Montréal was wonderful, y’all. Even when your DivaCardista found herself dancing between the raindrops, from song to song & from crêperie to crêperie, it was still great. Met all manner of folk from across the provinces as well as folk from the states. Took a three hour city tour. Got some rest, new visions and fresh white chocolate. Just so refreshing, for body & soul.
If you haven’t been to good Old Montréal in a good while, you should go. And if you enjoy jazz even a little bit, you should definitely put the 28th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal on your 2007 travel calendar. For the five days I was there the jazz mingled with good will was just a lovely perfume in the air, y’know? All way round DivaCardista had herself a grand time, I tell you! From the jazz festival itself to all the mini cultural festivals that seemed to break out all through the streets of Old Montréal, where I truly enjoyed my stay at Le Saint-Sulpice, which, by now, should have received the honor bar key that I took by mistake and mailed back to them. (Le ooops!)
Ah Le Saint-Sulpice--a grand hotel, my dear. Very plush, indeed, but not carried away with itself, which makes it that much nicer. And the great thing is that after a day or two (if not sooner), just being in such a well-appointed suite helps you to look at your regular life and see where you, too, might put a bit of berber over those places in your life that, thus far, ain’t been no crystal stair.
And who knew DivaCardista would take so well to dark wood? After months of mourning and gnashing of teeth (as ‘twere), my Canadian in-room electric fireplace was as welcome a sight for my tired eyes as the midday clip clop of the horse drawn carriages just under my window was to my tired ears as they as they toted happy tourists to the riverside. Now how pleasant is that? Even more pleasant were the all but hermetically seal-able windows that, once closed, only let in sunshine and moonlight. As I currently thrill to the ambient sounds of American lawns being mowed and hedges being trimmed, it’s a wonder why I ever came back.
Oh yeah: the fourth of July! Yay USA!
That was my plan: to break north for a minute and return refreshed and relaxedly focused…and ready for some barbecue, the official flavor of independence. I had no thought about Canada Day.
Up until about noon on June 30th, Canada Day had no meaning for me except as an mildly interesting placeholder on my 2006 kitties and puppies calendar. As a proud and true-blue American, what did I care about anything north of Albany? (Or north of 125th street, for that matter.) After all, the rest of the world, nay, the very universe revolves around US, does it not? (What—y’all gon leave me hanging?)
And then I quietly realized two of the most obvious things in the world:
- everybody loves where they were born. If it’s only the local football team and nothing else, everybody has some kind of pride for where they call home. And (gulp)
- as wonderfully fantastic & globally inspirational as your home might be, your neighbor might also be doing a few wonderfully fantastic things that you can be inspired by, learn from and work to emulate in your part of this humble planet we share.
Where is this all going? Right to the moment I was watching TV on July 1 (Canada Day) and I saw Her Excellency the Rt. Hon. Michaëlle Jean for the first time and said “Oh snap. That’s a Sister!” I --who heretofore knew everything about, well, everything and everybody everywhere--had never even heard of her. (Yes, I know we have Condoleeza Rice, et al…but this is way different.)
And then I realized how little I knew about our neighbor country. Made me think about where else earlier education might have left a hole or two. Made me want to commit to getting out of the narrowness of my beloved sea to shining sea more often. Who knows what other worlds there are to discover if one doesn’t switch up on the country code every so often?
Points to ponder, eh?
Now...the main folk I came (read: fled the confines of my usually delightful domicile) to see were two of the truest Divas I’ve ever encountered or experienced: Divas Dee Dee Bridgewater and Etta James.
Well.
Let’s start with Dee Dee.
O my goodness: what can’t this sister do?
- Freestyle rap
- scat
- hiphop
- r&b
- acapella in the moment compositions and then
- French to
- [down home soul] English and back to
- French again.
Yes: this was all in one concert!
And even with Piaf thrown in the mix, you ain’t never heard neither French anthem nor torch song sung with such intensity of heart. I mean. You know how jewelers talk about fire in a diamond? Well, here it is: right in the very person and personality of Sister Bridgewater.
When she throws her head back to tell a story of love through song, you automatically realize that all these young girls in tight tiny shiny clothes, who are each thrust before us constantly as the one to watch [this week], need to go and sit somewhere until they grow.
Now DivaCardista don’t speak but a few words of French – thank the good Lord for cognates – but I got the meaning in my soul every time Dame Dee Dee opened her mouth and heart to sing. It reminded me why singing is such a big deal in the first place. And, no, I am not hatin on the Niveas and the whomever elses that Clive Davis & nem keep finding at the schoolyard…but when you are in the presence of greatness, you know it. In fact, I hope these young women who are being quick-groomed to be the next Beyonce or whathaveyou will at some point be so blessed as to find themselves in someone’s living room as I did and happen across this level of life lived and deliciously expressed and let it inform them as they grow.
(See? Told I wasn’t hatin. Just explicatin. You know how I do.)
And as for Diva James, well let’s just say I hope that I still have that much sass and wisdom in my heart and hipbones as was shown in the great city of Montreal this past June.
She must be the original reference for the phrase “work it, baby, work it” because, believe me when I say, “work it” she did. Strong sensual powerful poignant and true. And o so real.
If it was to be brought, indeed, Etta James brought it all: from songs that I just kinda halfway heard of [“Tell Mama”] to the everything-old-is-new-again [“At Last”]. And it’s even better now. As is she. And, during the concert, she was presented with the Prix Ella-Fitzgerald!! You go, Dame Etta.
And don’t you know she was rockin a fly lil pony tail like Oprah?!? And I do mean rockin it!
As for the boys: from Dee Dee’s accordionist to Etta’s lead guitarist, both women had bands that were just tight, on time and on point. As individuals and as their respective collectives, they really knew how to do the daggone thang with power and much style.
Lastly I just want to give [yet another] shout out to truly old school, nu-classic folk blues guitarist Eric Bibb. He opened for Ms. James. How nice it is to hear the real deal and have it not be in sepia tone on PBS. Strong, clear, colorful and lovely. Mph mph mph. Fine, too. Once again I shout,
“you better
go, boy!”
In the words of
Corinne Bailey Rae, whom I missed cuz by that point I was too pooped to pop on down to the Club Soda, put your records on, y'all. And in the words of moi: speak peace today.
& let
peace perfume the air where e’er you be.
Blessings,
DivaCardista
