Paris is hard to beat, especially in the summer. The city of lights, love, fashion, and other bourgeois constructs – easily one of the most attractive holiday locations this side of the Milky Way – takes its cue from the changing seasons to transform into a wonder of life and leisure far more organic than what you get in the glossy, Eiffel Tower-saturated travel blogs.
The sun and warmth bring out the millions of leisurely, lollygag-obsessed Parisians to saunter all around in their myriad activities; muddy Seine sparkles to complement the endless glistening bodies in outdoor gyms, bitchy queuing in overcrowded streets reveal the locations of the best boulangeries, pedestrians cuss at the drivers, who cuss back at them until they join forces to cuss at the cyclists, and wine bottles start popping as early as 10 am… on Mondays. Infinite rows of decrepit bistro chairs sink into the ground, making dents in the asphalt the greatest homage to the locals’ tradition of four coffees daily. If joie de vivre exists, it indeed originates here. Parisian summers are an utterly intoxicating, inviting affair, contingent precisely on one’s capacity for infinite jesting.
Rock en Seine, by some margin the most lauded music festival in France, is a logical and smart extension of this atmosphere. Founded in 2003 as a casual two-day fiesta with ten bands, it kept developing its ambition and ethical mission to become the hottest ticket in a town already ablaze with excitement.
This August, Rock en Seine welcomed 182,000 visitors between 21 and 25 August for 92 shows across five stages amid the stunning greenery of Domaine de Saint-Cloud, the city’s opulent southwestern neighborhood just miles away from Versailles, home to Roland Garros, Hippodrome LongChamps, and countless chateaus. Stretching for nearly a mile on the banks of the eponymous river, the 2024 edition saw triumphant performances from Lana Del Rey, Massive Attack, LCD Soundsystem, Fred Again, Maneskin, Pixies, PJ Harvey, the Offspring, and many more household rock and pop names. Warm but not scorching weather and moderately priced beverages created a fantastic atmosphere.
Rock en Seine Is a Music Fest Success Story
The above are just the general prerequisites for throwing a decent bash; Rock en Seine truly shines in the details. In a year (or epoch, really) of decline for the event industry, large-scale and modest festivals alike have been struggling to keep their footing, break new grounds, or even keep their existing fanbase interested. I have already written about some of the issues with large event management; Rock en Seine, curiously, makes none of the mistakes that I believe are behind dwindling numbers or shaky branding.
This festival knows what it is: an honest-to-god rock fête with a radio-friendly twang. Its formula has been the same for many years: an offroad A-lister for the exclusive opening night to kick the dust up mainstream rock as the main course, a healthy side of electronica in the evenings, and killer pop for dessert. Despite a mix of pop-rock veterans, emerging stars, and indie hopefuls, there is no profiling confusion since the (very) limited capacity of 40,000 allows rock fans of differing ages to decide which days they go to Rock en Sein. There’s no attendance drop-off, as is typical of behemoth jamborees when they cannot afford superstars as joker cards to pull in the masses every day.
The price is a formidable complementary incentive: at about $70 for a daily ticket and $250 for four days, Rock en Seine is among the most affordable major festivals on the continent. Though well-endowed through partnerships with such corporate giants as Firestone (one of the smaller stages bears their name), Bridgestone, and American Express, it scores its main financial win on another end: sentimentality. This means it is one of the relatively rare (!) events whose chiefs understand that your chance of success will be highest if you fix your aim firmly on the target group with the most money, i.e., the much-dreaded tricenarians, quadragenarians, or even older” folks whose cartilage has not yet started to give way.
Rock en Seine’s “middle-aged” audience – so often wrongfully presumed to be uninterested in partying or dreading even the most minuscule logistical inconveniences – is the bread and butter of most consumer goods and pop culture phenomena. Following the simplest logic, in a world where precarity reigns and entry-level jobs for the young pay less than the amount you’d spend on a cupboard-sized windowless room in a shared apartment (and that’s outside Paris), it is precisely the 30+ people who may have become lucky enough to be able to afford…stuff, like lavish events over summer city breaks, $10 drinks or $20 meals. If you play your cards right, these guys will ensure your fête becomes canon.
