National Geographic : 1969 Jul
years of music," said Monsieur Raymond Jaussi, a member of the festival committee. "Everything from seventh-century religious music to avant garde electronic pieces." After the Bernstein concert a more earthy beat drew me upstairs over the Pavillon to the Strobe Club, a swinging discotheque ca tering to Swiss youth. In the dim room, lights flashed and images pulsed to the recorded rhythms of far-out groups like Canned Heat and the Grateful Dead (pages 84-5). Directing the pandemonium from a booth in the center of the room was a young Swiss, Jean-Pierre Kolly. He manned record players, tape recorders, and a battery of projectors that splashed war photographs, nudes, medi cal drawings, and Charlie Chaplin movies on the walls. In one slide projector he was cook ing a transparency, soaked in dye, with a small blowtorch. The result, magnified a thousand times on the walls and ceiling, gave the dizzy ing effect of someone peeling a phosphores cent rainbow. "So far, the Swiss hip scene has only a small tribe," said Jean-Pierre over the din. "I'm sort of their medicine man." His eyes flashed as he flipped switches and pulled levers. Changing colors reflecting from his serious, bearded face made him look some thing like the Wizard of Oz. During a break in the bedlam we sought a quiet corner. The crowd around us looked like hippies any where: miniskirts, sheepskin coats, bell bottoms, square glasses, guru beads. "Many who come to the club are foreigners, but more and more young Swiss are turning on and waking up," Jean-Pierre continued. "Switzerland is so over-organized and pre dictable the fun's bugged out of it. The Biunzlis-our 'squares'-run the country a penny at a time. Man, like there's no place to go if you don't want to play the money game." Livestock and Family Under One Roof The average hard-working, early-rising Swiss villager finds little time for nightclubs. His social life is confined to Sunday after noons. At the Vanil-Noir Hotel in Grandvil lard, I joined the village men after church to drink red wine and play jass, a pinochle-like card game. Many wore traditional Sunday best, skull caps and short-sleeved blue denim jerkins embroidered with edelweiss. "Evenings are short here in Grandvillard," farmer Noel Raboud assured me, laying out a winning hand on the table. The others in our group smiled agreement. "Our days begin too early," one said. The clock in the church tower struck six as I walked next morning to Monsieur Raboud's home at the edge of the village. It was a sturdy half-timbered house with a hip roof and shel tering eaves. Like many Swiss farmhouses, with barns and sheds attached, it took on the proportions of a mansion. "Three generations of Rabouds live under this roof-plus 17 cows and 2,000 chickens,"