MANILA - SYDNEY - BRISBANE
TOOWOOMBA - MELBOURNE

Down Under

An American ocean liner, the "S.S. Cleveland," is taking me to Manilla. The trip is a bit of a disappointment, however, since the only drink available at the bar is Coca-Cola. A relatively untraumatic concert provides me with an opportunity to discover the Filipino people, who have clearly had more success in music than in political causes.

Here we come, Australia!

Christianized by Spain, gutted by Japan, and "monetized" by the USA, the Philippines is a cultural mosaic constantly trying to find its identity. Easier said than done, in a country that is home to Moros, a Muslim people in the south with a penchant for guns, Bajaos, seagoing gypsies who rarely leave their canoes, aborigines, just now emerging from the Stone Age, and Tagalogs, who live a more or less urban lifestyle. The only common bond between them, so to speak, is the guitar. .

*******

My recital was attended by wealthy Filipinos, and I now have enough to pay for the 5,000 km trip to Sydney. Access to the Australian continent, however, is definitely not for the faint of heart: The hold reeks so badly of insecticide that it makes the passengers wince. As for my guitar, it just blends in with the scenery.

*******

On condition that I pay for my own expenses, the Sydney Conservatory agrees to organize a concert. The audience response is encouraging. Having acquired some of the habits and skills of a professional musician, it’s easier for me to seduce my audience with my playing. The temptation to continue performing is considerable. So tempting, in fact, that I invest all of the money I've earned, as well as what's left of my Filipino pesos, to book halls, publicize the shows, and have posters and programs printed. I schedule several concerts in this way. I’m beginning to feel like a musician on tour.

My next concert is to take place in Brisbane, the capital of Queensland, farm country. The train ride is far less eventful than what I've grown accustomed to. The views from the window, on the other hand, are breathtaking. Breakfast is served and the rising sun highlights the sprawling Australian landscape. At lunch we pass bands of jumping kangaroos. Dinner brings galloping ostriches, marauding dingoes, and sleeping koalas.

*******

Preparations for the concert, scheduled to take place at Albert Hall, are in full swing. Michel, an old friend from school, has joined me to help out. I also pay for some beautiful posters to promote the concert.

I meet a guitar-playing dentist when I go to have a cavity filled. Although he's made a fortune here in Brisbane, he strikes me as being a frustrated man trapped by his work. Playing the guitar after work helps him unwind.

- You make a living by making people happy. I live off of their pain.

He invites my friend and I to his vacation home in Surfers' Paradise, a sports resort just south of Brisbane. As it turns out, his so-called "home" bears a curious resemblance to a small palace!

- Water-skiing, anyone? I've got a little boat, it will be fun!

His "little boat" is a gigantic sea-monster, which literally grabs me out of the water and pulls me in its wake. The speed is breathtaking. There's a long turn, and then—wham!—I'm thrown into the air. I crash into the water's surface, which, as I've since come to learn, is as hard as concrete. When I come back up, the diagnosis comes as a relief: a fractured left thumb.

*******

Sports and music both involve movement. Each movement is the logical continuation of the one that precedes it and the preparation for the one that follows. Today, on the other hand, there’s going to be a problem. What about my performance? Should I cancel it? That’s impossible. I’m now heavily in debt and don't have a dime to pay it back. On with the show, then? But in my condition how am I going to give my best for the people who have come to hear me play?

I decide to give it a try. However, I quickly discover that, with the cast on my thumb, I can only wince in pain every time I play a chord. Looks like I’ll have to face the music, no pun intended, and give the audience its money back. There’s no point in putting on a lousy show. The next day, I’m in Town Hall in Toowoomba, an Australian bushtown. I give it another go, but it’s obvious by intermission that my playing is just as disastrous. There's only one other solution: my friend.

- Michel, if I remember correctly, you used to be quite a singer in the high school choir. So here's what I want you to do, old friend: You'll sing, and I'll accompany you...

- Are you crazy?! I've never performed in front of an audience in my entire life!

- Believe me, you've got talent!

- But I don't remember any songs!

- What, you mean you've forgotten the words to La Janeton, La Rirette...

- These kids' mockery songs! And what if someone in the audience understands French?

- Right, I hadn't thought of that. How about the French popular song La Madelon?

- I can't remember the words.

- OK. Then how about Auprès de ma Blonde? Only the chorus.

- Our first nursery song, then: Au Clair de la Lune?

- What if I forget the words?

- Stop it and get on stage!

- You don't seriously think these people will get their money's worth!

- On stage, I tell you!

And actually, it was not such a disaster since all Australians had to learn French at school at the time; they therefore were happy to here this modest application.

In Newcastle, we are repeating the experience. A doctor comes and sees me backstage.

- Why are you wearing that cast?

- To heal my fractured thumb.

- And you're still playing the guitar like that! Stop by my office tomorrow. I'll have a look at it, free of charge.