Luckily for all concerned, the Rock en Seine team is au courant. Their booking hand is their sly, strong suit; ensuring that each day hinges on a healthy mix of nostalgia acts and fresh latter-day idols, they cover their ground (and asses) superbly. For every Maneskin, Fred Again, or Inhaler, you got a Roisin Murphy, PJ Harvey, or Pixies. Certainly, the latter all still have prolific careers and compelling new releases, but it is understood that their main appeal today is to evoke memories from their listeners’ eventful youth. Most of these veteran acts also cost considerably less to experience than the stars of the hour, buttressing the foundation for fairly priced tickets. It’s a simple and effective win that surprisingly few go for.
Another major appeal of Rock en Seine is its commitment to walking the ethical walk and making good on its promise of 50/50 gender representation. It is still too often tacitly “understood” that rock stardom is a masculine concept or that men simply won’t listen to female rock performers (this is the bigger problem of the two). Both ought to be challenged and proved wrong by acknowledging the quality of work and the star power of the countless women who have shaped rock and pop throughout the ages. Still, to this day, despite denying it publicly, most happenings will rather go with an undercooked two-riff boyband cosplaying as the Arctic Monkeys or the Strokes than with a female performer.
Not the Parisians, though. By always ensuring 50 percent of performers are women and advertising female artists on par with the men, they put into practice what many others only academicize about. Lo and behold, the women’s performances are just as spectacular and well-attended as the men’s.
Surely, some will disagree with this, but I consider it a plus that Rock en Seine works on a curfew by 00:30 (23:30 on weekdays). Many people of different ages I’ve talked to in the past decade bemoaned having to wait until after midnight for headliners, especially on workdays, when even the younger of us have work in the morning. While not pervasive, all-nighters have a tradition in most Romance countries. It is quite refreshing to enjoy yourself after a day out and not have to brawl over cabs at 5 am or hole up as a wreck with sore feet the next day.
Speaking of days out, finally, there is Paris itself, in its iconic magnetism and glory. The pastoral green fields between the Seine and royal edifices provide a unique backdrop to this charming, wonderfully accomplished festival. If you can afford a Eurotrip in the summer, do not miss Rock en Seine.
Rock en Seine Is Pretty Fly (for a Bunch of “White Guys”)
After all the praises have been sung, one would do well not to forget that, despite solid logistics and a human-friendly setup, Rock en Seine’s foundational pillar remains the music itself. The repertoire is nothing short of breathtaking.
Moving beyond the appeal of a metropolis such as Paris, my adventure on the Seine started in a rather clichéd way for a European summer—with a missed flight. Lana Del Rey’s opening “Day Zero” extravaganza had the site overflowing with people of all ages (other days were more homogenous and in the 30+ ballpark), setting the tone for an impressionable run of shows over the four days that followed.
The last weekend of August was hot, and the drizzle on Saturday did little but add humidity to the mix of sweat. I arrive on Day three just in time to relax to Blonde Redhead before the evening program begins. The famous NYC shoegaze veterans gave a cozy, dreamy performance to some 5,000 listeners at Scène Cascade, the festival’s second-largest stage. Drawing heavily from their unexpected and unexpectedly warm 10th album, 2023’s Sit Down for Dinner, Kazu Makino and the Pace brothers appeared to set the audience in a trance.
Their performance would have fared even better at night (starry Paris skies and all that), but a late afternoon slot also worked. The 60-minute slot was over before we knew it; I thought the cult favorite “23” would be the closer, ending Blonde Redhead’s mixed-pace set on a feverish, Interpol-meets-Bat for Lashes note, but then they opted for “Kiss Her Kiss Her“, the second track off their latest. It proved a banger, with some serious Yeah Yeah Yeahs vibe, again with a bit of latter-day Interpol toward the end, in live expression. Surely, with three decades of genre-parsing work under their belt, Blonde Redhead are entirely their own creation, still vital and even innovative, but now with an added layer of straightforward melodicism that works well with a broader fan base. A lovely way to start the night.
