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TOASTY TIMES PROJECT

Welcome, this page is linked with the project of the association Artecapt from the danish artist, Anne-Sofie Skjold Møller.

My name is Jérôme Baur. I've been composing music for film and live performance for some thirty years, on several continents. Here are just a few of the adventures I've had the pleasure of experiencing. I have the pleasure to share them with you.

INFO. This page has been translated by online translators. Please excuse me for any errors or blunders that may have slipped into these lines. Do not hesitate to browse my site to listen to the music related to these stories :)

1. Highlights - Shanghai, China (1)

To create a new show based on a Chinese legend, director Giacomo Ravicchio and I were hired by the National Theatre of China in Shanghai. I later learned that we were the first two Western artists hired by the National Theatre of China to create a show based on an ancestral tale known to all Chinese. It was an unforgettable adventure for this show, created in 2008 and still touring the world today.

For two months in Shanghai, with the help of producer Ray Liu from the Shanghai Dramatic Arts Center, we worked flat out to create the show. Although I now have just over fifty pieces to my credit, "The White Snake" is for me one of the finest shows of my career as a composer.

The first scenes and the brilliant visuals, straight from Giacomo's imagination, inspired me to compose a song, which would later become one of the main themes of "Beat of the White Snake". While the melody and harmonies were in the colors of Asia, I chose to use a pulse inspired by Africa and Jamaica. The meeting of these two colors seemed to me to make sense with the nature of the saga being told, as well as with the director's artistic proposal to modify it in a direction that surprised many Chinese.

To clarify the story: in the original "White Snake" tale, two snake demons decide to transform themselves into human women after challenging each other to win the heart of a handsome young man. Giacomo Ravicchio had the idea of inserting a second love story that gradually weaves its way between the two female demons.

In the eyes of the Chinese public, this new reading came as a shock. Female homosexuality was little recognized in China at the time. Musically, this gave me the idea of slightly "perverting" traditional Chinese music with a "foreign" pulse. This unusual fusion for Chinese audiences supported the strangeness of the love affair between the two women.

During rehearsals on my score with the singer Xiao Gong, I was amazed by her speed of learning - as well as by her habit, between rehearsals, of eating chicken feet like lollipops :) - But she had difficulty grasping the rhythm I was proposing. With the upbeats resting on the 2nd and 4th beats of each 4-beat bar, this "earthy" pulsation seemed to put her up against a great wall. I finally suggested that she try dancing this rhythm with me, with the idea of helping her to grasp it through the body rather than the intellect.

After a while dancing on stage together, we and the audience were laughing out loud when I started playing the Bongo on her shoulders in addition to the dance steps to mark the time. Suddenly, she exclaimed in Chinese that she had just understood! Xiao Gong interpreted the score with Chinese precision, from beginning to end and with the right pulse.

At that moment, it was no longer a French composer and a Chinese singer collaborating in mediocre English, but two musicians without linguistic barriers making music together. While I passed on to her a rhythm she hadn't known before, Xiao enabled me to approach the magnificent inflections and musicality of singing in Chinese. Many thanks to Giacomo Ravicchio, who created the conditions for this wonderful exchange.

The show's premiere was a success, and the last I heard, The White Snake was still on tour recently, in Bermuda. It fills me with joy to know that, fifteen years after we created it, other people are discovering this little gem around the world.

2. North & South - Shanghai, China (2)

Still working on "The White Snake" show in China, director Giacomo Ravicchio and I had decided to study Chinese culture prior to our departure for the two months of creation in Shanghai.

In the eight months leading up to our departure, we explored music, mythology, graphic arts, dance, masks, puppets, films and the finer points of Chinese language and culture. I remember the frantic race for information and data that led us to call each other frequently on one subject or another, between Denmark and Switzerland. The aim was to enable us to dive "better equipped" into this creative adventure in China.

As far as the music was concerned, while I was listening to traditional songs from the south that accompany the rice harvest, and songs from the north and Mongolia that clearly reminded me of the Blues, the idea was born to bring them together. But... I wasn't sure how to go about it. I felt I was missing a key that would enable me to write a melody capable of moving a Chinese audience.

It was one evening in the bar of Shanghai's Dramatic Arts Center that the solution came to me. Lyn, our dear translator, and I were having a drink when I asked her to read me one of the poems for the show I was recording with my hand recorder.

Although I knew that the Chinese language is based on 5 major sounds or inflections, as soon as Lyn started reading, and through her prosody (the musicality of the language), the melody I'd been looking for for weeks appeared. For me, it was obvious, right there perched at the top of the crests of the sentences Lyn was reading in careful Chinese.

Inspired by all these new musical sequences, I re-orchestrated my demo, which thus fused the styles of southern and northern China. The instrumentation was provided by the bows of two Asian instruments: the Morin Khuur from Mongolia, which sounds like an alto violin, and the Erhu, a two-string Chinese violin. The bows of both instruments are made from raw horsehair, which emphasizes the sound of friction at almost the same level as that of string resonance. The result is a grainy, organic sound that I really like.

This song became the main theme of the show, which influenced my writing of the other music. In particular, those that accompanied several scenes that took place on the banks or on a calm river. There was also music for sword-fighting, magic, choreography within the set projected onto an 11 m long screen, and many other scenes that I explored and set to music. Added to this were the sound effects required for the natural environments and special effects. The end result was a substantial musical and soundtrack, and then came the premiere of the show...

I felt an indescribable pleasure when the audience came to congratulate me after the show. The words of a very dignified lady in traditional dress still ring true. She said to me: "What about you? A musician from the West, have you been able to compose such music and songs that give us Chinese the feeling that they come from here and that we've known them all our lives?".

My pleasure was redoubled when one evening I also received a message from Tan Dun, famous composer of music for such hit films as: Tiger & Dragons, Hero and many others. He had attended the show and handed me a fold on which he had written:

"Very sensitive and brilliant score you've composed! I was touched, thank you for this beautiful voyage! Best regards, Tan Dun".

After all these months of hard work, when I received such feedback, it was as if the people and this great country were saying to me: "Ok, adopted, welcome to our home". This feeling that my music was being accepted despite my differences and my origin triggered a flood of emotions in me that I'd never felt before.

3. The Fox Temple - Osaka, Japan (1)

Kohey Nagadachi, director and actor of Cie Kio, invited me to work with him in Osaka for a month and a half. The story told in his show travelled between the present day and medieval Japan. He also invited me to compose for another project, a cabaret in Osaka called "Gokko" (The Fox). For the latter, we ended up creating a show.

On the second evening of my arrival, he invited me to dine at a fugu restaurant. I have to admit I was a bit nervous going in, but quickly won over by all the delicious food I'd eaten. We then went to his own restaurant "Oval" to continue chatting about the shows over a few fine vintages. There, two of his friends joined us, two monks from the Temple of the Fox in religious robes. We spent the rest of the evening together on the restaurant's terrace atop a skyscraper overlooking Osaka. This space would later become one of my favorite places to compose with my nomadic, open-air studio.

