Hidden Gems: The Scene and Sound intersect in Paris for a full-on, bow-down, live blues romp
It was Valentine’s Day, Paris, 2004. My wife and I had been out sharing good food and drink, indulging our love, striking sparks and celebrating the glorious unknown that the future held for us. We ended up floating throughout the Latin Quarter looking for turn-ons. We stumbled upon one; it was a hidden gem of a pub cum subterranean homesick blues-joint: the Le Caveau des Oubliettes.
While passing by we heard the familiar six string sting of blues licks and bass drum kicks. We looked in the front window and saw a small, cramped, crowded bar with no band in sight. Where the hell was this music coming from? We went inside, sidled up to the bar and shouted out for a round.
“Barkeep…a pint of your strongest ale and a glass of your bubbliest bubbly…and please tell me where those licks are being plucked”.
With a point of his finger and a knowing wink he sent us off to the far corner of the bar. There we found a door…no, “door” doesn’t do it justice. This was a hatch; an opening; a portal…to a true scene. We made our way down the stairs of stone. We were going into a basement of filled with a history of lost souls and shared sounds. You see this blues bar used to be a prison back in the 1400′s. What used to be populated by life’ers and death’ers is now filled with hipsters, beer hoisters and transients all in search of the sound of a raucous blues band. This place is a gold mine for blues-scene prospectors like me. It is a classic combination of integrity, character and true-grit.
This past Saturday I re-visited the scene of the crime with a good mate. This time it was no serendipitous stumble; I made a beeline for the joint this time. I had promised my friend a happening and I was anxious to see I was going to be a man of my word or not. I was.
The band was huddled tightly on a cramped stage at one end of this carved out cave. The drummer and bassist bumped elbows while the guitarist and harp-man straddled the stage and dance floor trying to make room for their expansive solos. My buddy had never been here and judging by the initial look on his face, I held up my end of the bargain.
We had a couple pints pulled for us and then joined the other cellar dwellers to catch the tail end of the night’s second set. Our blues-crew tonight was a barnstorming quartet out of Holland: The Juke Joints. These guys have been around for twenty years and it showed. They were combustible. They whooped up a calamity of blues and rock that could have damn well collapsed that concrete cavern at will…if they wanted to.
By why ruin a good thing. They were there to play and did they ever. You want to talk about passion…these guys were drenched in it. There is something about a band who has been together for twenty years and still exudes such shear joy, pleasure and passion for their music. They were tight. They knew all the trick and cues…old pros with the enthusiasm of young turks on the prowl for a big break.
This is what the live scene is meant to be. Four guys playing their guts out for the shear joy of the jam and reaction of the crowd. At the end of the second set, the crowd thinned. My friend and I held our ground and held up our end of the deal as fans and faithfuls. We stayed glued to the stools for the third and final set. By this time the crowd was only twelve. The band didn’t give a shit. If there were twelve or twelve hundred, I know that they would have played with the same passion and inspiration
They blasted through a forty minute set of pulsing blues and rousting rock and roller licks. I love these moments. When I can see the band loving it, loving what they are doing and going-for-it, I feel indebted to them. I feel like I owe them one. It is my job to tap a foot, pump a fist and shout and holler back at them to feed the rhythm machine. The live scene is a legacy of give and take and to and fro. It is a push and pull, hand-clap-sing-a-long exchange that doesn’t require a handshake, but does deserve a reaction. We gave ‘em one…
We left satisfied as all hell. Thanks to The Juke Joints and a (literal) hole in the wall, scene and sound intersected to form a sweet spot for our late night Paris carousings. Ooh la la, indeed.
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I couldn’t help but by one of their CDs. The Juke Joints have a quite a catalog, too. I bought one their live offerings: Live in Ireland. I am going to give it a spin tonight and see if there is lightening in this here bottle.
After all that, you don’t think I would leave you hanging, do you? Here are a few vid clips of the Juke Joints in full romp. Check out the first one where Boogie Mike trades guitar licks for harp licks with Sonny Boy. The second clip is a band in hot pursuit of a red hot sound. The third one is more of the same except Sonny Boy trades in his mouth harp for the squeeze box.
Enjoy!
