After a picnic in the Albert 1er gardens, the crowd settles on the tiled steps of the Théâtre de Verdure. In calm and discipline, fans sit cross-legged, chat, and toast. At 7:30 PM, the musicians make a timid and relaxed entrance on stage. But very quickly, the drums launch into a lively rhythm. The opening act set the tone. Hidden behind the stage, Maxxo finally appears by surprise on the boards. From then on, he does not hesitate to involve a frenzied audience. The “electro” and fluid sounds of the keyboard blend with the staccato guitar characteristic of reggae. Smoke and hundreds of hands rise in a sacred ritual as if reaching for the sky. The sun is still omnipresent, and the theater’s palm trees almost transport us to Jamaica. The evening has begun.
### All Equal Before Jah
It’s Groundation’s turn. After singing in French, the six Californians defend the jazzier American colors. Language and culture don’t matter. At the Théâtre de Verdure, barriers fall. Whites, blacks, young or old; the singer, a little bearded man with glasses and a black turban, gets everyone to agree: “Nice, we need your positive vibrations.” The only colors that matter now are green, yellow, and red, dispersed by the spotlights.
Then mysticism gives way to a tribal atmosphere. Two beautiful African-American backup singers sway and move their hips. The percussion speeds up. The musicians get carried away in a nervous and controlled trance. The singer, a true dynamo, shares his keen sense of improvisation and leads a long repetitive and incantatory chorus. The rastas float through the air. Vapors of herb escape from the compact crowd. We sway one last time in a languid dance as if to mimic the waves of the Mediterranean.
### Alpha, After Bob Marley
We’re only waiting for the master of the genre. His musicians start without him on an improbable but stunning cover of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.” On the amphitheater steps, it’s collective hallucination. The keyboard layers intoxicate and transform the cries of impatience into a grand moment of spirituality. Alpha Blondy’s voice pierces the starry night of Nice. With a serene step, he reveals himself. He’s carrying his daughter with one hand and with the other, using his mic, preaches his good word in Hebrew. It’s time to say, “Jerusalem, I love you.”
The fans’ excitement quickly becomes uncontrollable. The second song, in English this time, makes dreadlocks crash, T-shirts fall off. The people of the French Riviera are soaring high. Some are experiencing a landmark evening, like Fred, who at 42 has never lost his enthusiasm for reggae: “There was Bob, and now there’s Alpha. And today’s youth listen to the same music as twenty years ago. You can’t dream of anything better.”
The beer cups wobble. We take each other by the shoulder. Alpha delights with his covers. Starting with Bob Marley’s “Crazy Baldheads.” Bare sweaty backs accompany the artist in his momentum. The star expends incredible energy. He also soaks his shirt while dancing with his mic stand. Tirelessly, the tracks follow one another until “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. After a great moment of bliss, Blondy makes his encore with “Brigadier Sabari” and his “operation punch.”
The show ends with a long police siren. Everyone heads home. Alpha Blondy vanishes like a thief. For just one evening, he stole the hearts and souls of his admirers gathered under the same banner. That of universal peace.
