Following on from the previous episode which was called “Continuing the Saga - A New Chapter in Northern Paris”:
…
After doing my regular morning rush hour pitch at Metro St Lazare, I would wander off and explore other parts of the city. Either on foot, up in the daylight, or by catching another metro train to anywhere I fancied. The single price ticketing system was very simple, you buy one ticket to enter the underground network, and can then take as long as you like to go anywhere at all. But once you exit and go up above ground, you have to use up another ticket to get back inside again. So a quick espresso and toilet break effectively costs one extra ticket, unless it's within walking distance of somewhere else.
Sometimes I would spend half a day down there and then exit back where I started, and that's a perfectly valid thing to do. I'd go and explore interchange places on the map that looked promising. The greater the number of intersections the better the chances of a high footfall busking opportunity, except the map is not the territory. What looks like a star formation of differently coloured crossed lines may be hiding a long travelator, of the kind which now appear at some airports. A simple tunnel underneath the touristy Champs Elysees might be more interesting to play than a noisy and windy interchange below Republique in the then unfashionable East. Business wise, I was probably best off staying at St Lazare, doing my regular spot and then taking the rest of the day off, but I wouldn't know that unless I tried everywhere else.
I started to encounter other buskers from time to time, some of whom were miserable and paranoid, and some were happy to chat and exchange ideas. It wasn't long before someone told me about a special cafe where some of the regular buskers hang out in the afternoons. Cafe des Arts, St Michel. Just go to metro St Michel and as you walk up the steps to the street level, Rue St Andre des Arts is right in front of you. I remember the first time I did that.
If you do exactly that, go to Metro St Michel, take the exit to the fountain and ascend the steps to street level, upon emerging the view is very special. It has changed a little bit since the 70s, with the demolition of some of the old buildings but back then it was just ridiculously picturesque. The jumble of asymmetrical rooflines, with layers of history piled on top of each other and sticking out the sides, the bright colours and contrasting textures, the diverse thronging crowds waiting around the fountain or sat out on the terraces. I loved it more than the artists square at Montmartre, or the quaint roundabout at the top of Rue Mouffetard. There is one side of Paris which is a busy modern city and then this other side which has a surreal, dreamlike quality unlike anywhere else. An island of fairytale castle turrets and thatched cottage style architecture preserved and unencumbered by modern styles nor dwarfed by high rise facelessness. Smart and chic business in the North, bohemian fun in the South.
South of the river Seine, is called the left bank. That's because it's on your left as you flow downstream towards the sea. It is precisely on the left from the river's point of view, not necessarily ours as we turn around and face any direction we like, carrying our own concept of leftness around with us.
On the surface the business people and the bohemians rub along just fine together. Some of them are parent and child, patron and customer. Business needs tourism and tourism needs art, and artists. Street music is very much appreciated, although technically illegal. Not the playing of music itself, but you can get moved on by transport police, or even taken in to the gendarmerie and given a parking ticket then released without payment after an hour or two. That's just a professional inconvenience. Under the surface there is a tension left over from the events of 1968, and probably from the Paris commune and previous French revolutions. The youth have a sense of suspended victory. We will win next time, and it can't be long. But the riot police are working on that same assumption, and patrol the student areas in teams of 4 to 6 armed with machine guns and a severe attitude. A friend was picked up for street busking, and asked to step into a police van. As the van doors began to close, he appealed to the small crowd who had witnessed the spoilsport breakup of their fun, and for his pains he got temporarily charged with "inciting a riot"!
As I settled in with my small beer, the Cafe des Arts began to reveal its character. The walls were adorned with small but eclectic framed pictures, holding the history of countless artistic souls who had passed through. Each painting, photo or sketch told a story, a silent testament to the life of the latin quarter. The air was scented with a blend of strong coffee and french tobacco, a reminder of the many discussions, debates and songs that regularly animated the salon.
After a while, a group of musicians sauntered in. They were a mix of ages, their faces etched with stories of the city streets. One of them, an older gentleman with a salt-and-pepper beard, carried an accordion, while a younger woman with lively eyes clutched a mandolin. They acknowledged me with a nod, an unspoken welcome into their fold. They ordered their drinks and gathered around a table, their conversation flowing effortlessly from music to politics, food, and back again.
Hearing an evolved international form of English language spoken, I inched closer to them. The accordionist, noticing my guitar case, gestured for me to join. “You play?” he asked in a gruff but friendly voice. I nodded, and soon we were exchanging stories of our experiences busking in the Paris metro. They were fascinated by my tales from St Lazare and my explorations of the metro system. In turn, I was captivated by their insights into the city’s music scene, the unspoken rules of bagging cinema queues, street pitches, and the best spots for a well tipping audience.
As the afternoon waned, my thoughts turned to my unfortunate need to journey back to the North side of the city. We discussed the contrast between the bohemian Left Bank and the more commercial Right Bank. “It’s like two different worlds,” the violinist mused, “but music, it bridges that gap. It speaks to everyone, regardless of which side of the river they're on.”
The accordionist chuckled, “That’s why we play, isn’t it? To connect people, to bring a bit of soul back to this heartless city.” His eyes twinkled with a mix of wisdom and mischief. “And to stir up a bit of trouble now and then.”
As the evening approached, the group decided to head out for an impromptu performance in the little square. They invited me to join, and I eagerly agreed. We left the Cafe des Arts, our instruments in hand, ready to fill St Michel with improvised global music.
The square was alive with people just out ambling, enjoying the atmosphere, and as we started to play, a crowd quickly gathered. “Let’s see how long we can last before the cops arrive” The music we created was spontaneous, a fusion of our diverse backgrounds and styles. It was more than just a performance. A celebration of the unbroken spirit of Paris, a city that, despite its many layers and complexities, remains a haven for artists and dreamers.
As the word came round, our final musical phrases came to a hastily configured end and I realised that this was more than just another day in my story. It was a moment of connection, of being part of something larger than myself. And as the applause from the gathered crowd washed over us, and we quickly cashed in and packed up, I knew that this was just the beginning of many more such moments in the most magical part of the worlds most iconic city.
Back in the cafe des Arts again, the metro beckoned and I was not dreaming at all. The bottom half of my long poured beer had grown warm, and not so inviting, but what the heck.
Clunk, Allez hop!