by Katie Penryn
*
Eleven o’clock the following night found us standing outside the entrance to the Palais des Blues. We’d left Audrey at home because Simone was teething. The bouncer passed us through without questioning Felix. Felix had applied for and been granted a passport but would have to wait for it to arrive in the post from the UK.
We’d driven for half an hour up the northern coast to reach the club. Emmanuelle explained it was outside the town limits and so didn’t have to obey the regulations about noise after midnight. Just as well. The canned music hit us well before we reached the turnoff to the club. I’d been expecting a building, as anyone would, not the enormous cave nature had hollowed out of the local limestone hill. Lights hung all around the cavernous opening and along the graveled area in front of the cave. This was set with tables and chairs so one could choose to sit outside under the stars on a fine night or have a smoke. The music crescendoed as we entered but the quality of the sound system was first rate. A notice at the entrance stated No live music tonight!
Emmanuelle whispered in my ear, “That means recorded music and karaoke.”
Karaoke. My old friend. This was going to be an interesting night.
Felix pushed a way through the scrum to the side of the cavern finding us a table up against the limestone which curved away into a vault a hundred feet above our heads. While Emmanuelle and I found our seats and sat back to look over the heaving crowd, Felix and Sam skirted the edge of the dancers to forage for drinks.
“It’s so busy because it’s summer,” said Emmanuelle. “All the tourists.”
The heat generated by all those energetic young bodies wafted towards us and cooled down when it hit the chill limestone, a natural air conditioner. A faint smell of moss and damp overlay the mingled masculine and feminine fragrances.
I stood up on my chair to get a better look. Felix and Sam had reached the bar which abutted a stage set at the back of the cavern. Emmanuelle was right. Karaoke equipment awaited the brave.
I sat down again and watched the crowd. Felix and Sam returned with pitcher of red wine and a carafe of water.
“Whew,” Felix blew as he pulled out his seat. “What a throng. By the way I asked about the karaoke in case anyone’s interested. There’ll be a set in about five minutes. Anyone fancy a go?”
Sam laid his hand in the middle of the table. “Come on, everyone put your hand on mine. I dare us all to have a go. This is supposed to be a fun night so let’s give it everything we’ve got.”
Emmanuelle and Felix joined their hands to Felix’s before he’d finished speaking but I hung back. I was a serious person, an introvert. I didn’t find it easy to shine at parties or occasions like that.
“Penzi, come on,” said Sam. “You can’t be the only one not to take part.” He grabbed my hand with his free hand and pushed it down on top of the three others, holding it there while we all swore to accept the dare.
With any luck there wouldn’t be time for me to perform, but if I had to I had a secret weapon Sam knew nothing about.
When the dancing stopped and the karaoke began, Sam went first. A couple of English tourists followed him. All English or American songs so far. Then Felix took to the stage. What was he going to sing? I knew so little about his past. I didn’t know if he had any knowledge of western music. I should have guessed he’d be all right. I did know the song. It had been a big hit in Europe, less so in England. He chose Malaika, a Swahili song, and he sang it like everything he does, expertly. The audience greeted his performance with catcalls and clapping. A local Frenchman went next with Noir Désir’s Le Vent nous Portera. Sam egged Emmanuelle on to follow him and she reached the stage at the same time as a tall good-looking blond guy who yielded the place to her and retired gracefully to the side of the stage to await his turn.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Tight black leather jeans molded every nuance of his legs and buttocks. He wore a cut-off white T-shirt and a red bandana around his tumbling sun bleached hair. I waited for him to look up to see the color of his eyes. It was worth the wait. A piercing blue. Eyes that I’m sure met mine on the other side of the room.
Emmanuelle finished her act to warm applause and the handsome stranger moved towards the steps onto the stage. Immediately, a swell of clapping and whistling broke out and it accompanied him all the way. He moved with a languid grace, but he was a hundred per cent masculine nonetheless. As he picked up the microphone, the room fell silent and Emmanuelle arrived back at our table.
