May 29, 1982 - Paris - Journal

Happy Birthday Lizzie Mercier Descloux 4/20

In 1982 I fled New York for Paris. Bernard Zekri hired me as the physionomiste of the Rex Club, which was under the vast Rex Theatre on the Gran Boulevard. The magazine ACTUEL wanted A Manhattan feel for the door. I knew Parisians and even less French. One night a diminutive female was a bird-nest coif spoke to me at the door. She I knew.

Lizzie Mercier Descloux. A singer.

After a few minutes she said, "I met you in New York."

"You did?"

"Yes, I came to the Jefferson Theater."

"Ah." I had a feeling where she was going. The club was after-hours and her eyes betrayed iwhatever I had done wasn't good.

"Yes, one night I was the bar and my friend started arguing with the bartender. You asked him to leave him out and I yelled at you. You asked me to leave and I wouldn't. You got me to the stairs and I grabbed hold of the railing. Somehow I ended up falling down the stairs. You remember that?"

"No."

Really?"

"No."

"Connard."

"Does that mean 'asshole' in French?"

"Quais.",

""Can I buy you a drink?"

You think you can make that night night by a drink?"

"Or two or three?" Weak drinks in Paris cost $20.

"Okay, connard."

I signaled the bouncers, two off-duty Legionaires that I was taking a break. Marcel winked, thinking I was taking on Lizzie to someplace discreet. My lips pursed in a 'moue'. Lizzie didn't see my pout, but the bouncers gave me a thumbs up.

I signaled the bartender to take care of Lizzie.

"Merci, connard," Lizzie said, as I returned to the door.

"Du rien," I replied and thought it wasn't so bad to be good sometimes. Just not all the time.

Happy Birthday Lizzie.

A day late, but a day late is nothiing in eternity from an old connard.

TETE DE NAZI

SNATCH-MAG.COM asked French Music Mogul Bernard Zekri how he got into music. Comment êtes-vous arrivé à intégrer ce milieu ? J’avais un copain qui s’appelait Peter Smith, un écrivain irlandais avec une tête de nazi. Genre une tête carrée, les cheveux plaqués en arrière et les yeux bleus. Il avait un manteau en cuir noir ; il me faisait beaucoup marrer. Quand j’étais avec lui, je rentrais partout. Il a été une des premières clés pour que j’accède à ce monde. Tu prends ça dans la gueule quand tu es français, parce qu’à la même époque, Paris, c’était vraiment tristoune. Il n’y avait pas vraiment d’endroits pour écouter de la musique. Et en province, n’en parlons pas. Dans l’East Village, il y avait une jeunesse qui avait envie de brûler sa vie jusqu’au petit matin. Le temps était comme suspendu. La vie était plus facile, on n’était pas en train de penser à ce qui allait se passer dans cinq ans. Les gens n’avaient pas envie d’être stars, ils avaient juste envie d’être de grands artistes.

I love the last line.

These people didn't want to be stars. They wanted to be great artists.

Thanks for that line, Bernard.

I'm not so so sure about the 'tete de nazi', but a young poetress was over last night and said, "You were one scary motherfucker back then."

"And now?" Irene's last boyfriend thought I was not to be trusted.

"Oh you're a little princess."

A Nazi or a princess?

And nothing in between.

Perpignan 1982

In the summer of 1982 my college friend Nick Napoli came to Paris. We were closing the Rex Club with a 24-hour marathon of new wave and ethnic bands ending Toure Lunda and Virgin Prunes. The club's manager Olivier had a family beach home on the Cote Vermillion i.e. Perpignan on the Spanish border. Nick rented a car. We greeted the next morning on the Autoroute Du Sud.

Here are fotos of my friends.

We are still good friends.

England was taking back the Falklands, Israeli was aiding massacres in Lebanon, and Roland Garros was featuring championship tennis.

It was on the TV.

Olivier told his father that I was the 17th ranked tennis player in the USA.

He believed his son.

Dodo told the entire town about his guest

To this day I am # 17 in Perpignan.

Perpignan was an old city.

Old people lived within its walls.

For drinking we drove farther down the coast to Collioure.

It was for les jeunes.

We brought two girls back to Carnet-Plage

They were good fun.

But only in a non-Biblical sense.

For some reason William Buckley, Jr. was in town. He followed us around the city. I don't think he was after me.

Oliver agreed.

When he asked about wearing espadrilles, I said, "They look good on you."

It was the South of France.

Espadrilles sucked for climbing around the Templar ruins of the Langue d'Oc.

I thought it was funny.

Olivier was less amused.

But he didn't stay angry. Olivier, Walter, Nick, and I went to Collioure. The two girls were at a harborside cafe. The six of us drank pastis till sunset and switched to wine. I don't remember those girls names or the ride home to Carnet-Plage, but I woke in bed alone.

A lucky man.

We said 'au revoir' to the Brials.

And drove north to Paris.

It was a different France than Perpignan, especially for # 17.