Saturday Morning, August 27 --

Day Two of Rochefort En Accords

I had been pretty much relieved of responsibility by the schedule of Friday, only sitting in with Johan Asherton at the Ecole next to the Roca Fortis, noodling an accompaniment to his rendition of "Don't Think Twice". I was thereby permitted to pretty much not think twice myself and partied all day.

Saturday's agenda, however, was different, calling for me to join Geraint Watkins, supported by George Wolfaardt and Sal Bernardi, at the Theatre Garden in the afternoon and at the Main Stage later that night. There would also be a finale at the end of the evening. So the upshot of today's schedule was that the hell-raising Panama of yesterday was today transformed into Mister Professional. Yeah, right. May I have a drum roll please.

The night before I had met with Geraint and after a little socializing we had decided on and scheduled a rehearsal with George and Sal at the main stage for 2 p.m., when we would also work in a sound check with Olive the sound maestro.
George and Sal, however agreeable they had been the night before, were today employed in numerous other last-minute personnel configurations that prevented their appearance at Geraint's and my rehearsal. So that Geraint and I were left by ourselves to get musically and stylistically acquainted on the main stage. We played a little, and decided that we would be okay. We were scheduled to play in the theatre garden at about 4:30 pm.

"Dial 'W' for Watkins"
I've been familiar with Geraint's work for years, and the opportunity to play with him was a treat. I managed to remain cool in his presence, meaning I resisted the temptation to tell him who he is ("Wow, man!!! You're Geraint Watkins!!!"), and we got on well. Geraint is a musician with a certain skill set that has caused him to be called upon to embellish the work of McCartney and Knopfler and a whole bunch of other people whose songs I've admired for years. So you can understand why I'd be tempted to tell him who he is. All of this slavering admiration on my part to the side, Geraint is in possession of a very real and somber talent, and performing with him was a joy as well as an honor. Hell, I knew it would be from the start. We saw Paul Tiernan, and I asked him to join us on my tune "Duchess" when we played in the garden.



I arrived at the garden at a little before three-thirty. Geraint was talking to an old mate who turned out to be Ronnie Caryl, taking a break from his gig with Phil Collins and hanging at his own place on the French coast. I nearly always enjoy playing with musicians better than myself because of the stretches and leaps of faith they force upon me, and so I invited Ronnie to join us for our set. He went off to his car and soon returned with his rig and guitar. George and Sal turned up and we had a short sound check. For those RedHeads out there, both of you, we warmed up with Poor Boy, then stood down.

Boo Hewerdine came on and opened and in about three seconds was holding the audience in his hand. Boo is probably best-known for his work in the Brit band The Bible, a couple of sides of which were produced by Steve Earle.

Then we were up and we took up where we had left off, with Poor Boy.
I always try to avoid reviewing my own sets, since I never see them, and since no matter if I say they were great or they sucked it sounds…I dunno, creepy. But with Geraint we did that boogie woogie thing he does so well, mixed in with the Screamin Panama Red set. In fact I did the hollerin set most of the time I was on at Rochefort, never really getting around to the Intimate Panama…there was a lot of other sensitive songwriter kinda stuff going on, anyway. But the afternoon set garden crowd were pretty much raving what with Geraint and Ronny and Sal and George being as solid as they were. Paul Tiernan, probably the most overworked of all the musicians at the fest, joined us for Duchess. So I guess we reached one or two people out there.

That night was magical as well.
Saturday Night Under the Lights

Rene Miller is an interesting man. Comes from New Orleans, is a total devotee to not just roots music but to old jazz as well. I met him in Paris at Karel's dinner party the first or second night I was there, and he later called me and invited me over to visit him at his apartment. I took the Metro over to his part of town and his girlfriend met me at the station and escorted me to Rene's apartment.
When we got there, Rene was working on a new angle for his act: playing a snare and high hat cymbal with his feet while riffing on guitar and singing. Rene is so totally honest and innocent about doing what he does that he's absolutely charming. I gotta admit it sounds great the way Rene does it, but it looks like a lot of work and dedication. Hard to get one's dilettante card punched if one shows that much musical responsibility, so I tend to steer clear.

Tonight, the second night of the Rochefort En Accords festival, Rene had his complete band plus Tina Provenzano on vocals, and it was a treat for the audience and for me to hear some of the old stuff in a new setting. Rene was followed by

Paul Tiernan and John Lester, whose partnership had been a delight to audiences wherever they played throughout the earlier parts of the fest (and the partnership has continued into further engagements according to a letter I recently had from Paul, so thank you Karel). They were joined by Sal Bernardi and then that set segued into

A set involving them all and my main mellow dude Johan Asherton.

At the end of Johan's set there was a lull and then Jeb Loy Nichols took the stage.

