The vino and jazz at Caveau de la Huchette on Monday night was just the start of it all. I began what was a very musical week at Huchette, which is similar to another jazz joint-slash-former medieval torture chamber in the area, except here, you've got dancing. Before the band hit the stage, dancers warmed up with what they call
le rock. As in, "Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Can I invite you to dance
un rock with me?" The crowd kept swinging after the band came on, led by an awesome singer who sang the standards in a low raspy voice and could scat like a pro. She was French but sang the American songs without an accent and even did that "squirmish, squirmish" thing at the end of Just a Gigolo. The crowd was a mix. Shaggy-haired Asian kids dressed by Urban Outfitter. Smartly dressed and perfectly made-up middled aged Parisiennes. On the dancefloor, a big, muscley guy in wingtips swung around a lady in a little circle skirt. Another man led a Sienna Miller lookalike onto the floor. Then a guy dressed like a cowboy stepped out with a homeless looking lady and swung her around so hard that if he'd let her go, she would have flown and landed onstage.
On Tuesday, I went to the Frenchiest French concert of all: Johnny Hallyday. Johnny (real name Jean-Philippe Smet) is so popular in France that I think I can speed up the process of getting French nationality by telling the prefecture I saw him in concert. He's been a big rock star here since the 60's and some label him as the French Elvis. But instead of getting fat and dying young, Johnny does commercials on tv for eyeglasses and is about to become a tax refugee. He says he pays 70% of what he earns in taxes and to escape that, he's leaving France and moving to Monaco. His show had some
original music, but was full of American classics that he sang in French:
Johnny B. Goode,
House of the Rising Sun, Blueberry Hill,
Hey Joe. The crowd sang along to the Frenchified versions, which sounded weird but I wasn't about to stand up with my hands on my hips and yell to the 18,000 other concert goers "You're all singing it wrong!" Anyway, I was not to be heard over the singing and dancing crowd that was almost upstaged by a gentleman in front of me who appeared to be having a religious experience. Johnny finished his show by smashing his guitar and leaving audience members to fight to the death over it.
Then came last night's show, the best of them all: Shakira. Normally, I'm not into pop music. It somehow takes the innovation and coolness out of discovering music if you know school girls are listening to it. But Shakira's concert was like a New Years party down to the confetti everywhere at the end. She performed barefoot as usual, in tribute to
Fundaciòn Pies Descalzos, her foundation that benefits Colombian children living in poverty. My friend Carlos once told me that her voice wouldn't last long since she strains it when she sings, but he said that years ago and yet here she was, still belting it out. She sang some stuff from her first albums, before she made the English crossover, but the show also had a heavy Arabic touch complete with plenty of belly dancing, which I read was taught to her by her grandmother. (Who
doesn't learn that from their grandmother?) I don't know how she shakes her hips like a paint mixer while singing, but she does it with a smile. Ironically, I found myself dancing not far from a group of school girls. And it was great. The only bummer was that I didn't even think about seeing who was opening for her and we wasted the preshow time eating croque monsieurs across the street when we could have seen
Cut Chemist. But we caught his last few songs, so I can't totally complain. A good finale to a good week. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some cds to go buy.
On Tuesday, I went to the Frenchiest French concert of all: Johnny Hallyday. Johnny (real name Jean-Philippe Smet) is so popular in France that I think I can speed up the process of getting French nationality by telling the prefecture I saw him in concert. He's been a big rock star here since the 60's and some label him as the French Elvis. But instead of getting fat and dying young, Johnny does commercials on tv for eyeglasses and is about to become a tax refugee. He says he pays 70% of what he earns in taxes and to escape that, he's leaving France and moving to Monaco. His show had some original music, but was full of American classics that he sang in French: Johnny B. Goode, House of the Rising Sun, Blueberry Hill, Hey Joe. The crowd sang along to the Frenchified versions, which sounded weird but I wasn't about to stand up with my hands on my hips and yell to the 18,000 other concert goers "You're all singing it wrong!" Anyway, I was not to be heard over the singing and dancing crowd that was almost upstaged by a gentleman in front of me who appeared to be having a religious experience. Johnny finished his show by smashing his guitar and leaving audience members to fight to the death over it.
Then came last night's show, the best of them all: Shakira. Normally, I'm not into pop music. It somehow takes the innovation and coolness out of discovering music if you know school girls are listening to it. But Shakira's concert was like a New Years party down to the confetti everywhere at the end. She performed barefoot as usual, in tribute to Fundaciòn Pies Descalzos, her foundation that benefits Colombian children living in poverty. My friend Carlos once told me that her voice wouldn't last long since she strains it when she sings, but he said that years ago and yet here she was, still belting it out. She sang some stuff from her first albums, before she made the English crossover, but the show also had a heavy Arabic touch complete with plenty of belly dancing, which I read was taught to her by her grandmother. (Who doesn't learn that from their grandmother?) I don't know how she shakes her hips like a paint mixer while singing, but she does it with a smile. Ironically, I found myself dancing not far from a group of school girls. And it was great. The only bummer was that I didn't even think about seeing who was opening for her and we wasted the preshow time eating croque monsieurs across the street when we could have seen Cut Chemist. But we caught his last few songs, so I can't totally complain. A good finale to a good week. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some cds to go buy.
