Juju Vagabond - Butterfly (Live @ Zik Zak)

Taxi Driver

Live performance of Taxi Driver with the Rhythm Kings at Crossroads Café in Antwerp!

Taxi
Driver

Calcutta, India, summer 2011

A chauffeur from the school is waiting for me in the airport lobby.
As the sliding glass doors open to let us out of the airport, the hot
and damp air of the Indian summer hits me. I am welcomed by the soon
to be familiar sounds of honking from the streets. I climb into a
grey jeep along with a little group of Italian students also here for
a 6 months exchange program at the Indian Institute of Management in
Calcutta.

This is my first time in India, or any oriental country for that
matter. I am in for the ride of my life, as our driver takes on the
City of Joy's busy maze of restless streets. The airport is on the
opposite side of the city to the campus, so we have to go all the way
accross, and I couldn't have dreamt a better introduction tour to the
city's wonders.

There's so much happening it's overwhelming. Our driver swerves
through the jungle of stray dogs, herds of sheeps, chickens, pigs and
cows, pedestrians, dog carts and push carts,bikes, mopeds, rickshaws,
cars, yellow taxis, buses and lorries of all colours. It's total
chaos out there, and I feel a sense of relief to be safe inside the
car. A dare devil green a yellow rickshaw zooms by in between the
lorries and trucks, and I tell myself I'll never get into one of
those death traps on wheels. The next day of course I'll be taking
one from the campus to the center of town.

In front of us is a bus of yellow and red with the words « Danger,
Blow Horn » written in thick black and red letters on it's
bumper. A fair warning indeed. Here it seems there are no indicators
for turning left or right, or for overtaking. If there ever was they
stopped using them a long time ago. Honking is the way to go. It's
also hard to tell whether there are any trafic rules. We take a turn
out of a little street onto a boulevard. And all of sudden, just when
you think it can't get any more complicated, trams are added to the
equation. And they don't stop for anyone or anything. Our driver
blows his horn at a couple of kids crossing ahead.

On both sides of the road life is happening. I take in the various
scenes as they come before my eyes. An old man is washing himself on
the pavement from tap water coming out of a concrete block. A bit
further down a mother surrounded by two young kids is cooking rice
and chapati from steaming pots on the sidewalk. Improvised vending
stalls take over most of the sidewalk : on offer is anything
from fish to piles of books and pieces of clothing. Colourfull shop
banners of all sorts bring life the otherwise washed down and
dirty facades. It looks like the city could use a fresh coat of
paint. But Calcutta's architecture shows fantastic heritage and
diversity. Worn out dull looking buildings share ground with
victorian style palaces and mansions of great beauty and refinement.
No two houses are the same, and there's no telling what's coming
around the bend. In the corner of my eye, a splendid red building
with white frames and columns from the british era. A bit further
down another massive colonial building has trees and plants growing
all over it. Everynow and then hindu temples of a variety of shapes
and colours pop out of nowhere.

We come to an intersection where a policeman standing outside of a
little booth seems to have the impossible task of regulating the
crossings' trafic, hopelessly waving his arms around every which way.
Dressed in a white uniform with a white round helmet, he stands out
of the crowd, which is probably a good thing. Traffic lights haven't
made it here yet it seems. We are now back on a huge boulevard and
heading to the outskirts of town when our chauffeur slows down to
make a turn left towards what appears to be the entrance of the
Indian Institute of Management, with its white and green gates. A
couple of guards are posted at the entrance. I'll later learn that
you actually have to check in and out with them anytime you leave the
campus by writing your name down on a sheet of paper. But for now
this is it : home for the next couple of months ! And
judging by that first experience, it's going to be a hell of a ride.

*****

Taxi Driver on a one way street

He ain’t afraid of anyone he meets

He senses danger like a hawk

Oh taxi driver blow your horn now

Taxi driver now you take a chance

A twist of faith and luck changes hands

A centimeter to the left or right

Decides of the poor pedestrian’s plight

Taxi driver there’s a rickshaw ahead

A
cow to your right and a bus to your left

Two kids crossing and a tram on your trail

Now comes the time to push through ahead

Taxi driver blow your horn now

Taxi driver never look back

Just overtake them don’t cut them no slack

Your rearview mirror

is at the lost and found

Who cares about dead spots anyhow?