She sat down quickly and said, “You know who that is, don’t you?”
We all looked at her and raised our eyes in concert. We hadn’t a clue.
“It’s Jonny Sauvage. He’s very popular in France.”
“Is he French?” I whispered back, half hoping she would say he was so that he’d be around.
She shook her head. “He’s American, but he’s a Cajun. From Louisiana. And he sings many of his songs in French.”
The mesmerizing American began to sing, and I did recognize the song. Mon P’tit Oiseau – My Little Bird. It has been a one season hit in the UK when I was about fifteen.
Emmanuelle leaned towards me again and whispered in my ear. “A big hit here.”
She didn’t need to tell me that. The burst of applause that greeted the first few notes would have told me. The song had a great melody and a blues beat. Melancholy and uplifting at the same time.
“He’s a great singer,” I whispered to Emmanuelle.
“He’s an even better lead guitarist. I heard him play live on the Esplanade when I was a child.”
“Is he here in France with his band?”
Emmanuelle shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard.”
Jonny Sauvage finished his turn. The applause bounced up to the roof of the cavern and ricocheted back over and over until people stopped clapping and calling only because their hands and throats were sore. A man I guessed was the MC stepped up onto the stage and took the microphone away from Jonny Sauvage.
“Thank you, thank you to the great Jonny Sauvage. I know you will all be pleased to hear that Jonny and his band are in Beaucoup-sur-mer for an extended visit. They are booked to play as headliners at our local Cognac Blues Festival. As you know this Festival is known throughout the music world and has presented such stars as B.B. King and ZZ Top—”
A vigorous stamping of feet and yet more catcalls drowned out the remainder of his speech. Jonny Sauvage bowed and took a seat at a table below the right of the stage out of our sight.
In the lull that followed such an impressive announcement I asked Emmanuelle about the blues festival. She told me it started two days later in the city world famous for its production of aged brandy.
“Can we get tickets?” I asked her.
“Probably not. They’ll all be sold out and they’re expensive.”
Felix broke away from his conversation with Sam to pull me to him in a friendly hug. “Hey boss, don’t look so glum. I’m sure there’s a way around it. Maybe we can find a tout. Anything to keep that happy look on your face.”
Felix was right. I was feeling happy. Music always does that to me. How could I have forgotten that when I was so blue the day before? When you fall into that pit of desolation it’s difficult to remember the coping strategies you discovered previously. You have to start all over again unless someone else steps in and reminds you how to cope. I made a mental note to tell Felix about my thoughts when we returned home.
“Hey, boss, wake up,” said Felix nudging me with his elbow.
“I wasn’t asleep. I was thinking.”
“So was I,” Felix replied. “Thinking that it’s your turn to sing.”
I jerked back and blinked at him. “What? After a performance like that? Little old me?”
Felix pointed to the board showing the countdown of karaoke turns. “Only three goes left in this set. You don’t want us to call you chicken, do you?”
No one else was stepping forward. I’d have to do it. Did I still have i
t in me after such a long break?
Chapter 4
I eased my way through the crowd and mounted the steps to the stage. What could I choose to suit my voice which I’d been told was a husky contralto. I made my decision, but I couldn’t pick the song myself because I couldn’t read the index on the karaoke machine. I beckoned the MC and asked him to cue the song for me. I plucked the microphone off the stand and gave my stance some blues attitude.
As the first notes of the introduction to Gary Moore’s Still got the Blues swept through the cavern, I took a deep breath. Right on cue I began to sing ... and lost myself in the emotion of the song.
As the notes of the karaoke machine died away, I came back to the real world and found myself standing on a wooden stage in a cave surrounded by silence. All chattering and shuffling had ceased. Hundreds of faces stared up at me. Had I been so terrible?
A soft clap sounded off to my left. I looked down, straight into the eyes of Jonny Sauvage. As our glances connected, he clapped more loudly and the people around him picked up his beat. Soon the whole cavern rang with shouts of encore!