In the evening, Kohey asks the monks to sing me an extract from one of their ancestral Japanese religious chants. I'm bowled over by the power and beauty of their unison voices. We all agreed that this "color" would suit the mood of both the play and the Cabaret "Gokko" project. We therefore plan to collaborate with them in the near future.

A few weeks later, I went to the Temple du Renard, accompanied by Korin Sakura, actress and co-administrator of Cie Kio, who has become a dear friend. Armed with microphones and a portable recorder, we were welcomed by a charming lady in kimono. She serves us tea in the main dojo to tide us over. At the entrance to the temple, I had noticed a large bronze bell and the huge trunk suspended horizontally to ring it. I didn't know if I'd be allowed to play it, but of course I had plans for this masterful bell!

Clearly the monks were busy, and we waited for some time in the meditative atmosphere of the dojo. Outside, we could admire a magnificent Zen garden with its ageless mineral sculptures. Meanwhile, my friend Korin was telling me about the importance of the fox "Gokko" in Japanese mythology. He gave his name to this temple, which worships him, or rather them, as there are a myriad of fox deities and demons involved in countless Japanese tales.

At last, the two monks arrive. I expected to see them dressed in religious costumes, but the two men had obviously just painted another room in the temple. They entered the dojo dressed in painted overalls, their hair a mess and smiling broadly. After bickering for a few minutes, turning over texts engraved on small bound wooden plates, they finally found a chant and began. As soon as their voices echoed through the dojo, I was suddenly transported back to samurai times, and it was a wonderful feeling.

I then worked on these recordings with different effects and orchestral arrangements and composed the title track: "Cherry blossom Viewing and Sexy dance". These voices, which are veritable time-travel machines, introduce the track in ceremonial form. Then the track slides into a dance-music style, choreographing the fox demons that were part of the show. And then there's the temple bell, which I was finally allowed to play and sample to my heart's content for use in my soundtrack.

I'm very grateful to Kohey, Korin and the two monks who made these incredible moments possible.

4. Koto in Osaka, Japan (2)

On the occasion of Kohey Nagadashi's show "07-OSHICHI", I returned to Osaka, Japan, and was delighted to meet up again with my friends from Cie Kio. One evening, the director honors me with an invitation to his beautiful traditional home, where he introduces me to his family and his wife Fumiko, who plays the Koto!

Fumiko is a master of the Koto (Japanese table harp) and is also an expert in "Yabusame", archery on horseback. During the evening, I tell her it would be wonderful if she agreed to record the koto parts I've imagined.

She accepts with a wry smile. She even does me the great honor of letting me try out her concert instrument, which is absolutely magnificent. I happily oblige, and soon enough I'm experimenting with a few things, such as slapping the strings like an electric bass, while making glissendi with the other hand. Fumiko furtively raises an eyebrow in astonishment with a slight movement of her shoulder, a discreet Japanese way of expressing surprise at the strange, clumsy but unexpected sounds I was producing with her instrument.

I think it was when I managed to perfectly imitate the sound of a spring falling down a staircase that I felt it was time to... stop. A few days later, we met again at their home for me to record it. His interpretations of my scores were perfect, and we listened to them religiously afterwards. It was springtime, and the sliding paper doors opened onto a Japanese-style garden. The delicate notes of the Koto blended perfectly with the skilfully sculpted vegetation.

As a thank-you for this wonderful service, I offered to cook a filet mignon with mushroom crust for the whole family. This obviously delighted all the taste buds in the household. Once again, music, cuisine, culture and friendship fused to perfection!

5. Prosodie - New Orleans, Louisiana, USA

When we arrived in Louisiana, the scars of Hurricane Katrina were still visible everywhere. The vegetation, the dampness of the bayou, the orange evenings, the sound of brass bands and dirty-blues bars all worked in concert. Together, they seemed to blur the traces of this catastrophe.

We had come to Louisiana as a family to spend our summer vacation with a dear friend and biologist colleague of my wife Sveva. We were not far from New Orleans, in a little house on stilts. We had a wonderful time there. On one of those bronze-colored Louisiana evenings, Shannon invited her adopted dad, Bernie, to join us. Just over seventy and retired, Bernie is a lovely, funny man.

After a few glasses of California wine, he tells us about his former profession and life as a forester. He spent years working in the green oceans of Oregon. The flow of his steady voice and his prosody immediately evoke the great outdoors and... the blues.

After a few moments, I ask him if he'll let me record him with my smartphone to keep track of this moment, which for me is also musical. He then tells us an anecdote. A strange story that happened to him several decades ago and touched him deeply.

He was off on a mission, alone in his all-terrain vehicle, deep into a thick forest. The place he had to control was only accessible on foot. After a few kilometers of walking, he realized that he had completely lost his way. As the hours passed searching for the way back to his company car, waterless and exhausted, his concern grew. He knows that the flora and fauna here are not kind to the unwary. As the day wore on, he realized that death could strike in the next few hours.

Suddenly, crossing a clearing, an eagle appears in the setting sun. Running out of solutions, Bernie instinctively follows the raptor's flight across the sky. After a while, as he watches carefully, he realizes that the face of his recently deceased father appears in place of the eagle's face!

The loss of his father was still burning like an ember for Bernie, who followed the eagle's flight for almost an hour. Concentrating on trying to make out Dad's features, he suddenly hit something hard in a bush. It's his ranger's vehicle he's just bumped into! Bernie is saved as the eagle slowly flies away into the twilight. End of story.

Back in Switzerland, I worked on this recording and then composed a score inspired by Bernie's prosody. I used a blues guitar to keep time with the forester's arduous progress through the forest, and another steel guitar, this time melodic, to fly over his prosody.

I then shared this exploration with a Danish guitarist friend, Jesper Folke. An excellent bluesman, he builds his own steel guitars, some of which are even cut from car hoods. Armed with vintage amplifiers and his bluesy phrasing, he recorded several guitar tracks on this track. It's still in the works today, and I hope to find my way, as Bernie found his, to finish this music one day.

6. Aurora Borealis - Greenland, Denmark

During the creation of the show "Fire", written by my friend Giacomo Ravicchio (director of Meridiano Theatre) and for which I composed the music in Copenhagen, I met Mads Humholt.

Mads acted and sang in the play. It was inspired by a dramatic incident that had occurred a few years earlier in a village in Greenland. The show was also the final part of a major trilogy, Earth, Air and Water, Fire, which culminated in a formidable... six hours! (see text N°20 below). "Fire" blended the tragic story of the far north with the magic and mystery of the great polar spaces.

The story of the play recounted a tragedy that had taken place a few years earlier: after a village fete in a region near Ilulissat, a teenager suffered a painful failure in love during the evening. Desperate, cornered and too drunk, he returns home in the middle of the night, grabs his father's shotgun and kills all the members of his family. Five innocent victims perished that night.

In those days, Greenland had no prisons. Instead, justice was dispensed by the village chief. Punishments ranged from tokens (e.g. hermitage in an icy cave for a year) to other hardships. When the death penalty was pronounced, it was inflicted by the village chief's rifle, or by the expulsion of the condemned, who was forced to leave to survive alone on the ice floe (which could amount to a death sentence). At the time of this event, it was Denmark that imposed its judicial rules, and Greenlandic prisoners were all sent to serve their sentences in Danish prisons.

