On music, rock stars, and the culture of France, a treatise:
1. I have decided that from now on I will only listen to bands that utilize the magic that is the tambourine. There is no good reason why everyone should not incorporate this into their music.
2. I discovered a band called The Sounds that rocks for several reasons:
a. they are swedish. I don’t know why that makes them cool. ABBA and Ace of Base are also Swedish and that doesn’t make THEM cool.
b. they use the tambourine
c. the tambourine player, for one song, switched and played cowbell instead
d. the lead singer has a mullet.
3. Emo French children hate the world even more than American ones. This can be proven if one takes into consideration the number of French ones that paint tears on their faces at rock shows. It significantly outweighs the number of American ones.
4. I have not been as hot as I was tonight since the dances at the Cathedral Domain during Junior Conference this past summer. Only there it is cool to be sweaty, because the staff always is sweaty, and we are the cool ones, so thus it is fashionable. But sweating through your wifebeater and camp staff t-shirt at 1130pm on the fourth of July outside with 9 other staffers who are equally soaked is one thing; doing it in the middle of a posh Parisian club in a black sparkly halter top to the point that your hair is soaked and your makeup is melting off in the middle of October is quite another. Gross.
5. I think the measure of a good concert is how many people have to be carted off in the middle of it because they have fainted. Tonight’s count: 3. I have not seen that many since my days as a Backstreet Girl.
6. Proof Blair is getting old:
a. I turn 21 in 8 days.
b. I no longer see any need for mosh pits.
c. I can legally drink alcohol here, but at the concert tonight found myself marvelling at the lack of age of the people drinking 1664 beer from the bar at the club. (Sidenote: I think 1664 is the equivalent of Beast or Silver Bullet in the States. My only basis for this rather presumptuous statement is that it is the kind of beer sold at McDonald’s here and I can not imagine McDonald’s going with some high class libation)
d. Okay, really the only reason I think I am getting old is this mosh pit thing. I used to be able to mosh with the best of them... well, maybe not the best of them, but I could stand my ground and push back if needed. Tonight I found myself avoiding the moshers and really rather perturbed at the idea that they somehow think it improves the quality of the show, when in fact all it does is make us all as sweaty as them.
7. If a band wears t-shirts of ANOTHER band, that is cool... it’s like giving props to people who are cooler than them. If that band is someone awe-inspiring, like, say, The Smiths, it is a good sign because it shows the influences of that band are, you know, meritable. If the shirt, however, is a band like Atticus... run and hide. Who in their right mind advertises the fact that Atticus influenced them? Hence the reason the band FICKLE is terrible. Uck.
Now, an explanation of the above list:
Tonight I went to see Panic! At the Disco here in Paris. They are one of my favorite American bands, but since they are not nearly as popular here (insert comment on French taste/American lack thereof here, if you wish), the concert was not sold out and I managed to snag a standing room only seat at a club about a block from the Moulin Rouge.
One opening act from the States who made me cringe to think that this could possibly be what people associate with the US... The lead singer insisted on speaking French throughout their entire set, which was a shame because he kept referring to this city as "Perry" and then would bust out lines like, "SALUT, tout le monde!" Butchering the pronunciation beyond belief. (Not to say that I am a model of phonetic perfection). I suppose if one were in Germany, one could attempt that and it would be regarded well (take, for example, the famous phrase, "Ich bin ein Berliner") but in Paris, they would rather you just didn’t attempt. At concerts, it is probably in the best interest of the singer to just not speak... the audience likes to forget that La France did not produce such musical delights. Moment of cultural-centricity (is that what it’s called when you realize that you subconsciously think your country is better than everyone else? Anyway...): the band sampled Queen’s "We Will Rock You" and as they started singing it, I found myself thinking how I should really know that song better than everyone else, because, I mean, it is QUEEN. And then I realized that Queen, I think, is British. Ouch.
Anyway, second opening act comes out, and I realize the lead singer either has a mullet or is a chick. Turns out, she is BOTH, making this not only the first concert I have paid to see with a woman in it at all but also the only band I have ever seen with any mullets. What luck. They were awesome– the Sounds, from Sweden. Check it out.
Then the real band comes out and it is amazing, and it is quickly obvious that the crowd is NOT anglophone. The band sings fast, I suppose, but I was one of the only ones singing all the words... the crowd would know the loud words, and some bits of chorus, so it would be like, "I CHIME IN...[insert Blair still singing at the top of her lungs in accompaniment to the lead singer and band]... DOOR... [more of the Blair/Brendon duet]... RATIONALITY." They covered a Radiohead song and a couple Smashing Pumpkins... I was DEFINITELY the only one that knew those. So the set is going and I am still thinking how COOL it is to be in a room with other Americans– the band. Because seriously, living here where everyone is from Paris/Germany/London/etc. means that every time I meet someone from the States it is as though I have met someone from... like... Proctor, Kentucky, or something equally unknown. In my head, it means we should be friends.
Because of this, and because I was by myself, I decided to try to get backstage after the concert. Now, this was a very ill-thought out plan, for several reasons. My main reason for thinking it would work was that everyone knows you can’t get backstage in groups, but by yourself, you still stand a chance... particularly when you have the trump card of SPEAKING THE SAME LANGUAGE AS THE BAND. So after the show I wander outside to look for a creperie because I was hungry. It was at this point that the idea of getting backstage came to me. What, you may be asking, was I going to do once I got back there? In fact, I did not stop to ask MYSELF that question till I was safely on the homeward bound Metro. Had this plan succeeded, I don’t know what I would have done. But now I’m getting ahead of myself.