Taxi driver now the price ain’t right

Let’s cut to the chase and settle down

Just please take us for a frightful ride

Through the city of joy’s delights

Taxi driver blow your horn now

Juju Vagabond & Friends - Give me all your love (Original)

Music & Lyrics by Juju "Vagabond" Jeavons
Vocals & Guitar: Juju Vagabond
Bass: Marc Creten
Piano: Florence Sabeva
Harmonica & Vocals: Marc François
Violin: Melissa Schaak
Guitar: Attilio Rigutto
Vocals: Emanuele Bozzini, Cristina Daddys, Tiffany Daspect, Yveline Jeavons, Sophie Kroonen, Marie-Christine Maquestiaux
And a special thanks to our dancing queen!
Maelia

Child of the Universe

Child of the Universe

Göteborg, Sweden, summer 2013

Sitting on a bench with my guitar Tanguie, I am putting the final touch to the lyrics of a new song, entitled Child of the Universe. Earlier that afternoon I played the song for the first time while busking in Haga Nygata street, even though it wasn't quite finished yet. Sometimes it helps find the missing parts of the lyrics. Because I need to come up with something on the spur of the moment, I say the first thing that comes to mind. And sometimes it works, I find the missing piece of the puzzle and write it down later. Nothing like working under pressure !

So today was this Child's first public appearance, and it got the best welcome I could have hoped for. I had been playing for a little while by the time I sang Child of the Universe. At the end of the song this lady stepped out of a little shop on the opposite side of the walking street and came up to me with a big smile : « I'm the owner of this shop, she said. I've been listening to you for the past half hour, and I loved every bit of it. But then I heard this song and I thought, I have to go out and tell her ! That song just has such a happy feel, there's something special about this one ». As a songwriter, I am always filled with doubt  when it comes to a new tune: is this song good enough ? Is anyone going to care ? Is it worth putting in the sweat and tears to see it through ? Because you never know if all those hours are going to add up to anything worthwhile. So today the lady from the little shop gave me the biggest boost of energy.

***

It was just a couple of days ago. I was cycling down the norwegian coast on my way back down from Oslo, and I'd just spent the previous night in a campground in Larkollen, right at the end of the peninsula. The place was managed by two amazing ladies who offered me accomodation in a cosy red and white chalet, for the same price as a tent spot! This kind gesture was more than welcome after a solid day of cycling. The setting of the camp at the edge of the peninsula was simply breathtakingly beautiful, so I gathered up what little energy I had left over from the day's effort and took a long walk through the pine forest and along the beach, as the sun set low on the horizon behind the clouds.

After a good night sleep I woke up early the next morning and headed for a wooden table in the middle of the rocks by the sea. I'd spotted it during my evening walk, and thought it would be the perfect spot to finish working on another new song, Travelling Around with Me. This was late in the season and most tourists were long gone already, so I felt like I was the only one there, alone in paradise.

Upon my departure that morning I received many gifts from my hosts, including food supplies, a blue and red scarf and a Norway cap.We took a souvenir pic of all three of us together before I left for Fredrikstadt.

There weren't many cars on the road as I rolled up and down the gentle green hills, home to the cattle of typical red and white farm houses. As I came to a road crossing under the grey skies I paused on the side of the road to take a look at my map. A this junction two options presented themselves to me: the more direct route sticking to the main road, or taking a turn to the right on a small winding road that ran in a loop along the coast. No doubt longer and hillier but also more scenic option. As I looked up from my map I saw a tall black guy coming my way from the bus stop accross the road. He asked me how I was doing with a great big smile, and whether I needed any help on some directions. So I told him about my dilemma, and of course, him not being the one who had to cycle up the hills, he said it's a no-brainer and advised me to take the nicer route along the coast. I would not regret it he said. We'll see. People are always very helpful that way. We ended up talking for a little while. He told me a bit about himself, how he came to Norway all the way from Togo when he was a student, and how he ended up spending the rest of his life here. When I asked him whether he ever felt homesick, especially given how different the two countries could be: « I am a child of the universe, everywhere is my home » he said. I thought that was nice. As I prepared to leave he added: « Take it easy, ok? You gotta take it easy ».

His words kept me company for the remainder of the trip, and I knew I finally had the right idea for the lyrics to that new song I had been working on. I was gonna take it easy now.