As far as I know, these rules were never unanimously accepted by the native Greenlanders, who didn't recognize any real justice in them. For them, the Danish bars were equivalent to a terrible limbo where the condemned man would have to wander for eternity without ever finding forgiveness from his people and ancestors. This limbo of guilt would prevent him from achieving a "noble death", then forgetting his loved ones and finally arriving on the other side, in the green lands of Greenland's paradise: green-land.

One of the show's most striking images was that of Mads (playing the teenager accused of murder). In his cell, he witnessed the appearance of an immense aurora borealis... on stage. There was also an incredible episode involving a helicopter rescue on the ice floe (also on stage), during which the audience could feel the snow and gusts of wind!

As far as music is concerned, Mads is a talented singer, musician and actor. He lives with his family in Denmark. Of Greenlandic origin, he is the son of a famous singer and heir to an ancestral musical tradition that he regards with immense respect. He introduced me to the rhythms, songs and dances of the place where his ancestors lived and where his family still lives, as well as to the important role played by shamanism, the world of dreams and the many inexplicable things that happen in the depths of the white desert of the Arctic Circle.

Inspired by his stories, his incredible clear voice and his constant presence, I composed several pieces of music that I could never have imagined without his help. Beyond the music, he also invited me to discover other aspects of the culture. His spirituality, the customs and habits of the villages, how old age and death are regarded, the identity of snow, ice and wind, and not forgetting the special humor of the Greenlanders I've noticed from those I've met that they particularly appreciate the repetition gag :)

The windows he opened onto this part of the world allowed me to envisage a new depth in the writing of my music, to open up other dimensions for the soundtrack of the show, and from our passionate discussions a solid friendship was born that still endures fifteen years later.

7. Gamelan, Bali

Rounding a bend in a Bali village, I hear a ceremonial orchestra rehearsing in the distance. In a sort of garage, I discover a dozen musicians of all ages. Between two pieces, I ask one of them if I can attend the rehearsal, and he invites me in with a big smile.

Most musicians play on Gamelans. These are actually gongs (I believe Gamelan is the name given to the orchestra). One of the orchestra's instruments is a metalophone made up of upturned bowls/gongs, arranged like a vibraphone.

The music starts up again, and the musician watches as I tap the rhythm on my thigh. When the orchestra pauses, he beckons me to try out his Gamelan. You don't have to tell me twice, and I happily take my place behind his magnificent instrument. I pick up the two mallets he hands me.

A few old reflexes come back to me from my drumming days. I measure the weight and balance of the two mallets, then strike the gamelan. The stick suddenly breaks in two! Ashamed, I apologize profusely to the musician for my clumsiness, but he, like the rest of the orchestra, is doubled over with laughter.

After drying their tears of laughter, he hands me a new mallet to try again. In between the audience's infectious laughter, I had the immense pleasure of sounding out the gamelan for a few moments before giving the whole orchestra several "Terima kasih" to thank them in Balinese. When I left, I still felt like "a Viking lumberjack who'd tried his hand at crocheting...".

I love the Gamelan, which is a powerful, vibrating instrument. Its gongs resonate for a long time, and as the unison tuning of many of these instruments is not as precise as so-called "modern" Western instruments, the slight dissonance of their tuning causes vibrations throughout the body.

Debussy, too, is said to have been moved by the modal aspect of Balinese music, the particular use of cyclic patterns and sudden rhythmic breaks that inspired his writing. Back home, I explored the music of Bali and its various instruments, which I then incorporated into several of my pieces.

8. An Italian brother in Copenhagen, Denmark

It would take an entire book to recount all the adventures and anecdotes I've had the good fortune to experience over the last twenty-five years, alongside director Giacomo Ravicchio. Whether it's about theatrical creation or our solid friendship, it's dense...

From bumping into an elephant at the Tivoli while recording the sounds of the funfair, to hearing my name come out of the speakers at Copenhagen airport while recording the atmosphere... I can't count the music, sound effects, questions, obstacles, crazy recordings for the shows we've worked on, or the long list of people from all corners of the world who have collaborated with us and Cie Meridiano.

Giacomo et moi is first and foremost a deep friendship with the man I consider to be my mentor in show business, and an inexhaustible source of inspiration. His incredible life and professional journey alone could be the subject of several books.

Among the things we share are commitment, sincerity and a concern for artistic ethics. Then there's the depth of his chosen themes, his visual imagination and the seriousness with which he writes for the stage. All this has changed my approach to musical composition.

We also have a few things in common, such as the fact that we are both "displaced persons", having left our homeland to live elsewhere and start again from scratch, or almost, in another culture.

Our duo also shares, I believe, a similar vision of the world. We see it both as a large, borderless village of which we are a part, and as a bottomless pit of precious differences. Differences that we love to discover and explore.

All this contributes to our curiosity and, what I would describe as an "exploration of the Comoedia Humana" that inspires and drives us. Between us, we don't give each other much thought. From one show to the next, it's almost become a game to point out to the other: "Ha! It seems to me that you did something very similar five years ago. Remember for the show "machin chose" :)

Over time, we formed this duo of artists, this particular intricacy that also sculpts the identity of all the shows we've worked on.

I absolutely must point out that all these creations were made possible thanks to the enormous commitment of Elise Müller Ravicchio. Now Giacomo's wife, she is founder, actress and production manager of Meridiano Theatre. For me, she's the "Viking warrior" who, despite the countless storms the company regularly faces, manages against all odds to keep the "Meridiano drakkar" afloat. Then there's Lars Begtrup, actor, technical director and co-founder of the company. His inimitable serenity and presence on all fronts make him a true pillar of this fine company.

The Meridiano Theatre has also become a venue and production tool like few others. Many other companies rent the theater as soon as it's available and because it's so well designed. On the wall of the communal kitchen, there's this panel that assembles the photos of hundreds of collaborators: actors, acrobats, musicians, puppeteers, technicians, administrators... All the talented people who have contributed to over twenty-five years of theatrical productions.

As you can see, it's a very strange family, and one that's dear to my heart. I usually work in Copenhagen for two months with my nomadic studio, at the rate of one creation a year. So, in over twenty-five years, I've spent a considerable amount of time in Denmark. Yet, to my shame, I still don't speak Danish. Apart from the oddly similar flags, I find that there are similarities between the hearts of Danes and Swiss. Is this due to religion? Is it the size of the country, or some common folk codex? I don't know, but for me, these two peoples are definitely cousins.

As far as music is concerned, in Meridiano I also have what I call my "big trash music". This is the huge dustbin where I've thrown countless failed or rejected compositions. Sometimes they were irrelevant, sometimes they just didn't appeal to me, and sometimes they just didn't serve a particular scene or character. Perhaps one day, the contents of this dustbin will be the subject of an album project that could be called: “Music big trash"  :)

Finally, there are the themes of Giacomo's shows, which have allowed me to explore dozens of different countries, cultures and/or psychologies. Each time, the challenge (for him and me) is to avoid at all costs composing a "musical postcard" of the country or culture concerned by the story being told. For the music, I have to find its deeper substance and stay away from stereotypes. The best tools I've found to get over this hurdle are respect, admiration, study and love for this other culture. They are also the best motors I've found for writing this music.

