I Speak Your Language

Blind Drawing of Jeff, an upright bass player, Paris 2010.

Blind Drawing, saxophone player, Paris 2010.

Blind Drawing of Ziggy, a guitar player, Paris 2010.

The life of an expatriate, especially that of one in Paris, has an odd way of focusing your thoughts and your happiest moments onto the small instances where you make a connection with that of another human being. This is due partly to the fact that I no longer have a cell phone, my social circle has shrunk down to just my person, and of course, the language. But this Wednesday, I had sort of a little achievement. As I tried to instigate some sort of ritual and pattern in my weekly activities, I went back to the same jazz lounge I visited last week and the same musicians were there.

I sat down in my usual table, and continued to order my dinner: a simple pot of boeuf bourguignon, some bread and a light berry tart for dessert. The room now is full of businessmen and fashion execs from Rue St. Honore and I'm starting to feel a little bit out of place, but I ease into the shadow of my table, pull out my sketchpad, and start to record.

The trio starts to play a few warm notes and I'm ready to enjoy the session. Sometimes I feel as if the Parisians themselves don't have a chance to really enjoy the atmosphere because its their everyday, their state of normalcy. So as the set starts, I begin recording (clandestinely of course, with mics hidden both in my books on the table and in my jacket lapel) and I find myself just being incredibly excited and overwhelmed by the musicians movements and the cool control they exude over each of their instruments.

Forgetting about proper table etiquette and manners, I start to cheer them on as they masterfully paint through their improv solos, and we start to make eye contact, the musicians and I. They smile and throw a nod at me, as if they're saying "Hey thanks, listen to this..." I'm laughing uncontrollably by this point, because the bass player and the guitarist, Jeff and Ziggy, are throwing melodies around in such a relaxed but calculated manner, it feels like watching baby chicks playing Battleship.

By the time I look at my watch, three hours have passed, and most of the night crowd is gone but we're still enjoying ourselves having musical conversations across the room. Jeff introduces everyone and he thanks me for coming to listen...for really listening. He tells me that they play for people like me, I suppose 'who come to speak their language.' Of course he's not talking about French. He's talking about the universal language of jazz, a means of communication most Parisians tend to gloss over.

There's an exchange of some words, a business card or two, and before I know it, he's inviting me to art openings and future concerts later down the line. Jeff's last words are "Cool Cool. We'll see you around Matthew Jamieson Abiva. We'll definitely see you around."