William Faulklands trying to make a sound that would cause like a million erections.
Pierre Beauclerc
Seoul, 1988
Volleyball, Gold Medal
A (metaphorical) clap of thunder. The crowds dispersed. The TV crews pulled their teams out. But Pierre still stood atop the medal podium, making weird sounds. French politics were in the air.
Flashback one year: Paris, 1987. Los Lobos was atop the pop charts. Trois hommes et un bébé was the number one film at the box office. And Pierre Beauclerc was out of work. Worse yet, with Socialist President Francois Mitterand suddenly forced to politically cohabitate with conservative Prime Minister Jacques Chirac, there would soon be no more government checks coming. And this was the worst time possible for the money to dry up: Beuclerc’s experimental noise band William Faulklands, was finally ready to leverage his welfare to buy some studio time and lay down their EP.
Pierre decided he needed to make a statement. But without a recording studio to lay his art down in, how? His youth seemed so far away, probably the drugs, but he remembered nets, and having people yell, “yo, spike it,” at him. Then he remembered: he was the greatest volleyball player in France before dedicating his life to his sounds. Sure he left the team in disgrace refusing to hit the ball over the net in the Junior World Championships because that’s what everyone expected him to do. But he had more talent in his right hand than the whole rest of the team put together.
Tryouts for the French Volleyball team are unlike American tryouts. Rather than having coaches monitor scrimmages of all the players, eventually using a rigorous empirical process to determine the final roster, in France no one does anything, and then whoever doesn’t wander off is on the team. And Pierre was committed to not wandering off.
Eventually most of the team made it to Seoul where they had the amongst the nicest accommodations in the Olympic Village, but Pierre was still furious with the French government. At the opening ceremonies, he refused to don a French flag on his jersey, drawing over the white with a black sharpie to represent the pain and suffering caused but him having to do stuff.
Going into their first match against Croatia, Pierre gave a rousing speech to his teammates:
I don’t think any of you are as good as I am at this game. Or really, good enough to win. But I would really like to win anyway. Because I don’t like things. And I want them better for me.
His team won the first match in straight sets. In fact Pierre found that he was the best player in the tournament by a wide margin. And as France made an unlikely march to the finals, his spirit willed his team forward. Suddenly this ne’er do well was belting out La Marseillaise louder than anyone else on the team. He started preaching respect and love. And when the French team won an improbable gold, his teammates mobbed him. They chanted, “l’homme régénéré,” as they ascended the medal podium.
As La Marseillaise played on the loudspeakers, a global moment of intense French national pride swelled. And then the drone began. A glottal whine emerged from Pierre’s throat. He ripped off his jersey. Tattooed on his chest in English were the words, “fuck all French cowards.” He let his vocal whine echo through the now silent arena.
A (metaphorical) clap of thunder. The crowds dispersed. The TV crews pulled their teams out. But Pierre still stood atop the medal podium, making weird sounds. French politics were in the air.
