abduction, torture, sexual abuse, incest and gruesome murders.

At some point in the conversation, Benoit proceeds to tell me my date of birth and the pictures he found of me and my sister. I’m horrified and react accordingly. Meanwhile, he seems quite pleased with his presumed resourcefulness. I rush home to find out how accessible this personal information is. Not very. He would have had to do some serious digging to find my DOB, on an obscure poetry site from a decade ago. Flip-ping heck.

We are due to meet up for a language exchange the following week but I’m having my doubts. I draft a stern-ish email and wait to send it based on sis’ level-headed advice. Good thing. It goes through some revisions. It's another bi-lingual effort. I explain why I was so agitated the other day; that I have no intentions of being his girlfriend (as I’ve made clear in the past) and he won’t convince me otherwise. Although I am willing to continue with the language exchange, I ask that he be more mindful in future. He demurs, with an apology. He’d rather scrap the planned meet-ups. However, he affirms, he’ll retain pleasant memories of our interactions.

My relief is mixed with profound disappointment. I once respected Benoit for what I thought was a mature attitude about his unrequited affection. Now my suspicions have been confirmed he was merely biding his time. It feels like a betrayal. He was one of the first acquaintances I made and in one of the most organic circumstances. It used to be so simple.

This contributes to the isolation-related mild depression threatening to re-surface after summer, despite my busyness. 

 I’m often asked how I’m settling in. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to give anything but an honest reply. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about the maddening insularity of Strasbourg.

Whilst my heartache believes I’ll eventually be ‘adopted’ into the Strasbourg family, I have my doubts. Those with experience living elsewhere –or who simply have an international outlook- feel my pain. Multilingual David, whom I meet at an Internations event, has lived and worked across Europe. He’s half-Alsatian, has lived in Strasbourg for a few years and still finds his local connections are yet to deepen. He says Alsace natives are content with just seeing the same small circle of friends. Besides, he adds, it’s the stage of life in which we find ourselves.  In this corner of the world, unlike the varied landscape say in London, 30-somethings have all settled down and are focused on family. But, he reassures, all you need is  a couple of good connections to turn the experience around.

Italian colleague, Alessandra whom I meet at the in-house French class, is an honorary Londoner. It was her home for a decade before relocating to Strasbourg.  She understands my plight as a solitary female living in the city. As does my Cypriot colleague, single mum Daphnia. She takes the words out of my mouth. I find another sympathetic ear speaking to Evan, the linguistically-talented co-director of the community Gospel choir I’ve just joined (a thoroughly therapeutic way to forget my troubles).  He explains it’s hard to hang out with folks in this region, even on the weekend. Since most of them are local, they tend to go back to their home towns... 

And so it continues. I am made ever-conscious of the unintentionally self-involved and parochial Alsace mindset. If they’re not hanging around in groups, they’re part of a couple. It’s all I can do not to sneer. Those under 50-women in particular-hardly seem to go out alone. On one hand I can understand why singleness would seem an unappealing option in this lonely neck of the woods (which might partly account for Benoit’s desperation). Then again, I imagine it’s not the healthiest place to be in a relationship. Co-dependency would be inevitable.

On a chilly Saturday afternoon, I make my way to food and music festival Street Bouche au Jardin des Deux Rives.  It’s a far more organised and sedate affair than I envisage. Perhaps the sudden drop in temperature has dissuaded revellers. It’ll be much worse the following day, when an unexpected storm hits. 

I purchase an impressive-looking Chawarma from a Lebanese vendor (which I save for my ‘cheat’ day) and take a seat near the DJ corner. The music policy of soulful electronica is pleasing to my ears. I’d like to dance but it’s impossible without appearing to be an exhibitionist. Dance like nobody’s watching? I wish. I daydream of a good old jam with friends and family. 

Looking around the park, a few moves are made here and there in jest. A group of gamely friends snatch a boogie in between what looks like a twist on crochet. I observe a family of Malagasy women; three generations. The grandmother is the most enthusiastic dancer. She approaches the group of sort-of crochet players, apparently inciting them to move more. Elsewhere, the male component of a pretty-looking African-Caribbean couple seated next to me jiggles his hips, apparently for my benefit. It seems important to him that I notice.

I wriggle rhythmically in my seat. Not sure if it’s even worth the two euro entry fee but that’s as good as it gets round these parts.

This Week's Soundtrack- Inspiration Information by Shuggie Otis, Soniquete: The Sensational Sound of Gecko Turner.

La Vie Musicale

It appears the passage of time speeds up with age. The year reaches the half-way point at a frightening pace. Once May arrives, it’s September before you know it.

The summer solstice always seems to come round too early. My favourite season is on the way out before I know it.

Midsummer’s night in France also coincides with the National Day of Music. It’s commemorated at The Organisation with two days of events, including a performance by the melodious in-house choir. I am however unaware of the extent of the celebrations in Strasbourg town centre; multiple stages catering for nearly every musical palate. My supervisor Sophie performs with her Latin band. Alas, I hear of it second hand from colleagues. I’ve had a fairly hectic week and a busy weekend ahead. I opt for a quiet night in. If I’d known how much fun and frolics there was to be had elsewhere, I’d have happily forsaken my evening rest. Next year, inshallah.

My weekend activities provide consolation. A Latin flavoured worship group are the guests of honour at church. Muriel invites me to a free Gospel performance at the Cité de la Musique et Danse by the High Rock Gospel Singers in which a couple of her chums are performing. The concert marks HRGS’ 20^th anniversary. 

Inspired by the cult classic Sister Act sequel, the choir was founded in Hautepierre (literally “high rock”) to help dispel some of the negative stereotypes associated with that locality. Being a Community choir, my expectations of quality aren’t especially high. It’s a bit of a lottery with these motley chorale outfits. HRGS swiftly quell my concerns. For the best part of two hours, this disciplined, ethnically-diverse outfit entertain a packed auditorium with soulful acapella interpretations of Gospel standards, Negro Spirituals and praise choruses from across the African continent. The latter is accompanied by choreography so nifty, it’s all I can do not to jump on stage myself. Muriel and her guests watch bemused, as I sing and dance along with enthusiasm.

As well as being blessed with strong soloists (including the choir director himself), the overall vocal blend is delicious. Unusually for a Gospel choir (and many others for that matter) the Sopranos aren’t always stuck with the melody and there’s a bass section. A couple more feathers in the HRGS cap. The very few male singers really hold their own.

Of course, being a live event anything can happen. There are a few pitching issues. A cheeky tyke who has been pulling faces at us in the crowd, wanders on stage mid-routine, eyeing the choir as if they're the ones out of place. It's an unexpected addition to our enjoyment. 

Giddy with goodwill after an uplifting show, I hop and skip to Les Pelouses Sonores music festival near the German border. An Internations member has organised a picnic at the event. I let her know I might be running late. They’ve long gone before I arrive. Never mind. The Fat Badgers keep me and hundreds of other revellers cheerily entertained with their serious grooves. They dress Glam Rock but play stone-cold funk of the George Clinton variety.

Soundtrack of the Week: Timsters