"May the First be with us"...

I am glad I found a chair.We must have got to the street too early or the band had forgotten to set their alarm clocks. Folk kept stopping when they came to the place where the noise of the sound check was coming from. I guess it was a booze promotional. The small tent covering for the equipment had logos on it for a brand I had never heard of. After the event, only a couple of days later I can't for the life of me recall what the brand name was. I wasn't planning on playing, but after 40 minutes of
waiting I was getting a little impatient for action. The uniform black outfitted "Professionals " weren't doing the do. I played a couple of ooblee dooblee tunes , you know , my own modest rubbish, on my pipsqueak whistle. We hadn't come prepared with the amp, I regretted not having the foresight. Mine is battery powered. The sound check usually takes about 30 seconds.The "pipsqueak " carries well above all but the most deafening racket. I tried to converse with a few people, difficult , they appeared to have been drinking for most of the day. I felt like a temperence preacher at a "Legalise Canabuse" rally. Me tunes took my mind off being grumpy for a while. Saw a few feet tapping away, I was happy to receive some warm smiles from passers by.
As far as I could hear there wasn't a lot I could criticise about the technical musician ship. But a pile of cover versions didn't inspire me to want to stay for long. I couldn't see the band from my vantage point I was listening . Something about the vocalist was bugging me. Amidst the funky blues and dexterous jazz riffs A Frenchman was imitating a deep south American accent. A clichéd caricature in style and content. I felt that the priveleged wunderkind on the mike was really taking the piss. "Trying to sound black" doesn't do it for me. Happier by far I would have been to hear a black French singer chanting away in their own first language. Perhaps I am too critical, the audience didn't seem to mind. I felt pinned to the wall behind me by the volume of sound., took my mind off the dominant discomfort for a while by having a quiet acoustic jam on my own. I was having to blow too hard to hear myself at all, I soon became hypercritical of the noise I was making and decided in short order to stop playing altogether. Someone standing close by said my tootling sounded good. Small mercy. The total of one and a half hours of waiting for the band to play didn't quite pay off. I bimbled off to find some uncrowded quietude. A bit of peace from the nuclear powered cover up culture. The bits of the occasion I enjoyed , the chair and the few tuneful scraps of my music. I wasn't drinking , I rarely do and never whilst I am playing, as a rule. This isn't intended to be a music critique. If you think so you are reading it wrongly. I was on the opposite side of the dogshit covered street. It just wasn't my idea of a nice day out.
Our little group eventually amassed itself to get a lift home, Anne-Sophie was driving. There was further delay as some folk wanted to buy some groceries. There was a queue. More waiting , I found an entrance to a Metro, in Place St.Anne. The holiday left the entrance clean and uncrowded. Through the bars across the entrance I could see an opportunity of playing in a space compatible with my kind of music. "A better buzz than waiting ", thinks I. There was nothing of note to see but the sound was excellent. Worth playing without a crowd, I had been waiting most part of the afternoon for one thing or another. I was making the most of the acoustic moment..
I didn't know that up above me I was being hussled to stop playing, "We are going now, come on," as though I were a child on a parental shopping trip. It damped down a little of the pleasure I had gained from the few moments of grace. As though someone had pulled the plug before I had completed the tune. I put my flute back inmy pocket and joined the others for the journey home.
I don't play the bars or the terraces, I play my flute. The interminable convoy of Pizza bikes in the street party gig ruined the breathable atmosphere for me. I was grateful for the moment's respite in the Metro entrance. Toby took a couple of photos. The one above is in the Street. The photograph in the next posting is of me playing in the sound space of the closed station. It is a real pity so few heard it. I hope there is a next time.