JVC JAZZ FESTIVAL, PARIS

As a twelve year-old, Kelly Joe Phelps picked up a guitar, adopted it as an extension of his left arm, and would scarcely be with out it. He still takes his wooden friend everywhere he travels and my eardrums are exceptionally grateful that he happened to have it about his person at 2100 on Tuesday 14^th October when he frequented the New Morning club, 2ème, Paris.  Funnily enough, I had paid my 21 euros and so just happened to be there too…  The consequences were not by any means cacophonic.

Once upon a night of the JVC Jazz Festival Château d’Eau showed me a great time.  I had an unexpected ball and there was not a saxophone to be seen.  Ushered down into a nightclub basement, where swinging a saxophone seemed impossible, I was apprehensive to say the least.  Curious, intrigued, unprepared and downright freezing to say a bit more.  However, the performance that promptly followed would tickle most music tastes and the music was only a small part of what the audience were about to applaud madly.  I was blasted with Phelps’ impressive, dextrous and animated guitar action, which seemed a hybrid of The Eagles and Counting Crows with a touch of Stereophonics for extra flavour.  The man is an idol of Ben Harper, who actually nominates Phelps as one of the “best guitarists” in the business and U2 have “officially” been inspired by him.

I perch on the back of the only available seat, my knees pressed against a redundant grand piano, from where Mr. Guitar-Fanatic who accompanied me could monitor Phelps’ finger-work intimately.  The band had probably just met in the dressing room but the sound and the communication between them suggests they met in the delivery room.  The thick, hazy dinge echoes the depth of the penetrating double bass and the copper spotlights mirror the sharp, aggressive drumming and tinkling of Scott Amendola.  Nodding groupies line the floor and steps, their eyes sometimes wide, reflecting the swinging symbols in front and sometimes squinting from the meandering waves of cigarette smoke which punctuates the throbbing amphitheatre.  This is Paris in microcosm.  Even Kelly Joe Phelps, the talented American, represents the fanatic foreigners who flock to the city and enthusiastically strum their way down the Champs-Elysées.  Old Monsieur and his fur-lined Madame squat amongst them, tapping in appreciation to the ever-changing rhythm penetrating the constantly positive ambiance.

At this point in my article “creation”, a university friend (who had been surreptitiously peering over, casually reading the scribbles on my spotted notepad upside-down) quizzically tilted her head to one side before carefully and hesitantly suggesting that, although she “approved” of my descriptions in general, should I not consult a music connoisseur?  Quite frankly I saw no need; the rows of music critique magazines lining newsagent walls is too much in the way of competition, so forgive me if my standpoint seems somewhat naïve and musically uneducated.   The critic stands criticised…  So stand by me, despite my lack of technical jargon.       

I lose myself in this hazy, reverberating room.  I feel honoured to be looking in on what felt like a backstage rehearsal in the best possible sense.  Impromptu solos by Mr. Gravel-Voice himself, a cup of tea precariously placed on one of Keith Lowe’s smaller drums, and deliberate musical “errors” that miraculously turned into genial melodies, just enhanced the low-key/high-impact effect.  Of course it is fundamentally Jazz, but should Phelps really have been born in Fur-Lined Madame’s era?  I think not, for as he maintains himself, he is highlighting the ‘core’ of Jazz music that has infiltrated through to today’s musicians.  This concert bridges the gap.  It explains the musical “etomology” of the chords and rhythms we hear this century.

Fur-lined Madame grimaces at the cigarettes that were being stubbed out dangerously close to her patent court shoes only to be mesmerised subsequently by a sudden key change resultant of one of Phelps’ head nods. 

Time travels as rapidly as the vast 6 euro punch bowl evaporates into the applauding enthusiastes françaises.  Intrusive text messages and electronic telephone melodies are vetoed, refreshingly, thanks to the depth of the venue. 

Mr. Guitar-Fanatic doubted there would be a third encore, however I was busy smugly counting my 20 euro wager when Kelly Joe Phelps and Co. emerged for the forth time and calmed the semi-circular standing ovation by activating the vigorous threesome, thrashing any previous finale.  Had they accepted a fifth, I am confident that I would not have been disappointed.  I confess to concert-virginity and hence hope I seem more convincing in my appreciation of what could appear to be a groupie, cleeky festival event… Just another tasty treat from this pulsating Paris place, which, I might add, is situated in a frustratingly Blu-tac-free country.  Do they use snails to stick their photographs and posters to their walls?

Back to the evening.  I emerge into the Château d’Eau hubbub with the same sense of disorientated satisfaction one feels when stepping down from a Gatwick-Miami flight, or perhaps the sense of disorientation felt by a tropical fish who has over-estimated her tail power and regrettably flipped out onto the windowsill.

Bit late for you to go now (tee-hee), but this does go to prove that you should not shy away from Paris in October, nor should you from pseudo Big Issue sellers having puffed your expectant way up from the rattling Metro dungeons- they may shove into your unwilling hand a leaflet along the lines of Kelly Joe Phelp’s heaven.