citinotes

Le Cabaret

Paris by night
A whimsical night takes us by the hand
And leaves us in the morning
Paris by night
What brings me joy is that
Tomorrow we’ll regret only what we remember

These lyrics by French songwriter Bénabar encapsulate the high expectations Parisians have from their nocturnal adventures: “we will regret only what we remember”. It’s essential to bear in mind that the City of Lights, come morning, adeptly conceals the party animal hidden within the depths of the Parisian soul. If revelry is a shared trait coursing through their veins, passed down from one generation to the next, then a retrospective glance at the Parisian interwar years become illuminating -years when history was penned with quills soaked in liquor.

It all began towards the end of the 19^th century. The Belle Epoque (1871-1914), with its industrial and technological boom, set the stage for Parisians to explore new avenues for evening entertainment: movie theaters, casinos, music halls and cabarets bewitched their audiences, rich and poor alike, offering an experience replete with crystal chandeliers, dizzying waltzes, and champagne showers. In a time of modesty and social reserve, the carefree sensuality displayed in cabarets like the Moulin Rouge practically solidified the image of Paris that foreign visitors would carry for a very long time -a city where life is frivolous, morals are loose, and nights are wild.

In the aftermath of the devastating Great War, Parisians wasted little time resuming the revelry that the Belle Epoque left behind. However, this time they were not alone: Each day, ocean liners arrived at the port of Havre, filled with Americans. On their upper decks, affluent passengers sought refuge from prohibition in the pursuit of a new, frivolous world; on their lower decks, Afro-Americans clung to their saxophones like passports to a –hopefully- better life. Alongside performers from across Europe, they were prepared to set the Parisian night sky ablaze: Jazz players, Charleston performers, Hungarian violinists, Argentinean tango dancers, Cossacks and gypsies, playful waiters and tipsy patrons- all swirled in an ecstasy where the rhythm was set by neon lights and trumpet whistles, a rhythm only muted by the stock market crash of 1929.

Few writers have depicted that multicultural frenzy of Parisian nights more vividly than Joseph Kessel (1898 – 1979), French journalist, novelist, reporter and war hero. A member of the prestigious Académie Française and honored as Grand Officer of the National Order of the Legion of Honour, -France’s highest order of merit- following his participation in WWI as an aviator. In the delightful excerpt from his novel, “Princes of the Night”, we delve into the nightlife of Pigalle, the epicenter of notorious Parisian nights in the 1930s. In the wake of the Bolshevik revolution, Russians flocked to Paris and the hill of Pigalle by the hundreds, opening restaurants, bars, and dancing clubs that transformed echoes of their motherland’s war into joyful melodies played by violin and balalaika virtuosos.

Citinotes

"There were men there who had spent all their lives making nights look shorter to those who paid for them; they were real instruments of joy, born to sing and to please, like the violins they instinctively played."

Joseph Kessel, Nuits des Princes, Éditions de France, 1927

chapter 1

Artifices of joy

In the years 1924-1925, those who carried their misery, idleness, sadness or simply their nocturnal mood beneath the artificial glow of Montmartre lights, those who cherished scenery of Pigalle, Fontaine and Douai streets – a landscape of inebriated Americans, saxophone-playing Negroes, Argentinean tangos, slightly eccentric girls, tuxedo-clad pimps, flower vendors, beggars, and taxi drivers -a landscape imbued with the scents of gasoline, perfumes, make-up and, discreetly, drugs. Those who delighted in observing, from the vantage point of place Pigalle, the cascade of signs hurtling down and dancing, signs as captivating and disappointing as the artifices of joy. Those who mingled with the peculiar individuals who commenced work when the rest of the world went to bed […] – they remember the multitude of Russian night restaurants clustered within a few square meters of the nocturnal zone.

These bars sprouted and proliferated like unhealthy plants, coming in various sizes and styles: from three-story music factories to tiny little establishments with just a handful of tables. In some, beneath a bluish church light, reflected on silver cups, patrons silently intoxicated themselves as if partaking in a ritual. In others, music, songs, and wild dances reverberated incessantly. At each step, one encountered Cossacks standing like sentries, in front of these cabarets’ gates. […]

Men who had spent their entire lives shortening nights for those who paid for them inhabited these places; they were genuine instruments of joy, born to sing and please, much like the violins they instinctively played.

chapter 2

Russian nights

They were the gypsies of Moscow’s grand restaurants, of the Petrograd Islands, carried to Paris by the river of emigration. Some had performed for Grand Dukes, the Tsar, and Rasputin. Small fortunes were thrown at their feet in exchange for the melodies they offered […]

In this mix of hungry, disguised colonels of the guard, professors, noblewomen, prostitutes, and impromptu artists, the famous gypsies arrived to deliver -sometimes with a violently sincere soul, other times with an adulterated theatricality- to couples overwhelmed by noise, light and champagne, the barbaric, desperate and sometimes sublime breath that Russia deposited in its songs, dances and unruly offspring, understrained and unformed. […]

The Russians belonging to these nocturnal establishments slept in these hotels, worked in these restaurants, emerging from their slumber only to sing, serve, and drink, singing and drinking until they fell asleep again. In this closed district where Russian caterers, hoteliers, and even hairdressers emerged, theywente weeks without uttering a word of French. Confined by their profession and fatigue, many were oblivious to the Bois de Boulogne and the Arc de Triomphe. And, thus, they named the district after the dominating square, Pigal.

Joseph Kessel,
Nuit des Princes, Éditions de France, 1927