WELLINGTON - AUCKLAND - NOUMÉA - PORT-VILA - TAHITI

My first record, volcanoes, and ukuleles

The art of giving advice

After six months in Australia we've managed to amass a small fortune. My travelling companion even has a curvy native girlfriend. I leave him to his newfound happiness and move on to New Zealand, solo.

A legendary calm normally prevails in the two principal islands of the archipelago. But the Maoris are proudly beginning to display their musical identity, centered around the polyphonic sounds common to all Polynesians. I meet a young businessman who also happens to be a keen guitar and aviation enthusiast. I show him how to hold his guitar properly. He in turn shows me how to hold the joystick on a single-engine airplane. I’ll be traveling by plane now. The performances are getting better and better.

A record company decides to offer me a contract. Before I even have the time to say "Whew!" I find myself in a recording studio, in front of a hideously ugly microphone, which puts me ill at ease. Recording music is radically different from performing live. The idea is to play something now, which people will only be listening to later. Pythagoris spoke behind a curtain so that his physical gestures wouldn’t interfere with his works and disturb his students (the acousmatics). Here I am behind my curtain. Only the notes actually played, no longer ephemeral, are used to convey the musical message. The illusions of the stage, the sense of surprise and discovery are gone. My piece will lose its mystery the second time around the turntable. The clever preparations of an interesting program have no place here either. The diamond-studded needle will drop onto a track that has been previously selected. The scope will need to be reduced somewhat. No longer is it a question of bringing a tingle of excitement to fans throughout a two hour concert but to deliver neat three-minute segments. And finally—digital recordings are still a thing of the future at this time—the sonority of which I was so proud is deformed by the engineers, who are determined to engrave their signature in the wax.

Most musicians wince when they listen to their own records. Their temperament is constantly evolving and the fact that they could even have made such a recording a few years earlier is subject to doubt. A concert artist’s discography is the history of his discontent.

*******

Before leaving I asked to be connected to Melbourne so I could say goodbye to the Mora family.

- Thanks for calling us, Jean-Pierre. Everything is fine. My wife just gave birth to a baby boy!

- Congratulations. Everything OK?

- Yes, fine. The only problem is that he has six toes on his right foot. A simple operation will correct the problem…

*******

New Caledonia, New Hebrides*, Fiji...Melanesia is difficult to penetrate. Being armed with a guitar makes it a little easier.

A doctor who makes his rounds by airplane drops me off on the island of Tana. He keeps a car parked next to the landing strip. There’s an active volcano on the island. For me, a tourist, it’s a tourist attraction; for the native Melanesians it’s a sacred spot. Negotiations with the man guarding the entrance end in failure. There’s nothing for me to do. A decision from someone with his authority is final, under pain of "boucan." Boucan is the art of preparing and administering poisons and no one in these regions is above its law. For minor crimes the culprit may experience dizziness, headaches, chest pains, diarrhea. The point is quickly made and the sufferer leaves the chief’s wife in peace, abandons the land that is demanded of him, doesn’t insist when someone refuses a favor. If, however, he persists in his behavior or the infraction is more serious, then…

A young Melanesian passes on a bicycle, a guitar strapped to his shoulder. He stops. I try out his instrument. After a few notes he takes it back, laughing, and plays a tune that’s popular in this part of the Pacific—an ad for a Japanese condiment called Aji-no-moto that’s often played on the radio. He questions me in English since he’s been educated by the missionaries. The New Hebrides is jointly administered by France and Great Britain. France is responsible for medical equipment and Great Britain for education. The schools are Protestant and provide a form of education in which music is given pride of place, especially in the form of choir singing. In fact, throughout the region, the Melanesian choirs are presented as representing the cultural heritage of the people.

I talk with him about my travels and my difficulties. He says a few words to the old man, who makes a sign indicating that I can pass through..

Air Melanesia. The passengers are weighed. The flutists pay less than the guitarists.

