La joie de vivre

We saw bluesy Larkin Poe at l’olympia.

And finally, last Wednesday we saw a great celtic punk show at Bataclan.

This isn’t a post about any particular genre of music being better than any other. It really isn’t about music at all.

It’s about the city I call home and some of the things she’s teaching me. At every show I caught myself looking around while the music played and was struck my how few people took their cameras out. And when they did, it was quickly put away.

A quick shot, then back in my pocket. Then, lean in, listen, let the moment take me to that magical place the outside world cannot touch. Coveting, savoring every single moment.

As former military members coming from the mass shooting capital of the world, we also have a habit of always having an exit plan… just in case. Find the exits. Find the places to hide. Find a places to shove my wife and cover her up. It is what it is.

Sainte-Chappelle is this breathtaking 12th century cathederal with original stain glass windows. Even without the music you will be moved to tears. Once the music started, the sounds of the violin bouncing within that hall felt like the angels themselves were singing just for you. I actually cried from the sheer joy of the moment. And I noticed I was not the only one.

The door stage left where some of the musicians came in. That’s where we’ll head if we have to make a quick exit.

L’olympia is this great relatively new venue built in the latter part of the 19th century. The sound of the slide guitar bounced off the columns and hit my ears and chest that filled me like a warm chocolate mousse. People danced to exhaustion. Two little girls walked out of the mass in the center of the floor and sat right at my feet. We were on a wall next to an exit far enough away from the entrance that we could get out easily. I just have to remember to grab the little girls, too.

I took my friend Andrew to Bataclan when he came to visit. We didn’t go to a show, he just wanted to see it, be near a holy place for any live music fan. That’s the thing about live music fans, these places are our churches. When they are violated, we all feel violated. Angry. Hurt. These are our people, this is our building. This is a place that felt like home for so many of us when our own homes were anything but. That’s true about any venue that has ever held live music.

We stood outside the exits. We looked up and saw the windows people crawled out of on that night. We walked the street people ran down to escape the horror.

Going to the show my first thought was, I have to be respectful. But I am going to have the absolute best time because fuck you terrorists, you will not take that.

We got there early. Okay, we’re against the stage, we’ll throw ourselves over, and out the back door.

But I also stood there just looking around, taking it all in. Trying to wrap my head around how anyone could steal the joy of live music. I marveled at the Parisian spirit, the insistance that this place re-open, that live music blast from its speakers, that people come, dance like maniacs, stomping the hate and horror.

At one point my wife and I went outside for a preshow smoke and a man stopped and pointed to my wife’s Frank Turner tee shirt. He spoke French and we tried to keep up before he chuckled and spoke better english than I do. He asked if we were at the Frank show that night. Frank was doing a show the night of the attack not far from Bataclan. We said we haven’t gotten to see him in Paris yet, but we’ve seen him more times than we can count. We talked about Freighened Rabbit and the heartbreak of losing Scott Hutchinson. We talked about Frank’s amazing homage to his friend, Scott.

And just like that, we knew we found another member of our tribe. Inside we would see him and nod as we were lost in the music. And, oh my god, the sheer unbridled joy of everyone at that show; the kindness of heart, the giddiness.

I swear though, that night, that venue… it was as though Bataclan has a spirit of its own that demands we love harder, dance with more verve, sing louder as if to demonstrate that most french of sentiments, la joie de vivre! We found just that little bit more of that joy because the bad guys cannot, they will not take that from us. On that floor, against that stage we leaned in hard.

After the show we waited in line for our coats, leaning against walls still scarred from that night in 2015. Scars worn by a warrior, a survivor that has seen the world do its worst and remained standing, battered but unbroken. We saw our friend on the way out and said our au revoirs and bonne soirees.

We floated home on the joy that filled our lives that night.