The x-ray reveals that trying to play the guitar made the fracture worse. After giving me an anesthetic, the doctor breaks the bone again and slaps on a new cast that goes all the way up to my shoulder. I was in for a rude awakening once the effects of the anesthetic wore off.

- But I'll never be able to play like this!

- That's too bad, your health comes first.

Naturally, I carry no insurance. Segovia would tell me later: "As a performer, if you carry an insurance, you've got to have a second one to protect you against the first!"

******

The future looks grim. Suddenly, however, I remember that someone who worked at the Ministry of Education had given me his business card the night before. I give him a call.

- I found your concert most interesting. As you know, French is mandatory in our schools. How would you like to perform for our students, so that they can hear French the way it’s spoken in France?

You don’t pass up a chance for a life buoy like that, even if you are a first class passenger on the Titanic.

- Sure.

And so it was that we found ourselves travelling far and wide throughout Australia, performing our one-of-a-kind blend of classical guitar and traditional French folk songs, which, truth be told, are classics in their own right. We added new songs to our performances, including Le Petit Navire and 31 du Mois d'Août. The latter song was met with a less than enthusiastic reception, however. "I understand you are singing the original wording, but in Australia", the Minister observed during one of our school concerts, "one doesn't say 'merde' to the Queen of England'."

We even released a record to immortalize our unique repertoire

In our fabulous, wooden `52 "Singer" roadster, we traveled from village to village, farm to farm, discovering Australia's beauty. There were countless surprises along the way—particularly for two young bachelors like us. Australian hospitality is unsurpassed. Whenever we were invited to dinner, there were always a couple of girls there to join us. From an ethnological perspective, Australian women are generally tall, blonde, and full-figured. Their calves are shapely, their skin golden, their eyes angelic, and their mini-skirts daring. Simply saying the words "I am French" in a suave voice was usually enough to win them over. However, talk is one thing, looks another. At the time, sex-appeal suffers considerably from the local specific intonation. But today, I would be more attentive to a culture that escapes globalization.

Australians often give the impression of being isolated from the rest of the world. To combat this isolation the government has taken steps to promote the arts, primarily by sponsoring cultural and musical events throughout the country, and most notably in the form of the Sydney Opera House. The goal is to unite people through art, a strong, albeit slow-drying cement.

*******

In Melbourne, we met a French couple, the Moras, who had been living in Australia for many years. Mr. Mora owned an art gallery in Melbourne's chic St. Kilda district. His wife, who is currently pregnant, exhibits her own work there. As she listens to me play, she creates paintings with undeniable artistic merit but rather strange sources of inspiration: figures in fantastic settings with six toes on their right foot and birds flying out of their heads. I like her paintings and find them intriguing. But I can't for the life of me understand what they mean.

- But, Jean-Pierre, I’m not trying to prove anything! My hand simply draws shapes whose meaning escapes me.

It’s true that we can be moved by a piece of music without necessarily feeling the need to analyze it. However, I pursued my line of questioning.

- Yes, but painting is a reflection of something material, physical. It belongs to another category. It can be decoded.

- It's true, their are guides in museums and not at concerts. However, I assure you that my paintings can’t be rationally explained. If they have meaning, that meaning is a mystery to me.

*******

In northern Queensland we enter an aborigine fishing village where there is considerable excitement. We hear the sound of steady, rhythmic drumming. The village's gas pump attendant–mechanic–grocer–bartender is an old Australian man with a bearded and craggy face. We stop at his station to fill the tank.

- Don't even think about trying to cross the village! One of the children has died and the people are celebrating a corroboree. A neighboring tribe has been invited to the funeral. Look, there they are!

Three men with painted faces lead a procession of roughly fifty people, all of whom disappear from view behind an airplane hangar.

- They're going to greet the dignitaries. They have to present their penises, which are massaged by each of their hosts, to show that they’re friendly.

- Indeed, there are some things you just can’t fake. But would they really prevent us from crossing the village?

- It's best not to provoke them! They're looking for a scapegoat for the child's death. As far as they're concerned, there's no such thing as a "natural death." They’re going to dance all day, play the didgeridoo, a kind of long bamboo pipe, which they accompany by beating their bodies with their hands or striking a cane on the ground.

- Is that what we're hearing now?

- Yes. Afterwards, they will slash their veins, including the veins on their penis. The blood from the incision is mixed with ocher to make the dye they use in their paint.

- They're going to make paint?

- Yes, that's the highlight of the day. Members of the tribe will paint a gigantic fresco on the sand. The others will be dancing roughly a hundred meters away, and then gradually approach the work, jumping up and down as they do. When they reach the painting, they’ll continue dancing until it’s completely obliterated. Then, the "doctor" will examine the corpse—in some cases even dissect it—to find any clues that could identify the culprits. During this, the chief will improvise poetry.

- Who is generally found guilty?

- Sometimes it’s a member of a rival clan, sometimes a jealous member of their own clan, and, at other times, a tourist who just happened to be passing through.

- ... Fill her up, please.