LOUISVILLE - DENVER - PALM BEACH
HOUSTON - SAN FRANCISCO

Zigging and zagging

In the United States I try something completely new: performing with an orchestra. In this case it’s the Villa-Lobos Concerto, and I’m accompanied by the legendary Louisville Symphony Orchestra. The technique is a bit like playing a duet in that you have to listen to the other musicians while listening to yourself. Case in point, the conductor, Jorge Mester, handles his orchestra as if it were an instrument. All of the musicians breathe in synch with him and respond immediately to my changes of rhythm and tone. A pleasant surprise considering my fear of being drowned out by the volume of the orchestra. In this case adjustments were made, much like the first tentative steps between a man and a woman.

*******

In Denver, under the influence of a 1959 Château-Margaux that was served by the mayor right before my concert, I (along with my audience) discovered that although alcohol may occasionally promote inspiration, it does little for one’s concentration. Mind you, I wasn’t drunk per se. But in my case music goes right to my head. There are musicians— and famous musicians at that—who feel liberated by the effects of stimulants. They let the music control them. More often than not they are improvisers, working with jazz or flamenco.

Another reason for the concert’s failure was the lack of a desire to communicate. When people communicate it does seem as though each of us has a measurable pulse of energy, a certain amount of which we radiate to the world around us. Tirelessly, like Sisyphus, we must release this accumulated energy, a process similar to the release of libidinal energy. Indeed there may be a link between the two. Some people have a very limited desire to communicate with others (shepherds, hermits, mountain men). Others, however, have an abundance of energy: politicians, journalists, and, most of all, artists! When that desire is exhausted, however, making contact becomes more problematic. The day of a performance, it’s best not to talk, laugh, or cry too much. The communicative sap needs to be coaxed, corralled, channeled so it can be released at the appropriate moment. A sparkling cocktail party, like the one held in my honor by the mayor, can lead to a premature "ejaculation."

*******

The day after my somewhat tarnished concert, some of the people who had attended my seminar hold out copies of my records for me to sign. I take one of the records and nearly go into cardiac arrest. The title: "The Nimble Fingers of Jean-Pierre Jumez." It’s the performance I had recorded several years earlier in New Zealand.

A photograph of a bearded man (I have no idea who it is, because it isn’t me) wearing nothing but a tuxedo jacket appears on the cover. The discrete placement of a guitar is the only thing that prevents the jacket from being classified as "pornographic." The effect is all the more suggestive because the man’s thighs are hairy and ugly (I repeat they are not mine). I don’t think it would be especially unreasonable or hot-headed to call a lawyer and have him look into the possibility of removing the photograph from the album cover. After all, it is being sold throughout North America. It might even become my best selling record! The despicable record company (ABC), represented by their despicable law firm, Coudert Brothers, refuses to cooperate, however. "Too expensive."

We're in for some fun. I file a complaint with the court, which leads to an interminable game of hide and seek with lawyers across the United States (at my expense), four meetings in New York, two of which are futile, and then, after four years of arguments, depositions, petty maneuvering and deceit, a trial in Manhattan, before a six-member jury.

The defendants’ argument is "rock solid." "Our job is to sell records, and we’ve sold plenty of this man’s records, so what is he complaining about?" My response: "When you chose this disgusting picture, did you even bother to ask whether I was alive or dead"? The reply: "Absolutely not." Lovely. After a week of deliberations the jury finally delivered its verdict. I lost my defamation suit since there are no laws that stipulate that an album cover is subject to the artist’s approval. However, I do win $140,000 on the grounds of "invasion of privacy." I used the money to pay back my legal expenses. Cara lex, sed lex.

*******

Television cameras follow me around the museum in Columbus, Ohio. I change rooms depending on the "color" of the pieces I play. The people in the audience, who have brought cushions with them, follow my ambulatory muse. In Palm Beach, the city of billionaires, a young heiress welcomes me to her palace.

I feel as though my money makes me an outcast, she confesses. I feel as though I can’t trust anyone.

Her smile make me suspicious. Gifts make me uncomfortable. And invitations make me leery. This poor little rich girl is as frightened of parasites as I am of schistosomiasis. Courting her isn’t going to be easy under these circumstances. The purity of my music will have to convince her of the purity of my intentions.

Some of these wealthy women prefer to eliminate the ambiguity by buying themselves a husband.

"To my new husband!" I hear one septuagenarian say, raising her glass at the end of a meal given in honor of my arrival.

I can hardly believe it. Is he really an adult? "I’m warning you," she adds "the next one isn’t even born yet!" The next day I perform a concert at a fundraising dinner hosted by the Red Cross. No one even touches the piles of caviar arranged around the room. In these parts caviar is a bit like a loaf of bread at a sixteenth century tea party. My hostess puts me at ease.

