Off the bus, walking briskly on the sidewalk, finding that my Gate K is on the far side of the stadium.  As I circled Pierre Mauroy, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band started.  It was one of my favourite songs – “No Surrender”.  I smiled as familiar words poured out of the arena.  I was in the presence of Springsteen … I just couldn’t see him.

Finally to K.  The security check was fast, probably because nearly everybody was already in their seats.

My goal was Section 23.  Many steps upwards and I was there.  Row 60 … more up.  Seat 45.  Bruce was in the middle of a song so I sat in the aisle till he was done.

Then I looked to my left and tried to communicate to the fellow in French.  “Quelle place êtes-vous?” didn’t get the job done.  I sat back down as the next song began.  When it was over, I tried again, and managed to understand “Seat 56”.

(Repeat the sitting and standing for the next song)

I looked to my right – another gentleman.  He spoke English!  “Seat 55.”  So at least I knew my direction.

One more time: sit … then stand.  “Pardon.  Excusez-moi” as person after person let me pass.  And then …

Seat 45

Home at 19:55

***

I sat and stood and sang enthralled for over two hours.  “The River”, “Badlands”, “Dancing in the Dark” … and one huge etcetera.

Bruce was tiny but the big screens showed me his sweat.  How can somebody so old throw himself around so much, sing so much, do guitar solos so much?  Thank you Bruce.  And Nils, Steve, Max, Roy, Jake, Garry, Soozie and all you other guys.

Here’s a photo of the crowd waving our arms in unison for some anthem (that I forget) near the end of the show.  Magnifique!

And then there was getting home to my Airbnb.  It took two hours.  That’s all right.  The previous two hours were stunning.

I smiled all night as I slept

I’m playing catch-up … back to Saturday. 

I knew the day would be a challenge: play well at the cello concert, catch the train to Lille, roar into my Airbnb to get basic instructions, roar out of my Airbnb for a bus to Stade Pierre Mauroy, do whatever gymnastics are necessary to go through security and find my seat and …

Sit down

On Saturday morning, I decided not to do my recently usual two hours of cello practice.  I was thrilled with the effort I had put in on the days before.  Concert day meant trusting my fingers would remember the pieces.

I wore my newly favourite shirt … a white one.  And lo and behold, so did Max, who sat beside me onstage. 

There stood Lieven before the 35 of us: our conductor and cello teacher, smiling away, exhorting us to give all we had for the half-hour concert. 

I had my moments of union … with the music and with the other members of the orchestra.  We played nine short pieces.  Each one had four different cello parts.  Occasionally my group had the melody.  My favourite time was when we were playing a piece from “Finlandia” by the composer Jean Sibelius.  I could feel my playing blending with other melodies onstage. 

My moments of ecstasy were few, even though passion often came through my fingers and bow.  Often the notes were wrong, the rhythm was wrong, the sound was scratchy … or I was lost.  (Sigh)

However: I’m playing the cello again!  And Saturday it was in an orchestra.  Good for me.

After our bow to the audience at the end, I rushed off the stage, packed up my cello in its case, brought it over to the cello teacher Vincent for safekeeping, grabbed my suitcase and walked as fast as a human being could to the tram stop ten minutes away.

I caught the 16:15 tram to the Gent Sint-Pieters station, caught the 16:37 train to Lille, and caught my breath.

The mission continued to be accomplished.  The train transfer supposedly needed at Kortrijk wasn’t necessary.  “Stay on this train for Lille, sir.”  Thank you, I’ll do that.

Lille at 17:50.  Springsteen concert at 19:30.  Piece of cake, I thought.  Ten minute walk to the Airbnb.  Get fast and basic instructions from Sel, my host.  He recommended I take the subway (métro) to the stadium rather than my planned bus.

Out of there, shuffling down the street towards the bus.  Seeing the métro sign, I made an executive decision: subway, not bus.  “Figure out how to pay.  Figure out which line to take and what stop to get off at.  I can do this!”

“The best laid plans of mice and men” is a line from the poet Robert Burns.  Sometimes so true.  A kind man who spoke English helped me with the ticket-dispensing machine.  The map told me “Line 1 to Pierre Mauroy”.  And there was a stairway down to the track.

Only one problem: about fifty people were crammed together at the top of the stairs, with a female transit employee speaking loudly to them (in French, of course).

It took a minute or two, but I figured it out – the subway was shut down!  Difficultés techniques.  (Sigh again)

Because I’d made the subway choice, I missed the bus to the stadium.  The next bus was … late.  As in half-an-hour late.

I stood at the stop with about thirty of my favourite concertgoers.  Finally, here comes the bus.  The word “full” would be an exaggeration, but only slightly.

