La Blogothèque

Patrick Watson

– The Spanish Bar

Since we needed to pick a place to meet up, we told Patrick Watson’s manager that we’d meet them at Prado. The bar would be a good atmosphere—it was the finale of the European Cup, tons of Spaniards were there, and the Prado was the place to be for all Spanish soccer fans. However, we didn’t expect this. When we met Watson and his band, boulevard Voltaire was blocked, and they were swallowed up by the crowd. We bought beers, spoke with Quebecois accents, and explained to them that the next day, we’d like them to do both a Take-Away Show AND a Pocket Party. They hadn’t understood this, hadn’t planned for it, but it was cool. No big. We yelled and all jumped up together whenever Spain scored. (Behaving any other way, after all, would have been frowned-upon.)

The next day, when I rejoined the group (and was a little late), they had already taken their places in an alley in Place de Clichy. Everything started so well.

– The Metro

We knew in advance that we’d have to take the metro. Leave Place de Clichy, then arrive in an apartment in Bonne Nouvelle. That’s what we knew. What we didn’t know: that they’d do everything they possibly could in the metro. Play on a corner for indifferent passers-by; get lectured by an agent; tap their whisks on the posters, the guardrails, the escalators, the stairs, the gates; play the saw when the train doors closed; mimic a horse race; and steal the recorder from us so that Patrick could hear the guitar when he sang in the train.

– Moon

Leaving the metro, the group was elated, I was elated, but Moon wasn’t yet. He wasn’t happy with what he’d filmed, so we had to keep going. It was beautiful, warm, and the group was in their element; we didn’t have anything better to do, so we pressed on. In front of the closed Folies Bergères, then in a tiny park in front of a fountain protected by an 80-centimeter-tall barrier, we started to get tired. Patrick Watson jumped on the barrier; his microphone caught and broke. Moon grabbed another one, tearing his pants, which he “repaired” with white gaffer’s tape. It was time to go to the Pocket Party.

– The Evening

We’d already talked a fair amount about the evening here, and we showed it here. But there was this incredible post-script. Patrick Watson and his band, whom we had barely needed to motivate that day, led us in their journey that night. They gave us more music than we could have ever dreamed of asking for.

Translation by Caitlin Caven