This year Marti and I have so much to be thankful for. Our enduring love for each other. Families and friends scattered around the globe. Excellent health and health care. A rich cultural life. And the fact that we live in the most beautiful city in the world.

We celebrated the annual day of thanks by dining this afternoon at our favorite special event restaurant, Le Jules Verne.

The Michelin-starred restaurant, under the executive direction of megachef Alain Ducasse (his ventures have earned 15 Michelin stars), boasts Pascal Féraud in the kitchen. It’s located on the second level of the Tour Eiffel.

View from our table. After riding up in the private elevator and taking seats at our usual window table (a stroke of luck), Marti and I kicked off our T-Day celebration with coupes de champagne. The amuse-bouche was a tiny pumpkin soup with walnuts and lardons. We decided on the lunch menu with wine pairings. As a starter Marti ordered foie gras de canard confit, gelée fine à la figue noire, brioche toastée. I had saumon mariné Bellevue, caviar de France. For her main course my bride enjoyed filet de canard Colvert rôti au sautoir, la cuisse confite, légumes d'automne. On my side of the table it was joue de boeuf cuisinée comme un bourguignon, champignons et lardons.

All this and chocolate truffles too. Marti’s dessert was ananas rôti, tartelette passion/coco/citron vert. I rocked the savarin à l'Armagnac, Chantilly peu fouettée. It was all good.

While we gourmands feasted, a team of painters worked outside. A freeze-your-ass-off gig, for sure. Gawd, I love this town. Even this paintbrush-wielding young woman was hot. After our two-and-a-half hour lunch we were invited to descend a private stairway to the second level observation deck. We hit the gift shop for cheesy souvenirs (Eiffel Tower-shaped pasta!), but it was too cold to hang outside for very long. We returned to the restaurant, rode down and took a cab home.


For Marti and me, today’s meal at Jules Verne was the 20th anniversary of Thanksgiving 1989 -- we dined here on our first trip to Paris. That was the life-changing vacation that inspired our move to the City of Light 17 months later, in April 1991.

On that first journey here our dear friend and travel agent Tara booked us into a modest two-star hotel in the Latin Quarter. I think we paid sixty-five bucks a night.

Unbeknownst to Tara, in the 1950s the Hotel Vieux Paris had been a rat-infested home to the Beat Generation writers. Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Brion Gysin, Peter Orlovsky and Jack Kerouac stayed here. Fifty years ago William S. Burroughs adopted Gysin’s cut-up technique and wrote Naked Lunch in what came to be known as The Beat Hotel.

I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw away at Washington Square Station, vault a turnstile and two flights down the iron stairs, catch an uptown A train . . . Young, good looking, crew cut, Ivy League, advertising exec type fruit holds the door back for me.

You could feel Burroughs’ words – and the emanations of all the other notorious lodgers – resonating in this place.


It was a thrilling weeklong vacation for us. Marti and I paid a spooky visit to The Louvre at night, followed by late supper at Brasserie Lipp. We attended a sublime concert of Baroque music at the Royal Chapel at Versailles, and stumbled upon a private tour of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette’s digs. We shopped in the Sonia Rykiel department at Galeries Lafayette and at André Ghékiére in the rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

The Berlin Wall had recently fallen, it was still a big story in the news. I wanted to hop on a flight to check it out but of course we had time restrictions. My Berlin adventures would come a few years later, after we’d become residents at 85 rue Blomet. Where we remain to this day.

My bride and I always joke that ya gotta live somewhere. Now we have dual citizenship and we rock this town. Below are a few clicks from our life. Autumn 2009.


On September 15 Marti and I went to the Café de la Danse, one of our preferred intimate listening rooms, to see Steve Earle. We’ve been fans of Steve since he came on the scene in the 1980s, first caught him at the old Birchmere in the Washington DC suburbs. Tonight he dedicated a song to Jim Carroll -- another singer-songwriter fave of ours from the DC days – who had just died.

Steve sang a number of classics, including “Way Down In The Hole,” his Tom Waits cover that was resurrected in the TV series The Wire. The bulk of his set, however, was a tribute to his old friend Townes Van Zandt. He told great Townes stories and performed most of the material from Townes, his most recent album. Wonderful to hear him again.


September 18. Marti’s birthday was a full-on Paris Left Bank celebration. Our pals Jorge, Ileana and Antonio joined us for a wood oven-baked gourmet dinner at Pizza Marinara in the rue Dauphine.

Jorge and Ileana.

My friend Antonio.

B-Day dinner was followed by live jazz across the street at the elegant Café Laurent, Rousseau and Voltaire's favorite hang-out. Our friends Christian Brenner (piano) and Serge Merlaud (guitar) played with Pier Paolo Pozzi on drums and Jean-Pierre Rebillard on bass.

Before we rang down the curtain on the evening I had a little surprise for Marti – a whirlwind cab ride to her beloved Tower.

Just in time to catch the final light show that night. Happy Birthday, Baby!


We received a call from Jorge on Sunday, September 27. He invited us to join him and Ileana at a resto-bar called Le Quinze for an afternoon concert featuring a friend of his. Jorge’s pal turned out to be Serge Raffy, the editor-in-chief of Nouvel Observateur magazine (at left). Imagine our surprise when we discovered that his acoustic guitar mate was our friend, Alain Karadjian!

Ileana, Marti and Jorge. After the set we had a drink and a hang with our musical friends. Nice way to kill a weekend afternoon. It was a pleasant evening, so Marti and I walked a bit, found a sidewalk café and ordered a light supper. I love the fact that you can hit a random restaurant in this town and be pretty much guaranteed a decent meal.


Our globe-trotting friends Su-Yin and Pascal were in town the following weekend. Since we’ve known them they’ve lived in Paris (where we met in 1991), Basel, Tokyo, Sydney, San Francisco, Montreal and now, Milan. We hooked up with them in their old Latin Quarter ‘hood, for a fun dinner at Au Sud de Nulle Part.

Afterward the four of us strolled down to the Café Laurent to catch a couple of sets by Christian Brenner’s Trio. We always have a super time with Pas and Su.


On October 2 and 3, Marti and I attended Edgar Varese 360° at Salle Pleyel, one of Paris’ most distinguished concert halls. This project was conceived by our friend Gary Hill, a world-renowned video artist who has been awarded the MacArthur prize, the Lion d'Or at the Venice Biennale, grants from the Rockefeller and the Guggenheim Foundations. Gary and I first met in the mid-1970s while we were both living in Woodstock NY.

Over the course of an evening and afternoon at Pleyel he and his collaborators presented the complete works of Varèse in two concerts seen as a single autonomous work, designed for interactive dialogue involving the hall, artist, musicians and audience. I first came to Varèse via Frank Zappa, who always cited the composer as a major influence. It was wonderful to hear all of his music in live performance.

Gary’s video installations complemented the orchestral, choral and solo performances. Abstract lines, revolving objects and brief texts, apparently inspired by Varese’s idea that music is “planes and masses colliding and inter-penetrating,” were projected on video screens above the stage and on the walls surrounding the audience.

Live video feeds – including these of totemic objects on a table in the lobby – were mixed into the visual stew. We loved it. But not all of the “classical music” purists got it. When some booed at the curtain call, Gary grinned and gestured, egging them on. Sometimes art upends your preconceptions. Deal with it.


Several nights later Marti and I went to dinner with Gary at Au Sud de Nulle Part. Although we’ve followed his career over the years and seen a number of his installations at the Museum Of Modern Art, the Pompidou Center and elsewhere, we hadn’t gotten together in years. It was great to catch up with one another. We reminisced about our Catskills days when he was pioneering in video art (particularly video synthesis) and running camera on the cable-access TV program I produced called Woodstock Tonight. Marti always reminds Gary of the snowy weekend in the fall of 1981 when he edited our wedding video! Why, she asks, isn’t that listed in his program credits?


On October 23 I went to The Louvre to see Gary’s work-in-progress entitled The Mirror Points. (Marti was attending a play that evening with Ileana.)


This video/movement performance was very compelling, in a sold out auditorium. All about magnetic fields. Live video, choreography with magnets in the costumes, chorus embedded in three areas of the audience.

At one point Gary brought out a cardboard box filled with cutlery, strainers and other kitchen utensils. He shot live video of the performers attaching the items to themselves as they moved around in prone positions on the stage.

There was also a long pipe magnet suspended from the lighting rig. The performers moved under it and caused it to sway with a sonic rhythm. The entire piece was at once visually exciting and witty.

I went to the champagne after party, hung out with Gary and Magdalena, his bride. She and I laughed about the fact that we both have the same (non-)job: slacker. People underestimate us, I explained to her. One cannot pull off the boulevardier thing without a heap of style. Magda and I also share the same birthday: January 11. Now we're bound by natal forces!

Special thanks to Angela Di Paolo for photos of The Mirror Points.



Hollywood in da house! One advantage to living in a destination city is that your pals love to come visit. That fact certainly obtained this fall. In mid-October the Los Angeles krew arrived: Jonathan Spencer, rising star of cinema and the tube (shown here in the hilarious opening sequence of Pineapple Express), is a longtime bud from the Widespread Panic scene. In L.A. he’s befriended our former Parisian neighbors Desiree and Mike; they were back here on vacation as well.

I hooked up with Des, Mike and Jonathan at the Rival Deluxe lounge bar near the Champs-Elysées.

My zany actress-model gal pal Myra joined us as we moved from one overpriced watering hole to another. It was a nutty afternoon.


Des and Mike at the Café Laurent. Marti and I had dined with the Los Angelenos earlier at Au Sud de Nulle Part.

How cute is Jonathan? No wonder he’s been scoring character roles in My Name Is Earl, Mad Men, Gilmore Girls, Southland and other cool TV series.

The night we all fell by the Café Laurent was bar manager Flavien’s birthday. We love “Flava Flav.” He’s so hip his caricature is on the drink coasters.

Fuck it. We should all be on TV.


Marti’s college friend Lee was here at the end of October. We made dinner plans and I invited Lee to join me beforehand for a tour of the excellent Miles Davis exhibition at the Cité de la Musique.

It was a marvelous show, covering all of Miles’ transmogrifications over the years. While waiting in line Lee and I gabbed about our music business adventures. For many years Lee had been a tour professional, supporting many leading artists. I met him in the late Seventies when he was working as an electrician on the road with Frank Zappa. He invited us to an FZ concert in Hartford, CT. All the guestlist seats had been taken, so Lee installed Marti and me on equipment cases at the side of the stage. It was so groovy to watch the genius up close and personal!

After visiting the Miles exhibition and enjoying an apéro at the Café de la Musique, Lee and I joined Marti for dinner at Louis Vins.

At dinner Marti and Lee wandered way down Memory Lane, catching each other up on their old University of Virginia Theater Department classmates. Don’t mind me, I said, I’ll talk quietly amongst myself. Thank goodness I had a strong signal on my CrackBerry.®


Marti and I had been going out a lot, so when Jorge first called to suggest that we join him at the Rallye Bar to hear a friend of a friend of his sing we declined. But our favorite former Secret Agent Man was persistent, following up with an e-mail PDF of the gig poster.

We relented. And I’m glad we did. Jorge was happy to see us. That’s he shooting a vid or something with someone else’s camera.

Courtney Lee Adams Jr. performed with fellow New Yorker Buford O’Sullivan. Now there’s a configuration you don’t see often: (unmic’d) acoustic singer-guitarist with trombone accompaniment. I loved Courtney’s searing Lower East Side songs, kinda punk folk. Or funk poke, as the case may be. Witty. Nasty. Delightful. As soon as we had begun chatting before the gig I realized that I’d met Buford before – he plays with reggae coverists Easy Star All-Stars (Dub Side Of The Moon, Radiodread, Easy Star’s Lonely Hearts Dub Band). We’d spoken briefly a while back after one of their concerts at Elysée Montmartre.

After the Rallye performance Courtney, Buford, Marti and I piled into a taxi and rolled to the Café Laurent. We nudged Buford to sit in with our friend Christian Brenner (piano), G. Prevost (bass), Pier Paolo Pozzi (drums) & Pascal Gaubert (tenor sax) in a third-set guest slot. The players quickly huddled, then kicked down a sweet rendition of Miles Davis' "All Blues." Buford rocked, trading solos with Gaubert. Courtney, Marti and I grinned from our corner banquette. It was a cool hang with new friends. We finished up with a nightcap at the Bar du Marché.


On November 2 Marti and I attended a very special concert at La Maison de la Poesie in the Marais. Our pianist friend Christian Brenner, whose weekends stands at the Café Laurent have become our go-to jazz trip on the Left Bank, was debuting the music from his forthcoming CD Le Son de l’Absence (The Sound of Absence).

In the able company of brilliant guitarist Olivier Cahours and Café Laurent regulars François Fuchs (bass) and Pier Paolo Pozzi (drums), Christian performed the album in its entirety. Sublime compositions beautifully played, including pieces dedicated to his daughter and son, who were in the audience. Marti and I are looking forward to this long-awaited new release, which is at the pressing plant as I write. We’re hoping Santa will deliver copies to a few of our friends this Christmas.


The morning after Christian’s concert I boarded the Iron Horse, destined for Amsterdam on a cultural exchange mission.

While there I hooked up with Billy Goodman, a longtime singer-songwriter pal . . .

. . . and our mutual bud Steve. Looks like Sin City livin’ is treating these boyz just fine.


The following weekend our gal pal Stephanie arrived in Paris for a brief visit. The three of us went to dinner in the ‘hood at our old standby, Le Petel.

