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Posts tagged ‘Paris’

Jul 2

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Ode to Robert Mitchum: Red-light, Moonlight and Highlights from a night spent skulking in Montmartre Paris

I was in Paris on business, but I was surrounded by pleasure. My hotel was right next door to the Museum of Erotica. Across the street, bright neon signs blazed on about “Porn Shops”, “XXX Store”, “Sex Toys”. Up the road on the way to the Moulin Rouge were handfulls of cat houses and skin joints where front door pimps lured hard-up locals and hopped-up tourists looking to trade cash for dry-humps and weak drinks. 

It was near eleven pm and I had been skulking around Paris’ red-light district in Montmartre for close to two hours. Its easy to skulk in this area of Paris. There are many skulkers and many places to skulk in Montmartre, especially nearby the Moulin Rouge. I was skulking not because I need to hide or hide something. I was skulking because it seemed like the right thing to do. 

“Paris was a place you could hide away
if you felt you didn’t fit in”
  
- Rod Stewart, “Every Picture Tells a Story“

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I ignored all of the invites from the pussy-pushers and dope-dealers. It wasn’t a decision, it was a reaction; I looked, but I didn’t touch. I was on the hunt for something else. I strayed the main drag to skulk the side streets. I was looking for a scene…some place that I could prop up on a stool, pull back pints and, hopefully, find good tunes on the box (a “place I could hide away“).

As my luck would have it, I found my Paris hideaway half way down a dark street that was well lit from the bright full moon. I found it because of the music. I had my antennae up as it was, but I didn’t expect to get much reception. I was looking for the blues…not jazz, as there are many clubs there for that…I was looking for some blues and maybe, just maybe a bit of country. Shit, if I could find something close to either it would have been perfect.
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I got as close to perfect as possible that night as a Paris street skulker could. 

This one little bar on the corner had about a twenty people sitting outside. Near three quarters of them were singing along to the heavy, cock-sure sounds of the Howlin’ Wolf that were rumbling out of the open-front bar. I near shit myself: The Wolf was out on a night where the full moon’s beams were shining bright. Hot damn!

I walked inside and pulled up a stool, rested an elbow on the bar and called out for a pint of the local. The barkeep was in control and not just from behind the taps. He was spinning the tunes, too. He had that box humming with all sorts of rockabilly, country, soul, blues and hyped-up Gene Vincent/Link Wray slashing guitar.  

I was in shock. This guy had some real-deal taste. He wasn’t fucking around…you could tell just by looking at him. He looked like a cross between the first Rocky movie Balboa, Clark Gable and rivet pounder from the 1920′s. He had bold tattoos up and down each of his arms: skulls, roses, knives and a massive (early) Elvis portrait on his right bicep (It was, bad-ass). 

He could see that I was on to him…that I was a pro. When another gunslinger comes into town, there’s usually a showdown out on main street where pine boxes are propped up on fences waiting for the man with the slow hand. Not this time though. There would be no showdown on this night. We weren’t fighters; no, we were lovers…lovers of those early American sounds.

We did a bit of talking between songs. He’d play something and I would try and guess the artists (I got stumped a few times). It wasn’t until I called out, unprompted, one of the craziest, “how the hell did you know that” rabbits out of my ass of all time: Robert Mitchum’s, “The Ballad of Thunder Road”.

I love this song…always have. It came from the movie of the same name and Mitchum played the lead role. I’ve never seen the movie, but I sure as hell know the song. My throw-back bar tending buddy was as appreciative of the fact I knew his songs as he was surprised.  I could see by the look on his face that I made his night with that call. You can guess that my beers for the next little while came free of charge. 

Mind you, the barkeep didn’t speak a lot of English and my French sucks…as in I can’t speak the language. There was hardly any English speaking patrons in there…French, German, Dutch, Italian. No matter…we all spoke the same language: music. 

