Calvi, day III
Sunday July 8: it is the Lord’s day. The places are divine, which exempts us from Sunday prayer. Jesus Christ rose from the dead on the third day, the Gospels tell us. That’s good, we’re here…
Yesterday, or should we say early this morning, the party continued until dawn in the cobbled streets of the city. Not very Catholic, we confess, but the afters being part of the official programming, we do not feel guilty for closing our eyes at such undue hours. Not a cloud stains the azure of the sky, it is already almost 30 degrees. We have breakfast around the pool, while fighting our enemy””www””. It is renamed””wwwec””: World Wide Web Excluding Calvi.
On the beach of Le Bout du Monde (the nearest beach, I’m sure you’ll understand), the afternoon is devoted to Ed Banger, who is there in it-crew for a series of gigs electronico-parisiens. The French touch, I hear. The fashionable sounds follow one another, first So Me, then DVNO, then Victor Aime, the younger of the label. We enjoy ourselves, but we wonder if this discontinuous music doesn’t start to exhaust us a bit: the day, the night, the car radio, the receptionist…
Text from a friend who invites us to taste a house planter at the end of the bay. Let’s hurry it up. On the way, we give some hugs, and we cross bimbos. Passing the Diesel In Casa beach, we stop for Pachanga Boys, who show us how to surround a crowd with turntables and a good sound system. These two are wise…
20h. At the top of the Citadel is a secret place where the festival staff has lunch and dinner. A breathtaking natural lookout over Calvi Bay, from the top of a cliff filed by millenary winds, and the mountains in the background, which also testify to the strength of time. It is from there that some smart people without a penny zieut evening concerts, beyond the cactus, beyond the barriers, and beyond any good sense of security. The bartender at the hotel told us. If the boss knew that, she’d definitely turn a blind eye. She’s not a convenient woman, like all the moms around here. So we had an appointment there to snack “on the rocks” with the Danish trio WhoMadeWho, who a few hours later would offer us the most beautiful concert of the year. Tabbouleh, rosé, coffee. We ask them if this Mediterranean Shangri-La inspires them. They answer us with a clear and massive yes. Good thing we brought a guitar. Then begins an improvised high altitude beef, a magical moment, shamelessly applauded by the handful of volunteers still at the table. Say Who Made Who, in short.
Tonight, we won’t miss the Scandinavian troublemakers show, not even the New Yorkers The Rapture. Break time.