Wherever I go, wherever I am

Whether I am walking on ice

or standing on sand

Whatever I do, however I feel

Whether I am laying down

or standing still

I m gonna take it easy now,

taking it easy

Whether I go north,

whether I head south

Whether I just follow the word of mouth

Whether I go east, whether I head west

I'll follow my feet

for they sure know best

I'm gonna take it easy now,

taking it easy

‘Cause I'm a child of the universe, 

at peace on every corner of planet earth

There’s no better place I wanna be

When everything falls in it’s right place, 

whether down here on earth

or in out of space

There’s no better feeling I found,

I’m gonna take it easy now

Whether I live fast, whether I grow old

I’ll way out the bad

and let the good times roll

Good times or bad times,

high tide low tide

Whatever I know I ‘ll enjoy the ride

I ‘m gonna take it easy now,

taking it easy

‘Cause I'm a child of the universe, 

at peace on every corner of planet earth

There’s no better place I wanna be

When everything falls in it’s right place, 

whether down here on earth

or in out of space

There’s no better feeling I found, 

I’m gonna take it easy now

Utopia

Utopia

Takaka, New Zealand

Standing by the side of the road outside of Kaiteriteri, I put my thumb up in the hope of catching a ride to Takaka, a quaint little town niched in the heart of the Golden Bay Area, on the northern part of Te Wai Ponamu, New Zealand's south island. Anthony, the owner of a pizzeria and backpackers called the Beach Whale back in Kaiteriteri was nice enough to drop me off here. I met Anthony a couple of days ago as I stepped inside the Beach Whale after hearing that there was some live music going on. Of course I asked whether it would be ok for me to jump on stage and join the festivities. We spent two evenings jamming on the little stage of his restaurant, in front of a small but attentive audience. As it turned out Anthony had his claim to fame with a couple of radio hits in his younger days, and made a living as a musician for many years before deciding he'd had enough and used his savings to open the restaurant. Anthony also allowed me to stay in his caravan outside on the parking lot for the couple of nights I spent there in Kaiteriteri. When I told him I wanted to go over to Takaka, he kindly warned me about that so-called Takaka Hill the town was hiding behind, that it really was more of a mountain, and that whoever called it a hill had quite some sense of humor! So he told me I could leave my bike in his garage for a few days, and gave me a lift to the main road. Takaka is known as a bit of a hippie place in the Tasman National park. I wasn't especially planning on going there because it is a bit out of the way of my two months cycling trip from Auckland to Queenstown, but while I was busking in Nelson someone working at a place called the « Roots Bar » invited me to come over and play there, if ever I happened to pay the town a visit.

Only five minutes have gone by when a white Toyota campervan pulls over to offer me a ride. Driving the rented van is a young Dutch couple on a six months road trip through this beautiful land. As we are driving up the mountainous road I silently thank Anthony for his advice, but also try to convince myself that I made the right call. The view of a struggling cyclist about halfway to the top helps comfort me in my decision. Whenever I am not the one on the bike, I always feel a sense of relief: « Thank God that's not me ! ». But it's always the hardest thing to leave my bike behind on such trips. I almost never do so. You have to push yourself so hard to overcome the challenges of cycling over thousands of kilometers in such a hilly landscape that what keeps you going is the thought that when you've finally made it, you'll really have surpassed yourself and accomplished something trully special. So this feels like I'm letting myself off the hook. I do tend to be excessive in what I do: that's how I work, that's how I get things done. I throw myself completely into whatever it is I have undertaken.

As they drop me off at the top of mainstreet, I hand them one of my cds as a thank you. I head into the first shop I see to ask for directions to the Roots Bar, and it turns it's right next door. I also learn something interesting as the shopkeeper and I get to talking: he used to work at a little place called the « Dangerous Kitchen », a little further down the road, and they have live music there too, so I could always ask. The weather isn't looking too good this week end, with quite a bit of rain to come, so I might not get to a lot of busking done. Indoor options do sound good! I thank him for his help and head next door.

That's the Roots Bar indeed, but unfortunatly the guy who invited me over back in Nelson is away for the weekend, and the girl behind the bar has no idea who I am. However to her knowledge no one is scheduled to play here tonight, so I can always send an e-mail to her boss.

While waiting for a reply I decide to explore main street in search of a nice busking spot while the weather still holds up. Colourful painted storefronts and peace writings on the walls definetly give the place a hippie vibe. Restaurant menus suggest a variety of organic foods. Bohemian style clothing, colourful patchworks and baggy trousers seem to be the dress code. I decide to follow the sound of music as I enter a place that's half thrift store, half tea room, and a third half live music venue! An out of tune honkey tonk piano, guitars missing a string or two, a couple of djembes and a washed up drum kit are the instruments of choice. There are already three or four people playing, so I pick up the guitar that has the most strings left, and decide to join the jamming fun of shuffle blues and reggae.

As I head back out after a couple of songs I find myself a perfect spot in front of a closed up nature and fishing shop. It has a covered entrance, which is perfect given the weather forecast for the afternoon. People of all walks of life pass me by as I set up my busking equipment.

I start with Utopia, as I often do, but here more than ever, it feels like the right place to do so. This is a song I wrote a few years ago between my two stays in Canada, after reading a book about how the world back in the sixties and seventies was like the carefree teenager to today's grown up world. How the dreams and innocence of youth were now over and it's time to face facts after decades of unbridled consumerism and brutal exploitation of the earth's ressources.