Giacomo Ravicchio is intimately involved in my life and my music. I can't thank him enough for being a creative turbo reactor for me, and for giving me a new way of looking at the world.

9. Music and family

When I met my future wife in the mid-90s and we realized that we were truly in love, I remember a discussion we had when we were planning to move in together. I had insisted that our couple would have to welcome a "third entity" and that it would take a certain place in our household: Music.

In my opinion, sharing your life with music means accepting to live with a mistress who is often unaccommodating, a ruthless boss, obsessions and inopportune awakenings. She doesn't hesitate to show up day and night, or even invite herself into the middle of a discussion with someone, whatever the subject.

Luckily, my wife Sveva is also passionate about her work as a biologist, science educator and teacher. So what's happening for me is happening for her too. In fact, at the outset, we were a four-part couple (Sveva, me, biology and music). Then, with the birth of our daughter Gaia, we grew to five entities, which has now risen to six since Gaia became a photographer and film-maker. To sum up, there are a lot of us :)

Looking back over my career, I can't imagine my music or what I've become without the presence and support of my wife and daughter. Whether it's my convictions, my doubts, my joys or the reasons why I want to move forward, without them none of this could exist.

I also believe that it is the constancy of this deep love we share that enables us to navigate humanly, scientifically and artistically. The sometimes troubled waters of a composer's life or the world of show business have nothing to envy the storms that can shake the scientific field. The fact that we come from different disciplines is also, I think, a saving grace. It allows us to talk about "other things" and to put our own difficulties into perspective.

There's an image that comes back to me a lot, which I think illustrates family life quite well, and that's that of the solar system. I see us a bit like planets gravitating together. The gravity of each individual influences that of the group, as well as our revolutions, and all this helps to define a course for the whole. The whole family system is then hurtling along at breakneck speed and in an unknown direction in the universe, just like our solar system or the galaxies.

Ten years of touring, studio work and concerts meant I was constantly on the road, and I witnessed a large number of family tragedies and the great difficulties many of my musician friends were going through.

This alerted me to the difficulties of reconciling live music and family life. In fact, when our daughter was born in 98, I decided to put a stop to my career as a live musician. I remember making the rounds of all the bands and orchestras I'd played with, sometimes for a long time, and bidding them farewell in an attempt to become a composer alone.

After that, although I was able to work at home most of the time, close to my family, I still had to leave for one or two months a year to create music for shows or films in other countries. These separations were often painful. I would explain to my daughter, who sometimes resented these absences, that thanks to these trips I could do what I was passionate about. I would also come back with new stories to tell her. The ceremonial of my returns was often several days and long evenings, during which I became a storyteller, showered with these questions.

Among other things, I told him about the plot of the show, the music, the artistic choices, the obstacles and the new encounters. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my wife, who single-handedly steered the family boat on a daily basis while I was abroad!

Then, in 2000, a new question arose. That of potentially leaving France to follow my wife, who had a new job opportunity in her native Switzerland. It wasn't an easy choice to make. Up until then, I had battled for ten years to become one of the composers of music for French television commercials. I had finally succeeded, and was finally earning a decent living. But I obviously chose to follow the path I love. This led to another round of "good-byes", and this time it was my farewell to the audiovisual production agencies and directors I was working with at the time for film and television. That done, time was coming for a move to Switzerland.

In the space of two years, I said goodbye to two major parts of my life. I set off for this new country a little blindly, starting again from almost zero. Here we are in 2000, settling into a small apartment in Lausanne.

In Switzerland, I had to deal with new codes, new maps, a new mentality, a different political system, a different sense of humor, language peculiarities, a new social fabric and so on. It was a big upheaval, but also a great exploration. Today, surrounded by the love of those I love and new friendships, I feel at home in this other country where I had to start almost all over again.

I now face the Leman Lake and magnificent mountains from the little chalet we rent in the district of ”Lavaux vineyards”. I often go out on our wooden balcony, listen to the mix I'm working on, look up at the mountains and ask them: "So, does this vibrate? 

Of course, I sometimes miss the energy of Paris, where I grew up. In Switzerland, however, I've discovered a new peace and serenity that's hard to find in the capital. This new way of life has also, I believe, modified my musical writing.

10. First notes in Paris, France

Born in 1968 in Nancy, it was when I was two that my parents decided to move to Paris. I grew up in Montmartre with my little brother Alexandre. My parents, Françoise Amadieu and Gilles-Marie Baur, got into animation and opened their own studio, PINK SPLASH, in an old store not far from the rue Lepic where we lived.

There, they made animated films on celluloid sheets. My father was the line artist and my mother the colorist. I often had fun surfing on the misfires they threw on the floor, and celluloid glides magnificently on carpet! My father also composed the music for their films with an organ and a guitar, as well as his own songs. They also played vinyl records on the studio turntable while they worked, and from Oscar Peterson to Gilberto Gil, from great french singers like Gainsbourg to Nougaro and also classical music with Bach, Chopin and other. The music was omnipresent.

This is undoubtedly where the beginnings of my musical palette were forged, and which I have continued to nurture for over fifty years now. At the age of nine, I built a drum kit. It was made from cardboard washing powder barrels, scotch tape and anything else I could find around the house. My parents saw that I spent hours playing and decided to give me a (beginner's) drum kit as a Christmas present. What a thrill!

I played endlessly on this drum kit and on records by the Beattles, Franck Zappa, Mahavishnu, Genesis and many others. Then I put it up for sale to buy the components of a "real" drum kit one by one. I later met Laurent, a boy four years older than me, who became my friend. One day, I invited him to try playing on my drums for the first time in his life. His playing was so superior to mine, even though I practiced every day, that I started looking for another instrument to accompany him, and that's how I came to take up the piano. Some time later, my parents suggested I take lessons.

At the age of twelve, they introduced me to Michel Sardaby, a renowned pianist, composer and jazzman. They asked him if he would take me on as a pupil, and he agreed. He lived not far from the Place Blanche in the Pigalle district. With him, I studied music and piano twice a week for seven years.

His teaching method was as strict as his psychological influence on me was profound. In the first year, he taught me to sit and stand in front of the piano. Then I learned to press and release the keys. In the second year, I learned to read sheet music and American chord symbols. The following years continued with my learning of the great jazz standards contained in the famous "Real Book".

When I think back on those years of teaching, the image of Yoda with his young Padawan, Luke Skywalker, in "Star Wars" comes to mind. Michel's exacting standards taught me the importance of being a good listener, of seeking out the essential in a piece of music, of ridding the mind of thoughts that can pollute the intimate relationship with a melody, of finding its pure substance by getting rid of "gadgets" or useless pretensions and succeeding in remaining in alignment with oneself when playing the piano. In other words, "less is more", maximum commitment and zero concessions.

