Driving. A day of driving. Place to place to place to place. Through the summer streets of Paris.
My driving setup on event work like this is well established. A magnetic phone holder that attaches to the air vent. Otherwise you cook your phone in the sun. A charging wire that connects to the cigarette lighter, not just the car USB. So you definitely get charge rather than some janky system trying to connect your phone to the car. Bluetooth the phone to the car instead. Otherwise it won’t work properly and won’t charge. A spare port in the charger for your inevitably unprepared passenger.
Then I tune into local radio as I drive. And I Shazam all tracks that take my interest, making my Shazams into a long list of tunes that I will turn into a Spotify playlist at the end of the job. Then when I’m in the old folks home, the nurse can play my playlists from these incredible random jobs all over the world, and I can momentarily forget that I’m doolally and my legs have fallen off, and think I’m back in that hot summer in Paris when we made The Olympics.
Local worldwide radio is frequently somewhat repetitive. My playlists have been short because they’re playing the same old well represented musicians on repeat to generate interest in exchange for spondoolicks.
In Paris there is FIP. A little radio station under a big umbrella. I found it on my habitual first day quest for the most varied local radio.
105.10 – (in Paris). France Inter Paris. Coming out from Romainville just next to the warehouse.
FIP first broadcast before I was born. For what it is, it is wonderful and creative and so French that it is still going. They aren’t repeating tracks – a minimum of 48 hours. They DJ from 7am to 11pm. Outside of that it replays selections from the previous day.
It’s so French. Global art and culture is largely dictated by money. Behemoths have invested in certain cultural voices and they can often lead the cultural narrative because of the sheer volume of money put behind the voices they decide to select. Other voices can make themselves heard, but it does help an individual in the arts if they come to the attention of a behemoth. Affordable art fairs still work with galleries. FIP doesn’t care about all this. Vous n’êtes plus là, vous êtes sur FIP. Respirez, vous êtes sur FIP. Escape. Breath. FIP.
FIP is part of the necessary interference to this restricting model of serving art to people. You might occasionally get a Taylor Swift song, but it won’t be every five minutes. They are painting with a broad brush. There are multiple DJs and they will still have personal favourites, and a desire to share voices new to them. One of my regular driving time DJs is putting out a lot of Cassandra Jenkins, who reminds me of January Thompson – I like my ethereal American female singer songwriters – always have. But a lot means three different tracks in about a week. Enough for me to notice as I like her sound. I impulse booked two tickets to a gig in Brighton in November after enjoying multiple tracks from her latest album “My Light My Destroyer”. They even played Liz Lawrence a couple of days ago. She’s a Stratford upon Avon lass and I met her through Minnie when she was finishing her wonderful first album, Bedroom Hero. FIP reminded me she’s got a new album out – Peanuts. It’s ace. Talented friends, and finally a radio station putting them out there because they’re good, rather than transactionally.
The FIP DJs are clearly great listeners, cataloguers and artistic pattern makers. They theme songs, but the themes shift. Sometimes one sound flows into another, sometimes it will be three upbeat songs of loneliness. We go into opera, to classical music, through the whole history of modern music, everywhere. NAS plays next to Flight of the Conchords plays next to Madeleine Peyroux. Loads of French music, some of it so so cool. I’ve enjoyed Brigitte Bardot (Le diable est anglais), Jacques Higelin (Crocodaïl), Sporto Kantes (Lee). It’s my favourite side of the French cool thing. No judgement. No promotion. Just music played actively to make a better frame for the listener.
It is on different wavelengths in different parts of France, and occasionally Radio France snip off the head of one of the local broadcasters because not enough people are listening. But if you live there, tune in. No adverts, virtually no talking, no playing the shit the behemoths want us all to be listening to. It’s brilliant.
And it connects me randomly with Lou. She lives in Kemptown, in Brighton. Some very smart music savvy Brighton denizens that she knows managed to keep a range extender running for ages before Ofcom pissed on their parade. FIP and the DJs are still well known and celebrated over there. Lou knew it immediately. It’s a little cool bit of Paris that crossed to habitually edgy Brighton. You can get it on satellite these days all over the place, plus stream it live. There’s even a FIP app in English. Bemused executives have noticed that people actually like authentic things.
But I’m so glad I’m here at this auspicious time for France, enjoying it live as I pound the streets as a tiny team for the whole world.
Le Geo. The Globe Les JO. The Olympics. Vous etes ici pour Geo? Oui. Bien sûr. Toujours.
AlBarclay 