Marti and I first met Stephie 15 years ago, when she was working here for a big champagne producer. She’s one of our favorite peeps, as Marti clearly demonstrates.


On Sunday, November 8 I went alone to the morning concert at Chatelet.

Chatelet is one of the most beautiful concert halls in the city. The moderately-priced 11 a.m. performances are a big draw. Parents can afford to bring their kids, who are remarkably well-behaved listeners.

In this program of Dvořák and Schumann the Pražák Quartet -- Vaclav Remes (violin), Vlastimil Holek (violin), Josef Kluson (viola) and Michal Kanka (cello) -- shared the stage with noted Russian pianist Evgeni Koroliov. The playing on this Sunday morning was simply superb all ‘round. Marti and I got into the Pražák after meeting cellist Kanka at the 8th Annual Rialp Music Festival in the Spanish Pyrenees in the summer of 2008. That night he and violinist František Novotný performed the Brahms Double Concerto for violin and cello.

After the concert I walked to the Marais to rendezvous with Steph and Marti for lunch at Chez Janou.

Cuties at lunch. We walked off the calories by strolling around the old Jewish quartier that afternoon.

It’s just all about filling your face here at Foodie Ground Zero. As a special treat Stephanie and my bride collaborated on Sunday night dinner while I languished on the living room sofa.

Steph moved right into my official headquarters and cooked up delicious white clam sauce to top pasta . . .

. . . which was preceeded by a delectable Insalata Caprese. Mmm mmm good!

More wine? What can I say? The girls love me.


A few days later Marti and I were joined at our friend Eric McFadden’s concert by Laura and Matt, emissaries from Maui sent our way by San Francisco-based food pornographer pals Elizabeth and Bobby.

Dan Reed opened for Eric. (Remember his 1980s band, the Dan Reed Network?) He was great. Powerful, moving songs. We spoke after the show. He and his friend Melissa are living here now. We plan to get together for dinner next week.

We first heard Eric many years ago playing with George Clinton’s P-Funk All-Stars. We met him during his first stint with our pal Jerry Joseph’s Stockholm Syndrome. He’s an amazing guitarist and writer. It’s always fun to catch him with Paula O’Rourke on bass. Turns out she’s a Barcelona freak like us, lives there part-time. This Café de la Danse gig was da bomb. Lotsa sit-ins by Eric’s friends. Excellent new material from his most recent CD Train To Salvation. We were happy that Stephanie, who had just trained back to Paris from London, was able to join us. We all went back after to say hello to Eric and krew.

Laura and Matt, post-gig dinner at Le Relais du Massif Central.

I love me some ladies.


On Thursday, November 12 Marti and I went to see a play called Je meurs comme un pays (Dying As A Country) by the Greek dramatist Dimitris Dimitriadis. Directed by Michael Mamarinos, this production was visually stunning, performed mostly in Greek with snippets of French and English with French supertitles.

The theatrical space was quite remarkable: the Ateliers Berthier of the Odéon-Théâtre de l’Europe. Until the 1950s the building served as a warehouse for storing stage sets. It was constructed in 1895 by Charles Garnier for the Opéra de Paris -- Garnier was the architect of that landmark as well.

Although the play ran too long with no intermission, Marti and I enjoyed Dimitriadis’ vision of a mythical civilization – a melange of an ancient, tragic Greece and the Colonels’ regime (1967-1974) -- haunted by a mysterious curse.


Last weekend our friends from Janis Joplin’s old band Big Brother And The Holding Company came to play New Morning. Check out Mary Bridget Davies and the guys below.



Marti and I visited with original members Peter Albin, Sam Andrew and Dave Getz before the show, which was the best BBHC performance I’d seen since the Newport Folk Festival, 1968.

Afterward Marti and I, our actor friend Paul Bandy, drummer Dave Getz, his charming wife Joan, our mutual friend Marc and their bud Jack all crowded around a table at a café-bar called Le Chateau d’Eau, near the venue.

We dug into a delicious late night supper of couscous.

A rollicking time ensued. By 2 a.m. BBHC guitar monster Ben Nieves and lead singer Mary Bridget had joined the festivities. The proprietor cranked up the bar’s sound system and soon we were rockin’ out in an old-fashioned dance party.


Joan had expressed a desire to find some health food, so the next evening six of us reconvened for bio dinner at the Phyto Bar in the Quartier Latin.

Joan and Marti. At our next destination, the Café Laurent. (Of course.)

Left to right: Marc, Jack and the Getzes.

Sharing the banquette with us were two young Greek women, Liana and Sophia. Marti and I immediately began talking Athens with them. I even kicked down a little Greekspeak. When we told them we’d just seen a Greek play, they were mildly impressed but found Dimitriadis’ stuff a bit bleak for their taste.

In the late set Dave sat in with cornet ace Damon Brown, Christian Brenner (piano) and Laurent Fradelizi (bass). Sweet.

Joan and Dave regularly gig together at Bay Area jazz bars, so it was a special treat when Joan got up and sang “The Nearness Of You” – sans microphone. She absolutely killed. Greeted with roaring applause at the outset, then the chattering crowd quieted pin drop style and finally, gave her a roaring send-off. Gotta tell ya, it was yet another memorable night on the town!


My dad would have been 100 years old this month. He’s been gone a long time; I never really had the privilege of an adult relationship with him. But I value his legacy highly. He was one of those guys who relished life, lived it to the fullest. I like to think he passed that gene on to me.

The old man never had much money but that didn’t deter him from enjoying travel, laughter, food and music. Whatever writing abilities I may have are derived directly from his love of word play. For a Depression-era kid who never graduated high school, he could rock The New York Times Sunday crossword. No blank squares at the end of the afternoon. I had all I could do to keep up with him. Amazing vocabulary, self-accumulated.

My favorite memory: when I turned thirteen he took me to my first rock-and-roll concert!

Dad had a definite sense of style. I remember him getting on my mom’s case one time when she brought home a couple of bargain basement shirts that didn’t meet his demanding standards. He was a machinist in an aircraft plant, a blue collar gig, but in his private life – especially later on, after we kids had grown and he had time to hold office in his club and the church vestry – he went to the best men’s shop in town and decked himself out. I still keep one of my suits on an old wooden hanger of his from Haynes Men’s Store, Main Street, Springfield MA (“Always Reliable”).

I picked up on Dad’s style I suppose, but more importantly, I learned from observation how to express emotion, literally how to love. Maybe it was that Mediterranean heritage (he and my Greek uncles always embraced, kissed), but Dad was never reticent about coming up to my mom at the kitchen sink and planting a kiss. Or putting his arm around her on the sofa while watching TV. Small things at the time, but a virtual primer when I think about it now.

I miss him terribly. I know I sometimes disappointed him and I recall that once he really bailed me out of one of those nasty jams you think are the end of the world when you’re in your early twenties. I had been spiraling out of control and broke down in the passenger seat of his huge 1960 Chrysler. Jesus, let it all out, he told me quietly. You can’t carry this shit with you forever.

I’m heartened that he got to hear my first commercials on the radio before he passed. I had just started working at a small advertising agency and was writing and directing spots for Sears with voiceovers by Tony Marvin -- the original voice of Tony the Tiger (Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes). Dad of course knew of Tony from his longtime stint as Arthur Godfrey’s announcer on radio and TV. I guess he figured that if his punk 25-year-old son could hold his own in a recording studio with an old pro like Tony, I was on my way.

Marti and I were talking the other day about how sometimes you incorporate aspects of people you love into your own persona after they die. My dad spoke endlessly about wanting to retire in Europe – specifically, in Greece – when his work life ended. I like to think that in some way Marti and I are living his dream.

In July this blog displayed images and commentary from the rousing start to our Paris “Staycation.”
Here’s a quick wrap-up to Summer 2009.


Early in the summer our dear pal Su-Yin e-mailed a heads-up that her friend Denise Kaufman was coming to Paris with a band called The Durgas.

At the OPA with Durgas drummer Rainer Baumgartner and Denise.

Lead vocalist Benjii Simmersbach.

Marti and I really dug this band. Shown at left are Christopher Simmersbach and Katy J Arnovick. Not pictured: Alex Czerny, keyboards.

My bride and I schmoozed with the folks in the band before and after the gig, then we went in search of late supper.

It was July 23, anniversary of our first date. Marti’s raw meat main course served as a romantic reminder. I love this town.
And Marti, of course.


The office park where Marti works features her building (the tall white one), a gawd-awful sculpture-planter and the Grande Arche.



The march of progress at the junction of rue Cambronne and rue Lecourbe. These are Marti’s before-and-after pics of our newsdealer’s kiosk.




I love Métroing across town to buy CD and DVD blanks because if I time it right, I get to enjoy lunch at La Feria, my preferred Spanish resto.

Scallops and saffron rice. Deelish.


Susan Tedeschi Band at New Morning, July 29.

We spoke briefly with Susan after the gig and enjoyed an extended hang with saxman extraordinaire Ron Holloway, a favorite from our DC days. He has amazing tales of the road. (Once everyone kicks the bucket, he can write his book.)


Oh yeah. While she was in town in July, Britney Spears visited the Tour Eiffel. If only my friend Eda had known!


One morning I awoke early, headed down to Paris Plage -- our temporary beach along the Seine – where I shot this coal barge chugging past the Conciergerie.

On Friday night July 31 Marti & I dropped in to hear five minutes of music at a Les Halles bar, then dined outdoors at the classic Pharamond restaurant.




We’ve got to get ourselves / Back to the garden.

Parc Floral.

The opening concert of the Festival Classique au vert featured pianist Alice Ader in a program entitled Paris - Saint-Pétersbourg.

Marti and I enjoyed a picnic in the park, then took seats in the pavilion to listen to compositions by Moussorgski, Hersant, Ravel and Debussy.


Oud busker at the Centre Pompidou, August 2.


Marti and I had stopped by the Pompidou Center to see the Kandinsky exhibition, but it was Free Museum Sunday and the line stretched to Belgium. We just cruised the ‘hood instead.


Later that week we took advantage of the museum’s late hours and went to see the show. It was marvelous.



August 9. I don’t customarily commemorate deathdays, but this year we honored Jerry with the installation of a new dishwasher. On a Sunday morning, no less. Bravo Darty!


Often when Marti works from home we go out to lunch. This was a delightful one at Krua Thai in Montparnasse. I’m rockin’ my new camo Chucks. (Crackberry® Mirror Photo.)


Our friends Dawn and Dan came to town on August 13. We had a fun late hang with them at the Café Laurent.


The following week our pal Maria visited from Atlanta. These are the gal pals at the Café de la Mairie, people-watching paradise.

That evening Marti and I went to dinner at Louis Vins with Maria, Ileana and Jorge.

With Maria, Jorge and Ileana.
The after party, at La Pomme d’Eve.


I continued my periodic cultural missions to Amsterdam. The power of powerful weed: I could swear I saw a pig strolling in the Centrum.




Passage des Panoramas.

Our buds Kelly and Noah were in Paris en route to a wedding in Spain. We met for dinner on Monday August 31.

Noah turned us on to Racines, a small wine bar-resto in the Passage des Panoramas. I’m always happy when someone else picks the restaurant. An old Paris hand, Noah’s clearly been staying up-to-date -- even from a distance. (San Francisco.)

Oh get a room.

After dinner jazz break at the Duc des Lombards.

”What’s that?” Kelly and Noah asked. During all their time in Paris the Tour Saint-Jacques had been shrouded for renovation. We’re talking like seven or eight years.




On Sunday September 6 Marti and I joined Ileana, Jorge and Antonio for drinks at Maria and Charles’ hotel room. We brought three-year-old Maximilian a set of farm animals.

Cousins at play.

Antonio to Maximilian: “Okay. Here’s how it is . . .”

A former Secret Agent For Castro, currently on bearsitting duty.


Hank in the Métro.

Marti & I parted company with the hotel krew, grabbed a quick Japanese dinner nearby, then went to La Maroquinerie to see Hank III, Hank Williams’ grandson.

Hank III was terrific. He kicked down the Country, Hellbilly and Assjack sets.

I’m here I'm here to put the dick in Dixie / And the cunt back in country.

Here’s a clip of him singing one of his grandfather’s songs. This was before the Hellbilly and Assjack sets helped clear the room!




That’s the rest of the summer in a nutshell. Busy as ever, but not too busy to finally get my Podcast online.

The first two programs are dedicated to Woodstock music in the mid-1970s and Leonard Cohen.

Click on “Posts” in the player to select the program.


Subscribe Free  Add to my Page

More to come soon. But not too soon.

The fall season is officially underway.

WIDESPREAD PANIC EUROPE 1999 JOURNAL / SUNDAY, AUGUST 8, 1999 -- This morning I'm heading out to CDG to fly up to Amsterdam for the beginning of Leg One of Mr. Phil's Europanictour 1999. Needless to say, I'm excited at the prospect of seeing all my friends in the Widespread Panic crew and band, not to mention my Eurohead pals, all the Panic fans I've met on previous tours and a number of folks I only know through the listservs. As in the past here in Europe, I'll be covering the band for RELIX Magazine. Panic will be playing 14 shows in 18 days. Make that daze. I'll do the first four (Amsterdam > Hamburg > Hannover > Berlin) and the final four (Paris > Glasgow > Manchester > London). Marti will go to Paris > Glasgow and London.

