FRIDAY MORNING, AUGUST 26

I had been reserved a room at the Hotel Roca Fortis for the days of the festival, but there was a Socialist Party confab in the town at the same time, so arriving early as I had, I was put up Thursday night at the Belle Poule, a short drive away from the main part of town. Later Karel informed me that Belle Poule means Beautiful Hen. I had hoped the translation would be somewhat more risqué, this being France and all. Turns out that Belle Poule was also the name of a famous ship in Rochefort. And as a special treat they apparently gave me the original Captain's bed. I awoke stiff and sore and saying "Aaargh" a lot.

However the staff was friendly and cheerful, there were bonjours flyin'
around all over the place when I showed up for breakfast down in the Belle Poule's restaurant. I had just finished my croissant and coffee and was stumbling around in the parking lot wondering how I would get back to town when I saw Paul Tiernan and his family loading their stuff into their car. Paul invited me to ride over with them after they had had breakfast, so it was back into the restaurant, tripping over more bonjours, to have more croissant and café au lait, this time in the company of Paul, his lovely wife Anne Francoise, her beautiful daughter Delphine and their unfortunate-looking but lovable little dog Mirza. After breakfast we squeezed into their car and, Mirza on Uncle Panama's lap, headed into town.

The center of Rochefort remains about the same size as it was during Lafayette's day: a picturesque little town with cobblestone streets you can circumambulate in about an hour. We arrived at the Roca Fortis and were greeted at the front desk by the convivial madame concierge. Her equally pleasant husband was to prove exceptionally tolerant of my attempts at speaking French when I called down from my room, never once letting on that he didn't understand a thing I was saying until I had lapsed into English after coming to the end of my carefully rehearsed phrasebook passages. I love these people. When you go to the Hotel Roca Fortis, ask to stay in the Chambre de Monsieur Panama. Room 104. You'll be an instant hit. Really.

I went up to my room. Fortunately I only had to climb one flight of stairs…I would be grateful for this each night after I wobbled back from Ground Zero at the festival. My suite proved to be interestingly French, with the toilet on one side of the entryway and the shower and sink on the other. The room with the shower also had a bidet, an experience I had never had, so…turns out, though, that there was a sign over the bidet announcing a drought around those parts currently, so in the interest of being a good guest and a credit to my nation and all, I had to forego any further Frenchifying experience. Lafayette would have been proud. Frankly, I'm a little unclear on the concept, anyway, but it probably is better to have parts I'm not equipped with.

During the day the other performers began to filter into town from Paris and London. Among them were:

Rene Miller -- Rene has been performing around Europe for some time now. Was in the London band Green Ray before decamping to Paris and forming his own roots-based Rene Miller Band.

Hugh Cornwell -- Co-founder of The Stranglers. Enough said.

Boo Hewerdine -- Though I'd never heard Boo, his sensitive delivery of his songwriting skills have put him at the top of my lists. You should check him out, also.

Silvain Vanot -- Defines the word "chanteur".

BJ Cole -- Here's a laundry list: Mark Bolan, Bjork, Beck, Elton John, REM, Sting, The Orb, John Cale. BJ is a pretty wild guy who plays pedal steel and has most recently begun to work with house music DJ's to great effect.

Geraint Watkins -- Another lister: Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds, Bill Wyman, Van Morrison, Mark Knopfler, Paul McCartney. Geraint also has a solo effort, "Dial W for Watkins", out over here on Yep Roc.

Vic Moan -- Strange changes on mandolin and weird lyrics highlight Vic's work. I can't begin to describe this dude.

Sal Bernardi -- Ageless New Jersey neo-beatnik expat living in Paris. Co-writer with Rickie Lee Jones of some of her best work and a veteran as well of Willy DeVille, Sal is a subtle hoot. A stellar harmonica player and guitarist.

Chris Kenna -- Aussie. Funny. Charming. Brilliant player and singer. Raconteur the likes of whom I've only rarely met. An absolute and shameless rapscallion, Chris was to have me in stitches all weekend long.

*****

LATE FRIDAY MORNING
Panama gets interested in French politics for, oh, about fifteen minutes…

Chris Kenna and I were hungry. We heard that there were hors d'oeuvres at some function on the second floor of the marina. We went up and sat down with our backs to the wall watching the action, and every time the tray would come around we'd grab a snack. A couple of times we just commandeered the tray. Nobody seemed to mind. The wine came around quite often also.
Pretty soon it became clear what the party was about: kind of a joint press conference of the Rochefort En Accords people and the socialist party of France, who were in town on the same weekend. Chris and I were comparing notes and speculations concerning some of the political wives at the function. I was especially attracted to a particularly lovely representative of the matronly Bee Ay Bee Ee demographic.

"Yes," Kenna said. "She certainly has cleaned up well today. And, Panama, I think your interest is being reciprocated."
"Yeah," I said. "She's so intimidated by my dashing good looks that she can't bring herself to look at me."
"No, I mean it, man. She really digs you. You should go up and talk to her."