Thus ensued the most crammed bus ride of my life.  I had a lovely talk with a woman shorter than me.  I needed to grab the pole just above the top of her head.  Her hair felt nice.  At one point, the bus rounded a corner at speed.  “I’m goin’ down!” I thought.  I lifted my other hand to grab the pole too … and smacked a fellow in the jaw with my elbow!  “Pardon, monsieur.”  He smiled.

At 19:32, the bus regurgitated approximately half the population of Lille onto the sidewalk near Stade Pierre Mauroy.  I could feel my hand again.

Surely Bruce wouldn’t be starting till 20:00 or later …

To be continued

What an adventure the last 24 hours have been … and before.  There’s so much to say and so little energy to say it.  I’ll start with a few words.  Much more later.

I’m exhausted.  Slept two hours in the middle of the day.  I have today and tomorrow to explore Lille but I sure haven’t done much so far.  And I’m fine with that.  My body is speaking.

There’s something I’ve done that I’ve never done before – practice my music two hours a day for seven or eight days.  The cello and me.  We performed with about 35 other cellists yesterday afternoon.  The two of us are brothers … I feel it.  Tired brothers.  The intensity has caught up with me.

It’s so unrealistic to expect me to be “on” all the time, but it’s what my small, petty voice pushes at me.  Well, dear voice, you’re entitled to your opinion but I travel elsewhere.

That’s enough words for the moment.  I’m off in search of a restaurant that serves pesto pasta.

I love going to Huset for lunch.  Many friends have joined me there, and yesterday it was Prabigya.

Saartje is one of the employees and she knows me well.  As I waited for Prabigya to arrive, here comes Saartje with a wicker box.

“Last time you really liked the dinosaur that sits on the front counter so I decided to bring you more of them to play with.”

And lo and behold, the box was brimming with animals of various types.

I’m glad Saartje can see my true nature.  I like playing.  I like playing with people, to see if I can get them to laugh.  I like playing with jigsaw puzzles.  I like playing with cellos.

I gently lifted all these creatures from their home and set them on the table.  No Prabigya yet.  I thought it would be a fine welcome to have these beings all facing her.  So I set them up.  The golden horse on the right of the picture was being ornery.  He kept falling over.  Luckily the table top wasn’t perfectly level and I found a spot that would make him happy.  He neighed, as horses are wont to do.

I attempted a conversation about horses not standing up with the fellow who was on his computer at the next table … but he wasn’t interested.  Oh well.

As you can see, dinosaurs are well represented on the table.  No doubt Prabigya will be pleased.  But I didn’t want them to be front and centre.  There was a clear star of the show:

A pink pig

I knew that my friend wouldn’t be able to resist the charms of this chubby one.  So there he or she sat at the head of the parade.

***

Prabigya laughed

There was still lots of room for our drinks

Two weeks ago, I wrote a post called “The Next Song”.  I told you that I was learning a new song to sing at open mic sessions in June … “How Can I Keep From Singing?”  The lyrics and melody are lovely.

What I didn’t anticipate was how committed I was becoming to playing well with thirty other cellists this Saturday.  I’ve been practicing for two hours a day for nearly a week.  Unprecedented for this guy!

With my three days in Lille, France coming up right away, I’ve realized that I don’t have time to learn a new song.  I’ve discovered that there are different levels to memorizing.  In order to perform well, accompanied by the nervousness I feel in front of an audience, the words need to be supremely firm in my head.  I won’t get there between now and then.

There is another song that I was working on months ago.  It’s called “Spring and Summer”, written by John Denver.  I trust that I’m far enough advanced that I will calmly sing the words well in June.

What boggles my mind, however, is the song I woke up with this morning … “Catch the Wind”.  It was written by the Scottish folksinger Donovan in 1965.  Here it is:

In the chilly hours and minutes
Of uncertainty, I want to be
In the warm hold of your loving mind
To feel you all around me
And to take your hand, along the sand
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

When sundown pales the sky
I want to hide awhile, behind your smile
And everywhere I’d look, your eyes I’d find
For you to love me now
Would be the sweetest thing
That would make me sing
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

When rain has hung the leaves with tears
I want you near, to kill my fears
To help me to leave all my blues behind
For standin’ in your heart
Is where I want to be, and I long to be
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

I have never sung this song in public.  I have no memory of learning it.  And yet in the shower this morning, the words flowed sweetly out of my mouth.

How is this possible?

I don’t know and I don’t care

There will be two songs in June

It’s a long-standing tradition for me … either to share with a friend my “Word of the Day” or to ask them theirs.  Years ago, a custodian at Catholic Central High School named Randy would ask me for a word nearly every day.  In Gent I’m the one asking.

Take today for instance.  I walked into Izy Coffee with the question on my lips. 

First of all was the barista Arjen  >  million

Then my friend Annelies  >  smile

Then my other friend Larisa  >  baby

Then Larisa’s seven-week-old daughter Zoë  >  (burp)

And how about a random male customer?  >  fresh

***

Woh … that’s a lot of words to choose from!

