Musique dans la Rue

Aix is already a town with operas spilling out of second-story windows and buskers on every other block. It stands to reason, therefore, that in addition to being famous as a town with tons of fountains (Aix apparently meaning water), it’s also known for its music, and this culminates in a music festival held once a year.

I kicked off the festival Friday evening by going to an aperitif “party” and then heading to hear several bands from Buenos Aires play their pianos dramatically, their violins sobbingly, and their accordions accordingly. The show was held on a stage set up in the square at the end of the Cours Mirabeau, which provided everyone present with a perfect opportunity to tango. Would you believe me if I told you I’d danced the tango? A Spanish dance with a French man in a crowded square in Provence? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. How well you know me…still, wouldn’t that have been interesting.

Saturday, I wandered around the streets, listening to various guitarists, flautists, accordion-ists, singers, and the odd rock band set up on the sidewalk. In the heat of the afternoon, I made my way through shops and shadowed stoops to a café, where I cracked the spine of my weathered (and crayon-covered) copy of Pride and Prejudice, watched the tall bus-boy gingerly stoop to place overflowing drinks on tiny tables, and had a brief conversation with an English man about why my iced coffee was mesmerizingly falling out of suspension.

On Saturday evening, the hipsters emerged from cellars and art schools and spilled onto the streets. They stood in front of subwoofers and played their bass guitars and danced frenetically wearing tight jeans and scarves. I’ve noticed that the French, as a general rule, have a great fear of appearing foolish, and I tentatively hypothesize not only that this stems naturally from a culture where children are raised not so much on positive feedback as negative reinforcement, but also that the ensuing insecurity and fear of embarrassment lead to the appearance of the people as being aloof and forbearing. This relates (tenuously) because the French seem to have two ways of dancing: the first, primarily demonstrated by the old and/or sober, consists of standing quietly and head-bobbing or toe-tapping; the second is over-the-top where the first was understated, and is punctuated by a lot of laughing, as if to say, “oh hahaha, I’m only joking, isn’t this absurd.”

At 9:30, after a delicious dinner of artichoke something, I put on my chucks and my Ray Ban wayfarers and joined/observed them, upon which point my camera battery abruptly died. The air was full of smoke and sound (and the roads were full of bodies and booze). People were continually stopping in front of me, juggling uncorked bottles of wine and greeting friends exuberantly, kissing cheeks and grabbing hands and leading each other into the streets. It surprised me that, in addition to the college-aged population, there were also old men and women (who sat to the side, covered their ears, and puffed out their cheeks, and then joined the throng), and also young – apparently unsupervised – children holding hands and scurrying underfoot. There was rap and reggae and rock, ska and shoegaze, and other non-alliterative genres, like jazz, electronica, classical, art rock, ad nauseam. Also lots of cover bands. I stayed out until I couldn’t swallow because of the heat and the smoke, and I came home and fell asleep to the sound of drums.

Sunday morning I was awakened by the cat. I decided to venture out for breakfast – shops appear to be closed on Sundays, but cafés and brasseries are decidedly not. It was clear that the street cleaners had already been through the area; with the exception of some ground-up glass, a residual musician or two, and either a) melted ice cream or b) a hastily-revisited dinner in the stairwell a flight below my door, there was little evidence of the boisterous crowd from the night before. Aix was returning to normal.

I ate breakfast at L’Unic Brasserie, where the young waiter (who was wearing my favorite: black collared shirt, jeans, and fast-looking black leather oxfords…although I could have done without the chain around his neck) looked at me strangely when I said I didn’t want any jelly, jam, marmalade, or preserves with my chocolate croissant, and then laughed at me when it came with a buttered baguette and I decided I needed raspberry jam after all. The rest of the afternoon and evening were devoted to walking around and lounging about, and finally sitting down to my homework…nothing too interesting on that front.

And that, pretty much, is my first weekend in Aix.