It turns out to be a great session. People are hanging around and enjoying it from both sides of the road. And I have sold a few cds too. Once I am done playing I cross over to the Dangerous Kitchen place to ask them if they would be interested in me playing tomorrow night. They are, and the deal is a meal, a drink, and a 50$ voucher for the restaurant. This isn't much, especially given that I probably won't have the time to spend much of my voucher anyway, since I'll be leaving the day after. But I came here to play, and the place does have a cosy vibe that will be just right for my songs. And it looks like it's going to rain cats and dogs tomorrow, so it's a deal.

Soon after I also receive a confirmation for the evening at the Roots Bar. And it looks like the pay is better this time. Great!

Next up on my list is finding a bed for the night. While I was busking there was this one lady who offered me a room to stay at her home outside of town. But when I told her I would most likely be playing at the bar until late this evening we both agreed it wouldn't be possible. I am not in luck this time. I didn't book any accomodation, and because of the bad weather all three backpackers in town are completely full for the weekend. I usually prefer to camp, but I had to leave all of my tenting gear back at Anthony's along with the bike. So I finally head back towards an Old West style hostel I had spotted earlier right on the corner opposite the Roots Bar. With its saloon and old school furniture, it felt just like the kind of place Lucky Luke and Jolly Jumper would have made a stop at for the night! It's also a bit more expensive than the other backpackers, but at least it has vacancy and the rainy weather doesn't encourage me to take any chances elsewhere. Plus it's conveniently situated for tonight. I'll take it.

It's now 7pm, and I am setting up for the gig on the little stage of the Roots Bar. It's everything you'd expect a blues bar to be: dim blue and orange lights, beers, burgers, and lots of background noise. The boss warned me upon my arrival: I'll be playing over the chatter of people eating at the tables right in front. It's good for me to go back to these kinds of gigs everynow and then, for they remind me of how good I have it out on the streets, where I have control over my sound and I can hear myself properly, at least most of the time (unless I am playing next to a road busy with trafic of course). In a bar I sometimes feel like people take live music for granted, it's there in the background, fighting it's way over the chatter and laughter. In the street, a good song becomes the most unexpected of gifts to people just passing by in the rush of day.

Still I can tell I am getting the music through to a couple of them here in the bar today, and those are the ones I sing for. Those are the one's that might come for a chat after the show. The owner's of the Roots Bar are cheering and enjoying it too. I mention a couple of times that I have an album and cds for sale, but I am not getting my hopes up: cd sales are usually quite slow in bars. It turns out I still sell most of them my while busking.

Every now and then people will offer to book me gigs in proper venues, so that I won't have to play on the street any more. While I am all for it, they should know that I'll always come back and play on the streets for the pleasure of it, for I trully love it here.

Both gigs today were nice ones. One on main street, one in the Roots Bar. But if I had to pick only one, I would choose my busking gig. Even with a bit of cold and rain, that's the one I enjoyed most, the one that made my day. I am very lucky to feel this way. Something about playing on a street corner appeals to the romantic in me. To the poet. I am a dreamer, and maybe that today, singing my songs on the streets of Takaka, I was the most hippy of all.

*****

World we were so young

And love’s the word that told freedom

World we knew no rules

Oh were we fools?

To live for fun knowing someday we might grow old?

I’m a 1960’s child and I can’t help but wonder why

The polar bear has no ice left to stand?

I’m a flower power child, how come I see in black and white?

When everything seemed so colourful then

Look back on these hippie years

Setting out to write the future

When Utopia was not left to dreamers

World land of possible

Where no’s no word, yes says it all

World throw in some colours for faith to blossom

From the ashes of a land once young that’s now grown old

I’m a 1960’s child and I can’t help but wonder why

The polar bear has no ice left to stand?

I’m a flower power child how come I see in black and white?

When everything seemed so colourful then

Look back on these hippie years

Setting out to write the future

When Utopia was not left to dreamers

Stand Up Charlie

Stand Up Charlie

Montreal, Canada, 2011

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.

*****

Stand up Charlie

In a world that's undermined

By the greed and the hatred

Of the human kind

Where bastards build bombs

Killing children of the world

Making money at all costs

No matter if it hurts

Stand up Charlie

Don't give up hope just now

There's still good to be found

In the human kind

People dedicate their life

To humanitarian cause

To whom human life

Can still be about joy

Stand up Charlie

Get yourself up from the ground

There may not be no heaven

Here on earth to be found

There's a better place for all

Behind the deep blue skies

Not the heaven we hoped for

Not as bad a place for sure

Stand up Charlie

Meet the Devil in the eye

And free your own angel

To those deep blue skies

Prove wrong those who

Turn the light into shade

That the smile of a child

Is enough to light up the day

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