While many were enjoying a gorgeous sunny Sunday in Paris, I spent close to two hours indoors. The exhibition at the Cité de la Musique on Bob Dylan‘s early years (“Bob Dylan : L’Explosion Rock 61-66″) is to blame, but it was worth it. Photographs, interviews, live footage and other Dylan ephemera including some of jotted lyrics on bits of paper, make for a very enjoyable time travel experience back to when a young folk singer from Minnesota was on the brink of international superstardom.
For me, the most captivating part of the exhibit was viewing Dylan through music photographer Daniel Kramer‘s lens. The exhibit is, in many ways, as much about Kramer as it is about Dylan. Or, more accurately, the images speak of the close working relationship the pair developed between 1964 and 1965. Kramer admits in an interview excerpt with TIME that he did not know who Dylan was until he caught him on the Steven Allen show in 1964. He found the performer “riveting” and spent the next seven months trying to get a hold of someone at Dylan’s management company. He finally got the chance to meet Dylan at Woodstock – and what was meant to be an hour meeting turned into a five hour photo session including chatting over lunch and playing chess. Dylan was a star in the making, which would be enticing enough to any photographer, but Kramer’s images show a tacit understanding and mutual trust between subject and photographer. Not willing to take full credit, Kramer says of Dylan, “He was a good subject, a very good subject. He’s very smart about the camera and about pictures.” In addition to the portraits of an elusive, carefree Dylan, there are some priceless shots of him with Joan Baez as well as some images documenting his tour in France and performances at the Newport Folk Festival. Through Kramer’s images we witness the evolution of Dylan, the evolution of folk and rock: “A photographer is simply a historian with a camera”.
Bob Dylan and Joan Baez onstage
With Bob on Our Side
If you are a Dylan fan and really want to show it (and also have a video camera handy), why not participate in Cité de la Musique and Dailymotion‘s contest of Dylan covers, With Bob on Our Side? Choose among the 10 songs on the list, upload your video on Dailymotion and tell your friends to vote for you! Winners will be announced on June 17th. For more information on With Bob on Our Side, click here.
The exhibition “Bob Dylan : L’Explosion Rock 61-66″ is on view at the Cité de la Musique and runs until July 16th.
Jamming with your old band is not much different than getting together with an old friend you haven’t seen in a long time. There will be some catching up and reminiscing, bad jokes and laughter, beers and music. And when the night is over, you send the other off with a hug and promise to do it again soon.
Almost a year has passed since I left The Wild Beanz, so when bassist and friend Miguel called me up to see if I was free for an informal gig last Saturday at our home turf, The Celtic Corner pub, I said “of course”. Despite a few changes since I left the band; Gilles the drummer and previous owner of the pub is now retired and living it up in Brittany and the cellar where we used to rehearse is now a pool room, the positive vibe at the pub and among the members of the band have remained intact.
We didn’t rehearse at all beforehand (no time), some songs were completely new additions to the band’s regular repertoire and I was still nursing a very tedious cold and sinus infection. A potentially disastrous combo for the control freak that dwells inside me, but after a delicious pint, I literally said “fuck it” and just winged it. And that’s when the fun started. At some point during the set, as we were bouncing off of the music and each other’s energy and people started dancing and requesting songs, I realized: it’s a lot easier to wing it when you’ve got great wingmen by your side.
Between the laughs and the beers, music was perhaps a mere by-product of a few friends getting together. Must do it again soon.
I’ve been meaning to interview my friend, musician extraordinaire Thomas Brun for sometime now, so when I remembered that Wednesday night is Open Mic night at The Highlander, I thought I would try my luck and catch up with Thomas over an informal interview while he got ready for his weekly MC-ing gig.
I did catch Thomas, but the circumstances last night were rather exceptional. Thomas was rushing around plugging in cables and fiddling with speakers, answering my questions between bites of sashimi, and I was fighting back tears after some not-so-optimistic news from home. I almost cancelled on him at the last minute, but I needed to get out. And Thomas also thought I should sing.