Within twenty minutes of that song, the place had turned into a sing along (about 20-30 people in there at 12:30 am). I recorded a bit of it and attached it here. It makes me laugh when I listen to it. I’m a transient in Paris, sitting in bar after midnight, back slapping and singing along to 1950′s country tunes with people who can’t speak English and me not able to speak French. Shit, yeah…that’s my kinda fun. Life is coolest when it is unplanned.

It is only a minute or so long. Have a listen and sing along if you like.

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The lure of going around had worked it’s magic once again. I left that bar walking tall and feeling like a proud peacock: a skulker no more. Rave on…

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Apr 18

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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! 

 

 

Apr 16

6 Comments

“If you ever get lonely, you just go to the record store and visit all your friends…” 17th April – Support Record Store Day

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In honor of Record Store Day, which occurs this Saturday the 17th April, I am reposting a blog entry that I wrote almost one year ago. 

 
This post was about one of my fave places in all the world…”my” record shop in Sydney Australia, Mojo Music. I wrote this a ffew days before Record Store Day ’09. Mojo is a special place, full of special people, sounds and stories…as all good local record shops should be. 
 
I am also linking to a few other record store related posts that I have written in the past:
 
 
 
 
 
 

“If you ever get lonely, you just go to the record store and visit all your friends…” (posted 12th April, 2009)

The first record I ever owned as 45 called, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” by the Tokens. I was a young kid of about seven or eight years old and I played that record until the needle wore through its grooves. It was the sweeping falsettos that hooked me.  But what I loved even more was the loping, rhythmic, tribal beat that drove the song. I feel strongly that my love of the blues was spawned from repeated listenings of this infamous song.  One of the other records of my formative-music fan years that used to get a lot of spins was the Best of the Monkees. “Last Train to Clarksville” and “Papa Gene’s Blues” were faves.  

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In the movie, Almost Famous, Kate Hudson’s “Penny Lane” character said, “If you ever get lonely, you just go to the record store and visit all your friends”.  So true…

This weekend 17 different countries will celebrate Record Store Day.  RSD was created by a handful of record store fans as a “…celebration of the unique culture surrounding over 700 independently owned record stores in the USA, and hundreds of similar stores internationally”. Have a look at the website to check out all the happenings.  

I agree with the idea around celebrating the “unique culture” that inhabits the independent record store.  I have a record shop.  It is called Mojo Records and it is located on York St. in downtown Sydney. Mojo, the self-proclaimed “Kings of the Back Catalogue”, is more than just a record shop.  It is a place where people are “regulars” on Thursdays and Friday nights. It is a place where people come to share music and stories about music for hours on end. It is a place where a common bond found in music brings together disparate groups of strangers and friends and turns them into “family”. And, it is a place where a blues lick can draw you off the street and into the shop and never let you go.

When I first found Mojo, I was walking down York and I heard the unmistakable tremble of Muddy Water’s slide action boucing off the buildings on both side of the street. I looked around for the shop and saw that it sat below the street at basement level…subterranean…buried treasure. The front shop window stretched from the footpath up to my waist and ran close to fifteen feet in length. I hovered over it and paced back and forth, all the while staring down at the collection of records, people, cds and posters inside. I was locked in. 

Once inside, I saw a few people leaning on the counter, beers in hands, talking just loud enough so they could hear each other over Muddy’s “Long Distance Call”. There were a few more people flipping through the record and CD racks.  The owner, Nev, came over to introduce himself to me.  Within 15 minutes, he had me holding five albums, five “bow-down” albums, that were a money back guarantee promise of hidden gem goodness. Nev is a man of his word. 

Fast forward two years later, my wife organised a surprise birthday party in the shop.  I am a Friday regular.  I stop down after work with a couple six-packs of beer (always Cooper’s Red) and stay until closing time…which is whenever we decide we want to close up. That particular Friday was my birthday. Little did I know my wife talked with Nev and his right-hand man Uncle Frank and set up the festivities. It was Mojo’s first birthday party.  By 6:30pm, the place was packed with twenty odd people listening to music, swapping stories, having a few beers and eating a record shaped cake.  