Marti and I have been enjoying a fine -- albeit foreshortened -- weekend together: movie date on the Champs-Elysées after work on Friday (we saw Washington Square starring Jennifer Jason Leigh, Ben Chaplin, Albert Finney and Maggie Smith, based on the Henry James novel -- it was excellent); terrasse lunch at the Tabac de la Mairie Saturday; a search for (and finally finding) the special eclipse-watching glasses; last-minute shopping; putting up more posters for the Panic Paris gig; and, packing.


MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1999 / AMSTERDAM -- Today is Jerry Garcia's deathday, gonna try not to think about it. I much prefer to remember people who are gone on their birthdays.

Arrived in Amsterdam yesterday afternoon, hooked up with Pat Goodwin and basically did the coffeeshop circuit. Pat had flown in from Chicago earlier Sunday morning. We hit the Grey Area at exactly 4:20. Jon Sprayberry, Heidi and Kip, in from Georgia, met us there. We did a serious hang there sampling Grey Mist, a Cannabis Cup winner.

Later the five of us hopped a tram, rode "black" to the Leidseplein. Mexican dinner at Sarita's, food generally good, waiter uncomprehending, unintelligible and s l o w w w w w . . .

We repaired for after-dinner drinks and smokes at the marvelous Rokerij, just a few doors away. The faux Indian decor, spacey ambience and racked-out waitresses always combine to make the Rok a good call.

After a delightful idyll there, we pressed on to When Nature Calls to obtain mycological specialties. Pat and I parted company with the Georgia 3 at this point; they went back to their hotel and we went to the Dampkring. Very nice. Probably my favorite coffeeshop.

The Dampkring.

I bought a Dampkring shirt, which I'm wearing as I post this from the Internet Cafe opposite our hotel. We hung out at the Damp with a couple of Spreadheads from North Carolina.

On the way home Pat and I stopped by the Speak Easy, recommended by Ed Fairchild, an American Spreadhead I’d met in Amsterdam. Picked up some Jack (Herrer, not Daniels). Pat went to bed after that and I went to another Rokerij right across the Singel Canal, very near to our hotel, for a nightcap.


This morning I waited for Pat to pull his act together so we could go to the topless beach at Zandvoort, but I guess he slept in. More American fans are beginning to gather in Amsterdam, cruising the coffeeshops, shaking off jetlag and counting down the hours until Widespread Panic kicks off its third European swing tomorrow night at the Paradiso.

Laura and Pat at the Greenhouse Centrum.

Today's 4:20 at the Greenhouse Centrum saw Pat Goodwin starting to round up his posse. European jamheads are arriving as well, with everyone putting faces to e-mail personas.

Rudi, Steve and Ralph.

Rudi Tewes and Ralph Metzger represented the vanguard of the German krew. Homies like Wende White and Steve Dumach were in the house. I was the envoy from Paris. Weather has been sunny and mild with intermittent showers, cool in the evening. It's always cool in the coffeeshops, where the tribe has been performing the sacred rituals. Lots of stoners in town during this, the high season.

Another onslaught of Spreadheads is due in tomorrow from the States and from around Europe. I've been submitting stuff to Hanno Bunjes' Euro Tour listserv; Goodwin would have submitted something to S-NET or AN HONEST TUNE (or wherever the Hell he's supposed to be posting) had he not been distracted for hours by the coffeeshops and by his new inflatable doll, Brandi.




TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 1999 / AMSTERDAM -- Show day! Panic kicked off the Eurotour tonight at the Paradiso. Long sleep last night, lazy morning today . . . I'm getting into a nice tour rhythm. After going to the cyber café near the hotel to post to my page, I got some lunch then walked down to the Speak Easy, where I ran into Ed Fairchild. He had flown in from Dulles earlier this morning. It was great to see him again; we met last year at Wende's place during her Another Saturday Night Deadhead event at the Paradiso. I had a brief hang with Ed, then I was off to soundcheck.

I ran into Sunny Ortiz and some of the Panic crew when I checked in at the Paradiso around 3:30 p.m. I visited with them for awhile, then headed to Dutch Flowers for the 4:20. I saw Mike Houser out on the street, told him about the Dutch Flowers 4:20 and gave him the coffeeshop map from Jon Sawyer’s website. (Mikey eventually wound up at the Rokerij.)

Stayed awhile at Dutch Flowers (there seemed to be some confusion over where today's 4:20 was actually being held), then I went back for soundcheck and encountered John Bell. He had just woken, stumbled into the Paradiso for a look around and now was going back to the bus for a nap -- everything was running behind schedule. This is not to say that Trey Allen wasn't doing a great job as tour manager.

When the soundcheck finally got underway, I reunited with the rest of the gang: Todd, Schools and JoJo.

Things were pulling together now. I watched as the sound and stage crew tweaked and tested. The Paradiso, a deconsecrated church, has excellent acoustics if you take the time to optimize them. The boyz went back to the bus to crash after soundcheck and the Spreadheads filed in. After long flights, train rides and drives, the party was finally underway.

Saw the German contingent, Ralph and Rudi, Hartmut (with whom we're staying tomorrow night), the Frenchies (Michel and Serge), the Amsterdam-based American expats Steve and Wende, plus all the tourheads from the States, including Pat Goodwin, Ed Fairchild, Jonathan Woods and a few hundred others.

"Travelin' Light" was the opener. The musicians were pretty fagged out from their long flight, but you'd never know it from the long, dark, dank (in both senses of the term) show they played.

Here's the setlist. 1: Travelin' Light > Sleepy Monkey > Henry Parsons Died / Raise The Roof > Junior > Blackout Blues / Aunt Avis > Tall Boy > C. Brown
2: Surprise Valley / Arlene / Dyin’ Man > Makes Sense To Me > Pleas > Swamp > Drumz > Jam > Maggot Brain > Driving Song > Breathing Slow > Radio Child
E1: City Of Dreams
E2: All Time Low

Before “City Of Dreams” J.B. said, “Everybody’s gotta be somewhere. And this is a good place to be, I think!”

After the show, JoJo, his pal Ron Shapiro and I hit the streets on a coffeeshop quest, but it was too late. We ducked into a joint where two sexually charged couples were going at it at the bar. JoJo and I were checking out the two women of the foursome becoming very affectionate with each other. Already horny and we've only been away from our squeezes for a couple of days.

We went back to the dressing room at the Paradiso for awhile, then the venue managers kicked us out, so the group made their way onto the bus for the trip to Hamburg. The roadies still had another hour or two of loadout before they could roll.

I found Jon Declos, whom I'd met during the Chesterfield run, shared a cab with him as we returned to our hotels uptown.


WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 1999 / AMSTERDAM > HAMBURG -- Today was Eclipse Day and in the throes of solar fever Goodwin and I managed to cross our wires completely. He wound up stranding me in Amsterdam, while he gaily went to pick up the rental car and drove off to Hamburg alone. Well, he is from Indiana and a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

This did not deter me from having as much fun as I could during my remaining hours in Sin City. I went to the Internet café, read my email and posted to my page.

Then I stepped out to watch the eclipse with the special glasses Marti and I had acquired at the last minute in Paris on Saturday. Abandoned by my tour buddy and the rest of the krew, I gave away the ten extra pair of eclipse shades to grateful strangers nearby on Shakedown Street. Random acts of blindness . . . prevention.

The eclipse, partial though it was from this northern vantage point, was pretty damn cool. We had been forewarned that it would be cloudy and rainy, but the sun shone in Amsterdam, to my great joy.

Next I wheeled my luggage over to Central station, boarded the 1:34 p.m. iron horse. Off to Hamburg on three hours' sleep. I visited with the many Spreadheads who were rolling on down the line on the same train. Around 6 p.m. I had supper in the dining car.

Arrived shortly after seven, cabbed to the Reeperbahn, Hamburg's legendary Red Light District. Rolled past the former site of the Star Club, where the Beatles played eight sets a night in the early '60s. Just beyond was Panic's venue, the Grunspan, a small club with excellent sightlines.

Ran into Widespread Panic manager Sam Linear and Capricorn rep Mike Bone immediately. Someone pointed to a corner in a back room where I could stash my bags.

Panic was soundchecking with "Blue Indian" from the new CD.

In the house were Arne and Annaliese Heinen, two heavy-duty Deadheads from Hamburg: Arne hosts a monthly Dead show on public access radio and Anneliese sings in her own band. These two freaks had worked hard to bring out the local Hamburg heads and it showed. This was the first European show I've seen in three tours where the number of natives was nearly equal to that of the American tourheads. This fact was not lost on the band, who afterward expressed their pleasure at having received such a strong grassroots welcome.

1: Let's Get Down To Business / One Arm Steve / Pigeons / Rebirtha > Wondering > The Waker / Disco > Diner > Climb To Safety
2: Party At Your Mama's House > Space Wrangler > Greta > Love Tractor > Papa's Home > Drums > Papa's Home > Pilgrims / Porch Song
E: Bear's Gone Fishin' > Junco Partner

A very hot show, played hard and sweaty, without the murky, snarling overtones of the previous night's epic at the Paradiso.

Following a brief aftershow meet'n'greet in the hall, a number of Spreadheads cabbed over to the Mayday, a late-night bar where Arne works. I found Todd downstairs at the Grunspan and he was up for partying. JoJo had to make some calls to the States from his hotel room. (A recently-engaged man.)

We picked up Mikey on the way out and our krew took three cabs over to the Mayday.

Arne and Annaliese had decorated the place with Panic posters and a huge Stealie, creating a hip ambience for this laid-back post-show hang. Arne was spinning great music on the house system.

The scene there was very chill. Amsterdam coffeeshops revisited.

The fans generally left Mikey and Todd alone to schmooze with folks at their own pace.

We all drank and smoked and joked until 4 a.m., when we poured Mikey and Todd into a cab.

Then Pat, Hartmut and I walked over to Arne and Annaliese's home for a long-overdue crash.


Pat Goodwin. The hapless Road Warrior.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 1999 / HAMBURG > HANNOVER -- After a tasty breakfast and a pleasant hang chez Heinen I was now aboard the Patmobile, with Hartmut at the wheel. Goodwin was a bit highway-shy by now. He had spent five hours lost in Hamburg the day before -- some sort of instant karmic payback for having ditched me in Amsterdam, I reckoned. Completely disoriented, Pat had required the services of some friendly Russians (probably Reeperbahn gangsters), who literally led him in a two-car caravan to the Grunspan. "Follow us, Amerikanischer Dummkopf."

Only an Indiana corncob could take five hours to find the fucking Red Light District in Hamburg! Well, at least he arrived in time to tape the shows. On today's drive to Hannover we listened to Pat's Hamburg playback. The performances were catching fire.

Arne, me, Pat, Hartmut, Bill, Stacey, Matt, Anneliese.

We went to Harmut's lovely pad in Hannover, stashed our bags. Others beside Pat and me who would be staying there included Arne and Anneliese, who drove from Hamburg separately; Matt Butterweck, a photographer friend of Harmut's; and, Stacey Gates, Bill Mixon and Jeff "Sequoia" McClean, American taper/tourheads who were traveling together. In the late afternoon I took a cab to an Internet café and posted to my site.

Then I cabbed to the Panic gig at the Musiktheater Bad. It was a very small venue in a park, far from the main road. The bucolic entertainment complex included an empty swimming pool with a stage at one end -- for grander concerts, apparently, than tonight's Widespread Panic performance -- plus an al fresco movie theater. For us, however, the action was indoors in the tiny club.

1: Happy > Blight > Walkin' (For Your Love), Holden Oversoul > Dear Mr. Fantasy, Impossible > Blue Indian, Chilly Water
2: Chunk Of Coal, Little Lilly, Tie Your Shoes > Proving Ground > Jack > Spoonful > Drums > Conrad > Proving Ground > Knocking 'Round The Zoo
E: Heaven.

Another smokin' show. Not as many natives in the audience as there had been in Hamburg, but still a strong contingent of locals. All the Spreadheads agreed that the shows were getting hotter night by night.

Me with Hanno, Goodwin and Hartmut.

In between sets in Hannover I introduced Capricorn's Mike Bone to Hanno Bunjes, the young guy who had created the Widespread Panic European Tour 1999 website. In the weeks leading up to the tour Hanno’s page, loaded with travel info and contributions from local fans in each city, had proved invaluable to tourheads on both continents. Mike thanked Hanno, then asked if he had met the band. When Hanno replied that he hadn't, Mike invited him to the aftershow. Hanno told me later that he couldn't believe his good fortune!

The post-show hang was held in a small room in the back of the club. Dave Schools was melting under the manipulations of a Stacey Gates massage, but that didn't prevent him from holding court for the benefit of his adoring fans. He really is a funny guy. Dave and Spreadhead Eliza McCall traded Richmond, Virginia high school memories. Dave was teasing a nasty Jerry Garcia joke, which he claimed was not suitable for reverent Deadhead ears. Since I'm in no way a reverent Deadhead, Schools finally told me the joke. I swore not to attribute to him.

Here goes. “Know why they had to cremate Jerry Garcia? Because they couldn’t fit his fat ass in the coffin.”

I don’t recall where I heard that awful joke.

Hanno got to meet everyone in the band; each musician in turn graciously thanked him for his cyber efforts on their behalf. The kid was beaming with joy; it was fun to see. Meanwhile, our Hannover host Hartmut Weissbrodt informed J.B. that the next night in Berlin would be his last show for this tour. (Harmut had been on loan from his wife and daughter, who granted him a reprieve from the family vacation so that he could catch a few shows.) So to Harmut, a hardcore "Rusthead" sporting a More Barn teeshirt, it was imperative that we get a Neil Young cover in Berlin.

As soon as Harmut walked off, J.B. turned to Mikey and said, "I guess we'd better take care of this guy."


