Calvi, day V
To the enigma of the Sphinx, we could answer””A festival-goer from Calvi on the Rocks”” without the chimera devouring us. Understand by this that after a week on the rock, two legs are no longer enough to move.
We make against bad luck good heart by taking again the path of the maquis for the beach Mar a Beach. Schweppes installed some Fatboys dodus, a jacuzzi for topless girls, and programmed a high-flying line-up. We have lunch there very well, too, beef from the ball, Mediterranean fish, and more if affinity. We pass again in front of the deserted coves discovered the day before. This afternoon, Lionel and his Clique release the quarter-queue for Benjamin Clémentine, a small genius of the keyboard with a suave voice, who passes from souls standards to lyrical improvisations with an unequalled dexterity. A black downtown of the London suburbs, that the king of hip night discovered a few months earlier while he was exercising his vocals in the Parisian subway. Love story: Lionel becomes pygmalion. Padawan follows him everywhere, from the Baron to Cannes, from Cabourg to Calvi. Each time, the magic works, and the little genius at the 80’s cup moves his audience to tears. Sébastien Tellier gloats, the voices embrace. We revise our classics by pretending to know the lyrics, and pretending an impeccable command of the English language. Joachim, Kindness, and The Rapture, landed on the beauty island a few days earlier, will take care of the rest of the festivities. Our neighbour is obviously drunk, we give her some elbows between the ribs, which does not prevent her from continuing her dance “from the block”, then at the height of ridicule. We ask her how many bottles she drank. The fury replies: “Here is even better than in Coachella”. Booty shake, brain shake.
Peter and Magician send a nu-disco to the Octopussy in an absolute symbiosis with the décor. However, one feels a great general torpor, which gradually takes possession of music-loving souls and other sad spirits. A kind of latent ectoplasm, formed by all the afters at Tao over-watered with Schweppes vodka. This morning, the Savoir-Faire team (great guardian of “electro à french touch”, and founding mother of the hyppissime trio Social Club / Silencio / Wanderlust), told us that, the next day, she would retire to a local convent to atone for her sins. That doesn’t invite itself. We tell ourselves that our lives are too extreme, and that the cross stitch should be enough to refocus on ourselves. A yoga session, at worst. Which is very good, because at 7pm Michel Vedette gives an aerobics class on the beach. We run to see this ersatz of Magnum straight out of a campsite in Palavas-les-flots.
Tonight, the siblings of the Baume are on the stage with Singtank, Tellier will throw us some voodoo incantations, hoping that the Whitest Boy Alive did not die of sunburn.
We tell ourselves that in Calvi, we go more to the theatre in a week than in Paris in a year.