We kept on until about midnight and when we were just about to leave, Nev called out “one more song”!  Nev put some Jimmy Dawkins on…a dozen songs, a bunch of stories and a few more beers later, we called it a night. Now that’s Mojo; happy birthday indeed. 

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Just yesterday I was at Mojo.  I went to see Booker T and the Drive-By Truckers perform last night and needed to get the “feel” going before the gig. Nev and I talked about what we were doing for RSD.  There is going to be a two-piece band and a book signing by a local artist. People are going to start coming by around 3:00pm. Nev is going to have some vinyl specials going.  I already put three aside to get when I go in: Derek & the Dominoes, “Layla”, The Allmans, “Live at the Fillmore” and Otis Redding’s, “Otis Blue”.  My wife gave me a turntable for Christmas and I need to get some vinly and give it a spin. My music collection is 1,300+ albums strong (98% fat free).  I can’t replace it all, but I am going to pick out some choice sets worthy of the black stuff.  Have a look at the collection if you like: Judd’s Juke Joint.

If you want to see Mojo in person, come on down next Saturday.  It is sure to be a bow-down event. Oh yeah, bring a rack of beer if youlike…Cooper’s Red.

p.s. That 45 I was talking about?  I still have it.  My mom framed it for me and gave it to me as a gift a couple years ago. Records don’t have to spun on a turn table to tell great stories. 

 

SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL RECORD STORE! BUY VINYL!
 

Feb 8

8 Comments

Valentine’s Day in Paris, the Big Mistake and Secret Subterranean Blues…

Ah, Paris. The city of love…a perfect place to take your wife for Valentine’s day. How could a guy go wrong?  I’ll tell you how: He invites one of his best friends to just happen to show up and join the fun.

In 2002, my first year of marriage, I did just that. My wife and I were living in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I decided to orchestrate a Valentine’s Day three-day weekend in Paris. It was a special trip: our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple. I knew The Wife would be happy. She had been to Paris before and talked about how much she loved the city. I had never been to Paris and was looking forward to it. 

I organised a great first night (which was the actual Valentine’s Day). I bought two tickets to the midnight showing at the Moulin Rouge.  That was the first of the two “Big Surprises” that I kept telling The Wife I had for her on the trip. That one went over very well. First night in Paris was an epic success and quite a romantic evening. 

Day Two was when “Big Surprise #2″ was expected. After the Moulin Rouge, The Wife was expecting Big things. I was confident that she would love Big Surprise #2. Even before the trip I thought it was going to be a hit. In hindsight, I may have thought this because Big Surprise #2 was a surprise I would have loved to have sprung on me!

I fucked up. Capital-R, Royally. This was Valentine’s Day…in Paris…as newlyweds…for only three days…just the two of us…or so she thought. I invited my good buddy, The Rouster (name changed to protect the guilty) to surprise Julie by showing up at the Louvre at the same time we were there (what a coincidence!).

Let me repeat: I invited one of my best friends, drinking buddy, trouble-making twin, to surprise my wife while she was on a romantic holiday weekend with her husband in Paris. What was I thinking? What THE HELL was I thinking?!?

I remember telling my old man about my plan. When I did, he just stared at me with pupils the size of manhole covers. “Are you stupid?”, he asked. “She is going to hate this idea”.  

I was dumbfounded. She liked The Rouster. She really enjoyed all the times we went out together and had said so often. Like me, she hadn’t seen him since he moved to South Korea two years earlier. Why wouldn’t she want to see him? He was coming back to the States for a visit anyhow, so a rendezvous made sense. 

“Judd”, my old man said to me as he fixed that you’ve really done it this time stare on me, “do you really think (The Wife) wants to be surprised by one of your craziest, beer swillingest friends…in Paris…on Valentine’s Day?”