My interview with Thomas took place in the 20 minutes before the Open Mic was meant to start, in the downstairs “cave” of the Highlander pub and in the smoking den. We may be in a Scottish pub in Paris, but Thomas’ story as a musician starts in Santorini.
Me: At what age did you start singing?
Thomas: I’ve always sung, just because I love it. To the point where sometimes my friends would ask me stop. (he laughs)
Me: What kinds of things did you sing?
Thomas: Probably stuff like The Beatles or The Stones from the age of 7-8…whatever hit was popular at the time..maybe a bit of George Michael.
Me: Right, old stuff…cause you grew up in the 60s right?
Thomas: (indulging my silly joke) Before that! I grew up in the 40s..during the war.
More on Thomas’ musical influences:
Me: And guitar came in when?
Thomas: After graduation. I borrowed a guitar after high school. I’m left handed and I borrowed my neighbor’s classical right handed guitar. I was too scared to move the strings, so I learned two or three chords right handed, which was enough to start playing songs. And the only reason I was into playing the guitar was so that I could have an instrument to accompany myself when I sang.
Me: And was that the moment that you wanted to become a musician?
(we both pause for a token random “Wasabi!” moment, squealing in unison)
Thomas: (regaining his composure after our silly outburst) No, but I don’t think I ever thought I wanted to be a musician. Not sure. Do you mean playing music?
Me: I mean did you wake up one morning and think “Oh, I want to be a musician!”
Thomas: No. My dad was playing piano at home a lot and I learned how to play when I was 9. He had a quartet that would come to the house and play every Saturday afternoon. So I guess, music and playing music was just…I mean, it was a decision to play football, it was not a decision to play music. So I learned the guitar, learned some covers and wrote some songs…mostly about death, in French. The chorus to one song was “La mort l’appelle et il lui tend les bras”.
Me: Ok, that’s very dark. But normal considering you were probably going through puberty.
Thomas: Exactly. It happened two years ago. (grins)
Me: So when did you start playing for an audience?
Thomas: It started on a trip to Greece with friends. On the island of Santorini. I brought my guitar and since I was practicing a lot, thought I could start busking. After trying out a couple of spots, we took this large staircase that lead up to where a volcano was or something and just played at the top of the staircase. It was right in front of a cafe and people would stop for a drink and hear some music after walking up all those stairs. By the end of the first song, the waiter of the cafe (which I didn’t realize was kind of chic) came up to me with a big wad of cash and politely said, “Can you please stop playing now? It doesn’t fit with the clientele of our cafe.”
Weeks in Greece, and after a memorable romance with a Danish girl named Mathilde, Thomas comes back to Paris and debates between Math and Music. Or maybe it was already clear what he needed to do.
Thomas: I had to take about 10 Math exams when I got back to Paris. I passed all of them except one, which meant that I couldn’t move onto the next year. I could keep my scores, but had to prepare and retake the missing exam. My schedule the following year would include only 2 or 3 hours a week and I thought that was a waste of time.
Me: So you were like “fuck that”.
Thomas: Well, no I did it. But first, before starting over the exam I missed I thought, well, let’s go see Mathilde. But I didn’t have any money left cause I spent it all in Greece. So I thought “Hey, I could play the guitar!”. So I organized a little tour throughout France, Germany and all the way to Denmark to see Mathilde. (this is where I go “Awwww!”) This time the busking was serious because I didn’t have any money. But it didn’t work out. I got there right for her birthday and I bought her a little bottle of perfume and I gave her the bottle of perfume and she looked at me and said “I’m allergic, I can’t wear it”.
Me: I hope you told her to drink it.
Thomas: Nah, I was like “Keep it, it’s a present”. But then I just continued busking in Copenhagen and then when I came back to Paris I decided that playing music would be my student job. That’s how it all started.
