Speeding Away, On the wind to a New Day

On the turntable:  Jah Wobble, "English Roots Music"

Purple Reigns

On the turntable:  Jaco Pastorius, "Invitation"

Lunch with Mayle, Wine with the Popes

 

 

On the turntable:  Julianna Barwick, "The Magic Place"

Sur le Pont d'Avignon

On the turntable:Juno Reactor, "Odyssey 1992-2002"

Much Communication in a Motion

On the turntable:  Jackie McClean, "'Bout Soul"

Papal Vue

On the turntable:  Julian Cope, "China Doll"

Le Fútbol

The summer that Japan hosted the World Cup was one of the highlights of my many years there.  By day I was hitchhiking the 33 temples of the Kansai Kannon pilgrimage, while at night I’d return to a city somewhere to watch a match.  I’d chose bars or pubs that had a connection to one of the teams on the pitch, and the energy of the fans could barely be contained within the four thin walls of the place.

In a similar spirit I thought it would be fun to go down to Cogolin to watch France play Argentina.  It was a typically quiet Saturday, when all the action is down at the beach. But today even the boules court was empty, and the only sound was the occasional raucous shout of “Merde!” coming through a window shuttered against the summer sun. 

A workingman’s bar had laid out tables and chairs beneath some awnings out front, and all eyes there were aimed at the large television hung beside the front door.  Every chair was full, occupied by bristle-haired, full-bellied men, along with the odd soccer widow.  An air of intoxication hung over this collective, but one that was heavy rather than convivial.  Indoors too was full, and tainted with the pungency of sweat and cigarettes.   Most of the room was engaged with a smaller TV, but for a quad of men oblivious to all but their card game.  There was just enough space to squeeze into a bench beside them, but here too the atmosphere wasn’t terribly welcoming.  So we stepped out again and watched awhile from the street, just in time to see France’s beautiful third goal.  No matter how many times I saw the reply, I couldn’t tell if it were luck or skill, as the ball left the fully extended leg of Pavard and literally curled into the net.

Across the road, the cafe beside the boules court was nearly empty but for a dozen people who seemed to be staff along with a few of their mates.  While they were friendly, the decor itself was cold, all cheap steel and formica.  Over a milky pastis I saw France score their fourth and deciding goal, so with less than ten minutes to go and the match seemingly won, we headed off to run errands. 

Across from the pharmacy I noticed a new bar that specialized in craft beers, done up in the wooden look of Ye Olde Timey English Pub, yet with the exposed copper pipes of 19th century France. Aside from the barkeep and a couple of his friends at the bar, the seven or eight people alternately cheered or moaned in accents English or American.  I stood in the doorway as LYL got her perception filled, but when Argentina came within a single goal I moved inside for the local version of Pale Ale.  This took some doing for I could’t draw the attention of the barman away from the television, deep into the match was he perdu. 

And with France the eventual victor, the streets began to fill.  We strolled the lanes back to the car, as voices rose from the boules court, and from within the cafes came the clutter of cutlery and the clink of glass.


On the turntable: The 101ers, “Elgin Avenue Breakdown Revisited”
On the nightable: MLK Fisher, “Not Now, But Now”