It's a warm monday evening as I
step out of the Club Soda, a nice old cabaret theater on Saint
Laurent Boulevard, where I sometimes volunteer on National
Improvisation League game nights. Improvisation matches are quite
popular here in Quebec, for this is where it all started back in 1977
before later gaining popularity in other French speaking countries
such as France, Belgium and Switzerland. It is modeled on hockey
games and takes place in a small imitation ice-skating ring, with two
teams of six players each, a referee, and even a guy playing themes
on the organ, just like in an actual hockey game! The themes and
rules of each improvisation are drawn by lot by the referee before
each round. The audience votes for the winner by show of hands with
cardboards to the colours of the teams. Today's game opposed the
Greens to the Oranges. Although it does rather sound like a fight
between fruit and vegetables, it was another great game with no
shortage of wit and laughs.
I decide to take a walk up to Parc
Lafontaine, in the heart of the plateau Mont Royal, one of my
favourite places to go to and work on my songs in the evenings.
Photogenic twisted staircases ornament the colourful brick plexes
bordering the streets along the way. The eclectic architecture of
Montreal makes for a most interesting walk, with more hidden gems
around the corner than first meets the eye. Colourful victorian
houses, gothic revival cathedrals, castle shaped fire stations, art
deco monuments, roman catholic churches and modern glass buidling all
stand side by side, fighting for spotlight in this patchwork urban
landscape. Montreal feels like several cities superimposed into one,
and yet it does work beautifully, nothing here feels out of place,
however unlikely the mariage.
The historic park welcomes me
with a cool breeze. I am about to pick a spot in the shade of a
century old poplar tree by the side of the lake when I hear notes of
blues harmonica in the distance. That has to be Simon, I say to
myself, and so I decide to go on and follow the sound of music
through the park's winding pathways. Finally a lonesome figure
sitting on a washed up wooden bench appears from behind the hedge
around the corner, and surely enough there is Simon, giving all he
has to a Big Bill Bronzy tune, his all time favourite. We exchange a
knowing smile as I grab my guitar out of its case and sit down by his
side to join in the blues. It has been that way ever since we first
met in this very park, about four months ago ; Simon has been my
brother in soul, and we have shared many great jams under the shade
of the old trees. I then go to the first chord of one of my own
songs, Stand up Charlie, I know it is one of his favourites.
This is a song I wrote for children who are war victims of left over
landmines from conflicts, who either die or end up losing limbs when
all they were doing was playing innocently in a field. I also wrote
it with the humanitarian action of NGOs such as Handicap
International in mind. Simon once told me he simply wouldn't get it
if I didn't make it big time with that song; that song was gonna be
my big break, he was adamant about it. There is also room for an
extended harmonica solo at the end of the song, allowing him to play
away to his heart's content, with inspired solos that would lift the
song to a whole other level.
There's something about Simon. He
has a beautiful soul, one of a true poet. He works a variety of
manual jobs during the day -gardening, painting houses, construction
work-, all so that he can free his mind for his writing once the work
is done. I find this approach inspiring: many times have I noticed
that some of my best songs came out of the blue after my body and
mind had been devoted to a completely different task. Simon's best
friend died suddenly about a year ago, and I can tell how deeply
still this loss affects him. Both philosophers at heart, two kindred
souls sitting on a bench, we'd spend hours wondering about the
meaning of life and singing the blues. Other times we'd head off
towards the subway to do some busking, either at Sherbrooke or Saint
Laurent Stations, passing by Square Saint Louis and its colourful
Victorian houses of purple, red and blue. There in the subway, under
the blue lyre that marks the spot, we'd sing and play our hearts out,
our melodies riding the waves of the crowd at rush hour, hoping our
little songs could maybe ease some of that stress away.
My internship here in Montreal is
coming to an end, and I 'll be leaving Canada soon. I bought a guitar
during my stay here, a nice little parlor size acoustic from Simon
and Patrick, handmade here in Quebec. This is the guitar I have been
busking and songwriting on for the past seven months, it is really
lovely, and I am very fond of it, but I already have a guitar to take
back with me on the plane. Simon once told me he would like to learn
blues guitar someday; this little parlor would be perfect for that.
And call it destiny, she even bears his name. These two were clearly
meant for each other. So I have decided that I'll leave her here in
his company, she'll be in good hands.
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!