Me: And the rest is history
Thomas: And the rest is…not as clear as that (winks)
We chatted a bit more, joked around lots, I begged him for a cigarette he initially refused to give me but knew I needed. He opened the mike at around 9:20 with a song by Wilco and welcomed the first act on stage.
Those who have had the pleasure of hearing Thomas at one of his many regular gigs at St Germain pubs like The Financier or The Galway, know that Thomas is first and foremost a storyteller. He’s lived, he’s loved, he’s been heartbroken, has gotten lost and has found his way back. He is a seasoned showman, transforming mainstream pop songs into his own creations with the help of his guitar, harmonica and loop station. He is a songwriter who lets his rock/folk influences shine through all while preserving the quirkiness that is Thomas Brun’s trademark. As a singer who has shared the stage with Thomas many times over the last years, what I most appreciate about Thomas is his generosity and intuitiveness. Before going through what songs we would do together, I told him that I received news about 45 minutes earlier that my grandfather had very little time left. My eyes were red from crying, my hands were sweaty and my stomach was in a knot but I decided I would sing. I would sing for my grandfather and I would sing because I knew that I would have a friend by my side. I dedicated our last cover, “Ain’t No Sunshine” to my grandfather and held onto each word, my voice wavering somewhere in between hurt and numb. Thomas dutifully accompanied me on his guitar and graciously gave me the space to express what I needed to express. Thank you, Thomas Brun.
One of my favorite covers, Thomas Brun-style
For more info on Thomas Brun, check out his myspace page
or his Facebook page.
You can purchase his music here
NB: Today on Thanksgiving I am thankful for friendship, especially when being so far away from family. I am thankful for music and the shelter it gives me when nothing else seems to make sense. My grandfather passed away this morning at 5:35am Paris time, 11:35pm New York time. I am thankful I got to send my love to him one last time and I just have to hope that he heard me.
“All around me the messages written in chalk were dissolving like tears in the rain. Streams formed beneath the charms, cigarettes and guitar picks. Petals of flowers left on the plot of earth above Jim Morrison floated like bits of Ophelia’s bouquet.
“Ehh! she cried again. “Answer me, Américaine! Why do you young people not honor your poets?”
“Je ne sais pas, madame,” I answered, bowing my head.
“I do not know.”
- Just Kids
When my friend Mike texted me on Friday asking if I wanted to join him at the Patti Smith concert, I couldn’t say yes faster. My admiration and devotion for the poet and godmother of punk stretches beyond how she influences me musically.
I sort of want to be Patti’s friend.
I realize this is probably how most stalkers rationalize their behavior but I swear my intentions are sane. See, Patti just seems like the kind of person you could just sit down for hours and chat about what’s going on in your life, about Paris, about New York, about The Strand (my favorite NYC bookstore and where Patti worked when she first moved to the city), about Rimbaud, about rock n roll. My kind of gal.
I actually had the opportunity to at least approach her when I was babysitting a friend’s 16-month-old daughter this spring. After playing in the sandbox at the Place de Vosges, it was time to pack up the little miss in the baby bjorn and head home. And as I am walking out of the park, I pass by Patti Smith. Now it’s one thing to mentally rehearse what you might do if you were to cross paths with a living legend and your personal hero, but it quickly falls apart when you’ve got a baby in your arms and a diaper bag in another. I know I should have stopped her and thanked her for her songs, her honest lyrics, her activism, her poetry and for what I believe may have been the best bookI’ve read all year (her memoir of 1970s New York and her relationship with former lover and artistic soulmate Robert Mapplethorpe). But I chickened out.
And to add insult to injury, my friend Mike and I turned up to the concert last night LATE. The line to get into the Olympia was so massive we thought we’d be smart asses and have a drink just in front of the theatre until the crowd dissipated. Little did we know that there wasn’t an opening act and that Patti would start on time. Now that wasn’t very rock ‘n roll of you, Patti!