“Oh, shit!?  What have I done”, I said to myself. 

Long story short: Big Surprise #2 blew up in my face. The Wife was not all too happy to be sharing time with The Rouster that could have otherwise been spent on L’Amour with L’Wife.

It took some tears and beers, but I smoothed things over and we carried on with our Paris fun. Like I said, The Wife and the The Rouster are good friends. There was no option but to act like the true Champions of Fun that we knew each other to be and get on with getting down. 

We decided to have a red hot go at the Latin Quarter on our last night. We went out for sushi and sake and then searched the streets to find the pulse of the city…and a bit of live music. We were walking down a busy street and heard blues music coming out of a small pub. We looked inside and couldn’t see where the band was. The pub was small (maybe 20 ft by 40 ft) and packed with people.  Where the hell was the band?

We went inside and had the barkeep pull a few pints for us. I was about to ask where the band was when I saw a closed circuit TV hanging from the wall with musicians playing on it…but  where the hell were they.  In the back of the pub there was doorway.  That doorway led to a staircase down to the cellar. Ah! That’s where the band was!

We struck gold. The cellar looked like someone went down earlier that day with a jack-hammer and banged out a cave big enough for a stage and a makeshift bar.  There were two rooms. In the main room there was the stage and assorted chairs, tables and church pews strewn about. The other room was smaller, but important…it was where the beer taps were. 

The scene was fantastic. The timing was spot on. We were Pros.  We were professional subterranean scene seekers and we just hit the mother-load. I spent a lot of my youth reading about the days of yore when the R&R got it’s passport and spent time traipsing Europe. Stories of scenes such as this one seem to be the norm, each one hipper than the last.  True underground…that’s where we were and that’s what we were.
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(The stage in the cellar)

It was a Sunday night.  Sunday night was (and still is) the open Blues Jam night. Ah, the Jam. Everybody loves a blues jam, right?  Drums, piano, harp, guitars…as many as the stage can hold. They all lurch out  in a  crude and chaotic cacophonic stupor, stalking each other until they find the communal groove.  
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(me and The Rouster, 2002)

Who knows what can happen when the Jam is on…sparks strike and legends are born.  The crowd thought we had a birthing right there and then. There was this young kid…he must have been 15 if he wasn’t 12. he jumped up on stage with the “house” band and strapped on someone’s guitar. Oh man! We were knocked out loaded once he started to play!  

He was tearing frets and slamming the slide and seemed to do it with the wisdom of a guitar god.  The floor was littered with jaws.  This kid could play and the crowd let him know it. People were screaming out, “Le Petite Clapton”.  Hot Damn!  What a night. 

We left around 2am. The Wife and I had to catch a few winks for our 8am flight back to the US. The Rouster stayed on in Paris to carry on the V-Tine’s Day celebration for a few nights with a new sweetheart he met at the hostel.  No love lost in Paris that Valentine’s Day.  

This past weekend, The Wife and I took the train to Paris for the day.  Almost eight years to the day, we visited that bar. We hoisted beers and toasted to Big Surprises, good friends and the sweet joy of serendipity. 

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(me, returning to the Scene of the Crime this past weekend)

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(The Sunday night Blues Jam lives on)
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The name of the joint in question is: Le Caveau des Oubliettes (check link for details).  Here is a snippet from a National Geographic  travel blog on the pub:

In medieval times, Le Caveau des Oubliettes, which translates to “the cave of the forgotten,” held prisoners awaiting the guillotine. The tight door and thick stone walls masked the prisoners’ wails and howls. Iron handcuffs on the walls, chains along the staircase, and a barred window remind listeners of the room’s past and give the intimate club an uniquely eerie feel. 

Funny, I think I saw a couple of those guys there that night…
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Speaking of the Blues Jam & Eric Clapton, here is a jam from the anniversary edition of Layla.