No paparazzi! (International Man of Mystery.)

FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 1999 / HANNOVER > BERLIN – Arne, Annaliese, Stacey, Bill, Jeff, Matt, Pat and I had all crashed at Harmut's place in Hannover on Thursday night. Now it was the morning of Friday the 13th and we were all slowly regaining consciousness. Harmut had laid out a great brekkie spread of ham and dried sausage, eggs, cheese, bread and coffee. I ran to a Konditerei to pick up some pastries to contribute. I had hoped for a mid-morning start but there was no way it was gonna happen. Hartmut was traveling with Pat and me. Before he could hit the highway Hartmut had to fulfill his responsibilities as host: get all his guests up, bathed, fed and out of his house. At 12:30 p.m. the three of us finally rolled out. Destination: Berlin.

Harmut's driving and his directions helped get us into Berlin in under three hours. We dropped him at a subway stop so he could meet the friend with whom he would be staying. A city boy, I took over the driving as Pat and I headed crosstown to former East Berlin.

Now Pat is great guy and lots of fun to be with on tour. He has a comprehensive knowledge about Panic, its repertoire and tons of other music. His sense of direction and roadmap-reading skills, on the other hand, are on a par with say, your average rock.

Driving around lost in a big city? You'll do well to have just about anyone other than Pat riding shotgun, shaking his head as he becomes more and more mystified by the fucking Rand McNally. By the time he located a street on the map, we’d be somewhere else.

“How can they change the name of the street if we’re on the same street?” he asks. “They can do that, Pat,” I answer, “because it’s their fucking city!”

Eventually we made it to the Hotel Griefswald, booked for us by Berlin's own Linus Scheffran and conveniently located two blocks from the venue: the Knaack.

We checked into the hotel, checked in at the soundcheck then checked out of the Knaack.

We were hungry and I wanted to show Pat the funky Tascheles art center I had visited in 1996, when I was researching a RELIX article on the German Deadheads. We grabbed a taxi and in minutes were enjoying dark beers in the courtyard of the former squat that had evolved into a major avant-garde cultural center. At the outdoor theater next door a trippy little group was soundchecking for their evening performance. Pat and I are so blasé that we blew off Panic's soundcheck so we could go listen to another band's soundcheck.

We downed the brewskis, then went across the street to Goa, a nouvelle Indian restaurant. We had a great meal on the outdoor terrace.

Goodwin and I got back to the Knaack pretty close to hittin' time.

1: Travelin' Light, Little Kin > Dyin' Man, Hatfield > Sleeping Man > Stop-Go > Pusherman > Blackout Blues
2: Big Wooly Mammoth > Walk On > Driving Song > I Walk On Guilded Splinters > Drums > Four Cornered Room > Ride Me High > Driving Song > Fishwater

No encore. Whether that was because the Spreadheads didn't holler loud enough or because Panic didn't recognize the "encore" request that the Germans chose to express in their own language, is immaterial at this point. Maybe there was some sort of live music curfew. Encore or no encore, for this one Panic kicked it bigtime, in the second set particularly. Because it was Friday the 13th, folks had been calling for "Superstitious," but "Guilded Splinters" is an excellent, spooky tune for this calendar date.

After the show I followed Dave through the Knaack labyrinth, winding by the crankin’ disco, into an upstairs bar. For a short while I visited with Sunny in a booth, then moved on to the poolroom.

JoJo and I got into a best-of-three eight-ball contest with Deepesh and J.B.

Deepesh is a great dude, a taper and in a previous incarnation, a pool hustler.

We gave him and Mr. Bell a good fight, but them two sharks done cleaned our clock.

Soon JoJo and J.B. left as the band bus was about to roll out and I crawled up the street to the hotel. Back in my room, I turned on the TV with the sound off, spread out the Saturday paper (newly acquired from Reception), then . . . instant crisis! As I started to take out my contact lenses, I realized I didn't have my eyeglasses and the little contacts case. Of course I searched every inch of my luggage, totally in vain.

Friday the fucking Thirteenth.


At breakfast with Pat, Terri, Randy, Woods and Laura.
(I'm smiling because Sequoia found my eyeglasses!)

SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1999 / BERLIN > PARIS -- At breakfast in the hotel this morning, however, the planets realigned. Stacey Gates and Bill Mixon came down to the tables and announced that Jeff had found my glasses in the tapers area. I had stashed my Workingman's Briefcase there during the show. My eyeglasses case must have dropped out of the outside pocket at some point. I am eternally grateful that I didn't have to hassle with replacing my specs. Thanks again, Jeff!

Before departing Berlin I spent a couple of hours wandering around the rapidly-gentrifying Kollwitzplatz neighborhood near the hotel. It's hard to believe all this was once grey, drab East Berlin. Dozens of cool shops, cafés and renovated residences have cropped up here; I noticed a dramatic difference from just three years ago.

Back then all of the Alexanderplatz and the areas beyond were holes in the ground surrounded by huge building cranes. Today I was able to pop into inviting little boutiques all over this quarter. I had a light lunch outdoors at the Lido Café, then flagged down a taxi to take me back to the hotel to retrieve my luggage and drive me to the airport for my flight home to Paris.

Tonight Marti and I went to dinner at L’Armandie, here in the neighborhood. She loved the things I brought her from the trip: a top and bracelet from Amsterdam, a funky post-modern ballpoint pen and a little wooden heart from Berlin.

Leg One of my Panic Euro Tour was over. A week from Monday right here in Paris, I'd join up again for the Final Four shows.



WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 18, 1999 -- I was very busy during my off-Panic-tour week. Marti and I would be hosting American friends from the tour at a gathering here at 85 rue Blomet on Sunday, a day off before the juggernaut resumed at the New Morning on Monday night. So we had to whip this place into shape for company.

In an example of impeccable timing, Arminda, our housekeeper, was back home in Portugal on August vacation. But we got it together by the weekend. Pat Goodwin, whenever he resurfaced, and tourmate Don Hess would be staying here for a couple of nights. And we'd reserved crash spaces and hotel rooms for several others. We were looking forward to a fun house party.

Here's the menu for Sunday night:

MARTI & PHIL’S MAROC ‘N ROLL
DINNER PARTY

Lettuce / Orange / Red Onion Salad
Lamb Tagine w/ Pine Nuts and Raisins
Chicken Tagine w/ Green Olives
Veggie Platter
North African Bread
Sidi Brahmin Wine (Algerian)
Algerian Pastries
Fresh Fruit
Coffee
Sweet Mint Tea


A tagine is like a casserole; the name applies both to the format of the food (in this case, a stew) and to the pot in which it is cooked and served. A North African tagine is a two-part earthenware dish: a shallow, round platter with a tall, conical cover. You cook in the dish on the stove, then cover it to make a stove-top oven. It's also possible to put the tagine in the oven.

Because of the amounts needed for Sunday, I cooked in larger pots and simply used the tagines for serving. I'd originally invited about a dozen or so tourheads, but as plans were evolving it looked like we might be hosting 30 or so folks.

Orchestre National de Barbès

I had a modest collection of North African CDs and tapes to spin on Sunday night, including the funky Orchestre National de Barbès (named after one of Paris’ immigrant neigborhoods), Algerian teen star Faudel, Rachid Taha, Khaled, as well as a number of Moroccan gnawa trance jam recordings, which go so well with good hash.

Yesterday I went up to the fabulous twice-weekly marché in Belleville, a North African quartier of Paris. I had heard about this street market for years, but this was my first visit. Prices were so much lower than here in the upscale 15th arrondissement. I was buying olives, raisins and pistachios by the kilo (2.2 lbs.), so the savings were significant. A bunch of fresh mint sells there for the equivalent of 25 cents; the same item costs 83 cents in our neighborhood. I’d need a bunch of bunches to make sweet mint tea, the traditional capper to a Moroccan meal. So I'd be going back to the market on Friday to buy all my fresh ingredients.

I bought some small decorated tea glasses in one of the shops on the Boulevard de Belleville, then popped into a little Tunisian restaurant on rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud where I had a grilled whole black mullet for lunch. The dude cooked it over a charcoal fire, which he agitated and flamed with the aid of a hair dryer!

Before I could decide that this was very odd, I noticed a primitive painting on the wall by my table that depicted a peasant cooking on a grill in the exact same way, except that he was using an old-fashioned fireplace bellows. Let's hear it for advanced technology!

Well, this blackened blackfish tasted great, served on a bed of lettuce with a few veggie items as garnish, sprinkled with diced onion and parsley. I had sweet mint tea afterwards and the entire bill came to a whopping 53FF ($8.83). Almost makes me wanna move out of my bourgeois quartier.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 22, 1999 -- Today, a day off from tour, I got up and started cooking the Moroccan specialties for this evening's dinner party. Disco Don Hess, who took over the care and feeding of Pat Goodwin after I left the tour in Berlin eight days ago, arrived from Belgium in the late afternoon with Pat in tow. They're staying with us tonight and tomorrow night.

While I was rustlin' up the grub earlier, bedecked in my Ben and Jerry's tie-dyed apron, Dave Schools phoned to get details on tonight. I had mentioned the Moroccan munchout to a number of the Panic players and crew, explaining that it was pretty much open house and all were welcome.

As it turned out, tonight was a celebration of guitar tech Wayne Sawyer's tenth anniversary with the band, so they all went out to restaurant to party.

Their absence didn't diminish the partying here at rue Blomet, though, as a good number of itinerant Spreadheads gathered to enjoy a relaxing non-show night. (Ralph Metzger had hosted a similar convocation during one of the off-nights in Germany and the gang had assembled for a mountain jam on a no-show evening in Switzerland.)

In the house tonight were Pat, Don, Bill Mixon, Stacey Gates, Deepesh, Karen, Robin, Doug, Jeff "Sequoia" McLean, Parisian homeboy Michel Ravinet and his houseguest, the ambassador of the German Head Community, Ralph.

Dinner was a hit. It was a pleasant evening, so we were hanging on the balcony, scattered across the living room, clustering 'round the bar. Disco and I had set up a dubbing system in the bedroom, so we ran DAT > analogs of the Hamburg show during the party. We listened to the dubs and the North African CDs as well, to help maintain the exotic mood. As if we needed any help maintaining our exotic moods.

Later that evening Moody Miller dropped by. One look at our scene and he came up with my favorite catch phrase of the Panic Europe run: “Y’all are tourin’ pimp-style!”


MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1999 – Just another Panic Monday. Tonight Widespread Panic returned for a third adventure in the City of Light. It was Marti's first show of the European Summer Tour; tomorrow we'll fly with Pat and Don to Glasgow for the three U. K. dates. (Marti will skip Manchester for an extra day in the country of her ancestors, then catch up with Don, Pat and me in London for the tour finale.)

We served brekkie to our guests Pat and Disco, then the two of them and I went for a tethered balloon ride above Paris. For the equivalent of $10 you can ascend 150 meters above the Parc Andre Citroën, site of the former auto plant, right here in the 15th.

After the balloon ride, a bunch of us Panic freaks reconvened at 1:30 p.m. for lunch à la terrasse at Les Petits Bouchons de François Clerc in Montparnasse. We had a traditional leisurely two-hour, four-course French lunch, accompanied by fine wines. The four Les Bouchons restaurants have a revolutionary pricing policy on wine: no markups over cost. So instead of paying an additional 200%-300% for a bottle just because you're ordering in a restaurant, the customers get great wine at supermarket or wine shop prices! This allows you to ratchet up the quality of wine you order, with no fear of being gouged.

Our luncheon party included Disco, Pat, Stacey, Bill, Robin, Doug, Marti and me.

Back at the apartment, we were getting ourselves organized to go to soundcheck when I accidentally stumbled over the cheesy little stacking tables in front of the sofa and crashed into one of my new Sony speakers. The speaker wasn't damaged, but as I was to discover later, I had been. The wound on my shin would plague me for the rest of the tour.

Pat, Disco and I cabbed over to the New Morning for the soundcheck. It was good to see all the guys again. I congratulated Wayne on his tenth anniversary with the band. He said the time had flown so quickly that he could hardly believe it had been that long.

I was hanging for awhile with a French magazine photographer who posed the band in a lineup shot in front of the stage. (Later I learned that he had gotten into a scuffle with the security people and been thrown out before the show began!)

While our tapehead friends were busily building their world near the soundboard, Disco Don was workin’ out his choreography. I know that the band wanted the place cleared of tapers and hangers-on just before the actual check, which was a new song for them: the ten-year-old fIREHOSE tune "Sometimes."

How I escaped the room clearing is beyond me, but I just sat quietly talking amongst myself and nobody asked me to screw on outta there. This band is by far the most gracious and hospitable of any I've encountered.

After soundcheck I hooked up with Todd, J.B., Sam, Mikey, Sunny and JoJo (a former city boy who had been walking the streets of Paris all afternoon) and led them over to the nearby Passage Brady, where there are a lot of Indian and Pakistani restaurants, grocery stores and Third World barbershops. We assembled around a long outside table under the glass roof of the passage, but J.B. and JoJo were in more of a drinkin' than eatin' mood, so we left the others and walked up to the Motown Bar, near the Gare de l'Est railroad station.

The Motown Bar has nothing to do with 1960s Detroit R&B. In fact it's a Parisian late-night gay hangout. The bar and restaurant are owned by the parents of Isabel, the partner of Christophe Rossi, editor of the French drummers mag BATTEUR, and drummer for the Paris-based Grateful Dead cover band Deadicace.

