GREETINGS PARIS

The baseline

Concerto for Classical Guitar and Jazz Trio with Claude Bolling

I'm back in Paris at last. The city's cosmopolitanism feels like an extension of my travels. The travelling, meanwhile, is left to others. I had a similar sensation in Polynesian atolls: lying facedown in a boat with a glass bottom, anchored in a pass between the ocean and the lagoon, the marine life paraded past my eyes in the rising tide: sharks, morays, tortoises, scorpion fishes... All one needs to do is drop anchor in Paris and keep his eyes open in order to see the endless flow of visitors who come here in veritable armadas of airplanes which hail from throughout the world. Needless to say, the key difference is that there are no sharks to be found here.

The architectural splendour of Paris is an additional source of inspiration for musicians. Music and architecture are the only two art forms which are not based on anything found in nature. One could say that they are cousins, of sorts.

I salute your grace and beauty, Paris.

*******

Horror! My guitar is cracked. The guitar maker really lets me have it. I should have kept it dry in the humid countries and, most of all, I should have kept it moist in the dry countries. I defend myself by pointing out that the drier the wood of the guitar is, the more responsive the instrument becomes. The membrane vibrates at the slightest touch. It becomes passionate, brilliant. Guitar makers, of course, are perfectly aware of that, since they sometimes use wood which has been dried for a century. When the wood is soaked with water, however, it fades, and becomes sluggish, ice-cold. It is therefore highly tempting not to use humidifiers, which might be detrimental to the instrument's sound. This time around, however, I've clearly gone overboard. It will be necessary to repair it by sliding microscopic strips of wood in the cracks.

This process ends up taking over a month. I'll have to borrow another instrument for my next record. In the Paris Conservatory's museum, there is a Torrès guitar, a veritable organ, whose owner, my guitar professor (who happens to be French comedian Raymond Devos' teacher as well), Jean Lafon, gladly lends it to me. This is the instrument which, when masterfully played by its owner, had inspired me to discover the music of which I've become so enamoured. However, at the museum, I am immediately disappointed when I am handed this treasure of an instrument: the sheen and shine, which had once inspired people to find out more about what they were looking at, have faded badly. The iridescent nervures no longer have the same water. The sound is dry, the echo is too brief, and the timbre is flat. A guitar has to "live". It dies if it isn't used. I have no choice but to put it back in its storage case, since a few days clearly won't be enough to bring it back to life.

*******

I take part in a number of tours, and my repertoire becomes increasingly broad and varied. I'm not particularly interested in travelling extensively with a disheartening musical Esperanto which only serves to irritate a misguided audience. Jazz beckons as the future of my career as a guitarist: more precisely, the creation in Paris of Claude Bolling's concerto. Plans are made for a tour of the United States. However, shortly before the departure, I receive a phone call:

- Hello, Claude Bolling here. I'm terribly sorry, old boy, but I'm working on a movie soundtrack; I won't be able to tour with you.

Damn it! How am I ever going to find another pianist, on such short notice, and in August to boot? All of my friends are either on holiday or on tour. Although the phone book, at this time of year, only serves to obtain the names and numbers of people who are away, I nonetheless have a look in the yellow pages, under the "pianists" heading. A charming woman eventually answers me. I explain the situation.

- Sure, no problem: I'm easy-going, and I have an excellent reputation in America.

I immediately hire this mysterious person with an irresistible voice.
A few weeks later, we head for arrive in the city where the first concert of the tour is to be held. Upon arriving downtown, my partner asks the driver to make an abrupt stop.

- Mr Jumez, do you see what I see? My name is smaller than yours on the posters! We must take them down at once

- As you wish, madam. However, I'm certain that the organizers, frantically trying to adapt to the last-minute changes, didn't pay any attention to such details. Don't worry, I'm sure that the music will speak for itself, and that the audience will fully appreciate your stature the moment you begin playing.

- I know what you're up to: you think you're going to get away with hiring someone who won First Prize in a Regional Conservatory and, by pulling a few strings behind the scenes, hog the spotlight and acclaim!

Really floored, I am trying to make sense.

- Look, Madam, if the situation had been reversed, I wouldn't have bothered to say anything. But let's call the organizers so that they can make the necessary changes for the future tour dates.

