Les Olives: Part Five

It’s been a while since I revisited my trip to France back in March. For those of you who missed the first four installments of Les Olives, start with À Bientôt! Les Olives to catch up.

Although I originally thought I would be able to share my trip as things happened on a daily basis, my work in the grove for much of the day, leisurely French meals, and priceless fireside chats with my aunt meant there was little time to journal or publish. Factor in my linguistic struggles bouncing back and forth between English and French, and I’m surprised I got as far as I did.

Upon returning home, I decided I would continue to write these pieces as if I was journaling in real time. Over the next several weeks, I’ll continue to share a day here and there about my time “pruning” in Provence, and the lessons I continue to learn from those seven beautiful days in the South of France with my aunt and her trees. I hope you enjoy!

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I was climbing into an olive tree when Lucien asked me if he could play some music. 

“Monsieur, do you like the Future Bass?”

“Excuse me?” Lucien’s English was much better than my French, but I still didn’t understand the question. 

“The musique. Future Bass. It’s ok? We play while we tailler?”

I was stumped. What was Future Bass? 

“It is EDM,” Lucien continued, although he pronounced the “E” in the French way, which made me think he was speaking French again, not sharing the acronym for Electronic Dance Music. 

Lucien lifted a giant portable speaker, and motioned to it. 

“It’s ok if we play musique?”

I had just met Lucien that morning. He was a short sinewy guy. Well tanned from working outside. I assumed he was in his 30s, but I am never accurate with age in the South of France, especially because men my age often dress in clothes I’d only see on teenagers in the US. Fitting the stereotype, Lucien had on bright white puma trainers, designer jeans with way too many intentional holes in them, and a fitted football jersey. He was well spoken, even though I couldn’t follow much of his rapid French. But I could tell it wasn’t a local dialect. He must have studied at university in a big city, maybe even Paris.

Many foreigners don’t realize that there are 75 regional dialects spoken in France, most derivatives of the ancient Occitan language. The local dialect, referred to as Provencal, is what’s left of the vulgar Latin spoken by the first people of Mediterranean France. 

Few people still speak Provencal, although there are linguistic competitions, and some schools still teach the local grammar. You’re much more likely to hear Provencal accented French with its melodic, sing-song tonality. Syllables are elongated with a distinct rhythmic cadence as if the heat and tranquility of Provence slows everything down, including phonetics. Vowels are typically more open and pronounced, and consonants softened. There is a distinctive rolling of the "r" that you’re more likely to hear just over the border in Spain, than in Lyon. 

I have an embarrassing knack of picking up the accent if I visit for too long, much to the amusement of my French-born wife. The result is a slight twang of my vowels that horrifies my aunt, and thoroughly confuses the locals trying to place my provenance.

Lucien had none of this accent, and I could tell in the way he carried himself, I could tell that working the land hadn’t been his lifelong pursuit.

Lucien had a helper with him, Gabriel, not much older than 20. Lanky and youthful, he was distractingly handsome, like the cliche European exchange student in a Hallmark Movie. Suddenly, I was concerned about my two teenage daughters coming this summer. With Gabriel cutting the grass shirtless on the rider lawn mower, I’d need to keep an eye on things. Oh to be young again.

Despite my skepticism, Gabriel was polite, and quiet. In fact, he kept his eye on his work except when he looked to Lucien for direction. He even kept his gaze on his boss when I spoke. I understood it as a sign of respect, rather than shyness. He had an air of apprenticeship about him that made me think he would be a hard worker. I wasn’t wrong.

“It’s ok if we place the musique?” Lucien asked again.

“Honestly, I don’t mind.” I was still a bit confused about his insistence. “But you probably should ask my aunt.”

Lucien seemed disappointed. Maybe he had already asked her on a previous occasion, or maybe he wished I would broach the topic on his behalf. My aunt can be formidable. He set the speak down again–which had a subwoofer the size of a basketball–and picked up his ladder, repositioning it in front of an olive tree that was bushy with two years of growth.