I was into my third or fourth glass of Bordeaux by this time, and easily gulled, especially by silver-tongued rascals descended from transported criminals, but fortunately I was spared embarrassment when our new friend Stephane Maresse, who either was with the Hotel or with the local festival guys, or with the committee rebuilding the Hermione, or with the Socialists, or maybe all four, began to speak to the assembled press corps.

About three minutes into Stephane's introductory remarks, Chris Kenna tapped him on the back and murmured something to him. Stephane looked a little startled, but said, "Yes, as soon as I am finished." Kenna sat back down beside me. As soon as Stephane finished, to polite applause (the French are polite), Chris stood up and addressed the crowd in what even I recognized as pretty bad French. But here's what it seemed to me that he was saying:

"In the name of all musicians it, you here in the powerful convention, you courtesies and with the desire of comfort much to which it increased for our visit in their city. We are this one very grateful. Thank you."

photo by Simon DAVID

Chris sat back down beside me, to perplexed (but polite) applause from the press and the various officials present.

Then Karel spoke of how happy we were to be there. Then the Mayor of the town spoke of how happy he was to have us all. Then the Bee Ay Bee Ee who had been the object of my speculation spoke, something about liberte and egalite and fraternite; I was having a hard time following the thread due to the intrusion of fantasies not suitably related in a family publication such as this. There was more polite applause and the press corps drifted off.
I was going to go tell my Babe how much I had enjoyed her speech, whatever it had been about, but when I looked for her again she had gone. Love is fleeting, n'est ce pas?

Next morning, when we were all looking at the newspaper over breakfast, it would turn out that my matronly Bay Ay Bee Ee was none other than Segolene Royal, the head of the socialist party in France. Some have said she's an absolute bitch. Others, concurring, say she's kind of like France's Hillary Clinton. As a thoughtful political analyst, I have to disagree. There may be superficial similarities, but Segolene's got much better legs.

Segolene Royal

FRIDAY AFTERNOON
The Festival Gets Underway

Our deal with the mayor of the town called for free afternoon concerts for the townspeople in several locations: at the Ecole Colbert beside the Hotel Roca Fortis, in the Garden of the Theatre off the main square, and in the Port de Plaisance down by the water near the Hotel Corderie. The nighttime performances would be for paying audiences at the other end of the Corderie Royale from the Hotel.

At two-thirty in the afternoon Paul Tiernan and John Lester officially opened the festival, performing for the first time ever together to a rapt audience at the ecole.

At four-thirty Clare Muldaur Manchon and Olivier Manchon and their keyboardist, Cedric Piromali, took the stage at the Theatre, joined by that yeoman of musicians, George Wolfaardt, on bass.

photo by Alice Brennen

At 6:30 the Rene Miller Band with Tina Provenzano performed at the Port.

photo by Simon DAVID

FRIDAY NIGHT, MAIN STAGE

8:40-- Chris Kenna and Sal Bernardi opened and did thirty minutes of good solid Aussie/American warming up, bringing on at
9:10-- John Lester, who did some looping and octave-splitting solo bass with vocals, joined by Paul Tiernan, segueing into
9:30-- Boo Hewerdine, whose soulful ballads were the perfect intro to

photo by Alice Brennen

10pm-- BJ Cole and Ben Bayliss - - Ben is a kinda DJ who was reworking grooves sequenced by the likes of Groove Armada, A3, Luke Vibert, Bent and others, while BJ was spacing out on steel guitar. Kinda reminiscent of that windowpane we dropped in 1967. Or that flashback I had just now.

photo by Alice Brennen

After a short pause, at 10:40

photo by Simon DAVID

Silvain Vanot held an enraptured crowd in his palm for forty minutes or so, joined by Vic Moan and then yielding to

11:15--Rodolphe Burger & David Thomas - - Rodolphe and David, whom I believe to be the crowning achievement of Karel's matchmaking, played some spacey dark stuff mere words can't describe, except that for a while Death seemed humorous.

photo by Alice Brennen

At the end of their set, and the end of the evening, there was a stir on stage, a whisper ran through the audience that swelled to a murmur that grew to a roar and, there, sitting on a stool stage left, sidelit by angelic Francoluminescence, was Jacques Higelin.

photo by Alice Brennen

Jacques apparently doesn't have to do anything except be French to wow his audiences, but he does that so very well that even a philistine such as I, for the short moments of his set, felt the glorious La Marseillaiseian weight of Gallic existentialism and culture. I was ready to die for La France. Or at least for the cellars of Bordeaux. His too-brief set with Rodolphe closed out the first night of Rochefort En Accords.

I should point out here that the scheduled times above are from the official schedule and had little to do with the actual times, because the first night ended at about 1:30 in the morning.

I weaved my way back to the Roca Fortis, and was once again rescued by Paul Tiernan and family, who found me sitting on the stoop because I couldn't remember the combination to the front door.

*****

-30-

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Rochefort En Accords Festival Site

Next: Our hero has a great day with great players, maybe even earns his keep, and the Rochefort En Accords Festival Comes to a Climactic Close (but the Adventure continues unabated).