A La Porte De Le Balajo

In the mid-80s DJs Albert Grintuch and his partner Serge Duprat took over the Bastille nightclub, Le Balajo. Once a week our crowd of rockers filled the large dancehall.I worked the door with Jacques Negrit as security. The barmen and waitresses were the same surly staff as the other nights of the week featuring accordion bands to a rough working class clientele. None was more vraiment Le Balajo than Daniel, the bullish barman, who was a Pigalle wrestler on his off-nights.

Daniel's disagreeability was a matter of Gallic pride.

More than occasionally Jacques and I would hear a disturbance at the bar, but before we could attend to the fracas, Daniel would grab the offender by the scuff of the neck and throw him into the street.

As Albert recently explained his technique, "Quand ca chauffait Daniel le catcheur ne prenait pas la peine d ouvrir les portes vitree de l'entree pour balancer les clients un peut trop debordant, resultat, on remplacait continuelement les lourdes."

In English simply put Daniel chucked out the client without opening the glass doors, which required their replacement with thicker glass door.

Those were the days.

Guess which one in the photo was Daniel?"

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December 6, 1985 Paris Journal

What a night! Hundreds upon hundreds of BCBG young people thronged to the Royal Lieu on a side street off Boulevard l'Opera. Total chaos, but Jacques Negrit and I filtered in the wanted and told the unwanted to please go somewhere else. Out capacity was 260. We let in close to 500. We made everyone pay. 150 Francs. Almost $15. And drinks were $10. The clientele didn't care. They came from the 16th Arrondisement. The BCBG or Boone Chic Bonne Gens were slobs. They thought themselves better than us. Maybe they were right, but we treated those types to a simple, "Not tonight."

A good night. Good money for all of us. Thanks to Albert de Paname and Serge Duprat. DJs Mondial.

Hiding Behind Fats - Paris - 1983

Back in 1983 I worked the door at the Bains-Douches in Paris.

The owner suggested hiring new blood for security to deal with allowing people of color other than whites into the club, since the original bouncers barred all blacks and arabs, males, although not females.

My first choice for back-up was Big Jacques.

Jacques Negrit was a tall, handsome and good-natured Martiniquean twenty year-old from the projects of the peripherique.

His gang was called Les Bufalos.

I liked Jacques and didn't trust the French bouncers, who had been working since its inception and thought they ruled the door. They weren't wrong. Eveerything they said went, until I got there and they turned their backs on me. Once I had been shot at by a Sentier mafia who I had refused entry. They didn't even bother to stop playing billiards

My boss agreed to hire Jacques, although he was surprised by my suggesting, Jacques' pote, Fats.

"What can he do? He eats like a horse."

My patron was right, but I said, "Jacques, stand behind Fats."

The big man's real name was Philippe. He was smarter than most everyone at the Bains-Douches and like Jacques gentle as sleeping bears

Jacques crouched behind Fats, who was munching frites from the nearby merguez stand.

"Can you see Jacques?"

"No."

"So when anyone attacks us with a gun, we hide behind Fats. He'll block any bullets."

Better we don't open the door.

The glass was an inch thick. ."

"Give him a job." My boss green-lighted hiring Fats, who was upset by my demonstration of his worth, but I said, "Fats, you're one of us. You're smart and funny, but more importantly you're a Bafalo."

"Same as you, Pete Johnson." Jacques loved calling me that and I turned to Fats. "I got you a job. I was just kidding about blocking the bullets."

"Casse-toi." He didn't stop eating the frites and smiled at the thought of having a real job.

It was his first

Now he's a head of a security firm in France.

The Bafalos handle all the concerts and big shows.

And I get into them for free, because I'm a Bafalo too and we are all brothers to the end.

ps hiding behind Fats was a good strategy.

Nice 1985

The summer of 1985 Albert, Serge, Jacques Negrit and I opened a nightclub in Nice. Our vehicle was Albert's Chrysler Imperial. The city's narrow streets were hell on the mirrors. The long black car had class, although we wished it was a convertible.

Our villa was covered with grape vines.

There was no AC or fans.

During the day it got very hot and we went to Nice to swim in the Med.

Jacques loved the beach.

The Guadalopean was a strong swimmer.

Stronger than me.

A god to the girls on the rocky beach.

But I threw a football with a spiral.

And Jacques caught my tosses with big hands.

Serge and Albert were after a good 'bronzage'.

The sun shone brightly on the azure sea.

My friend Julie and Brigitte had a place up the coast in Antibes.

The terrace had a view of the curving bay.

I liked the beach at Antibes better than Nice.

The Baie Doree had soft gray sand with a subtle beeze carrying the wind from Africa

I wish I was back there today.

Instead I'm off to the Rockaways for an afternoon walk in the winter rain.

On the A train the beach was only an hour away and the price of the voyage is $6.

Back and forth.

It's a good place too, especially with your friends.