- NO, the posters must be changed straightaway.

During rehearsals, the festive atmosphere continues:

- My piano belongs in the middle of the stage!

- But then where do I sit, dear maestra?

Silly question- in the corner.

- I shall completely open the lid of the piano, due to the size of the room.

- But then no one will be able to hear the guitar!, I plead with her.

Nothing doing. Then, later that day:

- And what about my pay?

- We can take care of that tomorrow, if you don't mind. I've worked with this impresario several times before, don't worry.

- Out of the question. I want half before I go onstage, and the other half during the intermission. I had a secret pocket sewn onto this dress for that reason.

Indeed, she looks as though she's pregnant..

During the concert, I make a point of incorporating lots of rasgueados and sharp, precise attacks into my playing in an attempt to make myself heard. Nonetheless, during the intermission, several people from the audience climb onstage and close the piano...

The cross I had to bear at the time is more of a sickening flashback than fond recollection. Dreamers and careerists don't mix. Especially if the careerist never actually made it. It's true that, unlike a composer, a musician has no hope of any comfort or consolation in the form of post-mortem success. There's no room for procrastination if he's to have a successful career. As with actors, it's now or never.

*******

From my baseline, I organize my tours, which continue to be many. Journey, movement... "For but a short while, light is among us. Walk while you have light" . Saint-John had me in mind when he uttered those words. To "keep moving" is a must for a musician.

Speaking in practical terms, for starters, he has to seek out his audience. Modern transportation allows him to meet this audience more and more frequently, in places farther and farther away. In a sense, he is a victim of technology, because an airplane doesn't necessarily give his career a lift. In the past, when it was necessary for a musician to travel for weeks, he had ample time to focus and prepare for his destination. During each concert, he would release pent-up energy which was far greater than that of a modern musician. At the rate of a concert a day, however, things change. Routine takes the place of inspiration. This is necessary and recommended so as to offset the effects of the "illusion" which air travel tends to create. Travelling is not measured in terms of time, but of distance. Fortunately, jetlag is always there to remind us of this.

*******

From time to time, a bit of brutal reality interrupts the state of bliss which air travel often provokes. In Tel Aviv, an Airbus, packed with passengers, experiences technical difficulties during takeoff. A few seconds later, an explosion is heard. The plane begins to plummet, falling towards the orange trees and shaving branches. Pilgrims returning from the Holy Land discreetly make the sign of the cross, happy to be buried near Mount Olive. A diplomat, snubbing the danger, pulls his shutter down and pretends to be asleep.

Far less poetic and far more Cartesian, I raise my bottom in anticipation of the upcoming shock. At the back of the plane, people aren't nearly as calm: they saw the right-side reactor explode and catch fire. The flight attendants stay remarkably poised and calm, although their professionalism does not preclude them from turning white like the rest of us. In the cockpit, the crew grinds its teeth. When a reactor explodes at thirty metres, it is to be taken extremely seriously, especially when the plane is as full as ours. Releasing the fuel is out of the question, because it would catch fire. It's therefore impossible to gain altitude. We make a turn, tearing several orange tree branches in the process.

Seven long minutes later, the pilot would make a successful kiss-down landing. A non-kosher feast enables us to digest the day's incidents a bit more easily. Of course, the airport personnel then goes on strike, etc., etc.

Having borrowed a concert outfit from violonist Patrice Fontanarosa, during my stopover in Paris, I finally reach my destination- the stage in Tourcoing, in Northern France, where the band, several minutes before how-time, has become a tad-bit nervous. My interpretation of Aranjuez's concert would be more shaky than vibrant.

*******

But if "to keep moving" is a practical necessity, which now confronts musicians with a certain ubiquity, it is also a heartfelt psychological need. Driven by forces which I couldn't attempt to put into words, we feel as though we are forever perched on the ever-fickle crest of musical waves. Segovia, at the age of 95, continued to perform throughout the world.

The musician surrounds himself with movement. He is inspired by a presence, a current. Solitude frightens him. He is not a hermit. Mobility is his key tool in fighting against boredom and stagnation. The "walker's" role consists of taking the world's pulse.