After visiting the lake of incandescent lava, I return in the Land Rover, say goodbye to the old man, and head down the road to the airfield. In the middle of the turn, I’m surprised by an oncoming car. Instinctively, I turn right. But the other car swings left. There’s a squeal of brakes and a cloud of dust and the two vehicles come to a stop in the kind of embrace that is deprecated more by insurance companies than by morals. The driver of the other car climbs out, furious. I’m not in very good humor myself. After explaining the situation the horrible truth comes out. Among the many negotiations between the two governments, Great Britain yielded on one point: in New Hebrides cars would drive on the right. Having arrived straight from London, this Scots ethnologist thought he was still at home and so drove on the left. Disputes between the two governments are so bitter and numerous that an in-residence Spanish judge serves as an arbitrator.

At the time it was said that two governments are better than a return to self-rule. At the time there were a hundred thousand inhabitants and 120 different languages spoken. Independence, when it finally did arrive, turned out to be even more problematic because of the conflicts stirred up by the sharing of power between the two nations.

Music was confined to the different clans and served more for ritual than communication. Funeral and initiation ceremonies were accompanied by whistles, musical tubes, different types of drums, and pan flutes (in the Solomon islands).

Back on the airfield there was no sign of my flying doctor. Not knowing what to do, I stretched out on the ground. A large Melanesian, dressed in a penis sheath and a few leaves, approached. He kneeled down and curved his mouth into an arc. By twisting his mouth he could alter the timbre of his voice around a fixed note. In this way he created the impression of melody. Arnold Schoenberg later referred to this as "Klangfarbenmelodie".

After a few hours of this unexpected serenade, the cuckoo finally landed, somewhat worse for wear and tear. More gifted in medicine than flying, my pilot had crashed on an island before arriving here. The plane was twisted and broken everywhere you looked. Eppure gira*.

*******

On Tahiti the people appeared to be much more communicative. My arrival by ship was a dreamworld of harmonious song, friendly smiles, swinging hips (more than merely suggestive), and generous gift giving. The signs said "No tipping under any circumstances!" Naturally. This Tahitian is carrying my bag because he likes me and wants to welcome me as best he can. And who would accept money from a friend?

*******

Marie-Claire Valène, director of the local cultural organization told me she would arrange a few concerts for me. But you realize, nothing is easy here. One fly in the ointment and everything comes to a halt. In the city you work with people who are paid. Here, you only hire people because they like you. Salary is simply a sign of gratitude. A form of gratification in short. Marie-Claire did, however, manage to arrange something. Two trucks were leaving to make their rounds on the island. Their mission: Gather up every Tahitian caught with a musical instrument. They scoured the roads, the orphanages, schools, and prisons.

This group spent the night playing my guitar while I learned the ukulele. Little by little these musicians managed to captivate me with their devastating good humor and spontaneity. I was subjected to improvised polyphonic singing, whose softness contrasted with the crackling percussion. Amidst this fraternity, for whom the guitar was simply a pretext, the Tahitians’ joy and enthusiasm was evident. This people had always succeeded in colonizing its invaders, whether they were soldiers, pastors, or tourists.

Capable of great kindness as well as incredible cruelty, Tahitians are certainly communicative, but reserve the guitar for foreigners. They smile at the current administrator during the day, but once evening comes the masks are cast aside. Foreign instruments give way to a cappella singing. The simple missionary harmonies are abandoned for complex polyphonies. The relaxed customs of European society are also replaced with the elaborate, and rigid, social structure of the indigenous population. But when, early the next morning, he comes down from the mountain, the Tahitian again displays his irresistible smile, picks up his ukulele and sings his siren’s song, and enchants the new arrivals.

*******

The captain of the Greek ship heading for Los Angeles likes music. He hires me to distract his lazy passengers, and since I don’t have to pay for the voyage, how could I refuse?

* "Yet, it does rotate"