Carla Bruni. Photo: Getty
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Antonia Quirke on radio: Carla Bruni's last tango in Paris

Oh, Paris. So nostalgic, so mythical. “Do they say that in English – mythical? Ah, yes! So mythical!”

Carla Bruni's Postcards from Paris
BBC Radio 2

“’Allo, this is Carla Bruni, with my third and final postcard from Paris to you!” Another fascinating hour listening to music by Claude Nougaro and Charles Aznavour while wandering the City of Light in the company of the former first lady of France (4 June, 10pm).

Bruni – model, actress and nouvelle chanson performer – is a woman entirely swept away by the big picture. Oh, Paris. So nostalgic, so mythical. “Do they say that in English – mythical? Ah, yes! So mythical!” If you were ever to throw caution to the wind and visit Paris yourself, then Carla strongly suggests forgetting the guidebook and just strolling through the parks.

All of them are nostalgic and romantic. There’s the Jardin des Tuileries, for example, “which is square and green”. And all the museums, too, which are “so beaudiful. But best to walk with a boyfriend because this is definitely romantic.” When Carla walks these streets herself, she can’t help but think about Hemingway and Joyce and the great Irish poet Yeets. Quel homme. “The memories, the history . . .”

Mysteriously, the theatres in Paris can be big but they can also be small. “For lots of people,” marvels Carla, “and for a little amount of people, too. We have all the opportunities for theatre in Paris!” Bruni sighs.

Her voice is gorgeously musical – frequently low and woozy, always full of a velvety fire. Occasionally she slows, allowing the listener to drink it all in, or even scribble things down, as though this were an informal kind of salon for some of the most interesting people in Parisian public life – artists, scientists, and so on. Simple rustic food, rough bread and cheese and sophisticated musings about British punk (“The Clash could never have been Swiss”). Anything to get people away from the chambre de TV and wandering the green and square parks of Paris!

Most of all, Carla thinks she would like to visit Scotland. Who knows? Maybe one day, thinks the listener, after she is released from the isolation unit. “It must be so nice. The castles. I don’t know how much time you need to go from south to north or east to west but I’m sure it’s possible, non? I’d love to do it with the kids, or with my man. So nice. So romantic!”

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State