I phoned Marti and suggested that she taxi to the bar to meet me for the show. Isabel and her dad were there and I introduced them to J.B. and JoJo. We got a table near the open-to-the-street section of the restaurant. Christophe arrived with Deadicace guitarist Stephane Missri and Jean-François, another friend, then Marti showed up. J.B. and JoJo welcomed her warmly. She had not seen them since last summer at the Bataclan.

This was a sweet, laid-back pre-show hang. J.B. and I talked baseball; both his Indians and my Red Sox were in the American League pennant race. Marti asked after J.B.'s bride Laura, whom she’d met and enjoyed hanging with during the Chesterfield Café run. We all walked back together to the New Morning after an hour or so.

The joint was jumpin'. Hanno Bunjes was here from Strasbourg. He was staying with us tonight. Ralph Metzger, on the heels of all those German dates and biergarten hangs, told folks he couldn't stand the weak, overpriced French beer served at the New Morning. Our pals Maria de LaGuardia and her French boyfriend Charles were in the house, along with a number of our friends from the Parisian Deadhead community.

Knowing that August is a dead month for live music in Paris, I had contacted the show promoter, Assad Debs of Corida Productions, and given him a mailing list of area freaks. Corida sent out a flyer based on their concert poster. Marti and I had put up posters in a number of youth hostels and other locations around the city where we thought we might snag a few additional Americans to help fill up the club.

In the end there were maybe 200 folks in the club, ready for a rockin' Monday night in the City of Light.

1: C. Brown > Disco > Goin' Out West > Pleas > Barstools and Dreamers > It Ain't No Use > Blue Indian, Dyin' Man
2: Porch Song > Machine > Blight > Tall Boy > Fishwater > Drums > Fishwater > Impossible > Travelin' Light
E: Sometimes > Me And The Devil Blues > All Time Low

After the show Marti and I were hanging out backstage with Jojo. He was beaming. "I'm always happy when we get to do a new song!" The "Sometimes" encore had been a stone hit with the fans. The band was loading out. Next stop: Glasgow.


TUESDAY, AUGUST 24, 1999 / PARIS > GLASGOW -- Travel day. This afternoon we were due to fly to Glasgow for tomorrow night's show. There were five of us getting organized as we regained consciousness in the morning. Five bags to pack: Pat, Disco, Marti and I were continuing our tour, Hanno was headed back to Strasbourg.

I had a nasty blood blister topping a huge lump on my left shin, plus a bruised ankle, from the previous afternoon's crash into the stereo speaker. I put a couple of band-aids over it and hobbled onward.

We had lunch down the street on the terrasse of the Tabac de la Mairie, so named because it sits across from the Mairie (Town Hall) of our quartier, la quinzieme arrondissement.

That was the last thing that went right today.

What transpired in the ensuing hours does not warrant recollection in detail. In fact, remembering it will only cause your correspondent's blood pressure to rise. Suffice it to say that our party of five weary pilgrims (with the addition of fellow Panic road warrior Chip Lassister) were subjected to a level of customer service best described as having been scraped off the street side of the Air France corporate shoe. Marti had gotten us all into the Air France lounge but through no fault of our own, we missed our flight to Glasgow. Arrrggghhhh!

We were rescheduled on a later flight to . . . Edinburgh. Our party cabbed from Edinburgh to Glasgow, where we were afforded a survivors’ welcome and the warm hospitality of our friends Marie and Kevin Devlin.

Marie is a British Telecom colleague of Marti's, whom we got to know on a trip to Rome in 1991. She and Kevin lived in Paris for a few years, had homes in Wimbledon, then Esher, England, before moving to Scotland. They were sweet to host us and our hippie posse. It was 11:30 p.m. when we arrived; we had originally planned to be there in time to take them out to dinner.

At least we finally made it to the land of whiskey-swillin' men in plaid skirts.


WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1999 / GLASGOW -- This morning we met Marie and Kevin's little boy, Joseph. He's a year old and is a happysmileyguy. At least he was when we saw him. Reports had it that he had been an absolute terror over the weekend. Thankfully, he was now over whatever baby issues had been troubling him. We had brought Joseph an infant's track suit: red and blue sweatshirt and sweatpants. Because it's never too soon to start getting rid of that baby fat.

Marie and Kevin were getting ready for work, so I whipped up brekkie for our foursome. Bacon, eggs, the whole enchilada. Just breeze into someone else's kitchen and go to town.

Kevin gave us a ride into the city center, where Pat and Don had railroad station business. Then we cabbed over to the hip little Glasgow University quarter, for a bit of liquor (Scotch, of course) and CD shopping. I was feeling my shin injury by now; it would be taxis from here on out. I picked up some tasty '70s items in the CD shop, like Rick James' Greatest Hits and Herbie Hancock's Head Hunters. I also bought an all-weather jacket, a good thing to shop for in Scotland -- it's invariably raining.

Later Disco, Pat, Marti and I took Marie to lunch at a quaint little restaurant called The Puppet Theatre. Kevin was unavailable. The food there was excellent; the restaurant scene in the U.K. has certainly improved in recent years.

We did more shopping after lunch, then we picked up Disco's taping gear and headed to soundcheck. My leg was hurting pretty badly, so Deepesh gave me his little taper's stool to sit on.

Our Glasgow host Kevin Devlin arrived; Marie had a business commitment. Sam and J.B. thanked Kevin for his efforts in arranging a golf afternoon for Panic the day before. Unfortunately, working papers problems at Dover had detained the band bus for several hours. They missed their Scotland tee times. Now it was showtime. Indian Bone, a hot little indie band, kicked off the evening's entertainment. J.B. watched most of their set from the back of the crowd, then invited the Indian Bone guys to hang out with Panic after the show.

Pigeons > Weak Brain, Narrow Mind > Sleepy Monkey > One Arm Steve, Little Kin > Let It Rock > Christmas Katie > Arleen > Driving Song > Drums > Pusherman > Entering A Black Hole Backwards > Driving Song > Ain't Life Grand
E: Sleeping Man > Makes Sense To Me.

Widespread Panic had reverted to the long single set format, to the delight of the fans. This show had lots of great moments, but I spent a good part of it in a back booth with my injured leg elevated.

At one point a kind Spreadhead medical student took a look and got some first aid items to dress my wound. He disinfected it with vodka. He cautioned me to keep an eye on the healing. If anything turned color or weird-looking, I should see a doctor.

I did a little aftershow schmoozing, then we all piled into the Kevinmobile for the trip back to his place.


THURSDAY, AUGUST 26, 1999 / MANCHESTER -- Marti was staying on one more day in Glasgow; we'd all reunite tomorrow in London. Pat, Disco and I trained to Manchester for the penultimate Panic concert of the Europe 1999 tour. I had a reserved seat, Pat and Don sat elsewhere. I worked on trip expense reports and listened to my Discperson for a couple of hours.

When the conductor announced that the bar car was open, I remember seeing a blur rush past me even before the loudspeaker had stopped crackling. It had been Disco and Pat, of course. A while later I went to the bar car myself and when I didn't see those two, I had them paged.

"Would Mr. Pat and Mr. Disco please join their colleague in the refreshment car," the dude broadcast to the rest of the pilgrims rollin' down the line. Pat said later it was one of his favorite moments on the tour.

We checked into our hotel in Manchester, then walked to the nearby Rain Bar for lunch. Disco had gone to Boots The Chemist to get me some dressings and antiseptic cream for my leg wound. We were romancing our cute waitress (I even put her on the guestlist), drinking the bar's own brews. I took an R and R break at the hotel to rest my leg, then the three of us cabbed over to soundcheck.

The venue -- the Hop and Grape (!) -- was a university student union. With nary a student in sight here in the dead of August. Plus they were doing heavy construction work on the building; it looked like Beirut. All the usual suspects were at this show, but there was nobody else. Maybe a half dozen locals. The crowd, if you can call it that, numbered 50 people!

This one was so intimate we were calling it the party at your mama's house!

Wondering > Blackout Blues, Can't Get High, Radio Child, Knocking 'Round The Zoo, Rebirtha > Do What You Like > Big Wooly Mammoth, Love Tractor > Drums > Party At Your Mama's House > Pilgrims > No Sugar Tonight / New Mother Nature
E: Nobody's Loss.

Everybody was a rail bird that night. A great opportunity to see Widespread Panic live in your face, with plenty of twirlin' and spinnin' room.


FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 1999 / MANCHESTER > LONDON -- This was it, the tour finale. Marti trained in from Glasgow; Disco, Pat and I rode the freak train from Manchester to London. A whole bunch of us were staying at the St. Margaret's Hotel, off Russell Square in Bloomsbury.

Marti and I love this part of the city and it was close to the Embassy Rooms, Panic's venue. In the big room next to ours were Bill Mixon, Stacey Gates and Jeff "Sequoia" McClean (who had produced a pair of excellent limited-edition bootleg teeshirts for this tour). Disco and Pat had rooms upstairs. And we kept running into more Panic heads every time we looked around.

A number of us gathered for lunch at Govinda, the Hari Krishna restaurant I'd mentioned in my June 1999 article on London for RELIX. After lunch I went to a web café to check my e-mail and post to my page.

Then we had beers at The Friend At Hand, a pub near the Russell Hotel. Marti and I went to soundcheck. Dave Schools sat down across from us in a booth and remarked that he had particularly enjoyed the Paris gig. I told him I hadn't seen a bad show on the tour. And I was sorry it was almost over.

Starting tomorrow Schools and Mikey were going on vacations in England and around Europe with their respective squeezes. They could hardly wait.

I spotted Sam Lanier heading out for fish 'n' chips and I asked if Marti and I could join him. Sure, he replied.

We walked all the way down the Tottenham Court Road with me limping on my fucked-up leg. But it was worth it, in more ways than one.

The fish 'n' chips were great. Sam smiled and said, "You know, Phil, you've really got to see us in the States, with our full sound and all the lights. Why don't you come to New Orleans for Halloween?"

I was bowled over. Needless to say, I took Sam up on his offer immediately. I had already scheduled a November flight to the U.S., to visit my mom in Massachusetts. All I had to do was change the dates of the booking!

Sam walked back up to the gig. Marti and I took a taxi, because of my hurtin' leg. When we got to the venue, the place had a special end-of-tour vibe to it.

I was wearing my Alien glasses, partying with everyone in the room. Bill Pannifer, who runs the London-based Deadheads website Franklin's Tower was in the house. So was a fan from Sweden. And a number of limeys who are into Panic.

We were ready to rock it one more time, Panic was ready to get down to business.

Let's Get Down To Business, Papa Legba, Bear's Gone Fishin' > Hatfield > Porch Song > The Waker, Dyin' Man, Diner > Drums > Let's Get The Show On The Road > Fishwater, Surprise Valley > Stop-Go > Climb To Safety
E: Sometimes > All Time Low

That was it. One last one-set extravanganza. Loved that "Climb To Safety" closer. And here was the new item, "Sometimes," kicking off the encore. A super night.

The show was over. The tour was over. But it seemed like no one was leaving the Embassy Rooms anytime soon.

Way back in Hannover Schools had been whining that he didn't have any mementoes signed by the fans, so we presented him tonight with a New Morning poster that I had been toting from town to town, collecting Spreadhead autographs for Dave. He was thrilled, he said.

I looked around. It seemed like half the audience stayed for the aftershow.
















I had a marvelous time on this run. What great fun getting to know and gettin' down with folks like Pat, Disco, Deepesh, Stacey, Bill, Sequoia, Harmut, Ralph, Laurie, Chip, Rudi, Hanno and so many other fine peeps. Marti and I said goodbye to all our Spreadhead pals and the crew and the musicians, but my farewell was made less bittersweet by the fact that I was going to New Orleans for the three-night Halloween run.

This all began for me with ten nights at the Chesterfield Café. Over the past 18 months I had seen 20 Panic shows, all in Europe and none before a crowd of more than 400 people. Not that I'm complaining!

Now I was gonna see the real deal -- make that surreal, it would be Nawlins.

Jardin Ephémère, June 18, 2009.

It must be summer
Cause the days are long
And I dial your number
But you're gone, gone, gone
I’d set out searching
But the car won’t start
And it must be summer
Cause I’m falling apart



I guess the word of the moment is staycation. Last year Marti and I traveled near and far and wide and often: Amsterdam. Budapest. Madrid. Barcelona. The Dominican Republic. New York City. Washington DC. Hooterville VA. Whatever damage we didn’t inflict on the vacation budget, the Great Bush Recession finished off. This summer we’re enjoying the attractions of our own destination city, which happens to be the most beautiful in the world.

Drop by. We’ll be around.



Marti and I are the product of a summer romance. Our first date was 32 years ago tonight! I took her to a performance by the Boston Symphony Orchestra at its summer home at Tanglewood in Lenox, Massachusetts. We had a late snack afterward in the garden at the Red Lion Inn in Stockbridge. (I was such a class act back then.) This pic is from that era.

Now here’s how this summer has been shaping up . . .


On the night beat. Comme toujours. In early June Marti and I attended a concert at l’Archipel by a world music trio called the Ensemble Oneira.

Bijan Chemirani (zarb and percussion), Kevin Seddiki (guitar) and Maria Simoglou (vocals, percussion) married the melodies and rhythms of Iran and Greece, creating a wonderful meta-Mediterranean/Middle Eastern melange. At the conclusion of their performance they invited guest musicians to the stage who augmented the sound with mouth harp and clarinet.

Strolling down the Boulevard Strasbourg after the concert we encountered the Parisian bladers rollin’ on the Friday Night Skate. This fifteen-year phenomenon attracts wheelheads from all over the world and can number in the tens of thousands on any given Friday evening.