I closed my eyes. Shivers of delight at the audience’s unexpected appreciation darted up and down my spine. They liked it! Little old me from Notting Hill Gate. How could I stay blue after singing the blues to such applause? I opened my eyes and tossed my hair back. That nasty old cockroach had better scuttle before I squashed it underfoot.
Felix, Sam and Emmanuelle gave me a standing ovation as I made my awkward way back to our table with people patting me on the back and saying bravo.
“Wow, boss,” said Felix as he held my chair for me. “Your father never told me you could sing like that.”
“He didn’t know,” said Sam giving me a clap on the back. “Good old Sis. When did you learn to sing? You’ve always refused to sing Happy Birthday and God Save the Queen.”
I smiled at their surprise and debated whether to tell them my secret or not.
Felix clapped his hands. “You smiled again, boss. You feeling better?”
“A hundred per cent,” I said. “All I needed was a rest and a change.”
“So, tell us your secret before I battle my way to the bar again,” said Sam.
“Well, when I did my articles — that’s my legal training, Emmanuelle — my mentoring principal told me I would never be any good as a barrister, would never get any clients, never win any cases unless I overcame my shyness. He suggested I either take an acting course or a singing course to learn presentation and how to project myself. I chose singing. All those Friday evenings when I came home late and Mrs Brown babysat you, I spent learning to sing. After my lesson I would join my fellow students at the local karaoke bar and fight my shyness. As you can see it worked.”
Sam raised his brows at me. “You’re a dark horse, Sis.”
Felix nudged me and whispered in my ear, “Told you. Courage inherited from Sir Archibald.”
“Good evening y’all,” said a deep Southern drawl to my left.
I spun round on my stool to find Jonny Sauvage smiling down at me.
“I’m Jonny Sauvage. May I join your table?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Felix and Sam.
Emmanuelle looked up wide eyed and said nothing.
Jonny shook hands all round as we introduced ourselves. He pulled over a spare stool and spread his long legs either side.
“I had to come over and say how great you were,” he said gazing deep into my eyes. “You sure can sing.”
I nodded, not knowing how to accept such a fulsome compliment from a professional.
“She surprised us,” said Sam.
A barman appeared at Jonny’s side and placed another couple of jugs of wine on the table.
“Put it on my bill,” Jonny said throwing some coins for a tip on the tray.
He topped up our glasses and handed me mine. “Now, Mpenzi Munro, how’d you like to sing a couple of numbers during our gig at the Blues Festival here in good old Cognac?”
Was he pulling my leg?
I stared at him to read his real meaning, but he had turned away. He waved to a group of guys sitting a few tables along and beckoned them towards ours indicating they should bring their stools with them. When they reached us Jonny introduced two of them as his drummer, Zack Gorget, and his base guitarist, Petey Tyson.
As to the third guy, a little chap with premature baldness and a wisp of dark hair on his sunburned scalp, Jonny told us this was a friend of his from way back, “Christopher Renard. He’s a local Frenchman and like most Christophers in France, we call him Kiki.”
Kiki bowed and said, “Bonsoir.”
The three of them took their seats and wine was poured.
Felix waited until everyone had quaffed half a glass before asking, “How come you two know each other?” nodding his head towards Kiki and Jonny Sauvage.
Zack shot a quick look at Jonny who nodded. “Okay, I’ll start the story,” he began. “Our band was here ten years ago—”
“—after hurricane Katrina,” said Jonny taking up the story. “The storm devastated our state of Louisiana in 2005 as you may remember. We’re from New Orleans and like so many musicians found ourselves without a means to earn a living. When the summer of 2006 rolled around many of us came over to France on a scheme organized by the French government.”
“I’m a Cajun, too,” said Zach. “We share a common heritage with the French. They were good to us. We rented a house here and travelled round all the bars and restaurants during that summer earning our daily bread.”