My aunt had given very specific instructions. We were to prune the majority of the trees today, and finish the rest tomorrow morning. Since we only prune half of the trees each year, that would make 65 trees in about 12 hours of work, or just over five trees an hour. Luckily, most of the trees are arranged intentionally on a few terraces just below the main house. Each olivier is evenly spaced a dozen feet apart.

I wanted Lucien to know he was in charge for the day, but I didn’t want to see authority. I was the nephew. Gabriel and I stood on either side of him, and Lucien began to explain in French how we would prune. Every minute or so, he would look over his shoulder at me and seek confirmation or approval. 

“Oui,” I’d say quickly as if I was hanging on every word of his in-depth instructions. For the most part, I had no idea what he was saying.

After a few more minutes, Lucien caught on to my deception. “I speak a little English if you would like,” he offered.

“Et, je parle en peu de français aussi.” I stumbled through my first French of the day.

“Bon!” Lucien said. He continued in French to Gabriel for a bit longer. I continued to pretend comprehension.

“And now we are ready? Please pick a tree,” he said in clean English.

And so I picked the tree in front of me, and got to work cutting back the suckers and shoots that were coming up from the roots and trunk at my feet. My hand already ached from yesterday’s lessons but that didn’t stop me from clearing out the inside of the tree in a few minutes. 

Climbing up into the upper branches of the tree, I stood on the scaffold limbs of the tree while reaching for the upper branches. When I’d finished there, I was feeling confident in my efforts. Looking over at the other men though, I realized I was a bit slower than I had hoped. They had both already finished with the inside of their trees and were now quietly working at thinning out the younger growth

“It is ok, if we start the musique,” Lucien asked again. It had been fifteen minutes since he last inquired. 

“What was it called again?” I found it odd that a man almost my age was so persistent about audio. 

“Future Bass,” He said.

“Is that like Trance?” I asked, reaching for the only EDM music I knew by name. “Or is it like Techno?” Even I felt the age of that term. Who listened to Techno anymore, or even called it that?

Licien’s mouth turned up into a subtle smirk. He may have been thinking the same thing. But quickly it changed to a very pensive expression. I realized he was eager to tackle this question, like an art historian being asked to explain the difference between Gauguin and Cezanne.

Techno and trance are two distinct subgenres of electronic dance music (EDM) that emerged in the late 20th century. Techno, originating from Detroit in the mid-1980s, is characterized by its repetitive, industrial beats, minimalistic structure, and often dark, mechanical soundscapes. Trance, on the other hand, developed in the early 1990s in Germany, is known for its melodic, hypnotic qualities, with building crescendos and euphoric melodies. Both genres have a tempo ranging between 120 and 150 BPM. 

The biggest difference between these musical types and the more recent Future Bass, lies in the stylistic and sonic elements. Future Bass, which emerged in the 2010s, is marked by its lush, bright sound, often incorporating melodic synths, pitched vocal chops, and a prominent, “wobbly” bassline that gives it a more uplifting and vibrant feel compared to the often more rigid and darker tones of techno and trance. While the older genres focus on creating a continuous, immersive dance experience, Future Bass emphasizes dynamic, emotional drops, and sometimes even feels mainstream.

That might have been what Lucien would have told me if his English were better, or my curiosity in EDM were greater. But what he did say about the music conveyed as much passion and depth and importance in the subject. Although I was known to beatbox techno beats as a long-standing joke with my kids, I was clueless of all the variations and iterations the EDM had to offer. I admit that I’d never listened to an EDM song all the way through, and certainly hadn’t been to a club or concert playing electronica. Lucky for me, Lucien had apparently spent much of his life exploring the subject and was keen to convert me to fandom.

“I have been to a festival in Las Vegas. Very good Future Bass festival. It’s alright? We play musique now?”

Yes, Lucien. We can play the music.

Right away, I realized why Lucien had waited for permission to play his Future Base. I already mentioned that Lucien’s soundsystem was of an impressive size. When the first track began with its signature “wobbly” base tones, it felt like we’d pumped electricity into the roots of the trees we were pruning. The olive leaves vibrated. My ears itched with frequency. 