Not everybody does, but I enjoy back-to-back performances without pause between the biggest stages, though they can prove a bit of a challenge when an enormous shift in the atmosphere is required. That’s exactly what happened at 7:25 pm when a foreboding ‘You’ve gotta keep ‘em separated” crept in from the massive main stage (that’d be Grande Scène in French, mind you) speaker and Garden Grove punk-poppers the Offspring appeared.
The legendary Californian outfit might have been around for four decades, but they’re still only in their 50s (the new 30s or whatever), and the energy shows it. Dexter Holland, who took time away from the band in the 2010s to finish his PhD in molecular biology, struts around as jovially as ever as the band cruises through a solid greatest hits set, inspired mostly by their 1990s MTV juggernauts Smash and Americana.
It’s a nostalgia affair that Rock en Seine likely had in mind, the kind that sells as well as any performer of the hour, and the crowd is so dense it’s impossible to come within 100 yards of the stage. Metallica and Nirvana t-shirts marginally edge out in a sea of Rolling Stone’s Greatest acts, with heaps of David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Guns N’ Roses, and Queen in the mix. I also spot some Grace Jones, Pixies, and Tricky tees, but we’ll get to that. The audience is overwhelmingly in the prime of life, with small 40+ groups of drunk Frenchmen and women commanding the perimeter, scream-singing to “All I Want” and Staring at the Sun” between drags on their cigarettes.
As the actual sun sets, the weather turns cooler, and sweat comes to the forefront as moshing intensifies (even middle-aged men do it). Holland and his quintet are veteran entertainers, never letting the tempo up. “How do you say ‘sexy’ in French?” blurts out Holland in his typical playfully juvenile manner while people cheer. A bit before the midpoint, the quintet teases Iron Maiden’s “Iron Man’ and Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” (see t-shirt banter above) before launching into a frenzied version of Edvard Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King“, followed by an equally upbeat cover of the Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop“.
Despite their new album, Supercharged, releasing 11 October, the Offspring indulge the masses with only its lead single, “Make It All Right“. A quintessential Offspring throwback, this youthful, sunny California melody fits neatly into the band’s 40-year canon. It’s true that the Offspring never changed or evolved much, but within their genre and modes of expression, this is mostly understandable and shouldn’t be held against them.
The second part of the set is reserved for the biggest singalongs of the night, with dozens of gargantuan bouncy balls passed around, landing on impassioned heads and spilling beer. “Bad Habit” and “Why Don’t You Get a Job?” warm us up before “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)” and ‘The Kids Aren’t Alright” bring it home. The brief, intense encore is, of course, “You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid” and the peerless “Self Esteem”, another iconic bit from the 90s and the band’s most pessimistic, grungiest self-deprecatory moment that still sounds uplifting if you channel it at the top of your voice.
It’s nearly 9 pm and the Irish rock band Inhaler, spearheaded by Bono’s son, Elijah Hewson, engages a full house by the Scène Cascade, but I must make my way toward the front rows because Massive Attack is about to give one of the rare performances of 2024, after a four-year break from touring. The air is thick and the spirits are high as a hot mix of warmup tunes, including Stardust’s “Music Sounds Better With You” and Björk’s “Venus as a Boy” take over.
That’s all about to change because Robert Del Naja and Grant Daddy G Marshall don’t fuck around with their music, let alone their live performances. After some moments of complete darkness and pregnant silence just before the storm, archive footage of a young woman recounting her experience with what I can only assume was a hallucinogen assaults us from an enormous, nearly stage-wide screen. It’s the work of Adam Curtis, videographer extraordinaire and Massive Attack’s faithful visual collaborator. The first montage is followed by footage of Elon Musk’s Neuralink experiments with brain chip implants in monkeys, as distorted trip hop sounds emerge. The band quietly arrives onstage to kick off with an uncanny, spine-rattling rendition of Gigi D’Agostino’s “In My Mind” and the tone is set.