As I was very young, many of these concepts escaped me. Also because the discipline he was teaching me was so far removed from what I experienced in my family's daily life. I have to admit that it was a long and sometimes painful road during those seven years, but I owe him a lot.

So I grew up between the gentle creative chaos and festive social fabric of my artist parents and the almost monastic rigor and almost military discipline of my music teacher. A sort of double childhood "combo" that made me what I am today.

11. Raï in Zurich, Algeria, France, Switzerland

In the mid-90s, I was on tour with the Algerian pop-funk group "Djam & Fam". We were on a tour bus heading for Switzerland for a series of concerts in major cities. The tour kicked off at the famous "Rote Fabrik" concert hall in Zurich.

From the moment we left Paris, the infectious Algerian sense of humor was rife on the bus. Shortly after entering the streets of Zurich, the bus suddenly slammed on its brakes! A few meters ahead on the pavement, we discover swarms of men and women... naked, running in all directions!

Seconds later, another swarm arrived, this time of police dressed as ”Robocops”, waving truncheons and shields. In fact, we were witnessing the very moment when the Zürich authorities drove all the junkies and drug dealers out of the park where they had made their home for years. Mouths agape, glued to the bus windows, we stared at this surreal scene, so far removed from the postcard image of Switzerland you might imagine the first time you visit.

After this event, the concert at the Rote Fabrik was memorable. The North African community was out in force. The "oriental funk" we played shook the walls and danced bodies into a trance. The security service even had a hard time keeping the audience from invading the stage. A great pleasure.

In raï music, the ternary rhythm, 6/8, is often used, but it differs from the one we use on the old continent. In fact, one of the Algerian musicians told me how to learn to play it, saying: "It's a bit like your 6/8, except that you have to imagine having both your arms in plaster when you play it..." In other words, the six beats per bar are best played "after-beat" (with a slight delay on the beats). Variables can also intervene from one cycle to the next. Instruments that illustrate this particularly well are the qraqeb or Karkabous (a kind of large metal castanet of Gnaoua origin).

The years I spent playing Raï in the company of many musicians not only gave me that unique North African sense of humor, but also, and above all, taught me a new way of grooving.

12. World music education, Paris, France

Between the end of the 80s and the beginning of the 90s, I moved back and forth between stage music, studio music, music for theater, film and advertising. It was also during this period that my curiosity for world music and new musical technologies exploded.

The first publicly accessible samplers (sampler keyboards) were coming onto the market. I'd heard them on albums by Pat Metheny and Lyle Mays, Weather Report and other artists. Fascinated by the idea that I too could have world sounds or abstract sounds to play under my fingers, it didn't take me long to find a second-hand one. today, It's an antique machine.

While experimenting, I got the idea of recording a small Tibetan bowl I had at home. My aim was to transform all the sounds it could produce into a polyphonic instrument, playable on a keyboard. This I did, and strangely enough, I composed an Irish-style melody with it. I quickly became convinced that I was missing a key element to perfect this music, which remained on the drawing board for a few weeks. Then, in front of the Musée d'Orsay, I met two young Japanese girls named Yu & Yoko.

They were just starting their art studies and didn't yet speak French. As we chatted in unlikely English, I asked them if, by any chance, they could sing? Then, would they be willing to come and record a song in my studio? They agreed.

Around the microphone a few days later, on a concept I'd proposed to them, we wrote lyrics together in Japanese. The theme was: as the word "I love you" is rarely used in Japan, poetic metaphors are often preferred. The song tells the story of two lovers who say "I love you" but never actually say it. The meeting of Yu and Yoko's soprano voices in unison with the Irish-tinged instrumental was a minor miracle.

This "YU & YOKO" track was the first in a long series of similar collaborations I've undertaken with artists from the four corners of the globe. I met each and every one of them in Paris, and in this way, I also created my own world music training over a period of ten years.

As well as generating new friendships, this exploration has gradually filled my musical palette with new colors and flavors. It's a palette I still use today when composing for film and theater, and one I'm always striving to complete.

13. Assa, Mali, Africa

1991, I'm in the middle of my exploration of world music. Lacking the means to travel, I set out to learn by meeting artists from all over the world who were present in Paris. From community to community, I've had the good fortune (often provoked) to meet and learn from many musicians and singers of diverse origins.

In particular, there was my encounter with a Malian singer. It began one evening while I was enjoying a delicious chicken maffé in a small Malian restaurant in the Contre Escarpe district. At the end of the meal, inspired by the tastes and atmosphere, I got the idea of chatting to the chef and asking him if he knew an African singer he'd recommend? He jumped up and down and shouted that I absolutely had to get in touch with Assa Kebe Drame! He gave me his contact and soon afterwards I phoned Assa to ask her to come to my studio and record her voice on a composition I had prepared, which she accepted.

At the studio, we got to know each other better. She tells me that she is also a griot (storyteller-singer) and the daughter of a famous griot singer from Mali. We agreed to write lyrics in Malian Griot style on the theme of a new birth in a neighboring village. The child was born to a fictitious character, Madame Koné (although I understand that this person actually exists in Mali). We got on so well that we went from one song to three. Assa became a friend.

So she came back several times to record. The next time, it was she who had given birth to little Fanta. She held her with a cloth tied behind her back and, during the recording, Fanta would sometimes pretend to be a backing singer, adding a few chirps that colored the session). Another day, Assa came with a huge bag containing everything I needed to cook maffé poulet à la malienne, which she also wanted to teach me how to make. Delicious.

Assa introduced me to the world of the Griot-tes, to African values concerning family and friends, to her cuisine and music. In exchange, I gave her the recordings of our songs with which she returned to Mali. Apparently, they were a big hit in Bamako nightclubs, and she also made a video clip directed by my brother Alexandre. This clip was then successfully broadcast on Malian TV.

Above all, Assa lifted a corner of the curtain for me on this immense part of Africa that is Mali, not only through words but also through her way of living, laughing, eating and raising her children. She told me a host of stories, as griot-tes know how. Stories that speak to the hearts and minds of the people who live there. And then there's her groove, her unexpected vocal effects and the power of her interpretation, which also shook up my music.

14. Jam's Cave Session, Cuba

It was the early 2000s, during a trip to Cuba. Arriving in the north of the country, my wife and I had arranged to visit a cave with a guide. After crossing a stretch of jungle where we spotted a huge snake swallowing a chicken... the entrance to the cave was finally revealed beneath the lush vegetation.

After a few steps inside, the daylight had already faded. As our eyes struggled to adjust to the half-light, we gradually discovered the incredible rock drapery and other mineral sculptures of this cavern.

Further on, as we entered a large room with a ceiling so high it was barely visible, we found ourselves swinging our arms in front of a thick forest of giant stalagmites and stalactites. Some parts of the room were even reminiscent of the organ pipes in Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris.

As we went along, my fingers became more and more eager to make those great stone pipes sound. I finally asked the guide if I could touch them. In response, he played a percussive roll on one of the stalactites, followed by a few bars of a salsa rhythm. He concluded his demonstration by telling us that when he wasn't working as a guide, he played the Congas in a local orchestra.

