On midsummer’s night last week I watched the Spain-Croatia football match in a concert hall in Paris, while an orchestra provided musical accompaniment, responding as appropriate to the action on the giant screen.
It's the sort of thing that happens on Fête de la Musique, which takes over the city every June 21st. Or at least, it's the sort of thing that happens when the fête has to compete with Euro 2016. And if not entirely successful, it was an interesting experiment.
Like a well-drilled football team, the orchestra (from the Paris Conservatoire) had rehearsed a series of set moves – a mixture of classical, rock, and hip-hop – but with room for improvisation.
The general tactic was to have Brahms, Mendelssohn, and Dvorak in midfield, and then every so often unleash some bad 1980s pop to get behind the Spanish or Croatian defences.
It worked surprisingly well. Seven minutes in, for example, the orchestra burst into Tina Turner's Simply the Best, an event that would not normally be welcomed by music lovers. In this case, it led to Spain scoring.
Orchestra
Later, another classical passage gave way to Kool & the Gang’s
Celebration
just before Croatia equalised. I wondered then if the football teams had supplied a script. But although intrigued to note that the orchestra had some Eminem on the bench, I could not hang around to see how the second half turned out.
It was already late and, having first experienced it in carefree times, two years ago, I wanted to see if the street element of Féte de la Musique had survived last year's terror attacks. My fear was that the improvised open-air events, at least, must be diminished. But jumping on a Velib rental bike and heading for town, I was quickly reassured.
Along the nearby Canal Saint-Martin alone, there were thousands gathered – eating, drinking, and listening to multiple small concerts. And so it continued, intermittently, all the way into tourist Paris. Just as in 2014, the city was throbbing. It was as if Bataclan had never happened.
Almost as impressive as how the fête had overcome fear was the way it had conquered football. True, I stopped by a café to catch Croatia's late winner (sensing the influence of Eminem in the build-up).
But by the time I reached my destination – a favourite small bar in the Latin Quarter – the football was only a memory. And it was a relief to escape it, even for a few minutes. Which is all I meant to stay for when locking my Velib outside. Instead, sucked in by a terrific three-piece from Senegal, I stayed for two hours.
Soon I had almost forgotten there was a tournament on. Then a group of Northern Ireland fans walked in, in celebratory mood, and reminded me. It was an awkward moment. But to their credit, they did not disturb the atmosphere unduly, finding seats at the back, where except for the odd shout, they were inaudible.
The music continued, meanwhile: long, swirling compositions with slinky rhythms that, sooner or later in each set, had people dancing. A short cigarette break would then follow. And it was during one of these breaks that I watched an NI fan approach and, leaning in unsteadily, ask the band: "Do yiz know Sweet Caroline, by Neil Diamond?"
My blood, hitherto warmed by the beats of West Africa, now froze. Sweet Caroline, I knew, was popular with football fans, including Northern Ireland's, because it's easy to sing and mentions "good times". And for a terrible moment, I feared the band would indeed know it, reducing this rich cultural experience to a pub sing-song. It was a musical hijack.
Thank God for civilisation, however, it failed. The band did not know Sweet Caroline. Even the concept of Neil Diamond drew blank stares from the drummer, which left the would-be hijacker incredulous. He was clearly intent on an appeal, perhaps offering to play it himself.
But, growing savagely indignant, I could not stay silent. “Of course they don’t know Sweet Bloody Caroline,” I snapped at my fellow islander. He looked at me hazily, as if confused by the familiar accent from a man not wearing a green jersey.
Then, speaking fluent Northern, I added: “You’re not at a football match here, pal – cop yourself on.”
The fan, and the tournament, retreated peacefully. The fête resumed. When I left the bar, eventually, the rhythms of Senegal were still playing in my head. I walked for at least a mile before remembering the bike.