Solo Debut: Part II

 5 + a 1/2 min. read

Part I

(c) Brett Jordan

The morning of my presentation, I arrive later than I’d have wished after too little sleep and unrealistically attempting to complete some life admin first. Fortunately, my intervention isn’t until after lunch. I’ve finetuned my slides to make them as user-friendly as possible. I’ve rehearsed, rehearsed and rehearsed again the paper itself. My only concern is timekeeping. I warn the moderator I might go over the designated 20 minutes, despite my best efforts.

As I’m being introduced I notice slight panic amongst the tech team. They appear to have ‘misplaced’ the final presentation I sent a few days ahead. The delay is eating into precious presentation time. Not to worry. I have a Plan B. From the mixed experience I've already had with the organisation of the conference, a contingency plan is basic wisdom. I brought the latest version of my talk on a USB stick...

...Except a Plan B isn't enough. Someone seemingly neglected to download a PDF reader on the in-house device. I have a possible Plan C. My latest presentation is also ready to go on my own laptop. However, we can't switch devices, since one of the participants is joining us via Zoom from the US (Trump-Vance migration law antics).

Now I'm starting to worry. Times is of the essence. All these decisions are having to be made in split seconds. I also have a PowerPoint version of my paper on the USB. Alas, I realise part way through that it’s not the update. For a second, I think of stopping and recommencing but time constraints won’t allow. My paper doesn’t correspond with much of this now outdated version of my slides. I apologise profusely. I proceed as seamlessly as I can but I’m rattled and very annoyed. If anger is a secondary emotion then beneath it I’m crestfallen.

I poured my heart into making the visuals of my presentation as engaging as possible, only to be sabotaged by administrative incompetence. This hasn't happened with any of the other papers I've observed. I recognise mistakes happen but with more than one person on the case, this was wholly avoidable. The recovering perfectionist I am, it would have always bothered me but less so if I were more seasoned.

Raphs and others will later commend my paper (although I feel they're just being nice). The moderator allows me to complete my presentation and I only skip very little. After a slow start, with my co-panellists seeming to attract more questions, the Q&A becomes more favourable for me. The salient questions permit me to address things I was forced to jettison with earlier drafts because of time considerations.

In the scheme of things - war, inequality and climate breakdown - sure, a cock-up over slides is not a big deal. Still. To say I’m gutted about the mishap is an understatement. It’s coloured the experience.

I’ve learned a valuable lesson. I won’t leave it to chance that conference organisers have got their proverbial together. Even if I make a nuisance of myself, I’m going to double-check everything of importance.

The next morning I’m greeted by warmth and sunshine. I throw on some summer gear and head out for the final day of the conference. Unlike many fellow guests, I’m not in a rush. My return train to Brussels leaves the following day. That will also give me time to hit some of my favourite German general stores to purchase inexpensive toiletries, as usual.

To my surprise, the good weather and stimulating interventions that morning help lift me out of the hangover funk from the previous day’s debacle. Sally gives an unexpectedly memorable paper on how apiculture is emblematic of all that's wrong with late-stage capitalism. Her fellow speakers on the Plantation Capitalism panel - both Europeans whose scholarship concentrates on populations from the Global South - welcome my (by now) standard question about how not to replicate extractive dynamics in academia.

(c) Tamas Szabo

During the break before the last keynote speech, I converse with special guest, South African polymath, Uhuru Portia Phalafala. GAPS has invited her to do a reading from her new book, Mine Mine Mine; an epic poem about the deleterious socio-cultural effects of the South African mining industry past and present. It’s told from the perspective of one of her grandfathers. Phalafala is genuinely intrigued by my project, especially my research on the late and underappreciated anti-Apartheid activist and midwife, Blanche La Guma.

The reading overlaps with lunch, for which we’re provided with a tasty vegan ‘brown bag’ option. Sat next to me is a veteran attendee of the GAPS. He's a bit of a soft-left provocateur in this (supposedly) radical space, from what I’ve gathered of his interventions. Between the keynote speech and Uhuru’s reading, we have a thought-provoking conversation -or rather a good-natured debate - about the Kenyan literary giant Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s ideas on linguistic decolonisation. (Thiong’o passed away earlier that week.) Whilst I have a lot more time for some of Thiong’o’s more hardline views, my interlocutor finds them essentialist and over-romanticised; objections that are not without merit. He’s glad Thiong’o apparently softened his position in later years.

Phalafala’s reading - or rather performance - has the room enthralled. I’m not one to sit and read poetry on my own but I do enjoy it in spaces where it can be collectively appreciated. It’s a heavy text, as would be anticipated. Uhuru’s fully embodied delivery, including the use of sound effects, makes it all the more mesmerising.

Phalafala leans on a traditional spirituality. Whilst some of the animistic practices to which she refers are diametrically opposed to my own Christian worldview, part of decolonising my faith is to resist having an impulsive suspicion of every aspect of indigenous spirituality. It involves finely parsing what to keep and what to reject; discerning what reflects something of God’s truth sans baggage. The same can equally be applied to certain Christian traditions.

This event is one more example of how South Africa, particularly the past and present injustices of Apartheid, have come back into focus for me of late; academically, spiritually and politically. This resurfacing is accompanied by a familiar grief and anger that I’m hesitant to acknowledge fully, for fear it calcifies into bitterness. I ask also how much it is mine to entertain, not being South African myself. Yet, do I need to be from that part of the world for these sentiments to be legitimate? I share some of this with Uhuru during the Q&A after she is interviewed by one of the academics in attendance. 

Phalafala is scheduled to do a similar reading at my university, where I’ll have another opportunity to absorb the text and pick up things I missed the first time. I’m grateful to have caught the preview.

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.