He invited me to choose "my instrument" to accompany him. Without missing a beat, I chose two stalactites of different sizes and keys to answer him with a rhythmic break, typical of Cuban timpani. He laughs, understands that I'm playing a bit of music too, and off we go for an underground Jam Session! Sveva also joined us, and our trio kept the cavern ringing for quite a while.

After these improvisations and before climbing back out of the cave, I asked him if I could record the sound of each stalactite with my smartphone. Surprised, he asked why? I explained my plan to create a virtual instrument using these sounds. To my delight, he gave me time to walk around the forest of rock and record each stalactite with different taps and volumes.

Back in Switzerland, I classified each sound according to its tonality, sampled them and retuned them slightly using a sampler. After a good day's work, I had a magnificent "Giant Lithophone" or "Stalactiphone" to play under my fingers.

I've used this very organic instrument many times for various theatrical and film scores. In particular, the sound of the lowest stalactite, which I had lowered a further octave or two, became an impressive sub-bass sound that I particularly like.

15. Madagascar in Paris

After having to move several times from different parts of inner Paris (mostly because the neighborhood didn't appreciate my hours of musical work or the parties I organized with musician friends), I finally found refuge on the other side of the ring road in a small house in Ivry sur Seine. There, my music and jam sessions with my friends didn't bother many people. One evening, the doorbell rang...

Standing in front of me was a frail man, obviously of Madagascan origin. He has a guitar in one hand, sheet music in the other and a rucksack slung over his shoulder. Despite his big smile, he looks very tired and almost as if he'd traveled on foot from Madagascar to Paris. He introduces himself as Carson Rock Ranger.

He said he'd come on behalf of a close friend of mine whom he'd met in Tananarive. The friend advised him to come and stay with me in case he went to Paris, and if he couldn't find accommodation I could help him out. I invite Carson in and ask him to stay for 2-3 days to help out. I then offer to make him something to eat. As I'm just starting to cook, he picks up his guitar (which looks to me like it's made of papier-mâché) and plays several Bach suites from memory. He's unbelievably good. I can hardly believe that the sounds I'm hearing are coming from this instrument, which also looks very tired.

Carson then tells me about his journey to Madagascar. He tells me about his dream of a career in Paris, which led him to save for several years in order to pay for the trip. Those two days turned into two months, and a beautiful friendship. During this period, I offered to help Carson get started in Paris, allowing him to record his demos in my small studio, with my help if necessary.

In exchange, he introduced me to Madagascan music and told me all about his country and culture. When it's not ballads, Malagasy music most often invites you to dance. These are often two-beat marches with eighth-note triplets above, which seem to be running behind a train :) The fast tempo is mostly driven by rhythmic chords on the Kabosy (small lute) and supported by the Hazolahy (large, low-pitched drum). The melodic part and harmonies are shared between the backing vocals and/or the Valiha (harp around a bamboo that sounds like a Kora).

After two months, armed with his CDs of demos, he told me he'd found a flat to share in Paris through the Malagasy community. The story could have ended there.

Three years later, I received a letter with an invitation to a concert at the legendary Salle Pleyel in Paris from Carson Rock Ranger and his orchestra! When I entered the large concert hall, it was mostly filled with a Malagasy audience wearing beautiful dresses and Sunday suits. Carson was on stage surrounded by half a dozen musicians.

After several songs of his own composition, he paused to take the microphone and, to my surprise, began to tell the audience about my welcome and my help with his demos, which had contributed to his presence on stage this evening. Then he asks the technical staff to turn on the lights, spots me and invites me to join him on stage!

Happy to find each other again, we hug and then, before giving the signal to the orchestra to move on, he puts a drum in my arms... Then the music starts, which I discover and try my best to follow. So here I am on stage, improvising. The unexpected breaks and the racing rhythms put me on edge and I start to get a bit lost until I notice a bunch of little Malagasy kids in suits and ties dancing wildly in the room near the edge of the stage. Observing their steps, they quickly get me back on track with the beat - phew, saved!

As I left the stage, I asked Carson why the orchestra was speeding up the tempo so much? To this, he replied with a wonderful question: "What about you? When you make love, do you slow down?

16. Seek a sound, Algeria, France

I'm in the studio in Paris to record the album and prepare the Algerian violinist, Djamel Ben Yelles' tour in France with the group Jam & Fam. Before coming to Paris, Djamel was 1st violin at the Oran Symphony Orchestra. In addition to his playing which fuses traditional Gnawa rhythms with funk, rock or reggae, he has developed a particular sound signature by adding several effect pedals to his violin. We spent several years playing together.

It's the mid-90s. So Djamel is by my side in this studio and he's trying to build the introduction of a new track. He asks me with his usual humor and his Algerian accent: ”Jérôme, Jérrrôme my friend... for this title, I would like an intro with a sound... you see? A really… enormous sound… well, a sound rather… you see?

I perform and superimpose a large number of layers of synthetic sounds, sound effects and string pads. It's ready ! This sound is complex, huge and impressive. I sound a few chords to Djamel who is scratching his chin. He listens attentively before leaning towards me to tell me in a soft voice full of suspense: “To be honest Jérôme, to be honest really, it's very very good, really… it's good… but, please… stop”.

I don't think I've ever laughed so hard. This phrase subsequently even became a “private joke” shared by other musicians. Finally, by dint of looking for this intro sound, we finally found it. It also became the opening of the following concerts and... in truth... this sound... it was really very very good :)

17. World Music Festival, Budapest

Around 1993, I had my very first encounter with raï, gnaoua and other oriental influences. It all started on a Friday around 3 p.m. I received a phone call from a certain Djamel Ben Yelles and by his side a certain Cheb Moumen. They tell me that they have a big concert planned but that their musician on keyboards has just had a serious accident and will therefore not be able to accompany them. Djamel asks me if I would agree to replace him for this concert which will take place in Budapest. This is the first World Music Festival in Eastern Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain!

If I accept, it will be a question of me joining nine other musicians of the group, including: one of the guitarists of the Wailers (Bob Marley), a saxophonist from Santana, the percussionist from Cheb Khaled, Rubens Santana, a famous Brazilian bassist, a percussionist latino, Karim Zyad on drums, Djamel Ben Yelles on violin, Cheb Moumen on vocals and a young Swedish singer who is a backup singer.

Between twelve and sixteen original compositions will be on the program: raï, traditional, funk, rock, reggae, ballads, Gnawa dance music. He adds that a cassette with the songs could be delivered to me by courier within an hour and with which I could train. He concludes by saying: “and that… that’s really good!”.

I then ask him when this big concert will take place and they answer me in chorus: ”Tomorrow evening! We have the plane for Budapest in the morning... So are you in?

Before answering them, I try to quickly summarize all this information: ”so, we are talking about 12 to 16 pieces, musical styles that I have never played before, I have to learn all this by ear using of a cassette and all to be in concert tomorrow”… A bead of sweat beaded on my forehead before I answered: “Okay”.