You know, a not particularly famous dude like me is always flattered when a peer he hasn't met expresses familiarity with his work. So I was floored when Jeb approached me at the Hotel Roca Fortis and began to talk about my little records in a way that let me know that he had heard them. And not just heard them, but actually LISTENED to them. So I was driven to ask how he had come by them, and found that we have several mutual friends in the Shoals, Donnie Fritts in particular. Jeb, it turns out, has just finished producing a couple of records called "Country Got Soul", which concerns itself with the groundbreaking dudes in the Muscle Shoals pantheon, and that one of the Mighty Field of Vision hands (or FieldHands, as they're known) up in Scotland had sent him my latest, Choice Buds, and that that had led Jeb to seek out HomeGrown on his own. Jeb is an artist and musician/songwriter/producer, born in Missouri and now living in Wales.
His set at Rochefort utilized the talents of BJ, George, Sal and Geraint, and drew heavily from Jeb's new CD, which you oughta rush right out and buy, called Now Then.

At the end of Jeb's set, Karel introduced Geraint, who did his boojie woojie thang and then George and Sal and I joined him for a few tunes of mine and a couple of standards. Without reviewing my own set, I can say that the crowd was appreciative (okay, some of them went apeshit, alright?) and that it was a privilege to do a show with such eminents as Geraint, George and Sal.

Olivier and Clare Muldaur Manchon were mercilessly cool. Being mercilessly cool to your audience works in France because the French are so mercilessly cool themselves

.

Hugh Cornwell and his band were the last officially scheduled act, and true to my hopes, Hugh delivered real English punk, though somewhat mellowed, as we all are lately, by the ticking of the clock. Far from being the crazed biochemist he once undoubtedly was, Hugh turned out to be a charming and affable guy, and when the cast gathered en masse for the finale, Hugh kindly gave me his guitar cord and we launched into a reworked Sweet Home Chicago called, naturally enough, Sweet Home Rochefort. Everyone sang a verse or two and we shut the place down.



It was a wonderful night. While others went on into the night at the Corderie Royale, I made my way once again with Paul Tiernan and family back to the Roca Fortis, where I said goodnight to Johan and Lisa and stumbled to my bed.

Sunday Morning Coming Down
Next day dawned clear and I got up and after breakfast with Chris Kenna and Johan and Lisa and Paul Tiernan, I made my way back to the Corderie Royale where a picnic was under way. We took a short side tour of the construction of the new Hermione, astonishing to see just how large a wooden ship can be made, and then in our separate interviews with our impresario Karel, got paid, and ultimately headed for the railroad station.

At first I was dispatched to a different car, having purchased my ticket separately from the troupe, but at the first opportunity I detached myself from the teeming Parisians returning from holiday and made my way back to the last car, and took a seat with my mates. We got into Paris at about 7 pm.

Geraint and I had made arrangements with Karel to share his flat while he remained in Rochefort cleaning up the clerical debris from the festival, and Alice's mum picked her and us up at Gare Montparnasse and dropped us at Karel's, taking the scenic route through Paris. I think I saw more of Paris in that thirty-minute drive than I have the other times I've been in the city combined. We got to Karel's and Alice bestowed on me a kiss, not one a those French kiss-the-air-beside-your-face things, but an honest to goodness sweet grand-daughterly kiss on the cheek. She's a lovely girl. But tough as nails.

Geraint and I got hungry and soon found ourselves down the street from Karel's apartment drinking beer and eating the best steak I had this whole time in France. We talked musician stuff, found that we both know and admire Spooner Oldham - Geraint had worked on the same bills with Spoon and Dan Penn when they last came over - and sat up until nearly dawn admiring Parisian girls who kept coming by our table out on the sidewalk. Girls in Paris got some kinda style thang goin on that's hard to explain, but easy to appreciate. We finally got home about four am.

I got up early and went looking for an internet café, which I found only a few blocks from Karel's flat, read my piled-up mail, posted a few letters, and got back to the flat just in time to say goodbye to Geraint, on his way out the door and heading toward the Chunnel. Geraint is a charming and good-natured bloke and I look forward to seeing him again.

I kicked around Paris the rest of the the day, Karel came home and we went out to eat, spending some time with Mike Zwerin, the jazz writer for the International Herald Tribune. As it turned out, Mike and I share a lot of Miami stuff, both having attended the U there, though some years apart, and a familiarity with Coconut Grove and some of its more famous denizens.
Next morning, though by this time I was loath to leave Paris and the delightful company of Monsieur Beer, I made my way to the Gare du Nord and got on a fast train to Rotterdam, where Riny picked me up. We had a couple of beers and I spent the night as his guest back in his town, and next day I took the train the rest of the way to Schippol, got on a series of planes and came home.

I had a good time this trip, and thanks to Karel's hospitality got to see a lot more of Paris life than I'd had opportunity on other visits to France.
There is one final comment I'd like to make about Paris, and that is that, like a very few other places I've been, it has a certain charm, an allure that, if one is not careful, can draw you in and wrap you in an embrace so sweet that leaving it becomes impossible. I don't think I've ever been in a city that reminded me so much of a sinfully beautiful, wanton woman. There is magic in those old streets where every building looks like a library and there is more than anything a sense of being in the exact center of Art. Some people go to Paris and never feel the need to go anywhere else. Jim Morrison was apparently as happy to die as to live there.

There are worse places.

Au revoir.

Panama

*****

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