’Round midnight. On our way to the Left Bank Marti and I poked our heads into the recently renovated Duc des Lombards jazz club. Their main act of the evening had come and gone.

Now a young trio was holding forth in a late-night jam. No admission fee. We found a table, ordered drinks and hung out there for an hour or so, as a parade of blowers and singers made their way to the stage.



Takis, Le Bassin (1988). Earlier that day Marti made this photo of her favorite sculpture at La Defense, the office park where she works. All those traffic lights don’t seem to be encouraging that guy to get started on his homeward commute anytime soon.



The next day Blomet Paradiso, our neighborhood cultural organization, held the Sixth Annual Fête du Quartier Blomet. One of the activities was a Children’s Parade.

Marti and I were running errands that Saturday and had plans for the evening, but we checked out some of the Fête as we made our appointed rounds.



En route to dinner that evening we encountered a bride-to-be on the #89 bus. Her girlfriends were putting her on display all over Paris according to a bachelorette party tradition known as “burying the single life.”



We rendezvoused at Au Sud de Nulle Part with our British friends Sally and Mike, and a new friend from Texas named Amanda (seated next to me). We had lots of laughs and of course, dined like kings and queens on superb bistro fare.

As simple as it gets: shrimpies with mayonnaise.

Sautéed squid with chorizo and red peppers.

My favorite: bone marrow. I’ve said it before and I’m not too proud to reiterate: what makes it here for me is the similarity to roasted puppy bones.

Bacon and artichoke. A delectable combination.

Tricked up salmon with olive oil mashed potatoes.

Bar entier rôti au four, pistou, légumes du sud confits. Whole sea bass with basil-garlic sauce and ratatouille-type veggie compote. When I’m dining alone with Marti – and sometimes even in the company of others, depending on how much wine I’ve drunk – I conclude this course with a highly entertaining display of ventriloquism featuring the fish head on a fork.

Grilled lamb chops with that to-die-for olive oil mash.



After dinner the five of us strolled along the Seine, on our way to the Café Laurent. Amanda and I got into such an extended yak-a-thon that I lost my bearings and overshot the street, requiring us to double back. This blunder was not received well by the others. And I repeat, it had nothing to do with the champagne and wine.


Thank goodness I got us there in time for Christian Brenner’s last set.

Marti and Amanda.

Sally and Mike.


It had been too late the night before to send Amanda back to the ‘burb where she was staying, so we crashed her on our sofa. After the three of us regained verticality in the morning, Marti and I whipped up a Sunday brunch.

Ta da! Mr. Phil’s wild mushroom and spinach oven omelette.

Now we sent Amanda on her way. She’s doing this couch-surfing tour of Europe, where you find accommodation on strangers’ sofas via a website. Holy Jeez! Marti and I are such spoiled brats we won’t even stay with our lifelong friends. (Unless, of course, they have a three-story brownstone on Restaurant Row right off Times Square and we get the entire parlor floor VIP Suite to ourselves.)

June blooms in the Square Adolphe Chérioux, a block from our home.



Okay. My mother-in-law grew up in the American Southwest . . . She was raised by wolves. Ba-dump! I’ll be here all week. Try the veal. No, she’s a sweetheart, and for Christmas she gave me a stocking-stuffer packet of Navajo Fry Bread.

One evening I was getting in touch with my Native American roots, as one does, so before riding on the fort I cooked up a typical Parisian Navajo Fry Bread Tacos extravaganza.

Not bad for a Greek-American-French amateur chef whose only encounters with Indians were via grainy black & white 1950s TV westerns, wouldn’t you say? I mean, I never saw Tonto get off his fat ass and fry up a few of these babies for the Masked Man. It was always mystery meat stew and beans à la Blazing Saddles over a campfire.

Lookit that. You got yer pork chuletas, chipotle beans, salsa, salad items, Dutch mimolette cheese subbing for cheddar. Some good eatin’, Geronimo.

Hurry up and finish that. Gonna go get us some scalps while the squaws put the plates in the dishwasher.



Thursday, June 18 was the kickoff of a five-day weekend for Marti. We returned to the Gustave Eiffel exhibition at the Hotel de Ville for a guided tour. Our first visit is documented here. On the plaza at the Hotel de Ville (City Hall) was a sort of garden show. (It helps to know that our mayor is both Green and gay.)

I guess an ephemeral garden means it’s going to disappear after the tourists have seen it.

The gardener . . .

. . . and the scarecrow are wearing the same uniform. Sometimes you just want to have sat in on the brainstorming meeting.

It’s ephemeral. Those flowers aren’t really there.


Our guide to the Gustave Eiffel, Master Of Metal exhibition was the noted architectural and engineering expert Bertrand Lemoine. M. Lemoine provided deep insight into the technology, history and construction of Eiffel’s projects, such as the Garabit Viaduct (1880 – 1884), a railroad arch bridge still in use today.

M. Lemoine proved to be an engaging, complete authority on Eiffel. He’s been studying and teaching and writing about him for decades. Afterward in the gift shop we bought a copy of La Tour de Monsieur Eiffel and asked Lemoine to autograph it. The next day I located a used copy online of La Statue de la Liberté, which is written in both French and English. It arrived last week.


Marti and I went to lunch at Le Felteu, a mom and pop bistro discovered years ago by my cousin Tom. The place is incredible value for money. Excellent cookery, huge portions, very personable proprietress. What’s not to like?


After lunch we wandered around the Marais for a while. I found a straw hat for summer at a boutique in the rue de Temple, then we hit Starbucks for a caffeine hang. Caught a bus on the rue de Rivoli that left us off right across the river from the Musée Branly. Of course Marti struck a pose on the passerelle Debilly, right in front of a certain Tower.

Our destination was the recently-built Musée Branly, one of Jacques Chirac’s legacies. People have raved about this space, but I was profoundly underwhelmed. It’s strange because I normally like architect Jean Nouvel’s creations. He won the 2008 Pritzker Prize for his body of work, which includes the remarkable Institut de Monde Arabe and the Cartier Foundation for Contemporary Art, both here in Paris.

Marti and I were here to see the amazing collection of graphic art, vintage photographs and memorabilia in the Jazz Century exhibition.

Michel Gyarmathy, Josephine Baker est aux Folies Bergères (1927). Winold Reiss, Interpretation of Harlem Jazz (1925).

Alex Steinweiss, Louis and Earl: Hot Jazz Classics (1940). [Cover Artist Unknown], Duke Ellington: Liberian Suite (1947). I tripped out on seeing the Duke Ellington 10-inch cover to Liberian Suite. It’s very rare. I read about it Ellington’s 1973 memoir Music Is My Mistress, then miraculously, I found an mp3 download from the vinyl here.

Romare Howard Bearden, The Block (1971).





Marti and I were guests for dinner that evening aboard the Ailsa, Sally and Mike’s Mini-Luxe Dutch Barge.

The boat was berthed in the Bassin de la Villette. We had a fabulous meal in the company of these folks, Mike’s son Rob and two other water nomads who were docked nearby, Gelinda and Arthur.

Sally and Mike had been barging all over France, stopping to visit small river towns like Tonnerre.

They were here to help celebrate the 200th Anniversary of the Villette Basin.

Dutch barges from all around Europe converged for this weeklong party. We were happy to be included!



Our friend Sarah was in town from the UK on the weekend of June 20-21. She’s one of our favourite peeps, so Marti and I made sure to organize a Saturday shopping expedition and dinner with her and our mutual friends the Faycals.

While the women went shopping, Mike and I savored the afternoon of silence, then we all rendezvoused for dinner at a restaurant in the Marais called Schwartz’s.

The place purports to be a genuine New York delicatessen, a culinary genre with which I am eminently familiar, and of course falls short of that ambitious goal, but ain’t bad nonetheless.

I was the last to arrive at our table. Marti looked none the worse for wear after the long shopping crusade.

My pal Sarah is a fellow fast-food/comfort-food gourmet. She had brought me a goodie package from Britannia: chocolates (some of which I would be forced to regift as my biannual cardiologist appointment was imminent) and Fray-Bentos® pub pies. Ironically, the barge Brits we had hung with two nights earlier had dissed Fray-Bentos® pies savagely when the subject came up. Food snobs. Who needs ‘em? Thank goodness Sarah and I are on the same page here.

Given her thoughtful generosity, I was glad I brought Sarah a few CDs. We’re both music junkies. Here Sarah chats with former colleague Nada.

Nada’s husband Mike and their two charming daughters Sandra and Caroline.

Sandra was Marti’s sewing student for several weeks last year. Together they made a really cool skirt.





The next day was the Fête de la Musique. Free live music everywhere you went in Paris. My bride and I decided to spend it in our ‘hood, where a bigger-than-usual event was being held just a block away on the plaza of the Mairie (our district town hall).

A local producing organization called Le Festival Air Libre (Outdoor Festival) had programmed two days of Jazz concerts. One long set on Sunday was dedicated to the Afro Latin Vintage Orchestra, a tentet who play the classic repertoire.

We invited our pals Jorge and Ileana and their son Antonio to join us for music followed by Mexican dinner at our place.

Ily and Marti.

Afro Latin Vintage Orchestra.

Bailarines del salsa.

The chef allows no visitors in his kitchen . . .

. . . with the exception of beautiful women!

I made a chipotle-chicken sautée served over plain white rice, accompanied by a mache salad with avocado, orange sections and red onion.

Antonio provided the floor show. This is his laff-riot dwarf routine.

Gooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaallllllll!!! (Kid likes soccer.)



The music never stops. On Wednesday night June 24 my bride and I went to see Ry Cooder and Nick Lowe, two longtime favorites . . .

. . . who these days are looking like a casting call for Grumpy Old Men III.

The old boys are still bringin’ it.

RY COODER & NICK LOWE
06-24-09
Olympia Music Hall
Paris

01 Fool Who Knows
02 Fool For A Cigarette
03 Vigilante Man
04 Losing Boy
05 Chinito Chinito
06 Crazy 'Bout An Automobile (Every Woman I Know)
07 One Of These Days You're Gonna Pay
08 Crying In My Sleep
09 Down In Hollywood
10 The Very Thing That Makes You Rich (Makes Me Poor)
11 Half A Boy And Half A Man
12 One Meatball
13 Teardrops Will Fall
14 Jesus On The Mainline
15 He'll Have To Go
E1
16 (What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding
17 Little Sister
E2
18 How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live


Great show. Marti and I saw a few of the (well-heeled) Paris Krew in da house. Tickets were not cheap. We went to post-show late supper at l’Ecluse, Place de la Madeleine.



On Friday afternoon June 26 Marti and I kicked off the weekend by rendezvousing after work at Starbuck’s in Montparnasse.

From there we went to early supper at Fujiyama, a nearby Japanese restaurant that specializes in maki platters.

We caught the 8 p.m. screening of The Hangover at the UGC Montparnasse. Hilarious.

After the movie Marti and I went down to the Café Laurent in Saint-Germain des Prés, to catch the late set by the Christian Brenner Trio. Christian was using an upright piano while the club’s baby grand is in the repair shop this summer.

Joining Christian, J. C. Noël (drums) and J. P. Rebillard (bass) was Nicolas Dary on tenor sax . . .

. . . and flute. Chill music to cap off a fun date night.



Saturday in the park.

Marti and I are fortunate to have a couple of lovely green spaces within a five-minute walk of our home. We enjoyed a sunny afternoon hang in the Square Saint-Lambert on June 27.

We tapped into my ‘Pod to listen to The Pretenders in advance of Monday night’s concert.

Marti gets up to speed on the repertoire.

The sky above the ground below. (Isn’t that a movie title?)



On Monday after work I met up with Marti at the Elysée Montmartre, where The Pretenders were gigging. That’s her standing under the second “r” in Montmartre.

We discovered we had enough time before the show to grab some dinner, so we high-tailed it to a restaurant close by that we’d read about in a New York Times travel article.

It was a Portuguese family-run hole-in-the-wall called Churrasquiera Galo. Cheap. Killer food. I had bacalhau and Portuguese beer.

Marti went for the pork chops.

The Pretenders, 2009.

It was stiflingly hot in the venue. Marti and I hung by the side bar, pounding tiny Evians. At one point, a kind bartender filled a cup to the brim with ice, American-style, and handed it to me. A Godsend. It was a wonderful concert: Chrissie Hynde was as sexy and punky as ever. She stopped to pose before the digimanic crowd, shouting “Go ahead, take my picture, cunt!”



The Best Laid Plans Department. On Thursday July 2 I hooked up with Marti at the Petit Palais. We were to see the exhibition of Greek Icons from Patmos, then go check out the new Woody Allen film. When I arrived they were funneling folks into the museum as earlier patrons departed. But there was no line. Just a clusterfuck on the museum steps. So I’d have to knock over a couple of weasely French old ladies to get inside. I called an audible and opted out, much to my bride’s dismay. We ended up patching up over cocktails at the Rival Deluxe.

New Plan. All of a sudden the possibilities of the evening opened up. We wandered in The Marais for a while, downed more cocktails on the terrasse of a gay bar, then took a shot at Chez Nenesse, a restaurant in the rue Saintonge.

We felt like tourists who had gotten lost cruising around and had just discovered a great little bistro. The food and ambiance were great. Our blown evening turned out to be a surprise success!




