SUR L’ILE
Considering it took me all week to describe the multitude of events and sensations that I encountered during my week of shows just past, you couldn’t expect me to have that much to say? I should do as the DJ does (put on Stairway to Heaven) or do as like Krusty do—put on a cartoon. One time, when I was in high school, I was listening to a radio station in Bellingham, where I lived from 1978 til 1987, for the most part. I remember that the DJ put on a Neil Diamond record, this was clear—and very soon into it, the record started to skip. Yes, it was in the pre-CD days. This was quite late at night; the DJ had probably gone to smoke a ‘doob’ or take a pee, thinking he had 3 minutes forty-five seconds. And he really didn’t know it was happening for about 2 minutes…
But, also, seeing how much stuff happened that week I was ready for a vacation, at home and more. So this weekend, after a hilarious afternoon at Aden’s crèche’s garden party, the three of hopped the 8.10 train to La Rochelle and have been spending lovely, if overcast, days on Ile de Re.
Oh, but we did make it out the other night for the Scissor Sisters private show at Maxim’s—I can tell you I went more to snoop around Maxim’s than I did to see the Scissor Sisters. SS play disco, straight up, augmented with the occasional wretched power ballad. I have to admit they are wonderfully tacky—bad clothes, a bad tattoo here and there. They seem like kind people tho, honestly—and in fact I think I met them at some REM function or other once. And the alternating boy-girl thing they came up with a mainstream bent has been fully gut shot by the massive-ness of the Black Eyed Peas, who, despite My Humps, are truly the nicest people in showbiz. I have met them at a couple of video awards type of things, and they are very friendly and seem genuine.
Anyway, Dom & I pulled up in a G7 (exclusive, can only be called with a special code, taxi) taxi, right up front, and saw the line went down the block. Screw that. We walked up right to the front of the line, and because we are cool, walked right in, no questions asked. Later I head that Kylie Minogue couldn’t get in…the place was packed for sure, at some point it was physically impossible (legally, too) to get more inside. Maxim’s has several levels and many twists and turns--it’s perfect for an industry party as there are so many possibilities to block and entrance and say ‘no’ which is what these things are all about: giving some industry blowhard (emphasis on ‘blow’) a feeling of self-congratulatory superiority and also providing jailhouse bars for the starved gazelles to slip thru—but after, are they inside or outside the jail?
Maxim’s is a wonderful old museum of early 20th century opulence—it has carpet, like your bog standard British pub—but it has art nouveau carvings and stained glass and murals. I’m not saying it’s wonderful because it’s a marvel of art or architecture—the contents are, from an aesthetic point of view, quite crude—but it is important to show what the nature of taste was for the elite of a certain period, and how a successful business balances between the artistic impulse of its creative team and the lunkheaded taste of its patrons. Take that as inspiration, all! Or rebel.
Also—money was spent, loads and loads of it and—this is the worst thing about the Maj, I think—it did exactly nothing to promote SSister’s career. Just blew cash that could be spent on promoting a young band. Or any band. Pissed down the hole.
It was barely possible to watch the band, but with some effort, the open bar could be accessed. After the concert, everyone was hustled upstairs to two different parties (of course, one was more exclusive than the other). We were at the second-tier affair, which was up in the aerie of Maxim’s. A few rooms centered around a small bar serving free drinks based on a substance called Gloss—essentially cough syrup with out the health benefits. A sickly sweet industrial-cherry syrup, mixed with whatever you want—coke, or other sprits (barf), I had a couple. The centerpiece of the party was a kind of ‘dreamland’…I don’t know the tie-in, but there it was…dry ice fog, and a bed with a girl in ballet-nightie, with a sleep mask, performing an absolutely perfectly choreographed mime of a sleeping girl. All that passed, paused, stunned—some photo’d her. I couldn’t take it. I put an ice cube in her armpit, and all hell broke loose—I had broken the ice, so to speak—people jumped on the bed, sprayed their beverages hither and yon, and Dom and I slipped out. We went on to have a couple of mediocre glasses of wine at Hotel Costes (they didn’t have a great white wine by the glass and we didn’t feel like drinking a bottle.
Yesterday on Ile de Re was a miracle of gentle sun, beach with Aden, lunch at the Cabane du Fier (should you visit, go for the Foie Gras Crème Brulee—wow), putting Aden on the ‘manege’, which is French for merry-go-round, and watching her try and catch Mickey’s tail—the operator lowers a Mickey Mouse doll on a rope just out of reach of the kids, and has loosely attached a colorful assemblage of rags that you can, with effort, grab and pull off and redeem for a free ride (and of course, the pride of winning). Aden took it in the face a few times, and alas, was just too small to grab it; the other kids had an easier time. One girl of about 7 or 8 years actually gave the thing to Aden after hearing her cry. That was incredibly sweet and generous. Good parents!
Love
KS
Ile de Re, FRANCE
