etnobofin

Sunday night was the summer solstice, and France celebrated the Fête de la Musique. Basically, nearly every hamlet, village, town and city is turned into a giant venue for multiple free concerts and spontaneous jam sessions for the entire evening. In Montpellier, part of the tram network is shut down so stray trombonists or dreadlocked djembe-players don’t get run over, and several hundred thousand people pour into the centre of town to wander, drink, dance and listen (roughly in that order of priority).

All in all, it’s rather less about the musique, and more about the fête.

Like most nationally-celebrated events in France, the Fête de la Musique is a central government initiative, launched by Jack Lang, François Mitterand’s Minister of Culture in 1982. Several French friends told me rather proudly that the concept has been “exported” to many other countries, however no other country can rival the enthusiasm and napoleonic ubiquity witnessed in France every June 21st.

The atmosphere in Montpellier was amicable chaos, and the quality of the music varied from determinedly-average to actually-pretty-darn-good. I was disappointed by the number of covers bands, and lack of original local music: it seemed madness that a magnificent outdoor setting like la Promenade de Peyrou should be given over to an Air Guitar contest (mais oui) and musical tributes to Jimi Hendrix and Carlos Santana. Music fans had to search elsewhere for gems.

Down on the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle, a Devo tribute band was competently belting out disco-rock to a disinterested early-evening crowd. FauxDevo were so loud I almost walked straight past the Stick Jazz Trio without noticing. Set up among the tables outside Chez Boris, the SJT is based around Jean-Jacques Koto Bekima’s 10-string “stick” guitar, an instrument that allows bass and solo guitar lines to be played simultaneously.

They played great, opting for the sort of intricate modal bop that suits guitar-led groups. Saxophonist Sebastian Debloos trades in a nice Lovano/Brecker tenor style, the hallmark of jazz school graduates. But SJT was energetic, intelligent and held a decent crowd despite competition from the nearby stages.

When I got down to the Opera House on the Comédie, a local batucada group were finishing off a wandering samba session through the old town. They weren’t that great: I’ve heard better batucada in New Zealand – this particular group just weren’t tight or particularly swinguant.

Fellow Montpellierain jcverdie filmed their progress through town (see above). The video is less interesting for the music than for the impression it gives of the streets and architecture of the Ecusson for those who haven’t visited Montpellier before. [Edit: the video above apparently is not Onda Maracatu. You can watch Onda Maracatu here.]

Montpellier’s not a big city. It seemed inevitable that I’d bump into a friend among the crowds. On rue St Guilhem I got pulled aside by Dany, who was insistent: “Richard, tu viengs boire un pot avec nous?” (Dany is from Sète, and is the most typically southern Frenchman I’ve met – chauvinist, eternally tanned and incredibly friendly).

From then on the proceedings evolved into a rather typical Montpellier evening out:  I met more people from Brittany (I swear 80% of the inhabitants of Montpellier are Breton), we went to a taverna owned by one of Dany’s friends for tapas and sangria (80% of Montpellierains have a friend who runs a taverna), and my French improved after a few drinks.

A little flamenco performance in an alleyway drew our attention for a few minutes. Some of my friends from the CRS swaggered past. The officers seemed determinedly unmoved by the music going on around them. “Ah, mais les flics, tu sais, ils dansent à l’intérieur“, whispered Dany. The cops, he assured me, were dancing on the inside.

Dany had to drive back to Sète, so I slowly made my way back to the tram, past some music school students jamming to Canteloupe Island (mais oui) on rue de Candolle, and an enthusiastic set of nouveau-swing by Le Comptoir des Fous at Place Albert 1er. Finally, I’d found a band singing in French! And singing French songs !

As Francis Cabrel describes it, “La nuit a été chaude en alcools…“. The crowd in the square were well-oiled by this stage, swigging 2 Euro rosé straight from the bottle, and homeless people were dancing in front of the stage with their dogs. Even if the cops weren’t smiling, everyone seemed pretty darn happy. It was, after all, la fête, quoi.