In looking for a creperie, I stumbled upon the side door of the club where the concert was. The door opened onto a staircase, and there was no guard, so I thought I might as well try it. Here is where things get dicey... and where I become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Call me a liar, I’ll lie with the best of them. Though this tops any lies I have ever told any employers...
I walk through the open doors, up the flight of stairs, without getting stopped. I get to the top of the stairs, and this bouncer comes up making obvious "no" gestures (he didn’t even bother to talk, I think because he knew anyone stupid (gutsy?) enough to try sneaking backstage HAD to be American), and I open my mouth with every intention of saying "I’m sorry," but instead what comes out is "I think I left my jacket up here"... IN FRENCH. This was a stupid lie because my jacket was tied around my purse strap at the time. But I have probably told stupider ones. But the bouncer looks at me like he doesn’t care, so I hold my head high and wander back down the stairs. Never giving up the search for a late-night crepe, I keep walking. I passed the back exit to the club, with a roll-down door still shut that I assumed the tour bus was parked behind. There were people hanging out in front of it, but I was like, "yeah, Blair, what are you going to do, lay down in front of the bus and refuse to let them leave till they hang out with you?" [[The fact that I had no long-term plan for if I made it to the band still did not occur to me]]. So I thought I would give up, found a crepe, and on my way back the door was almost devoid of all the last-minute emo kids that had been hanging out in hopes of giving their demo to... someone. And as I walk by, myrtille crepe in hand, still drenched in sweat to the point that I can feel pomade melting out of my hair and running down my back, a roadie walks out of the building. We make eye contact, by accident, and I find myself saying "Pardon, monsieur, je suis..." but he interrupts with a wave of his hands and mumbles something about not understanding. Duh. He is a roadie with an American band, not a train conductor. So I start over, "Oh, sorry. I am an American student at Emory University, I’m studying here for the year..." all true so far, but now it goes sharply downhill. I DO NOT KNOW WHERE THESE WORDS CAME FROM BECAUSE THEY WERE DEFINITELY NOT IN MY HEAD... "I am an American Studies major and I am here to research my honors thesis [[does Emory even have an honors thesis program??]] on [[now it gets really intelligentsia-sounding]] the dispersion and popularity of non-mainstream American music throughout continental Europe, particularly in France." What amazes me is that I THOUGHT of that on the spot. And somehow kept going... "I have already interviewed a few other bands for my research, including Snow Patrol, who was here on Friday, to get a European perspective on it." I think I used too many big words, though, because at this point the man still did not look convinced, so I threw in the MOTHER of all lies, "I was supposed to interview Panic a few weeks ago when they were playing in Cologne, but there was a train strike so I couldn’t get there, and I would just love a chance to talk to them about their impressions after having toured Europe." Let’s dissect this sentence, shall we?
Lie#1: NO I was not supposed to interview them. Obviously.
Lie#2: Do I have any idea if they played Cologne, a few weeks ago, months ago, or even AT ALL? NO.
Lie#3: THERE ARE NOT TRAIN STRIKES ANYMORE IN EUROPE.
Lie#4:I lucked out on the "after having toured" thing, because the roadie told me then that this is their last European stop. But still. When it came out of my mouth, it was a lie, because I did not know that there was any shred of veracity to it.
I finished with "My research is going to be published in the New England Journal of Undergraduate Research for the Betterment of the American Society as well as on the Rolling Stone website and in Paste Magazine." At this point I suppose I guessed right with a lot of those lies, because the guy goes "Wait here" and disappeared inside. I have no idea if he believed me or was just going to get someone ELSE to kick me out, but while he was gone I suddenly realized that I was going to have to have legit questions about the transatlantic nature of emo kids or whatever it was I told him (at the same time I realize that I have neither a tape recorder nor a notebook to transcribe). I quickly made up some questions that sounded terribly technical, enough that I would have to spend as much time explaining the question as the band would spend answering them, but I realized my only hope if he let me back there was if the roadie left and I could just tell the band I had lied– and then get kicked out. ORRRRR bank on them having a sense of humor and propose we all go get crepes TOGETHER. The roadie returns, another scary-bouncer-looking man in tow, and the other guy (who may have been the one that I lied to at the beginning of this story about the jacket), scowling, says, "Who did you say you work for?"
And I was like, "Err, I don’t work for anyone, I’m doing research for my honors thesis..."
"Where’s your press pass?"
"I, uh, don’t have one because I’m just a student..." The scary one shakes his head at this point, turns and leaves, and the roadie apologizes for him but says if HE says no I can’t come in, but if I have my questions written out he could give them to the band and see if they would do it and email me... yada yada. So I left, disappointed to have not made it in, but satisfied with my multi-continental efforts at becoming a professional band-aid/groupie-in-residence.
I did run into the drummer for the American opening act, though, on the street, so that was cool. And I mean, really, that was all just practice for the furtherment of my career as a band-aid, right? Research, I call it. Amazing.
Next time, I bring my tape recorder.
"I gave my heart to rock and roll,"
B