Back to the Roots

Back to the Roots

Montreal, Canada, winter 2009

A cold biting wind raises swirls of snow in the dim light of the deserted street, its quiet complaint the only sound to be heard in the ghostly landscape surrounding us. Mounds scattered along the street mark the spot of cars buried under the white blanket of snow. It's the first storm of the season on a cold december evening in Montreal, and it feels as though the whole city has just shut down for the night. My brother Matthew and I could just as well be on the moon, for there isn't another soul in sight in the surreal stillness of these streets.

Matthew's plane landed just in time at Trudeau airport, just hours ago as the storm was coming up. He is visiting from France on my last week here as an exchange student in Montreal, and we have a busy planning ahead of us, with a trip on the East Coast to the cities of Boston and New York, where we will no doubt catch a couple of basketball games by the Celtics and The Knicks. But for now we are much like Scott of the Antartic, leaving deep footsteps in our wake as we venture out in the snow coated city in the storm. And by the looks of it we are amongst the very few crazy enough to be wandering out here in these extreme conditions, stopping for a warm cup of cocoa in every Tim Hortons coffee house that comes our way! Those footsteps lead all the way back to the heart of the Plateau, at the crossroads between Rue Saint Denis and Avenue Mont Royal, where Matthew and I ate Poutine earlier on, in a retro looking diner open twenty-four seven, a little place that has made its reputation on this unlikely dish, a perfect winter treat of French fries, cheese and gravy for those cold canadian nights. And not far off on Rue Saint Denis is the place I have been calling home for the past five months, a tiny bedroom with washed up walls, squeezed between the bathroom and the laundry room, with just enough space for a single bed and a desk, on the third floor of a house shared with no less than seventeen roomates, students for the most part. The place gets so crowded with continuous visits from relatives and friends that to this day it is still hard to tell who actually lives there!

Those same footsteps led us all the way down here in the heart of the old town, at the foot of Basilica Notre Dame, where we now find ourselves staring up at luminous trumpet playing angels against a waterfall of blue tinsel, in what turns out to be a perfect christmas fairy tale setting beneath the falling snow flakes. We decide to seek shelter inside the Basilica for a few minutes and warm ourselves up a bit before stepping back out into the cold. I decide to show Matthew what has come to be known as the Underground City, or Ville Souterraine in French, as we make our way back towards the city center. Montreal indeed has an extensive network of underground streets, tunnels and plazas that run for over 30 kilometers between subway stations, shopping malls, art centers and residential buildings. They provide a much welcomed shelter during the long winter months, a true blessing on nights like this one. Colourful souvenir shops and neon signs of a variety of fast food restaurants welcome us as we enter the warm and well lit dark brick tunnel, where we start wandering through the maze of corridors, feeling like refugees from some kind of holocaust in this quiet underworld, although there are still more people to be found down here than outside. We decide to make our way towards one of the subway stations and take the train to Berri Uqam station, a gateway to main arteries like Rue Saint-Denis and Rue Sainte Catherine, and after a short ride we find ourselves greeted by the now familiar smell of warm pepperoni pizza that takes over the entire station, all because of a little stand in the corner! As we climb up the steps leading towards one of the many corridors, we catch sight of a guy sitting in a cardboard boat, a fishing rod hanging at the front, a most unexpected scene in a metro station, or any other place for that matter! He is singing and playing the guitar, circled by a much intrigued crowd, one of many great buskers to be heard in the maze of underground stations here. Affectionately known as « Les musiciens du métro », they are a much appreciated part of the life of the city.

This is where it all started for me, playing music in the metro and in the streets, also known as busking. Back in France I had been songwriting and playing gigs in bars for a few years already, but it had never crossed my mind to go out and play music in the streets. But many seemed to be doing it successfully here, and both the musicians and the audience of commuters passing by seemed to enjoy it. The underground also made for a safe and comfortable environment to try it out, and so, standing by the blue lyre panels which mark the spot where musicians are allowed to play, those windy hallways are where I learnt my trade as a busker.

I quickly learned that busking is serious business, especially for those that make a living out of it, and that when there is good money to be made at a given spot at rush hour, buskers could get quite competitive amongst themselves. Every morning, from as early as half past five, musicians come and write their name down for a slot on a little piece of paper that can be found tucked behind the blue lyre panel, and it is first come first served basis. Given the distances between stations and the train schedules, this alone can take up to a couple of hours if you want to play in different spots. Now even though busking is officially admitted and spots clearly marked out throughout the stations, none of this paper schedule system is official. It is simply implemented by buskers amongst themselves as a means of regulating spot allocations. So sometimes you would find somebody else occupying your spot because your name was no longer found on the little piece of paper which had most likely been switched at some point by someone whose favourite slot had already been taken! So yes, it's not always flowers and hippy love, but still most buskers I have met here were really friendly and happy to help.

Coming out of Berri Uqam through the heavy revolving doors, we find ourselves greeted by the fierce cold wind once more, so we quickly put on our woollen hats and decide to head for the Bistro à Jojo a bit further up on Saint Denis street. You can't miss it: with its giant guitar and gold letter sign, this place is a blues institution here in Quebec, and has been my refuge on many a cold evening! It's everything you'd expect a canadian blues bar to be: dark wood furniture, dimmed lights, blues memorabilia, guitars hanging on the walls, and of course a selection of Coors and Molson draft beers! The musicians take center stage midway through the bar, that is where the magic happens on a daily basis. And tonight Frede Freedom is the one pulling tricks out of his guitar. We take a seat at one of the round wooden tables in the corner as the show gets on the road, rageous notes screaming out of the guitar as the whole band kicks in. Ripping through a repertoire of blues classics and original songs for over an hour, Frede groans and moans the blues, backed up by a heavy rhythm section of bass and drums, while the keyboard player goes crazy during solos, climbing on his Hammond organ as all hell breaks loose and the crowd goes wild. There is an older couple sitting at the next table to ours, and we quite naturally engage in conversation. They so happen to be Frede's parents, and they are very proud of their son. And quite rightfully so, they should be, he is putting on a hell of a show! As we get to talking I let them know that I am a musician too, and that I can fully appreciate their son's performance here tonight. At which point Frede's mom leans towards me and almost whispers in a secretive manner: «To me he is as good as Clapton and all these other greats, he should be right up there with them!» This instantly puts a smile on my face, for I know this is exactly the kind of thing my mum would think about my own guitar playing! You can always count on your parents to be your greatest fans, and who knows, maybe they are right!

We then just sit back and let ourselves get carried away by the music, tipping the waitress as she brings us our drinks, as is the rule here. We make a toast to the begining of our canadian adventure together, and to a fantastic first night!

I have been working on a new song lately, about my blues nights here at the Bistro à Jojo, and until tonight I was still missing the lyrics second verse, but now I have them!

*****

Le Bistro à Jojo on a Montreal night

For $8 a beer you get the music right

From 10pm 'till very late at night

The blues meets the rock

And the blues rock rocks the house

With -20°C it’s cold outside

But inside it’s warm

as the guitar plays slide

The pints of beer keep you in the mood

To sing in tune and get back to the roots

Going back to the roots

Going back to the roots yeah yeah yeah

Going back to the roots

Going back to the roots yeah yeah

The Bistro à Jojo listen to Frede Freedom

His mama and papa

believe he sounds like Clapton

Listen to the music

he plays and screams and moans

You know in your heart

you’ve finally found your home

With -20°C it’s cold outside

But inside it’s warm

as the guitar plays slide

The pints of beer keep you in the mood

To sing in tune and go back to the roots