Paris – All about baguettes


Because of the impossible ‘infrastructure’ of the Paris city centre, the closest place to park the bus was 6 km from La Maroquinerie, the venue we played in Paris. While some of the others had been smart-asses and left the bus while it was loading off the backline at the venue, us late sleepers woke up at 12.30 outside of the Cité des Sciences et Industrie. Me and Johan jumped on the Paris metro after drinking two large glasses of orange juice.

Breakfast at Le Maro

Breakfast at La Maroquinerie

While scanning the metro-map for the station closest to the venue, Johan asked this french woman for directions and she actually spoke fluent english, lived right nearby the venue, and gave us the precise directions. Arriving at the correct metro stop, we somehow managed to get lost at a cemetery (Père-Lachaise) housing the corpses some of the greatest french people who ever lived (writers, poets, actors, you know what I’m blabbing about). Strange to walk amidst all these crazy gravestones (some more like houses or small churches) with family emblems, statues and glass ornaments.


La Maroquinerie gave us classic french breakfast (not croissants!) with baguette, jambon et fromage. Pardon my french, I simply could not resist trying. A couple of us went down to Maraise for a chill in the park (with wine and cheese). We spotted some young pretentious girls reading Proust, looking like our small friends in girly band Razika. They were so classicly cool that we had to invite them to the show (where they hang prettily in the background with their white, neutral faces, cautiously stomping their feet to the beat). Erlend took us to a interesting optician with a wide selection of vintage glasses, some of which he tried on (and almost bought). Well, let’s be realistic, he rides pretty darn well with his current pair.

Erlend and Razika.

Erlend and Razika.

Our manager, Mikal Telle, came to Paris to catch our show. It was with strong recognition we spotted him wearing blue trousers, a black piqouet shirt and black Vans slip-ons. Funnily, he had also connected the cool girly bunch with our Razikan friends. Our entourage went back to the venue, where we were well recieved by the foul stench of the Paris sewage-system. The guys working at La Maroquinerie told that the stench would disappear in the afternoon, but sometimes it seemed to grow stronger. Maschat suggested going to the bar asking for a glass of shit.


The concert went good for us. Especially the homage we have to the french house-duo Daft Punk (‘Robot Rock’) in the middle of our song ‘Connection’ was well recieved by the Paris audience. Later on we stepped onstage again for a whitest boy encore, playing the french house-god Fred Falkes version of The Whitest Boy Alive hit ‘Golden Cage’. A great success it was. The restaurant at the venue served us great food, accompanied by a lovely cold bottle of red wine. After the show we had a nice conversation with some of our friends residing / studying (Birgitte, once again thanks for letting me borrow your Fender) in Paris. We left in the middle of the night, pushing our backline in the middle of the streets of Paris, to great cheering from some people drinking wine on a table. A fine french experience.

Loading gear is always easier after a glass of french wine.

Loading gear is always easier after a glass of french wine.


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