The sound is joyful, almost defiant in its imperfection.
Following the melody, I discover a small bandstand set up at the edge of the market. A group of young musicians plays what sounds like a jazz standard, though with a distinctly French flair.
Their instruments are mismatched, their setup informal. Yet there’s something authentic in their performance that draws me closer.
At the center stands a lanky guy in a blue-and-white striped shirt and jaunty beret, conducting with energetic gestures as though the market square is his personal concert hall.
A small crowd has gathered, mostly other young people sipping espresso and nodding along.
A hand-painted sign readsL’Association Musicale de Saint-Tropez presents Jazz au Marché.
I find myself swaying to the rhythm, transported back to mygrandmother’s apartment. Back to a place and time where records spun endlessly and music was as essential as oxygen.
The bandleader scans the audience as the group finishes their number, and his eyes land on me. Something like recognition passes across his face before he offers a theatrical bow.
As the band shuffles through sheet music for their next piece, he hops down from the bandstand and approaches me.
“You are enjoying the music, no?” he asks in accented English.
“Very much,” I reply, surprised. “How did you know I speak English?”
He grins, revealing a charming dimple. “You are Bix Bismark, yes? Slayer’s new girlfriend?”
I tense, immediately on guard. “How?—”
“Le Matinannounced your arrival this morning. Everyone’s talking about it.” He offers his hand. “I am Paul Rousseau, local DJ, sometimes bandleader, always music enthusiast.”
“So everyone knows?”
“Saint-Tropez is small.” Paul shrugs. “Everyone knows everyone’s business. What do you do when you’re not being Slayer’s girlfriend?”
I try to remember the press packet. But even though I studied it, Slayer’s girlfriend had no profession. No job. She wasn’t even a college student.
Her persona was simply that of a high-society debutante, flitting from party to party.
“I sing,” I say, wanting to give Slayer’s fake girlfriend an identity. After I speak, though, I realize maybe I wasn’t supposed to say that. Milo hurled the dos and don’ts of what I’m supposed to say so quickly it’s all a blur.
“Why aren’t you with Sterling Records too?”
“Apparently I’m not the kind of singer Sterling Records wants on their label.”
Paul’s eyes light up. “What kind are you, then?”
I hesitate, not sure how much to reveal to this stranger. But there’s something in his face that keeps me talking.
“Jazz, mostly. My grandmother was a jazz singer back in the day. Never made it big, but taught me everything I know.”
“Americans invented jazz, but the French perfected the appreciation of it,” Paul says with mock seriousness before breaking into another grin.
“Would you like to sing with us? We’re missing our usual vocalist today.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I look around. I’m pretty sure Slayer, Milo, and Sterling wouldn’t be happy about that.
“Please. The market crowd deserves better than my terrible singing.” He gestures to the bandstand. “One song. Whatever you like. If it’s a standard, we know it.”
I glance around, suddenly self-conscious. But before I can overthink it, I nod.
Paul guides me to the bandstand, then introduces me in French to his bandmates.