With tonight’s meal, the Red Cross will be able to save the lives of 10,000 needy people. But I have little doubt that their representatives will hit me up for a contribution later. I prefer to make my humanitarian contributions on my own, however. If necessary, I’ll hire a 747 to transport the food and medicine as I see fit. It's true that the pathways of humanitarian aid are not always obvious. In restaurants here and there, I've encountered food that was unmistakably intended to be used for "humanitarian" purposes.

A couple, both psychiatrists, invites me to cheer up their cruise in the Virgin Islands. A small seaplane awaits me in Miami, a city of transit for refugees and the well-off alike. After crossing an emerald sea as clear as an aquarium, glittering with mica below and shot through with tints of coral, we make a bouncy landing on the water. Our little toy is a 29-meter "New York Fifty" class cutter with a perfectly smooth bridge, a wooden "flushdeck" built in 1917

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- Here, take this mask and slipknot. Let's catch some lobsters before we leave. For this kind fishing it's better to be a trumpeter than a guitarist. It requires diving 5 or 6 meters below the surface, waiting for the animal, who is curious by nature, to come out of his hole, and surprising it, so that it backs directly into the slipknot.

In the end our dip nets are full enough to justify our fatigue.

The winches have barely had time to stop screeching when our graceful shark takes to the seas once more. The bow shivers, silently pushing through the water, leaving no more than a few small ripples in its wake.

As soon as we pass the tip of the island, some silent force stretches the sails taut. The masts stiffen, their joints crack . The heel increases. A stream of water swells from the bow, submerging part of the starboard bridge. To avoid falling into the water, I sit down on the port side of the deck, now tilted at an extreme angle. Part of the bridge is by this time covered with swiftly moving water. The yacht gives off a muted vibration. Letting my foot drag, it skirts the indigo surface, and is yanked forward as if projected by a catapult.

"We’re off at last. But I’m worried about your concert: the weather is changing. The sky soon takes on the appearance of melting lead. The wind howls in the stays. The superstructure is rocked back and forth by the rising storm. We move quickly, gathering the sails and halyards in the squalls, and tying the sheets. The waves threaten to sweep us overboard.

We're going to take down the mainsail. Everyone inside!

The boat’s movements become increasingly violent. I start to feel a bit seasick. The ship heels to port; we wait in fear for it to heel to starboard. The rise of this heavy mass, as if snatched up by a crane, is followed by the inevitable pitch downward once the summit of the wave is reached. Pushed from behind, the boat accelerates wildly.

Suddenly, the ship seems to rise upward to such a dizzying height that it feels as if we are being propelled toward the sky. For a long moment the ship remains motionless, as though suspended with ropes hung from the clouds. Just as suddenly, it begins to freefall. An immense noise tells us we've hit the wave trough. The ship is like a mad needle, frantically trying to thread its way back to port.

At last the ship is still—a tamed and defeated animal. A terrible rumbling announces the breaker. Sitting flat on the water, the ship is buried in the oncoming wave. The noise is deafening. The superstructures groan, bent by the storm. All the drawers below deck open simultaneously. One of them releases a renegade kitchen knife, which flies through the air, piercing both my guitar and its carrying case.

*******

At the Houston festival, stages have been set up throughout the downtown area. Roughly 100,000 people move from show to show. My performance is overshadowed by noise from the rival concerts. Fortunately an enthusiastic listener can focus on a single acoustic channel. Once my concert is over, I decide to see who the troublemaker is. The bass player who appeared with me comes along..

The noise is coming from the stage next to ours. Seven black women are unleashing their energies and haranguing about ten thousand Texans, overwhelmingly white, who reply to their banter.

"White people. You kidnapped us, you massacred us." "Yeah," they reply, raising their arms to show their enthusiasm. "Now you do everything in your power to keep us underfoot!" "Yeah!" "Whites, we’re going to kill you!" Spellbound by the harmonious, rhythmic, beautiful, and elaborate construction of this a capella performance by Sweet Honey in the Rock, the entire audience stamps its feet and joyfully shouts "Yeah!"

. *******

In California I meet up with Peter Byrne, who has changed jobs since I last saw him back in Nepal. His former clients, disappointed at not having been able to return to the Himalayas, have entrusted him with taking them to see Bigfoot, the American version of a yeti.

Indeed, Peter would later appear on the cover of scores of magazines. But ten years later, his clients were still waiting

*******

Universities, colleges, festivals, radio, television, ... this tour has been a remarkable success from a professional standpoint.

In any case, one thing is clear, I’m a prisoner of my roots. I must return to France, which is where my future lies