In a van borrowed from Cut Capers, we launch into the night. Matt drives us from Bristol to Folkstone. We are staying at the Grand Burstin Hotel, a vast white block like nowhere else. A man sings to backing tracks. Our new friend Kirk tells us how he used to fire live chickens through jet engines. We nod slowly.The next day we go under the sea on a train. It miraculously delivers us to France. The drive to Paris is marred by bad weather. A short, brutal storm causes an accident. A helicopter lands on the road. We eat baguettes from a futurist service station. A piano echoes through the lunch hall. It's all angles and water. La Gare is an abandoned train station set back from Avenue Corentin Cariou. A broken tiled floor leads to a graffiti-covered performance space. A sign hanging from the ceiling reads Musique D'Abord! Chuchote! A Master of Ceremonies prepares the audience each night. Matt redesigns his drum kit to avoid playing it safe. He spreads waves of sonic mayhem - the night pulsates. Something happens to us when we play here. It's why we keep coming back. In the morning, we get the Metro to Pont Neuf. Antique booksellers and lovers kissing by the river as if on cue. Sugar. Caffeine. For some reason, I can't stop watching this clip of Serge Gainsbourg. Colour-matched Parisians glide from cafe to bookshop to boutique. Matt observes that you can wander endlessly and encounter beauty at every turn. He is not wrong. We research legendary hockey organist Diane Bibaud. Sugar. Later that night, we played again. Drew reaches out and sings to his daughter through the cello. As real as it gets. The audience is still. A broken window. Plexiglass. The kindness of strangers. On arrival in Lille, we set up in the round. Christian, Natalie and Alexie cook food and give us a place to stay. The concert is different. We adjust to the space. A man tells me a collective of improvisers called La Malterie are at the concert. They want us to turn up the volume. We oblige. After the performance, Japanese tea and more food. Christian brings out a plethora of extraordinary stringed instruments. We sleep in a rooftop apartment to the sound of steady rain on the roof. The next day, we leave early for the train. Rain lashes down. Wind buffets the van. We are quieter now. A supermarket breakfast. Matt has driven 826 miles. A fallen tree. We are back.
|