An hour later, a courier actually delivers me a cassette and a sheet containing the titles (written in phonetic Arabic). There are 16 titles written on the sheet, on the back some chords written in grids for two pieces of music and, on the cassette, I find only 8 recordings. Suffice to say that my night was particularly active. The next day, after this sleepless night, I join the musicians at the airport and here we are on our way to Budapest.

On the plane, Djamel tells me that the list of songs written on the sheet is not necessarily the exact order of what will be played on stage and he adds ”But really don't worry, in general I announce on stage the following title to the musicians”. This information is not going to reassure me but at the point where I was it was almost of the order of the detail.

The arrival at the Festival in Budapest surprised us. There was a gigantic marquee with four masts which covered a room that could easily hold several hundred thousand spectators. The scene was also gigantic and my throat was a little tied when discovering it. We only have a few minutes to do the sound check before retiring backstage. There, we met groups and formations from everywhere: Mongolia, Argentina, Cuba, Romania… It seemed that all the countries of the world had made an appointment. Poor musicians arriving straight from Chad were dressed in their djellabas and, surprised by the temperatures of Eastern Europe, were shaking with all their bones.

The hour progressed and, shortly before going on stage, the leader of the group asked me if I would like to open the concert by going alone on stage to play the first chord of the first track on the list with a synth pad. He explains to me that as soon as the mood is set, he will join me on this pedal (single and continuous chord) with a violin solo. The other musicians will enter later, on a signal from the violin. I'm thinking about the Synth preset that I would need to set up a somewhat mystical, contemplative starting climate.

Shortly after, the Wailers guitarist who notices that my stage fright is increasing, approaches me. He throws his dreadlocks back and hands me his “laughing cigarette” friendly, assuring me that it will relax me. Although I never smoke weed, panic and stress helping, I don't argue and take a few puffs. Mistake...monumental mistake to accept this kind of present from a Jamaican and even more, just before going on stage. The lights in the room go out, the cheers of the audience skyrocket as the stage manager rushes at me in the dark backstage. He whispers in my ear: “Go! It's yours".

I enter in absolute darkness on this huge stage. At the same time, the effects of the Jamaican cigarette explode in me and the milliseconds become years. And... and I can't find my keyboard in the dark! Arms forward, I search without finding. I can hear the swell of the public, also plunged into darkness. I stumble against a monitor speaker, go back and finally, like a beacon in the night, I see a red LED on my keyboard just a few meters from me. I finally touch the notes on my keyboard. I feel like Ray Charles, survival depends on touch and I'm dropping the intro chord. The sound is monstrous and the bass from my left hand shakes the ground. A powerful pursuit (spot) then opens on me. Here it is... the public discovers me but the intense light in my eyes prevents me from seeing it. After what felt like a decade, Djamel finally takes the stage with his violin. Its oriental scrolls weave with the sound carpet that I constantly evolve with the help of various settings. The moment is almost religious when the other musicians enter in turn. Suddenly, on a signal that they had all spotted in the playing of the violin but that I didn't know, a powerful and resounding groove lands.

My memories of the rest of the concert are quite confused... I remember the leader shouting the title of the next song but in Arabic so perfect that I never managed to understand which one it was about. I remember my fingers slipping like a snowboard desperately searching for the key of the new song (luckily I always found it eventually). And then I remember this beautiful feeling of sitting on a jet engine, surrounded by these seasoned musicians who sent “heavy”.

At the end of the concert, some clues told me that I was not completely off the mark. There was thunderous applause and cries from the public that accompanied our return backstage, the friendly pats on the shoulders of the musicians and finally, Djamel who said to me: “Are you free next week?”.

Finally, there was the return to Paris. At Budapest airport, a long line of customs officers was waiting for us at the control gate. Imagining the contents of my eminent Jamaican guitarist colleague's flight case, I was seized with dread. Horrible images of sordid Hungarian prisons came to my mind when suddenly their leader spoke to us in a deep but somewhat secretive voice: “my colleagues and I were at your concert yesterday and... we wanted you ask if you could sign autographs for us?” (…) This is one of the many anecdotes that punctuate these 5 or 6 years spent in the company of raï and oriental music.

18. Groove Warriors, France

In the second part of the 90s, I met and played with the musicians of another very crazy formation, called: "Wonder Groove Factory". This brass-band had already been cooking for some time an original Jazz menu, spiced with funk, soul, world music influences, blues, rock, reggae and other contemporary flavors.

All this boiled and simmered in the scores written by several members of the group. All renowned musicians, they have made a name for themselves on the stages and studios of Paris, at European jazz festivals, on other continents and by playing with big names, such as: Jo Zawinul, Manu Dibango, Gilberto Gil and many others.

I am therefore extremely touched when my drummer, vibraphonist and punk friend, Norbert Lucarain, tells me that he has proposed to the members of the group (for whom I already had admiration), the idea that I join brass, wood, metal and skins with my keyboards and my weird sounds. A rehearsal was my passing exam.

I am therefore extremely touched when my drummer, vibraphonist and punk friend, Norbert Lucarain, tells me that he has proposed to the members of the group (for whom I already had admiration), the idea that I join brass, wood, metal and skins with my keyboards and my weird sounds. A rehearsal was my passing exam.

I thus met Daniel Casimir (trombonist), Philippe Selam (saxophonist), François Thuillier (tubist) and also Nicolas Genest (trumpeter and composer), with whom I nevertheless signed my first (and last) solo of Presse- Puree on his comico-cosmic poems. I believe that this performance was also unprecedented for the jazz club "Le kiss salé" in Paris where we played. I still work regularly with Nicolas today.

Wonder Groove Factory is therefore pleased to welcome me and off we go to prepare a tour of the jazz festivals of France as well as an album project. When I first discovered their scores, I was overwhelmed. The level, the intelligence of the structures and the creativity were incredible.

It is also with them that I discovered the jazz club and musical laboratory “Les instants chavirées” in Montreuil. A slightly crazy place where jam sessions and improbable encounters followed one another. On stage, it could happen, for example, that an Indian tabla player, a Romanian spoon player and an African singer were invited and presto! The experiments began.

I had the chance to do with the W.G.F. a fabulous concert during the Rheims Jazz Festival. The stage was placed at the foot of the imposing cathedral and faced the huge esplanade, filled with the public. I remember that at this concert, I had played a solo using an instrument of my making which merged: the sound of a Moog Synth, a Fender Rhodes piano, the creaking of doors and the sound of an electric razor that I had sampled.

This experience with them is one of those that I had the chance to meet where artistic rigor, freedom, creativity and a big grain of madness come together perfectly. Wonder Groove Factory holds a special place in my heart.

19. The Force of Doubt, France, Quebec, Congo

At the end of the 80s, beginning of the 90s, I met three actors and authors from the famous Clown school, the Lecoq school. They are Guy Lafrance and Marc Amiot from Quebec as well as French Karim Yazi of Algerian origin. Together they founded the Kygel Theater Company. We quickly became great friends and shared many festive and drunken evenings. There, we talked about a thousand ideas for shows and, after a few bottles, inevitably, the Quebec accent and fiber took precedence. This to such an extent that I really feel like I lived in Quebec during this period when I never went there.