On the Fourth Of July Marti and I commemorated with cheeseburgers, corn on the cob, cole slaw. Radio Margaritaville via the Internet, Red Sox with the sound off on the HD flat. Then we hopped in a cab to attend another celebration: our dear pals Ileana, Jorge and their son Antonio had just obtained French citizenship. They hosted a little gathering in their courtyard. This is Ily (at left) with her gal pals.


Jorge and Marti converse en Español.


Think she’s happy?


DJ Antonio spins from his Juliet balcony.


DJ A demonstrates his magic skills.


Egg on a stick. Are you sure Houdini started this way?



On Sunday evening July 5 I received a text from my bud Myra (at right). Her friend Eda (left) had an extra ticket for Britney Spears the next night. Was I interested?

I’m no music snob. And I’m not in the habit of declining invitations from 19-year-old women. The next night I hooked up with Eda and Myra at the Rival Deluxe.

Eda and I jumped into a cab at the taxi rank and drove over to Bercy. Ms. Spears had teamed with the Big Apple Circus for this tour.

This was a whole new concert experience for me – and I don’t mean the circus theme. Britney didn’t really sing and the audience didn’t really listen. Britney was lip-syncing to tracks as she danced her considerable ass off, while the crowd also sang along to the tracks but was more consumed by taking digisnaps and videos of the spectacle. Amazing.



Barry Melton (Country Joe & The Fish) and Stephan Missri (Deadicace).

On July 8 Marti and I met friends at the Jazz Cartoon for dinner and a show by our longtime pals in Deadicace – the French Grateful Dead cover band – and special guest Barry Melton. Shown here: Charles and Sylvette.

Sylvette’s husband Sid, an old-school Deadhead, deep in the music.

Marti was rockin’ her new NRPS shirt (R.I.P., John Dawson; thanks, Cousin Nick) and I wore my Ry Cooder-Nick Lowe They Drive By Night tour tee.

Deadicace bass ace Charles Jannic with wife Armelle and a friend.

Alex Manconi.

Jean-Michel Laugier.

Our friend Gabriel Arnon guested on “Friend Of The Devil” . . .

. . . and "C.C. Rider."

Barry and me. We’d met here a few years ago and now were following each other on Twitter. Hey, we’re no unreconstructed hippies!



July 14. Our other National Day.

The originator of the Friends Of The Eiffel Tower group on Facebook awaits the explosions.

Besides being Bastille Day, we were saluting the 120th Anniversary of the Tour Eiffel. This was a “tie-dyed” nod to the Sixties.

A clip from the Finale.


Afterward Marti and I walked over to the avenue Suffren for a post-fireworks cocktail.

We toasted the Tower at a new bar/restaurant . . .

. . . called Carmine.

It’s a New York-style Italian place featuring excellent pies, in this case White pizza with Parma ham and artichokes. My two favorite cities represent!




Now we’re digging Summer In Paris. Tonight we’ll celebrate the anniversary of our first date by going to see The Durgas at OPA, followed by late dinner somewhere in the Bastille area.

The Paris Jazz Festival is underway . . .

. . . in the Parc Floral.

Soon the same outdoor venue will be host to a Classical music series.

Folks are already gathering along the banks of the Seine for the monthlong Paris Plage festivities.

Découvrez Paris Plages 2009
par mairiedeparis

This summer Marti and I don’t need no steenkin’ airports or body scanners or hotels or rental cars or Mapquests.

Hell, we’ve even got a beach!

Saturday, May 9: Marti baking up a storm in her parents’ kitchen.


Get in the kitchen and rattle them pots and pans! It all began back on Sunday, April 26. Marti and her British Telecom co-worker Carolina, a Spanish native who went to college at the University of Virginia, had decided to spotlight American baked desserts during BT’s Semaine du Talent. It goes without saying that I supported this project. For the event, held during lunch in the BT cafeteria the following day, Marti baked pineapple upside down cake, a pumpkin pie and sour cream coffee cake. Carolina did an angel food cake and pecan pie. Their theme was American Desserts: More Than Just Brownies. It was a huge success. Best of all, I got to sample everything!


Marti would be reprising that pineapple upside down cake during her upcoming trip to the States to check in on her parents, but first we had the usual calendar full of activities here in Paris. On April 30 we went to see the Derek Trucks Band at the Alhambra Musical Hall.

This was one of those long-awaited, sold-out gigs. It drew fans from all over Europe and even a number from the States.

We were joined by our friends Oddleif from Norway and his tour buddy Karl from Hamburg.

Derek Trucks and bassman Todd Smallie. I first saw Derek play ten years ago with Phil Lesh & Friends. He just gets better and better.

We ran into a bunch of the Paris Krew at the show: Jean-Yves, Christophe, Stephane, Marc, Gilles and a few others. After a brief post-concert schmooze with DTB keyboard-flute payer Kofi Burbridge, we went with Karl, Oddleif and our bud Daniel to late dinner at the Maldoror.

Stylin’ at our favorite anarchists’ café.

No credit cards here. Joel, our host, tallies up the bill. As we departed, he gave me the fist-in-the-air power salute – ever the unreconstructed Sixties radical. I love him.


During their stay with us, I mentioned to Karl and Oddleif that Marti and I had recently watched Pupi Avati’s 1990 biopic Bix on TV. Born in 1903, Bix Biederbecke was a white Midwestern kid from a well-off background who ran away to play cornet in bands that his disapproving family considered lowbrow and trashy. Worse, he was a raging alcoholic in the midst of the Prohibition era.

Either from cheap, bad hootch or due to chronic bad health exacerbated by his heavy drinking -- the theories vary -- this brilliant musician died at age 28. Like the bluesman Robert Johnson, he left a handful of crude recordings as his only legacy.

I’d been aware of him for a long time. When I was a teenager in the late 1950s, one of the first long-play albums I bought was Eddie Condon’s tribute to Bix on Columbia Records. After seeing the film, I jumped on the ‘Net and found a CD release of that recording. When my order arrived it was like welcoming back an old friend.

Before Oddleif left Paris his return to Norway, he loaned me his just-read copy of John Szwed’s marvelous Miles Davis biography So What.

Years ago I’d read Miles’ own account, Miles – The Autobiography, which was compelling in its own right. Now I devoured Szwed’s book.

I guess I mentioned the Miles bio on Facebook because soon I was given a tip from my friend Nikki Matheson. She said that when I finished So What, I should read Duke Ellington’s 1973 autobiography.

A few keystrokes later, a used hardcover copy of Music Is My Mistress -- long out of print -- was winging its way to me from an Amazon subcontractor. As I write this, I’m nearing the end of Duke’s elegant memoir. Thanks, Nik!


On May 5 Marti flew to the States for one of her periodic solo visits to see her folks, who live in Charlottesville VA. Here is her report on the trip . . .

My parents, Nan and John Gregg, in front of their home. I spent a week with them around Mother’s Day. I thought I’d get some rest and relaxation but they kept me busy!

The colors of their azalea bushes were so intense that they looked like they had been Photoshopped. I promise you, the colors in this photo are un-retouched.

Our dear friend Jody from NYC, visiting several friends in Charlottesville that week, joined my mother and me for a visit to the Clinique counter of the local department store. This is a time-honored ritual for me. With a zillion French brands to choose from, I’m afraid to use anything but Clinique (which seems to be working). Kelly, my longtime Clinique counselor, did make-up demos on Jody and me.

Our friends Dona and Bruce Wylie hosted my folks and me for a delicious dinner that evening.

In honor of my deceased sister Barbara, who was an enthusiastic student of ancient Greek at Mary Washington University, my parents sponsor an annual Greek studies award there. In the picture are my mom, this year’s winner Susan Drummond and her mother.

Barb’s beloved Greek teacher Diane Hatch is now retired but still participates in the Classical Studies graduate reception and awards ceremony.

On the way home from Mary Washington, I treated my parents to an early Mother’s Day celebration at the Bavarian Chef. All of us have been fans of German food since we were stationed with the US Army in Deutschland during my childhood.

The return of my pineapple upside-down cake, this time for my BFF Gina’s visit.

The finished product – yum! Too bad I couldn’t bring some home to Paris.

I was delighted that my gal pal Gina drove down from Silver Spring MD to spend a day with me.

That evening my parents and I visited the lovely Ivy Creek Farm for a charity benefit for childhood cancer research at the University of Virginia Hospital.

The vineyards on the Ivy Creek grounds supply the Prince Michel Winery, a few miles away.

Posing on the grounds at Ivy Creek.

We attended the Mother’s Day service at the Church of Our Saviour. This is actually its tiny old chapel, more picturesque than the church itself.

The main event on Mother’s Day was cheering for the UVA Cavaliers in the opening round of the NCAA lacrosse championship tournament. The “Wahoos” beat Villanova 18 – 6. The weather was perfect and I enjoyed watching lacrosse with my folks for the first time in years.

On Monday, May 11 I left my parents’ home to head back to Paris, wearing a corsage of tiny pink roses from their garden. Most of the Greggs are big gardeners but I just keep a tiny olive tree and geraniums on the balcony and a planter of herbs for cooking outside our kitchen window.

I’m grateful to have both parents still in my life and to have enjoyed such a happy visit with them. I look forward to the next one.


While the cat’s away. . . The morning after Marti departed for the US, I hopped a high-speed train to Amsterdam. My visit wasn’t all coffeeshops and Red Lights, however.

I was jonesin’ for, of all things, some live Classical music. It’s a little-known fact that, when I’m not listening to the Howard Stern Show on the Internet, my tastes gravitate to the live iTunes Radio stream from WQXR-FM, the Classical music station of The New York Times. So I headed that afternoon for Amsterdam’s reknowned Concertgebouw concert hall.

The occasion was a free lunchtime concert. I was surprised to find the beautiful old hall completely filled, but the reason soon became evident.

This was no ordinary free midday concert. The highly acclaimed young Chinese pianist Lang Lang -- who was inspired to play at age two after seeing Tom tickle the ivories in a Tom & Jerry cartoon -- was participating in an open rehearsal with the Concertgebouw Orchestra, directed by Daniel Harding. They ran through a complete reading of Chopin’s Piano Concerto in F, Op. 21, consulted, then repeated the second movement. What a wonderful treat!


Back in Paris, I was invited one morning to a press screening of a film called Violent Days, directed by a woman named Lucile Chaufour.

It was a raw, black and white Indie look at a bizarre little subculture: French rockers and their fans who are frozen in the mythic moment of 1950s American rockabilly. Marti and I have encountered this phenomenon on numerous occasions since we moved here in 1991. Outside of a brief rockabilly revival in the DC area in the late ‘70s, early ‘80s, I hadn’t seen so many greaser wannabes than the ones here in France. The fans and bands here idolize the most obscure American rockabilly performers and tunes they can find. Trust me, I was there in the original rockabilly era. It never was as huge as these folks think it was.

The plot of Violent Days centers around a pair of couples who drive up to Le Havre from Paris to attend a rockabilly show in a tacky little municipal hall. As in too many low-budget French movies, there are endless shots of the actors crammed into tiny cars, achingly long sequences of the moving landscape out the car window. It felt like real time and the trip to Le Havre was taking twelve hours. The heroine gets so bored by it all that on the way home she jumps out of the car somewhere along the Normandy coast and heads for the ocean. Roll credits.


Soon after Marti returned home from the States we hit the scene again. On Saturday, May 16 we went to dinner at La Rotisserie d’En Face with visiting friends from Germany and the States.

Marti with Christian and Christine from Munich.

With Susan and Debbie, from the Washington DC area.

After a long, delicious dinner the six of us walked a block to the Café Laurent, our default jazz bar, where guitarist Serge Merlaud was sitting in with the Christian Brenner Trio. We’re friends with Christian and we’d met Serge last summer at a gig here. It was a great evening, spent in delightful company.


Marti and Jean-Yves in the deep suburbs.

At the Derek Trucks show our longtime friend Jean-Yves kindly offered us a lift to East BF to see the legendary ‘70s band Cactus in concert.

Drummer Carmine Appice, the sole remaining member of the original band, greeted the enthusiastic crowd at the start of the show.

Carmine still hits hard and heavy. I first saw him in Vanilla Fudge, on a bill with the Young Rascals in 1968. I also caught an early ‘70s Cactus gig in Port Chester NY, where they shared the stage with Ten Years After.

On this evening we were the guests of Cactus’ remarkable lead singer Jimmy Kunes, who sat in with Jon Paris’ trio last December at Marti’s birthday extravaganza in NYC. We had spoken briefly that night and he told us that he’d be coming to Paris. So we exchanged e-mails, kept in touch and he generously hooked us up with tickets and passes.

Jimmy Kunes brings it. He has an amazing voice and stage presence. It was a great evening of loud kickass old-school rock and blues. The place was packed. And stiflingly hot, as only a French club can be. Air conditioning? What is this air conditioning of which you speak? Fuck it. We were down. Carmine banged out a textbook Classic Rock Era drum solo – as only he can – then gave one of his sticks to a little kid at the rail. Nice.


Last weekend Marti and I celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary. Time sure flies when you’re rockin’ hard.

Model husband that I am, I bought my bride a bouquet at our neighborhood florist in rue Lecourbe.

We made reservations for dinner at Marie-Edith, a local bistro we’d been meaning to try.

It was Saturday, the place was full. Only one table of tourists, as far as we could tell. The ambience was lovely, the Champagne was sparkly and the food was delectable.

After dinner we jumped into a taxi at the Place Cambronne and rode down to the Café Laurent for digestifs and Christian at the 88s.

Trumpeter-vocalist Larry Browne was featured that night. In the last set a young Dutch woman named Marika, with whom we’d been sharing a table, got up to sing “Autumn Leaves.” Great voice and phrasing. Turns out she’s an opera singer in real life.

