I've told the story a thousand times.
A friend of mine went to Paris a number of years ago and after the trip asked me, "Have you noticed how they can't dance? I mean, no sense of rhythm at all."
This was puzzling to me. After all, Paris is the home of Daft Punk - AKA the best f#(%ing dance act of all f#(%ing time. But I remember one night at the trendy DJ bar Wax (which I live mere blocks from now...) pointing out to my hostel companions - "Have you noticed how no one can dance?"
It was surreal how our heretofore-thought-of-as-lousy dancing - the worst of California, Colorado, and Queensland - impressed the locals.
Mind you, this story isn't some horrific generalization or yet another American episode of French bashing.
Last Friday night, a group of us were at the very chic and trendy Mezzanine de Alcazar (so hip they have their own line of CDs) sipping some way-overpriced cocktails and taking in some 80's electro when Julien (who is French) said to Alannah, "Have you noticed how nobody can dance?"
The arhythmic jerking and strutting was a source of laughter for all of us, and we almost wished some Tektonik crew would rock in to show these people how it's done.
Fast forward to tonight. Alannah and I had just finished dinner and were doing some channel surfing. I stopped on Nouvelle Star (the French version of American Idol) and somehow got sucked in. One song was done really well, but only one of the panelists voted for the singer. Then a whole series of horrendously performed tunes were paraded for the audience, and the panelists loved them. Note for every way-off-the-mark note. Stiff stage presence and horrible emoting and all.
These aren't the so-bad-they're-good auditions we're talking bout. Nor are they the early rounds of "we just wanted to put them on TV to humiliate them" amateurs. These are finalists. Yet the worst singers at my favorite San Francisco karaoke bar would give these clowns a run for their money. Hell, I could probably outdo them, and I sound like a poor man's Jim Morisson on qualudes performing the early dinner show for keno-obsessed, nickel slot jockeying senior citizens in Laughlin, Nevada.
It's truly confounding. In the six weeks or so that I've been here, I've fallen in love with a number of French singers who are simply fantastic. Others who are just wildly original. And some who just look and sound damn good spewing pop pabulum. And while I've never given American Idol or Pop Idol or any other permutation of this show much credit, I have to admit that they at least give 15 minutes of fame to people with some vocal - if not songwriting - ability. Hell, the no-talent ass clowns on Rock Star: Supernova seem like virtuosos compared to most of the Nouvelle Star lineup.
This little bitch session isn't out of any hatred for the format, the singers of this fine country, or what ends up making for water cooler talk on Thursday mornings. If anything, I love the fact that the show is completely live - technical goofs and all - which makes it tough to rig the voting, and no one benefits from editing or overdubs. It's a straight-up talent competition.
What frustrates me is that I can't get my little mind around one little quirk: There is very little talent.
And the way some of these judges lap it up makes Paula Abdul look credible.
Wrap your mind around that!
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Saturday, April 05, 2008
On a 'ighway to 'ell
Like that Green Day song, I'm a "Walking Contradiction."
Just after expounding on what I hate about expat bars, I went to one Thursday night and had a pretty good time.
The Rue de Montmartre is chock full of these monstrosities, ranging from the very Australian Cafe Oz to the Irish mainstay Corcoran's Pub. I made my way to another one of these palaces of anglophone ivresse to meet up with Laura, a San Francisco friend who'd moved to Paris last September. It didn't hurt that she works at said watering hole, meaning discount drinks for yours truly.
Of course, a discount on beer in Paris means still ponying up around $8 a pint, so don't get too excited.
Still, it was excellent to spend some time with yet another familiar face; and despite several cringes and rolled eyes, check out a French bar band work its way through a plethora of classic covers, all delivered in a mostly phonetically accurate fashion. Except when words began with H. The best (or maybe worst) was hearing the singer adopt Sting's faux-Caribbean accent for a cover of the Police's "I Can't Stand Losing." The worst (or maybe the best) was hearing the guy attempt to do Guns N' Roses "Welcome to the Jungle." Overall they were pretty good, and as much as I was hating myself, I couldn't help but have a good time.
Tip for future cover bands playing free gigs in the bars of Paris: Ad-libbing the f-word in between verses is only cool if your name is Axl Rose or Trent Reznor or Angus Young.
I realized as I raised my glass to some surprisingly enjoyable renditions of Lenny Kravitz and Red Hot Chili Peppers tunes (all thanks to the kick-ass bassist who should really consider moving into an original band) that in just over a month here, I haven't been partaking much of actual French culture. That I've had more Guinness stout than Kronenbourg 1664. That I've been no better than the expat dorks who seek out English-speaking businesses.