By the time they move on to their customary repertoire with “Risingson”, the equally customary attack of pseudo-code lines with scathing, quasi-ontological questions such as “Am I authentic?” start blinking all over, not letting up until the show is done. Trip-hop has never been known for jolliness, but Del Naja’s and Marshall’s band is pitch black, the wounded, gaping heart of darkness of all that’s known to the contemporary man.
Del Naja invites Horace Andy to the stage for a disturbing rendition of “Girl I Love You”, the only track of the night from 2010’s Heligoland, as contemporary political epithets start flashing in red and white behind them. Words like “entrepreneur”, “middle class”, “anarchist”, “ruralist”, “cultural”, “xenophobic” and hundreds more blink around us like bullets before the song’s dissonant synth backdrop crescendoes, and we start seeing our own faces on screen in a grisly surveillance gag, with the epithets blinking around our heads. Not subtle, but certainly not ineffective, either.
Noted for their activism and sharp political stances, Massive Attack devoted most of the performance to showing support for the civilian victims of Israel’s bombings of Gaza and to the victims of Russia’s war on Ukraine. The remarkable Liz Frazer of the Cocteau Twins fame appears to flex her heavenly vocals to “Black Milk” as archive footage of the emergence of the globally managed state mixes with videos of Russia’s attacks in Ukraine. We’re only 15 minutes into the set and there’s not a smiling face to be found anymore.
In a set based on their seminal Mezzanine (1998), with conceptual interjections by a variety of other works, including the 2016 EP Ritual Spirit, Andy and Fraser star as angelic doomsday prophets, kindly and carefully sedating us in an act of preparation for judgment day. The trifecta of songs by Massive Attack collaborators Young Fathers are mostly well-received, but the audience keeps crying out for more feel-bad omens from the Bristol legends.
And boy, do they get it. Words falter at describing what Fraser’s acoustic cover of Tim Buckley’s “Song to the Siren” sounds like. Performed over footage of Gazan victims, by the end the crowd barely breathed; only some muffled sobs came and went. A guitar-heavy, protracted version of “Inertia Creeps” follows, with more political overtones and a hard outro leading into a bizarre, deadpan cover of Ultravox’s “Rockwrok”, accompanied by disco lights and visuals of dancing “Westerners”. Nobody present actually danced.
Mercifully, there were no videos of the casualties of war – or any videos – during “Angel“, arguably Massive Attack’s hardest-hitting annihilation number, but then the band invites Deborah Miller onstage, proclaiming solidarity with the Palestinian people and kicking off “Safe From Harm”. The crowd cheers loudly, and a two-minute-long counter shows the amount of money the US spent on military aid to Israel between 1946 and 2023, in dollars: $24,614,696,960 is the final number.
“Unfinished Sympathy” is a rare straightforward high to which many sing and jam, though nothing comes close to Miller’s earth-shattering yet longing delivery. While the show had no real catharsis or encore, “Karmacoma”, then the legendary “Teardrop”, again with Fraser, gave the old fans what they wanted in musical terms, with Curtis’ unrelenting montages of the reduction of humanity to vapid individualism while the real world burns weighing heavily. A likely ironic nod to Avicii arrives with a straight-faced cover of “Levels”, with some dancing among the masses.
Whatever their reasoning, Massive Attack should not have used Avicii as a poster boy for their cerebral exercises. The famed Swedish producer died by suicide at the age of 28 in 2018; save for a clear and simple homage, which this was the opposite of, there’s no real reason to bring his work back to the stage this way.
The final big moment arrives with the singular “Group Four”, an eight-plus-minute reverie interpreted either as an ascent to heaven or descent into hell, depending on the mood. Fraser, who spares herself some of its highest notes, nevertheless delivers a moment for the ages. We end where we started, with a reprise of Gigi D’Agostino’s “In My Mind” over videos of Neuralink experiments and confused young women rambling about “just wanting to be themselves”.
As Del Naja and Marshall courteously bow, the crowd applauds fervently, but nobody is screaming or dancing anymore. It’s a sour world we live in, and Massive Attack is one of the rare bands who truly ensures we remember this with every tone they produce. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of that; quite the opposite.