Hi! Backtrack one year:
It's my first time in Europe. I am not there to play; I'm visiting my wife Alice's family in the Netherlands and France. There's a blues festival in southern Holland for me to check out, but more importantly, I have decided that seeing Europe's famous guitar-playing Roma would be worth a trip. Well, I find none. Not a single one. They have either "just been here the previous week" or "will be coming next week." I have to content myself with the blues festival. Which is great--Rusty Zinn, Lynwood Slim, and Johnny Dyer...whom I meet thanks to my pal Raoul from Toronto. So, that's it, then. No Manouche or Sinti guitar players. I leave Holland somewhat disappointed.

My father-in-law suggests that, as a consolation prize, we could make a quick stop on our way from Paris to Tours, in a little town called Samois-sur-Seine, where Django Reinhardt, the most famous Manouche guitarist of all time, lived during his last years and is buried. I'll take it! We arrive in Samois and already I'm happy; I decide quickly that Samois is the prettiest place I have seen thus far on my drive through Holland, Belgium and France. Eating at a little coffee shop where Django would play, right around the corner from his house, is a real treat! He picked a beautiful place to retire.

We finish our visit to Samois by going to the cemetery to pay respects to Django. When we get there, we find three people cleaning Django's grave--a woman, a boy and a girl. My father-in-law, Jean Pierre, starts a conversation with them. I don't understand it since I only speak English, so I study the names on the headstone; buried alongside Django are his his son Babik, his brother Joseph (who played rhythm guitar for the Hot Club) and his wife Naguine. Jean Pierre informs me that the people tending the grave are the grandchildren of Django! He and the older woman walk to the bottom of the cemetery; the rest of us are left there wondering where they are headed. Alice's Aunt Francoise thinks the woman must be showing Jean Pierre a place where her two sons will be playing later that night. A gig which, of course, we would miss--@#$%^&* !!

As they reach the gate, they turn and motion for us to follow. We catch up. But we don't turn left toward the village; we turn right-through and under the bushes into a clearing where two caravans are parked! Not horse drawn, of course: Reneault and Peugeot. Jean Pierre informs us that these people would not normally be allowed to stay inside city limits, but as the grandchildren of Django, they have been given special permission from the Mayor to stay a few days and clean the grave. (I later found out that the Roma are the people most discriminated against throughout Europe. I also want you to note that I did not use the term "Gypsy" or "Gipsy," as I've come to learn that it is offensive.) The older woman calls her two oldest sons out of one of the caravans, introduces me as a true fan of Django, and tells them they should play for us. They oblige--or follow orders--invite us into the trailer, and proceed to play classic Django compositions for the next 20 minutes! The older of the two guitarists was Dallas Baumgartner; I later figured out he must be the son of Henri Baumgartner, Django's first-born from his first marriage. So, I assume the older woman at the camp was the wife of Henri Baumgartner and mother of Dallas. Certainly, they were giving hosts, who offered four strangers food, wine and music.

I should have a piece for next year as I'm off in three weeks for a six-day festival in Samois marking the 50th anniversary of Django's passing!

a bientôt,

Steve