Emmanuelle, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Jonny Sauvage, said, “I remember. I was only a kid, but I saw you all play on the Esplanade.”
Jonny winked at her. “Just our way of giving back. That’s why we’re here this year. The Festival asked us and, of course, we had to come.”
Kiki had been fidgeting all the while this story had been told. He banged his glass down on the table. “And in between you all had a big hit and became rich.”
Johnny Sauvage must have kicked Kiki under the table because he reared back in his chair.
“Kiki,” Jonny said. “You know how much we appreciated having you play second guitar for us when we were here last, but you couldn’t come back to Louisiana with us. You’d just got married and we couldn’t get a visa for you both in time. Where’s your wife, by the way?”
Kiki didn’t lose his sulky look, but he did get off his seat and go to find his wife. While he was away, Jonny re-issued his invitation to me to sing with his band. I expected Zack and Petey to protest but they didn’t. I glanced at Sam and Felix for guidance. They both nodded their heads at me.
“Go for it,” said Felix. “It’s just what you need. Something completely off the wall.”
“Agreed,” Sam said. “Who would ever have thought my brainy sister would be singing the blues at a world famous festival.”
What had I got to lose? It would be fun. I decided to accept on one condition.
“I’ll do it if you don’t give out my real name. I have to live here after the festival is over, remember.”
Jonny clapped his hands. “Great. Are you free for a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon?”
“Here?” I asked.
“Uhuh. Let’s say three o’clock.”
Petey butted in. “She could sing with us here tomorrow night, couldn’t she, Jonny?”
“Good idea. We’re doing a live show and it would be good experience for you.”
We were discussing the final arrangements when Kiki came back with his wife. She was a good four to five inches taller than him. Trim with long dark hair and coal-black eyes. She curled her lip as Kiki introduced her to us and wrinkled her nose. Maybe she didn’t like us British or the Americans, or perhaps both.
Felix gave her his seat and went off to find another one. Not easy in such a packed venue.
Conversation stalled. Marie, that was her name, had that effect on us. She was the first to speak when Felix returned with a chair. She t
hanked him for his courtesy in giving up his seat for her.
“It’s good to meet a gentleman occasionally,” she said casting a dark look round the other men.
Kiki tried to give her a hug, but she resisted. “I suppose you’re going to play Mon P’tit Oiseau at Cognac?”
“Of course,” said Jonny. “It’s become our signature tune.”
Marie snorted.
Jonny said, “Kiki!”
I hadn’t a clue what that was all about, but it was clear Marie didn’t have much time for Jonny, and he didn’t like her. Had Jonny used up too much of Kiki’s time and attention on his last visit? Did he try it on with her? Anyway, it was irrelevant now. Past history.
“Are you playing with Jonny this year?” I asked Kiki.
He looked to Jonny for his answer.
Jonny smiled back. “Of course. You’ll be here tomorrow 3 p.m. for a rehearsal?”
Kiki promised he would. He and his wife left, taking her surliness with them.
“Is she always like that?” I asked.
Jonny shrugged.
Petey said, “Not an easy woman, that one.”
*
Kiki must have said something to his wife when they returned home because the next day when she and Kiki arrived for the rehearsal, she brought two rhubarb tarts with her.
“For our tea break,” she said. “Tarte au rhubarbe à la française.”
All the way through the rehearsal which I found difficult, I thought about those tarts. I’d had a quick look. They were different from the tarts we make in England where we lay the cut up stalks on a pastry case and if we’re fussy cover the fruit with a glaze. In these the stalks were set in an egg custard with a lightly caramelized sugar topping.
I’d never been part of a professional rehearsal before. We had so many stops and starts and my two numbers were lost in what was a two-hour program. A heated argument broke out between Jonny and Zack the drummer who wanted a solo spot. When at last Jonny agreed and the number was re-arranged, Zack fumed that his spot was too short.
“You always want the limelight, Jonny,” he said throwing his sticks down and stalking off.
