http://www.paris.org/Curiosites/Maillets/ (Einblicke ins Internet, 10/1995)I spent my first six months in Paris working as a pianist in the jazz clubs for which Paris is so well known. I arrived in Paris from San Francisco that year with my girlfriend, and the two of us, armed with nothing more than the barest smattering of French, set out to explore the city, make friends, and find work.
One of my gigs was at a club called Les Trois Maillets, in the Quartier Latin, just across the river from the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Situated in an ancient stone building, this bar is so old that the workmen who built Notre Dame over the years supposedly came here to drink. The building has a basement room, where a regular stage is set for bands, trios and singers, etc., and a tiny bar upstairs, where there is a single pianist. I played both sorts of gigs at this club, but mostly the upstairs gig. I took a late shift for a month or two, mainly so I could do work in the other clubs around town in the evening and still come here afterwards. In addition to the regular pay, the gig included dinner and drinks, which came in handy. I played from 12 midnight to closing, which was either 4 or 5 am, depending on the crowd.
The street performers in the area frequented the bar, and the club hired tap dancers, "Claquettes", to come in a few times a night to dance, accompanied by the pianist. These consisted of a French dancer who was quite good, and a young Brazilian who seemed to be uncannily without any sense of rhythm whatsoever. The two of them alternated sets, appearing at various times throughout the evening. The French dancer was unfailingly friendly and polite, as well as great fun to play for; the Brazilian uniformly surly and unpleasant as well as being so astoundingly lacking in any feel for music.
I played at the Trois Maillets for about two months. The following is a record, in diary form, of a typical night at work.
12 Midnight
Upon arriving, I go downstairs to order dinner from the cooks. This starts
a wild argument between two of them, presumably about who will cook the
food. A rapid flow of words ensues, with gestures at me, at the kitchen,
and at each other. I go sit down. Eventually one of them arrives at the
table, slams down a plate and says "Bon appetite." The food is good.
12:30 AM
As I start to play, I notice that the keys are covered with a gooey film.
My fingers are sticking to the keys. I mention this to the other pianist,
who is still hanging around, and he says, "Oh, yeah, I always wash off the
keys before I start." The first set goes smoothly.
I look around the room. The place is full of both locals and tourists, Parisians from the neighborhood and visitors from the suburbs. There is a couple sitting at one table, the man staring intently at me and keeping up a rapid commentary to his female companion, presumably on the finer points of my playing and of jazz in general. This is a distinctively French way of listening to music that I have come to notice more and more as I play in Parisian clubs. In America, people either listen or they don't. If they do listen , their demeanor is either one of silent attention, or perhaps moving to the music, snapping fingers, etc. Here in France, on the other hand, in keeping with the long philosophical tradition, this more active arts-lecture style of listening is more common.
2AM
The tap dancer arrives. I see that it is the young Brazilian. I try to
ignore him. He taps me on the shoulder. "Ready for me?" he asks. With
effort, I hold my tongue. We begin. He counts off a brisk beat, then starts
dancing in a completely different tempo. I attempt to follow him. In the
middle of the song, some German tourists enter, and as they attempt to
squeeze by him in the narrow isle, he trips, goes flying, and lands sitting
on a table. The crowd loves it.
2:30 AM
As I look out the front door, I see Ollie
walk in, a woman on each arm. Ollie is one of the young street performers
in Paris, of which there are many. Ollie is unusually talented, however.
One night , walking on the rue St Andres Des Arts, I came across him
singing with his partner, a huge crowd in front of them. I could hear his
voice from blocks away, and I assumed it was a recording of some sort.
Ollie speaks no English, but has learned American R&B or jazz tunes
phonetically, memorizing purely by sound. His singing is astoundingly good.
Ollie is done for the night, and like most nights, has come to the bar, his
pockets bulging with Francs, and he will sit at a table and count out the
night's take, buying drinks for himself and friends until much of the money
is gone.
Many amateur street musicians ask to sit in at this gig, but I usually say no, or occasionally, if I'm bored, say yes to perhaps one song late at night. Ollie is a different story. Shortly after he arrives, I begin playing one of the songs I've heard him sing and he looks over at me. He comes over and begins singing, and the place falls silent. People on the street start to gather in front of the club, looking through the open doors. It's a warm July night, and Ollie's voice is echoing off the walls of the neighboring buildings, incredibly clear, loud, and soulful. He sounds like Ray Charles one moment, and Luciano Pavarotti the next. We finish the song to wild applause from both the club and the street, and immediately his friend begins passing around a hat, which returns filled with francs. Ollie pours half of them into my tip jar, and then returns to his table and orders another round of drinks.
3:30 AM
Things have quieted down a bit, and the crowd is thinning out. The old man
who has for the past hour been parked at the piano with me, has, I notice,
fallen asleep, his head propped on his hand, his elbow on the keys. He is
snoring loudly in French. I had tolerated him for a while as he babbled
drunkenly to me before nodding off, thinking that perhaps I would at least
learn some more French this way.
He snores on. I find myself wondering if learning French in bars will cause me to speak like a drunk. I wonder if there's a whole separate dialect. I have images of myself at a party, years from now, with someone saying to me: "Interesting, um....accent you have Monsieur, where did you learn your French?"
5 AM
Finished for the night, I have one more drink with the club owner before
heading off for home. At this hour, Paris is still very alive, but more
quiet than it is at other times. I pass waiters standing outside of
restaurants smoking, couples strolling home. This is my favorite time of
night, as I walk straight along the river, past Notre Dame Cathedral, past
the barges, and then along the quiet streets to our apartment on the rue de
Lille. By the time I reach home, the sun is just starting to come up, and
it's time for bed.
Copyright (c) 1994 Jeffrey Burr - jburr@dnai.com