Patti was majestic. She summoned her heros Rimbaud and Blake, she paid tribute to her late husband Fred “Sonic” Youth and Robert Mapplethorpe and performed “Elegie” as a eulogy to her friend, Yves Saint Laurent‘s iconic muse, Loulou de la Falaise. She imparted her maternal wisdom to a congregation of eager followers and believers: “What are your dreams? Follow your dreams?” and shook the theatre with her anthemic “Rock n Roll Nigger” and “People Have the Power”. And finally, she offered up her red guitar, a blazing torch, summarizing her plea, “This is the weapon of my generation! Fuck nuclear weapons!”
Taking any decent photos was a challenge, so I will spare myself the embarrassment of posting any and with my arms pinned to my sides it was impossible to keep track of the setlist with my blackberry. I did manage to capture this moment, prefaced by the story of how she procrastinated listening to a tape her agent gave her. A song by a Jersey boy, a fellow modern day poet. She procrastinated until one night, while killing time, waiting for a long distance call from Fred Smith, her pen took flight.
As for me, I hope I will be forgiven for chickening out and showing up late. Twice, twice, I have failed you, Patti.
I think Juliet was definitely onto something. I mean, what IS in a name anyway? A rose is a rose because someone said so and everyone else agreed. We could pick out another name out of a hat and it would still be a rose. And it would still smell nice and all would still be cool.
Or not? Cause isn’t a name actually a big deal?
Names and naming has been on mind this week because we still can’t find a good/cool/fun/original name for our trio. We are getting close to wrapping up our repertoire of soul and funk classics, breaking down songs that were originally recorded with full horn sections and fluffed up with string arrangements, and adapting them to fit a three musician ensemble. It’s a challenging creative process, but I am lucky to be working with two great musicians who also happen to be two awesome guys. We goof off, we quote the Muppets and eat cookies (ok, they eat the cookies). But it is still work. The easy part was clearly going to be coming up with a name and subsequently, image for the band.
Or not.
Finding words or names that aren’t too heavily overused and cliché or ones that don’t automatically conjure up a negative image or association is tricky stuff. I am no linguist, but it’s probably safe to say, for example, that we often genderize certain objects as “masculine” or “feminine” (especially in all Romance languages). Kevin’s guitar is a cream colored Music Man beauty named Michelle (and yes, when he speaks of her we don’t miss the chance to burst into “Michelle, ma belle, sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble” and no, it doesn’t get old). And when I jokingly referred to Stefano’s bass as Luigi, his jokingly indignant response was “My bass is not gay!”. I think he meant transvestite, but you get the drift.
Other words conjure up images, colors, even sounds. Some words apparently have certain phonological properties that trigger our brains to think a certain way about the entity we are naming. And then there are some words that just sound vulgar or uncool or make us feel uneasy. I know I’m not the only one who has issues with words like “moist” or “scabby”. My personal favorite in terms of cringeworthiness: “sausage” (which is probably why I can’t ever bring myself to eat it).
We’ve had some funny name brainstorming sessions over coffee and cigarettes and we’ve at least gotten a good laugh out of some of the suggestions. “Mop Head Show” was one. “Les Funk Frites” was another. I went home last night after rehearsal and tried the picking-names-at-random-from-several-dictionaries method. My finger landed on “Menudo”. Out of all the words in the Spanish language I had to pick a name that’s already been used (phew). Maybe not the best idea to use a foreign language dictionary. I even found this silly band name generator site that was responsible for wasting 45 minutes of my life (go ahead and click, but consider yourself warned).
Trying to approach this with a bit of humor and “recul” is necessary, and I realize many great bands have names that when you really look at them, are kinda random or have nothing to do with the music they created. Nirvana. Franz Ferdinand. Air Supply. Velvet Underground. No, ok, I take that back. Velvet Underground is cool.
So that’s our next step. Getting ourselves to cool. And avoiding misunderstood Montagues and cliché Capulets along the way.
