Bowie and Bullfighting
By mid-afternoon I was flirting with the outskirts of Nîmes, which as well as being an important Roman city had an even better claim to fame - it was the home of jeans! Now, if The Jean Genie or Blue Jean, two Bowie songs, were the loose hooks I was toying with to offer as an official hotspot, fear not, Bowie had been here, a mere fourteen years ago on Bastille Day as part of his 2002 Heathen Tour. It seemed the city was buoyed by my arrival, the French city awash with jubilant individuals here for the Feria de Nîmes. Every year at harvest the town gets swamped with horses, music and the French getting off their pantaloons on pastis and wine. As I peddled through the town looking for a hostel I’d earmarked, the ancient settlements, bubbling fountains and palm-lined streets reverberated with conviviality. Bright skies watched on as bunting swung ceremoniously from balconies and men warmed brass instruments on street corners.
This was my first official ‘rest day.’ A rest day for a cyclist is usually just that. A chance to hop off the saddle, recharge the batteries, eat a good balance of proteins and carbohydrates and not move much at all, so it was a surprise to me that three hours later I was flailing my arms around like a man excitedly pointing out UFOs as a brass band belted out funked-up French classics. I’d dumped my bike at a hostel and got chatting to two German gents who were curious about the festival - and intent on getting sehr betrunken. I recall lots of ‘Hey, hey, hey’ing’ some ‘La, la, la’ing,’ a bit of hopping from one foot to the other and putting my arm around a 73-year-old Malaysian man and asking if he knew what the f*ck Life on Mars? was all about.
The next morning, suffering monumental queasiness, the possibility my head had been sat on by a huffy elephant and my mouth sprinkled with shake n vac, I rolled back through the empty streets where stale booze and good times still hung in the air. Today, I had a mission. 1) Not to vomit 2) to learn about Bowie’s 2002 Bastille Day gig. With a Feria hangover, I approached the rather magnificent Arena de Nîmes.
Somehow I made a monetary exchange, an audio guide was pushed into my hand and - not looking or acting one single bit like a gladiator - entered the arena. Last night it had witnessed a bullfight and traces of the animal’s blood lay wet in the sand. My stomach twisted with nausea. As the arena’s grey stone moved from light to dark as clouds cast checkerboard shadows across its steeply ascending steps and blue skies warmed the flagstones, I saw a sign that noted the Roman people were interested in ‘entertainment and supplies.’ I needed supplies. Bacon, cuddles, those sorts of things. Desperate for information, I sat on the stone steps and drunk-typed ‘Bowir Mimes HuLy142002’ into my phone.
Did you mean ‘Bowie Nîmes 14 July 2002?’ I did Google, you blistering smart arse. But it brought success - a French website, Live on Mars, had recounted the gig in minute-by-minute detail.
10:15pm ...Bowie appears like in a dream... He delicately holds the microphone with his right hand, then his voice starts to fill every small part of the arena…A strong wind blows thru his hairs (the well-known so-called ’Mistral’)
Bowie is clearly in high spirits…'Life on Mars?’ shows Mike Garson beginning the song alone on piano. Then, again, the band joins in and the song finally reaches an unforgettable peak and finally ends leaving the crowd breathless…
…12,000 persons shout at the same time and stomp their feet on the floor: THEY WANT BOWIE AGAIN!!!
I gazed across the empty amphitheatre and let out a little shiver, I wanted Bowie again. I imagined the crowd listening to Life on Mars? and his voice echoing around the arena. Right on cue, a plume of pigeons scattered behind me and brought the morning to life.
With a bit of Bowie under my belt, I felt more rested. Back at the hostel, I unfolded my map. As the vast expanse of France yawned before me, I noted that the ViaRhôna cycle path followed the river of the same name northwards and into a black hole of Star Map destinations. Bowie had not disappointed Christian 2002 on Bastille Day and as I forced the last of the eggy bread into my sickly face and set out for the nothingness beyond, an element of that story lingered on. The Mistral was the wind that had irked Bowie as it tousled his feathered blonde mane. Its gusts are known to bluster at speeds of over a 100mph and locally it’s known as the ‘Idiot Wind,’ not after the Bob Dylan song but on account of it driving people mad. As I set off, heading northbound up into France, the wind now rearranging my jowels into jaunty ripples, I understood. Bowie was right, it was a rotter.
