During the summer in France there is a period of repose that stretches through July and August when most take anywhere between two weeks and a month of vacation. A seemingly endless summer’s expiration is marked as August days begin to shorten. With the rentrée back to school and work looming, I begin to count down the final days looking into a glass half empty.
But wait! Pinned to the refrigerator door, a pair of golden tickets had patiently awaited my arrival back to Paris. They ensured that good times were in store yet. With the announcement of the Rock en Seine line up, topped like icing on a cake by Bjork’s performance, I was quick to secure a weekend pass.
The accumulated weeks of rain beforehand made for muddy parkland in the Domaine de Saint Cloud where the festival was assembled. Dainty ballet flats were enveloped in crusts of mud, while savvy concertgoers marched polka dotted or psychedelic rubber Wellingtons through ankle deep puddles. Though the umbrella of cloud cover eventually burned off, the fields, once dry, were scarred with footprints.
Plenty arrived Friday afternoon to welcome the festivities. Making their way through the gates, the crowd was washed over with waves of rock from Dinosaur Jr’s heavy guitar rifts. Long hair faded white crowned the heads of band members who chanted “I feel the pain of everyone, then I feel nothing,” that one familiar tune to sway to.
Wandering the grounds between the three stages I amassed a collection of free cds, earplugs in candy-colored cases, pins, and candies. A makeshift library provided a calm eye inside the storm where books on the subject of music were lent or exchanged in a space of comfortable chairs. Groups gathered, propped on pillows to thumb through titles like 1,001 Albums to Listen to Before you Die.
M.I.A. pranced out in time, costumed in gold lamé leggings, black converse and a Christmas tree-shaped top dressed in orange and gold fringe. Dancing as she rapped with British intonation, knees working in and out, the crowd was enticed to move with her. The songs, carried by the pulse of a repetitious electronic beat, were topped by her bird cry, “Hah.” She gave us a show.
Bittersweet songs belted by the Shins front man slowed the tempo. His button up shirt and red tie contrasted by the skeleton tattoos and lightning streaked t-shirt of the group’s guitar player. “They’ll change your life,” says Natalie Portman in the film Garden State as she passes her oversized headphones to an acquaintance in the doctor’s office waiting room. Their set was quality, a swim in the sea, like the seahorse printed concert t-shirt that bore their name.
Style and sound influenced by rebellious rock born in the 50’s, smartly dressed in matching white smoking jackets, the Hives stole the show turning the audience into their congregation. As the front man addressed us with the conviction of an evangelical preacher, he demanded, “Why are you so quiet French people? I have a present for you, this next song,” he would say as they zipped along with such a buzz that few ventured to dance, swinging his microphone around by the cord and jumping down into jazz splits. I twisted and shimmied, revelling in the spectacle.
Pausing to sit behind her piano before breaking into beats and poetry, Emilie Simon wove music into dreams. Dark electronic songs carried by the weight of her voice provided the soundtrack to transition from day into night.
The first day closed with Arcade Fire’s flashing neon Bibles. The band stretched across the stage like a travelling medicine show, members trading time under the spotlight to squeeze accordions, strum strings and sing. The enjoyment of a live show depends on prerequisite listening, acquainting yourself with a band’s music before joining the muddle of an audience, as I had not. Presented with my favorite of their songs during the debut, I didn’t have much to motivate me against escaping the chill of the night. I should have stayed. In attending a concert, an impression is etched to memory, a daydream to summon when listening.
The number of attendees multiplied exponentially as the days progressed, though my husband and I both agreed that the first day was best. We spent much of the day sprawled on a grassy embankment, he with his nose in an instalment of Harry Potter, me scratching thoughts into a journal and savouring the last few pages of Sylvia Plath’s Bell Jar, her depression contrasting my elation.
We didn’t bother attending many of the performances. Those that were able to lure us out of hiding: CSS, Les Rita Mitsouko, the Noisettes, the Cold War Kids and Kelis. I would have liked to hear Puppetmastaz, Devotchka and Bat for Lashes but visiting with an out of town friend weighed in with greater importance. “Music is music. Friends and family are what is important,” he said reminding me of my priorities.
Sunday was spent in anticipation of the day’s final act. In adolescence I developed a taste for Bjork’s dramatic genre of electronic music and remain under her spell to this day. She may take her beats from listening to the eruption of a volcano or sing gutturally like an animal.
We stood our ground within eyeshot of the stage, enduring the drunken wailing coming from behind. Eventually the pushing subsided and our places were secured. “ A poile,” he cried removing his pants, enticing the crowd to streak. There were no takers.
As the Icelandic princess herself took the stage accompanied by a female brass band dressed as the Earth’s intruders, the spectacle began. Representing a diverse discography, she serenaded us with old and new. I would have liked to flutter about but movement was abbreviated by the constraint of space. Imagine dancing in a crowded elevator. Bathed in the music, my heart beat the bass line. Bjork licked around her lips the way my big-eyed cat does as I scratch her tailbone, and the sky erupted into glitter. Her empowering message: “Declare independence. Don’t let them do that to you. Start your own currency. Make your own stamp. Protect your language. Raise your flag.“
The festival was a well-organized, eclectic assortment of music loosely grouped into the genre of rock. Choicely placed, a kiss on the closed envelope of summer, I think it will become a fixture in future plans.