In 1992, they hired me as a composer to create the show “Dérapage” together. Thanks to them and to this magnificent piece, I was able to take part in my first Avignon Festival. I was also able to meet the director, Giacomo Ravicchio, about whom I talk a lot in other texts. Guy, Karim, Marc and Giacomo occupy a fundamental place in my apprenticeship in the performing arts. In particular with two major concepts that they passed on to me: doubt and the creative accident.

Leaving room for “doubt”, both in our own proposals and for our creations, requires a certain open-mindedness. This is unfortunately not or rarely taught in school. However, to doubt is, in my opinion, an important act, not to say essential. It is particularly useful for me to keep my critical mind alert and also a certain level of requirement towards my own activities or productions.

The other exercise of mind important to me that they passed on to me is that which allows us to welcome the creative accident (the unexpected, the unforeseen). In particular in the context of artistic creation, I consider the creative accident as a real opportunity, sometimes even as a raw material. Today I have the feeling that these two principles, as long as we are attentive to them, can allow us to perceive and even enlarge the scope of our freedoms. They can also, again in my opinion, also play an important role in the construction of ethics. Looking at the last thirty years of artistic creation, I also have the feeling that it is the balance between “freedom and ethics” that contributes to maintaining my field of expression or my “playground”. I believe that the quality of the music I compose also depends on this attention to these values and concepts.

These four great gentlemen of the theater also instructed me on the rigor and discipline necessary for those who wish to become a Clown one day, as well as the ten years necessary for their birth - or - How to find “your” Clown. Their human richness, their humor and the valuable knowledge they shared with me have clearly changed my career and my musical writing. I owe them a lot.

Later, they also introduced me to another artist, Lomani Mondonga with whom I collaborated on an album project. He has lived in France for many years. His heart and his origins are in the Congo. Actor, storyteller, graphic designer, scenographer, musician and singer, he has many strings “to his Kora”. I remember a recording session for his album where he arrived with two huge bunches of dried herbs.

They were to become the instruments of the introduction of one of his titles. In front of the microphone, he beat the air with a bunch of herbs in each hand, dancing vigorously on a ternary 6/8 rhythm. I so regret not having had the reflex to take a video to immortalize this moment. I had not imagined that, beating the air with herbs in rhythm, could give such a result and such organic musicality.

In me, this sound and this rhythm gradually awakened images. Like ancestral memories of a ceremony, of a tribe in a trance. Other instruments were then invited, such as the Congolese drums carved from a tree trunk and which sound serious and deep, the sanza (metalophone) without forgetting Lomani's traditional singing technique which consists of playing percussion on its throat at the same time as it produces melodies.

All this allowed me to travel to Congo for several weeks without leaving my studio. I thank him very much for this beautiful trip!

20. Six Hours of Magic, Copenhagen, Denmark

The show Earth, Air, Water, Fire is the craziest and most oversized project I have been involved in. It was actually a reunited troligy for a total of six hours of performance. This show redoubled inventions, travels, sets, special effects, lights and music.

Three intermissions allowed the public to breathe and quench their thirst, but at each of them, the theater team had to hold the doors in order to prevent the public who forced to enter (before the resumption bell). People couldn't take it anymore, they absolutely wanted the rest of the story!

This crazy project was born from the imagination of Giacomo Ravicchio, director of Italian origin who, after an international career as an actor and author which earned him numerous Awards, settled in Copenhagen in 1995. In Denmark, he founded the Cie Meridiano with the one who would become his wife, Elise Müller, the actor Lars Begtrup. I have been working with them since 1998, at the rate of about one creation per year. Meridiano has become a bit like my third family :)

Earth Air Water Fire tells the entire life of two people that fate and world history kept separating when they wanted nothing more than to live their love. Several times, they will meet on the planet but without seeing each other. Several times they will be on the verge of finding each other, but without succeeding. However, the invisible ties that connect their hearts will never cease to cross the oceans, the wars or torments of History throughout their lives.

These “torments of History” are precisely what have been the most complex and the most difficult to recreate on the theater stage. The scenography imagined by Giacomo was an incredible vehicle to achieve this. Imagine, on stage, a wooden facade like a building standing 5 m high and about ten meters wide. This great wall was made up of countless doors, hatches and windows of different sizes and yet the whole structure was also able to open fully creating a 'theater within a theatre'.

Inside, around and in front of this great scenography, it is the magic of the theater, the black theater, the light, the special effects and the accessories (often improbable) which brought this love story as well as the public. around the globe and beyond. Further to the MIR station and a Soyuz capsule drifting through space. Further to the deck of an ocean liner off Greenland. The trips were linked from Denmark to Egypt, from the Kremlin at the time of the USSR to a giant aquarium where we seem to have seen a mermaid pass by... a crazy trip.

Six hours of show and therefore... six hours of sounds and music too! I had the chance to compose this gigantic soundtrack, mainly in Copenhagen. I no longer remember the time it took us to finalize the show, but it was substantial since the three founding shows Earth, Air & Water and Fire had already taken no less than two months each for their creation. Added to this was the time needed to design the final triptych of six hours.

After ten years of exploring world music with artists from all over the world to learn, I finally faced a real "practical exercise". A creation that would lead me to draw the fruits of these years of musical and cultural exploration. I was like a child left to his own devices in a candy store with no one to control him, both amazed and terrified at the scale of the task :)

The creative process was also special. Under the famous adage of Cie Meridiano: “here, the word impossible must never be pronounced”, the whole team redoubled their efforts to overcome the obstacles one by one. And there have been many.

I love seeing brains come together to solve technical problems, a scene or manage a common problem. Faced with obstacles, I like to witness the emergence of ingenuity and the collective imagination. Obviously there are ego stories here and there, sometimes resentments or rants. But I prefer to keep in mind the presence of love, caring, empathy and friendships that are so precious when we go through storms.

I believe that this love in presence, which can take many forms, is one of the reasons why the Theater is such an important field of expression for me.

21. Little white pebbles - conclusion

While writing these stories, I had in mind the image of “little white pebbles”. Of those who can mark a path. By digging into the past in this way, I found a few that brought to mind bits of paths and stories that I wanted to share here with you.

Time doing its thing, I also noticed while writing these lines that some of these small pebbles were beginning to fade. This project gave me the opportunity to make a nice exploration in time which allowed me to remember these encounters with artists, music and instruments, with other cultures and new creative processes.

I hope you have found as much pleasure in reading these stories as I have had in writing them.

I thank Danish artist Anne-Sofie Skjold Møller who initiated the idea for this collective newspaper. A big thank you also to the Artecapt association for supporting this beautiful project.

Thank you !

Information concerning the names of the artists that I quoted in these texts:
here, I shared with you memories and/or feelings on these past events which are only mine. Naturally, the people linked to these stories and whose names I mentioned may have markedly different memories. Because I respect them from the bottom of my heart, I kindly invite them to contact me to notify me of any details or errors that they may have found. With them and their precious precisions I will correct these points as fast as possible. THANKS

Dear readers, your comments and/or questions are more than welcome too !

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