We just finished filming a meticulously prepared Pocket party; the music was beautiful and intoxicating, and we could have packed up our gear right then. We were still a little dizzy from the torpid, faraway rhythms of Tinariwen.
Meanwhile, we were told that that they were on their way. They had just finished their concert at the Café de la Danse and still had energy. Man Man was as ready as we were. Two teams came together, each willing to celebrate and let it all hang out.
We quickly put back the microphones. Changed the memory cards in the cameras. Went on a whisky run. Suddenly – we were ready for anything. On the program: one poncho, a stepladder, a makeshift shoe-ashtray, a trash can drum, biscotti, two bikes with bells, a half-naked saxophonist, a star-studded flag, a director rocking a straw hat, six hands on the piano, a hoarse voice, both destroyed and powerful, and the happiest possible state of anarchy. It was as if we had filmed something that was never supposed to exist. But what else are we here for?