It's not for lack of trying, though. Paris is notoriously tough for foreigners to crack. I've spent plenty of time at actual French joints in my neighborhood and done little more than exchange pleasantries with the barman. Otherwise, if you raise your glass or smile at a local you don't know, they'll most likely think you're hopped up on something - or just a schmuck. And schmuckiness be damned, I've tried my best - largely to little avail - to make good with the locals.
This will all change next week, I think. First of all, NCAA basketball will be over as of Monday night and I won't be madly seeking expat bars with NASN. (Tonight I'll take a stab at the Great Canadian Pub, who promise to show both Final Four games on the big screen.) Secondly, Alannah is arriving on Thursday, and I'll have to show her how I've become a fabulous Paris insider in the painful month or so that we've been apart.
Most likely, I'll be doing that in the kitchen. I've always thought of myself as a pretty great cook, and I think that working with a relatively minimal kitchen and pantry - plus some of the best raw ingredients I've had access to without going broke - I've become even better. In a matter of minutes I can whip-up a three course meal. Four courses if I include a pre-made dessert from the pâtisserie. My bavette aux echalotes is now as good as any reputable bistro's, I've been brave enough to mess with a little offal here and there, and tonight I'm going traditional with a bit of poulet aux pruneaux et raisins. Then off to the Great Canadian, where hopefully there will be no live music before the games.
Now if only French bands could adapt to English singing as I can to their cooking...
Just after expounding on what I hate about expat bars, I went to one Thursday night and had a pretty good time.
The Rue de Montmartre is chock full of these monstrosities, ranging from the very Australian Cafe Oz to the Irish mainstay Corcoran's Pub. I made my way to another one of these palaces of anglophone ivresse to meet up with Laura, a San Francisco friend who'd moved to Paris last September. It didn't hurt that she works at said watering hole, meaning discount drinks for yours truly.
Of course, a discount on beer in Paris means still ponying up around $8 a pint, so don't get too excited.
Still, it was excellent to spend some time with yet another familiar face; and despite several cringes and rolled eyes, check out a French bar band work its way through a plethora of classic covers, all delivered in a mostly phonetically accurate fashion. Except when words began with H. The best (or maybe worst) was hearing the singer adopt Sting's faux-Caribbean accent for a cover of the Police's "I Can't Stand Losing." The worst (or maybe the best) was hearing the guy attempt to do Guns N' Roses "Welcome to the Jungle." Overall they were pretty good, and as much as I was hating myself, I couldn't help but have a good time.
Tip for future cover bands playing free gigs in the bars of Paris: Ad-libbing the f-word in between verses is only cool if your name is Axl Rose or Trent Reznor or Angus Young.
I realized as I raised my glass to some surprisingly enjoyable renditions of Lenny Kravitz and Red Hot Chili Peppers tunes (all thanks to the kick-ass bassist who should really consider moving into an original band) that in just over a month here, I haven't been partaking much of actual French culture. That I've had more Guinness stout than Kronenbourg 1664. That I've been no better than the expat dorks who seek out English-speaking businesses.
It's not for lack of trying, though. Paris is notoriously tough for foreigners to crack. I've spent plenty of time at actual French joints in my neighborhood and done little more than exchange pleasantries with the barman. Otherwise, if you raise your glass or smile at a local you don't know, they'll most likely think you're hopped up on something - or just a schmuck. And schmuckiness be damned, I've tried my best - largely to little avail - to make good with the locals.
This will all change next week, I think. First of all, NCAA basketball will be over as of Monday night and I won't be madly seeking expat bars with NASN. (Tonight I'll take a stab at the Great Canadian Pub, who promise to show both Final Four games on the big screen.) Secondly, Alannah is arriving on Thursday, and I'll have to show her how I've become a fabulous Paris insider in the painful month or so that we've been apart.
Most likely, I'll be doing that in the kitchen. I've always thought of myself as a pretty great cook, and I think that working with a relatively minimal kitchen and pantry - plus some of the best raw ingredients I've had access to without going broke - I've become even better. In a matter of minutes I can whip-up a three course meal. Four courses if I include a pre-made dessert from the pâtisserie. My bavette aux echalotes is now as good as any reputable bistro's, I've been brave enough to mess with a little offal here and there, and tonight I'm going traditional with a bit of poulet aux pruneaux et raisins. Then off to the Great Canadian, where hopefully there will be no live music before the games.
Now if only French bands could adapt to English singing as I can to their cooking...
Monday, November 12, 2007
Kyoto Doo Wop
Ok, before my time on this terminal at Kinko's runs out, here's a nice little video clip of some street performance in Kyoto... Enjoy!
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