Future Bass lovers might then say that the music began to grow more “emotional” or “euphoric.” To my unsophisticated ears, it simply continued to get louder. I was worried the music might make my aunt a bit “emotional” herself, or maybe even the neighbors who surely could hear the “uplifting” and “dynamic” drops. I feared our soundtrack might set off a car alarm. Lucien and Gabriel both bobbed their heads to the beat. Sometimes Lucien would wave an arm in the air like he was DJing the mix. 

“You came to Las Vegas for this music?” I projected above the beats trying not to sound too judgemental. “Was it a good time?” I asked.

“Yes. Fantastique. Change my life,” Lucien said. “I go to a festival every year.”

I looked up from my work and stared into Lucien’s face again. He was focused on his pruning, and seemed sincere. Surely, he wasn’t as close in age to me as I had thought.

At 46 years of age, I couldn’t imagine a less enjoyable place to spend an afternoon than with a bunch of EDM fans decked out in their festival wear for multiple days in the Las Vegas sun. The sea of thumping, head bobbing, sweaty hysteria would more likely give me a panic attack than fits of joy. Of course, I kept my opinion to myself. Lucien was having far too much fun gyrating on his ladder as he finished up his third olive tree. 

“Do you have kids, Lucien?” 

“Yes, I have one son. He is 13.” Even if he had an early start at kids (less common in Europe), Lucien had a child older than my son. 

Standing Inside an Olive Tree

I suddenly remembered college in 1999. I had considered joining some friends at Burning Man. Back then it was only a few thousand people, and felt much more like a utopian commune of art and music, than the commercialized, hipster-plagued Disneyland it’s become. That same fall,  I had almost gone to the first Coachella, which was only 90 minutes from my college campus. Both times, I chickened out.  I simply felt too uptight. Like I might stand out, or embarrass myself.   

We were making good time. Each of us was finding our stride and the pruning was progressing nicely.I began to realize how energizing this Future Bass really was. I have done many manual tasks in my life. I’ve built a 2,000 square foot deck, I’ve laid tile in my backhouse, I’ve deboned 200 lbs of chicken legs and thighs. And many times, I played music while I worked. But none was as well suited a soundtrack as Future Bass.

Pruning olives is a meticulous and repetitive act. The solitary nature, the intention, and the sensory engagement are conducive to a very meditative state. I was surprised by how the hours went by so effortlessly. I have to believe the music had a part. There is something stimulating and hypnotic about Future Bass pumping through your body while you’re snipping away at an olive tree. At times, if my mind wandered too far from its task, or my body started to fatigue, a simple lyrical sample from one of the Future Bass tracks brought me right back into focus.

I wasn’t only pruning the olive trees anymore. I was starting to cut back a little of my own judgment; my own assumptions; my own labels. I was getting rid of the dead wood that had blocked untapped experiences, new sounds, and old dreams. 

I remembered my aunt’s pruning advice: take a moment to assess your progress. I got down from the ladder and stepped back a few feet from my work. Along the terraced slope I had already neatly trimmed more than a dozen trees. Piles of branches lay around each trunk like cut hair surrounding a barber’s chairs. 

I’d achieved all that work myself. And more remarkably, although I was physically exhausted, my mind felt calm and rested, almost purified. I hadn’t looked at an email or a text or a comment all day. Once Id agreed to let the music start, I’d barely even said a word to Lucien and Gabriel for the rest of the day. The Future Bass became a monastic chant, erasing unhealthy thoughts, and cleansing with its vibrations. 

All that was left felt simple, true, and tangible. I felt new creativity, fantastic memories, and future possibilities. 

I stared down the terrace of trees, reflecting on the days work when a wobbly bass beat struck like an earthquake. My heart trembled. For a moment, it ached. And then suddenly the music subsided into a pleading anthem:

“Keep me in this state of mind. Tell me that it's real life.”

I’m ready for my next tree to prune.