And one more, from Eda, a server at Panos on the Langemunt …

cucumber

While smile and fresh are sublime, cucumber definitely wins the day

I do believe I’m eclectic … which I think is a very cool word, not to be confused with electric.

Deriving ideas, style or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources

Consider the source called “sound”.  On July and August I will span the range of sound volume.

The Dour Festival in July is five days of music – techno, hip hop, and God knows what else.  It will be loud!

Here’s what the Internet says

At most festivals, the volume ranges between 95 and 103 dB.  If you’re new to decibels, let’s start with the basic level of 80 dB.  This is a sound level at which your ears can safely listen for 8 hours without the risk of hearing damage.  Every additional 3 dB halves that time.  So, for example, at 95 dB, your ears are safe for about 15 minutes.

The World Health Organization (WHO) recommends limiting exposure to 100 decibels to 20 minutes per day to avoid hearing damage.

I just bought a pair of high-tech earplugs.  The brochure mentions terms such as “linear attenuation” and “advanced filtration technology”.  You might say it sounds good to me.

If Dour’s sound level is 100 decibels, these earplugs will reduce it by 19, down to 81.  So … safe.  Plus apparently the sound quality stays high.

Yay!

And now the contrast: In August I’ll be at a nine-day silent retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts, USA.

My detailed sound research has revealed this analysis …

Decibel level 0

Yay again!

I’ve seen him live three times … in Toronto (twice) and in Amsterdam.  Saturday will be the fourth.

Our cello concert at St. Michael’s Church in Gent will finish at around 4:00 pm.  My train to Lille, France leaves at 4:35.  I’ll be on it.  Bruce and Bruce will be in the same room at 7:30.

I’ve loved his life, his joie de vivre, his lyrics, his melodies, his performances.

In 1985 I was in the throes of divorce.  I had left home and was staying with a friend.  I hunkered down in bed and listened to No Surrender on my Walkman:

Tonight, I hear the neighborhood drummer sound
I can feel my heart begin to pound
You say you’re tired, and you just wanna close your eyes
And follow your dreams down

Well, we made a promise, we swore we’d always remember
No retreat, baby, no surrender
Like soldiers in the winter’s night with a vow to defend
No retreat, baby, no surrender

Thank you, Bruce, for being with me then … and ever since.

Thank you for My Hometown, If I Should Fall Behind and Badlands.

I’ll wait for you, and should I fall behind, wait for me

Welcome to France, Bruce

”

It’s fascinating (and scary) to express myself in public when my skills aren’t great.  “Society” seems to say that showing yourself musically, theatrically, artistically or athletically needs to happen within a context of excellence, rather than participation.  I disagree with society.

On Saturday, May 24 I’ll be participating in a cello concert in Sint-Michielskerk, a lovely Catholic church in Gent.  Thirty cellists will make music: about eight short pieces, with a melody and three harmonies for each.

Here’s our venue:

You might say that such a grand space deserves professional ability, but again I say no.

Some of these cellists are far better than me.  A few are less skilled.  And future musical growth beckons us all.  What we share is a love for our instrument  … how it can “sing” notes high and low, how it can draw tenderness from our souls.

We had a two-hour rehearsal this morning.  Five days ago, seeing my current musical limitations, I committed to practicing the pieces for two hours each day until the 24th.  (I told myself that I would call our two rehearsals “practice”, just so I didn’t get totally obsessive.)  And so far I’ve kept my word.  I will continue to do so.

I struggled this morning.  The usual culprits: some wrong notes, some scratchy sounds bow-to-string, some misreading of rhythms.  But I was there!  I played.  And I had some fine moments.  During one piece (Jesu, Joy of Our Desiring by J.S. Bach) I was carried into the joy of playing a harmony section to another group’s melody.  Oh yes … it’s why I sit in my cello chair. 

Even though my dream is to sing beautiful songs and accompany myself on the cello, there’s a place in my future for … the orchestra.

Shall we play?

This photo got me thinking … about the lives we human beings live.  And mine.

When I pass by 80-year-olds on the street, it’s easy for me to see only the present moment, with possibly its creased skin, its halting steps, and elderly clothes.  But the past stretches way back in these lives.  Perhaps mountains were climbed, bridal bouquets were thrown, children were welcomed to the world.

I often say that the last time I looked I was 25.  In fact this photo is me at about that age, “a man of the mountains” … self-described.  Soon to be a consumer of spiritual books: from Jiddu Krishnamurti to Da Free John to Carl Rogers to Ken Wilber.  A true believer within Werner Erhard’s “est” organization.

I look back with fondness at the life of this young man.  He was a good soul, kind to others.  And I still am.  Here’s a photo of the current version of Bruce:

I love him too

We carry each other through the rest of our life