It was a super celebration. I’m a lucky guy.

As an anniversary gift, I gave my bride a necklace by a Dutch designer we both admire: Frans van Berkel. His creations are beautiful, clean and elegant. Fits Marti to a tee.

Marti knows the way to my heart. She gave me tickets to see The Pretenders next month at the Elysée Montmartre. I love Chrissie Hynde and the band’s most recent album Break Up The Concrete is a killer. Maybe she’ll encore with “Smelly Cat.”




The other day I was in Montparnasse and stumbled across the little-known Musée Antoine Bourdelle, which honors the work of one of the 20th Century’s seminal monumental sculptors.

Bourdelle was instrumental in the establishment of La Ruche, another 15th arrondissement landmark. Known as “The Beehive” because of its octagonal structure, this edifice had been featured in the Exposition Universelle of 1889, but was repurposed afterward as a studio complex that eventually welcomed the likes of Amedeo Modigliani, Fernand Léger, Constantin Brancusi and Marc Chagall. It’s still in operation today and you can glimpse it through the locked iron gates at 2, Passage Danzig.

I love the rich cultural history and hidden treasures to be found right here in our own ‘hood.

Vincent Van Gogh, On the Outskirts of Paris (1887).


Marti and I traveled to Amsterdam on Friday, April 10 to catch a couple of Bob Dylan concerts. Zimmie had played Paris earlier in the week, but his gigs were at the Palais des Congrès, a soulless venue I try to avoid. Besides, I’m always looking for an excuse to visit the ‘Dam.

Marti, who started a Facebook group entitled Friends Of The Eiffel Tower, flies the colors – right down to her luggage tag.

After checking into our hotel off Dam Square, we cabbed down to the Leidseplein to hook up with our longtime pal Michel. We hung out at the Rokerij for a while, then headed for the Bob show at Heineken Music Hall. Marti and Michel went into the arena early, while I stayed at the bar across the plaza to quaff an Absolut on the rocks and rendezvous with our Amsterdam bud Jimmy Mack.

Dylan and his band were in fine form both nights, although I thought that there were a few too many plodding tunes on Night One.

We four situated ourselves back by the soundboard, where Marti and I could dance to uptempo songs like “Leopardskin Pillbox Hat” and “Maggie’s Farm.”

Jimmy Mack at the Bulldog on the Leidseplein, after the first show.

Michel and Marti. Note Michel’s smile, which soon disappeared after we took him next door to the Pancake Corner. The joint was frenetic, replete with boisterous partying dudes and blaring ‘80s music. Not Michel’s idea of a place to enjoy late dinner. My bride and I, whose musical tastes are a bit less parochial than Michel’s, were actually digging the cheesy hits and goofy ambiance. What the fuck, it’s Amsterdam at 2 a.m.

The weekend flew by. Early Sunday afternoon – Easter – Marti and I rolled up to the beautifully-restored Grand Café Restaurant ‘1e Klas,’ located on Platform 2B at Central Station.

While we waited for our train, we relaxed in easy chairs with cocktails and took turns playing with the camera on my new Crackberry.

Easter 2009. The Bunny and his associate distribute treats on the Thalys platform.

April 12 also marked the 18th anniversary of our move to Paris. Upon returning to our adopted hometown Marti and I celebrated with a great meal at Le Suffren, conveniently located near a certain favorite Tower.


Last week our friends Pat Martino and Kirk Yano came to town. Pat, the reknowned jazz guitarist, was returning to his roots, leading an organ trio in a concert at New Morning. Before the show, we visited Pat in the dressing room, where Kirk – his sound engineer and tour director – was making final adjustments to the customized Pat Martino Signature Gibson.

MC Marti introduces Tony Monaco on the Hammond B3, Louis Tsamous on drums and le légendaire Pat Martino à la guitare.

Tony and Pat.

Marti supervises Kirk.

View from the sound cage.

It was a marvelous night. Pat’s playing was impeccable, comme d’ hab’. Afterward Kirk, Tony, Marti and I went to the Julien for a late hang.


Easter Sunday in Steamboat Springs: our dear friends the Kisers (newly transplanted in Colorado) reported in.

Greek Orthodox Easter in Paris, a week later. Marti and I arrived early at Saint Stephen Cathedral for the beautiful Saturday night Resurrection Service.

The church is darkened in anticipation of the Resurrection -- the central event of the liturgical year -- commemorated here by the bishop bearing a single candle. Gradually the light is passed to the congregants, triumphally illuminating the cathedral. It’s a seminal visual from my early childhood.

Following the service Marti and I cabbed over to the Apollon restaurant in the 7th arrondissement, which offers a traditional fast-breaking late night Easter meal. This commences with an egg-cracking ritual, symbolizing Christ breaking from the Tomb. The person whose egg remains unbroken the longest (in our case, Marti) looks forward to good luck for the rest of the year.

Next up: Magheritsa, a soup based on lamb broth from gizzards and other non-scheduled parts of the animal. It’s an acquired taste, to be sure. Surprisingly, Marti downed most of hers this year!

Succulent, falling-off-the-bone roast lamb shoulder is the main event. Accompanied by roast veggies and salad.

Tsoureki Paschalino (Greek Easter bread). Awesome when toasted the next morning.

Our favourite Greek red.

We had been blessed with April showers in both Amsterdam and Paris. On Greek Easter it drizzled off and on throughout the evening.

It helps to live in a town that looks gorgeous in the rain.

Gustave Caillebotte, Paris, A Rainy Day (1876-1877).

IN AND OUT OF THE 'HOOD

I love this town. Marti and I are approaching the 18th anniversary of our move to Paris. Except for the first seven weeks in a hotel, we’ve lived all of our years of voluntary exile in the same apartment at 85 rue Blomet.

Our one-way street on the Left Bank boasts a rich cultural history. In 1921 Catalan artist Joan Miró encountered the Rue Blomet Group -- André Masson, Max Jacob, Antonin Artaud, Tristan Tzara and others. These Surrealists and Dada poets proved to be a profound influence on him. Today children play in the Square Blomet on the site of Miró’s former studio at 45 rue Blomet. His sculpture Oiseau Lunaire (Moonbird) is the centerpiece of the little park.

Joan Miró by Man Ray (1933).

42 Rue Blomet, Joan Miró (1977).

At 33 rue Blomet a music hall called the Bal Colonial -- commonly known as the Bal Nègre -- opened in 1928. Early patrons were predominantly soldiers from the French West Indies and French West Africa who had served in World War I, but soon the venue became the hot spot for hip Parisian clubbers of all hues to hear jazz bands and dance to trendy syncopated rhythms.

One of the scenemakers of that era was the noted Harlem painter Palmer Hayden, who arrived in Paris in 1927. Backed by a wealthy art patron, Hayden studied here for five years. His prolific output captured the vibrant resonances of Jazz Age Parisian society.

Bal Jeunesse, Palmer Hayden (c. 1927).

Rue Blomet is “sandwiched” parallel to two major thoroughfares – both based on routes of ancient Roman roads leading out from the city center. One is our favorite rue marchand (shopping street), rue Lecourbe. In the space of just a few blocks Marti and I can find nearly all the resources we need to happily sustain our life. Butchers. Bakers. Fruit and veggie sellers. Fishmongers. Newsstands. Dry cleaners. Cobblers. Opticians. Even our doctors’ offices are within a ten- or fifteen-minute walk. Our ‘hood is truly a village within the city.

The other main drag, with our closest Métro station and a host of clothing and shoe stores, is rue de Vaugirard, shown here in a period postcard.


As bountiful as our neighborhood is, every once in a while we venture out to find exotic resources. Recently our cheffing gal pal Katy Jane phoned from San Francisco with an ingredient request.

KJ and her husband Nico cook in the kitchen of the innovative chef Daniel Patterson’s Coi.

Katy Jane needed a quick fill-in supply of vadouvan, a Frenchified version of an Indian Masala spice mix, which commonly contains onion, garlic, mustard seeds, cumin seeds, fenugreek seeds, curry leaves, black lentils, turmeric, salt and Castor oil. At Coi it’s used to season a vinaigrette.

I was headed out the next day to obtain a few ethnic cooking ingredients myself, so I started my shopping at Hediard, the gourmet mecca at Place de la Madeleine. I bought a couple of jars of vadouvan for Katy Jane (and one for me), then mailed KJ’s package that morning.

Next stop on my shopping tour was rue du Chateau d’Eau in the Tenth arrondissement.

At the Globus Eastern European food shop I stocked up on Hungarian pickled cabbage-stuffed peppers, envelope soup, Egri Bikavér ("Bull's Blood of Eger") wine, bread, smoked sausage and a poppyseed dessert roll.

Then I walked around the corner to the Passage Brady . . .

. . . an arcade that features a number of Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi restaurants.

I acquired a basketful of Indian goodies (nan, palak paneer, basmati rice, okra, baby eggplants, etc.) and asked the clerk about vadouvan. He showed me a huge one kilo bag, priced a lot lower than the stuff from Hediard.

I love the fact that here in Foodie City I can find almost anything I need to dabble in ethnic cooking projects.


On Saturday afternoon March 14 Marti and I went to the Place de la Concorde to visit the Jeu de Paume gallery.

On exhibit were Robert Frank’s remarkable photographs from The Americans (1959) and his Paris series from the early 1950s. I’ve been a fan of his work for decades (see cover of Exile On Main Street). I always love traveling into his black and white world.

America.

Paris.

After the museum visit Marti and I strolled into the Eighth arrondissement. En route we window-shopped at the oh-so-chic boutique Colette, which was promoting 7 For All Mankind jeans.

In the avenue Matignon we dropped in at the Galerie Daniel Malingue to see an exhibition of paintings by Fernand Léger.

Next door at the Galerie Pierre Lévy we saw lovely canvases by Armand Guillaumin, Camille Pissaro, Paul Serusier and a personal favorite of mine, Georges Lacombe. (His Ages Of Life from 1892 is pictured here.)

Marti and I grabbed a snack later at a brasserie, then made our way to New Morning, where our friend Elliott Murphy was celebrating his 60th birthday with a marathon show. We had a fab time, enjoyed Elliott’s marvelous songs. Sitting in were friends and family (Elliott’s son Gaspard, a guitarslinger extraordinaire). Olivier Durand, Murphy’s longtime lead guitarist, shredded all night long. We said hi to Elliott afterward and gave him a book of Robert Frank’s Paris pictures for his birthday.

Late-night after show dinner nearby at the impossibly beautiful Art Nouveau restaurant Julien.


Last Monday I went solo to see Vic Chesnutt and Elf Power at the Café de la Danse. Elf Power opened with a strong set, then joined Vic to perform the songs from the excellent Dark Developments album. Vic was in great voice, more powerful than I’ve ever heard him and I’ve been hitting his concerts since the late ‘90s. The Dark Developments material was great, as were the encores of “Independence Day” and “Sewing Machine.”

Had a fun hang with Vic and Elf Power after the gig. Vic was trippin' on the fact that they had done "Everybody Hurts" at the R.E.M. tribute at Carnegie Hall the week before. (Pictured: Elf Power bassman Derek Almstead and Vic at Carnegie Hall.) Vic thought he had sucked at that show! We shot the shit about Bob Dylan, Zimmie’s former bandmate David Mansfield (who had played at the R.E.M. tribute) and our friends in Widespread Panic. JoJo is going back to school and doing his dissertation on Vic's music . . . Todd called Vic recently to ask him to contribute a song to a kids album he's doing.

Elf Power’s Laura Carter told me how she’d first met Vic while she was working at an Athens, GA coffee shop. Vic would roll in with his guitar in hand and entertain the patrons. She was happy on this Monday night that her combustible quest had been successful.

Laura’s “laminate.”


Marti took last Friday and today as vacation days. We kicked off her four day weekend with a trip to see the Sonia Rykiel exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs.

The museum mounted this retrospective of the couturière’s work late last year to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the Sonia Rykiel fashion house. She’s one of my bride’s favorite designers. Nearly twenty years ago, on our first visit to Paris, I bought Marti a velour, rhinestone-studded SR party dress. One Christmas after we moved here, I was given a ticket to a Sonia Rykiel warehouse sale in the ‘burbs. I scored six or seven items to give Marti that year.

The exhibition included clothes, fashion photographs and fashion show videos. There were also tribute creations -- inspired by the Sonia Rykiel style -- from fellow designers such as Karl Lagerfeld, Christian Lacroix and Roberto Cavalli.

Many of the outstanding fashion photographs in this show were by Dominique Isserman, shown here in 1985 with her friend Leonard Cohen.


We had lunch that afternoon at Deda, a beautiful new Georgian restaurant at Les Halles. I discovered this place a few weeks ago with my pal Michel.

The cuisine here is highly refined, incorporating surprising ingredients such as walnuts and pomegranate seeds. The restaurant has its own tone, a traditional beehive-shaped bread oven. The bread, called lavachi, is worth the trip alone. Deda is a winner.


One last word about the tragic passing of actress Natasha Richardson. In 1993 Marti and I were privileged to see her legendary Broadway performance alongside future husband Liam Neeson in Eugene O’Neill’s Anna Christie. We were both knocked out by the awesome talent exhibited on that stage. The Roundabout Theater production won Tony, Outer Critics Circle and Drama Desk Awards for Best Revival.

It was a marvelous night of classic drama for us, a couple who met years earlier while working at The Commonwealth Stage, a regional theater in Massachusetts.

Our thoughts and prayers are with Natasha and her grieving family.