Au 66 rue Pigalle, ci-git la jeunesse des mid-80’s.Et la plus belle impasse nocturne que Paris savait offrir.Le choc, ce bulldozer.Juste au coin de la Place Pigalle, tout en haut de la rue Pigalle, là où l’on fut si bas.Un Bulldozer en prince de la déconstruction, au sommet d’un tas de gravats.Toi, dans le bus qui roule vers la mort.By bye Turbin, v’là les années punk qui déboulent.C’était au 66 rue Pigalle.Quand le 66 était un avant-goût du diable, 666 - le New Moon, boite rock, que ça s’appelait.Un ancien cabaret à tout faire, du vide-gousset au vide-couilles [1].Un truc qu’avait réouvert des anciens de Métal Urbain, si mes souvenirs sont exacts.C’était quoi et quand ?Tu débarquais à peine, dans la capitale, le grand saut, faut pas capituler, pas capitaliser, juste tenir le cap.Le New Moon, c’était ça : les bières des potes qu’on finissait.Les amplis qu’on portait pour pas payer l’entrée - c’était la gruge avant le grunge pas encore né.

Ah, la porte en fer forgé, avec au dessus, comme un fronton fier, cette drôle de coquille qui laissait entendre que le New Moon ne s’était pas toujours appelé le New Moon.e cigarette mobile alDans l’entrée, un escalier raide comme tous les justiciables qui trainaient dans les parages.e cigarette nano iiEn coude, l’escalier, qu’il était.e cigarette ontario californiaLever le coude, à défaut des jolies punk-rockettes, c’était bien ce qu’on venait y faire au New Moon, Nouvelle Lune, Nouvelle Vie, la plus belle impasse nocturne que la ville savait offrir.e cigarette pos

Au plafond, une jolie frise avec, en rappel, la coquille de l’entrée.e cigarette safer than smokingEt puis, le bar - minus.e cigarette roy utahLes toilettes - sans façon.Au dessus, des combles - visitées une fois comme l’enfer de ce qu’avaient pu être les maisons closes des années 20.Sur scène, ça déroulait.Le rock était bien mort à cette époque.Le Punk avait tout bien bazardé (c’était chouette).Seattle ronronait (ça allait le devenir).Alors, en attendant, pas question d’attendre, fallait tenir.Les nostalgiques allaient au Gibus, à Répu.Pour les autres, des ploucs dans mon genre, plein d’idéaux, des croyants d’une Renaissance Rock futile et subtile, c’était direction Gal-Pi, et son New Moon, Lointaine Planète Rock.Fleshtones, écurie Crypt Rds, punk-parigots de groupes débutants, la Puta’s Fever du Pigalle Tour de la Mano.

Au 66 rue Pigalle, ci-git ta jeunesse, mon (bientot) vieux, tes 18-22 ans, tes premières cuites et premières cuisses dans l’arrière fond du couloir étroit comme il faut.Au 66 rue Pigalle, ci-git, enfin, ce qui doit être le plus grand concert de rock jamais donné au monde devant 150 personnes : Johnny Thunders et Stiv Bator [2] Le « New Moon », salle rock à Paris détruite en 2004envoyé par davduf Un film des productions davduf.net.Prise de vue : 10 avril 2004, 11h02, Place Pigalle.Et puis, un temps, juste un petit temps, l’entrée du New Moon donnait droit à un accès interdit : un autre escalier.Un escalier dérobé vers les robes des jolies (?)filles du Narcisse, le club d’en dessous, le club à strip tease.Il y avait jamais personne là-dedans, tout juste des VRP égarés, un portier hagard, et des filles grassouillettes.Et du poppers, ou assimilé, dans l’air.Un excitant qu’on se disait, genre gaz-moutarde.Bitte-shen, Parfait pour les deutsh-touristes.

Si l’on en croit Google, en 1992, le gérant apparut dans le film « Pigalle au Rayon X ».A l’époque, on était déjà ailleurs.Page tournée, vie en piqué.Pas même un passage, pas même un regard, le New Moon s’était mis en berne depuis 2000 ou 2001 et je l’ignorais.Des bureaux, ça allait devenir.Comme pour moi, comme dans la vie.Pourquoi donc le destin finit toujours assis derrière un bureau ?Alors, revenir une dernière fois.Photo, film, ultimes regards.Sentir la transpiration d’alors, apercevoir un bout de plancher, penser aux pogos, à la buée, à Bjorn C., ami d’enfance et de dérives de toujours, suicidé à deux pas de là, en poussières et en cendres comme le New Moon.Un panneau indique un « immeuble de deux niveaux avec un rez de chaussée pour commerce et un sous-sol pour stationnement ».Ailleurs, dans la ville, probablement, certainement, d’autres Apaches ont trouvé leur nouvelle lune.Et maintenant, quelques précisions emailesques parvenues après la rédaction de cet article : « Pigalle, juin 89, Pierrot Soler (musicien), Roland Piqueras (barman), propose à Jerry gérant des deux salles (Narcisse, New moon), de mettre sur pied un projet de salle de concert.Véritable pèriode du new moon.

En 86, première tentative faite par Eric et Stéphane, qui c’est soldé par un échec, au bout de quelques mois, leurs soirées pèriclitèrent et le New Moon retourna dans l’oubli.5 juin 1989 ouverture du plus petit des grands du rock, avec plus de 300 concerts par an.La vocation du New Moon, découvrir une multitude de groupes francais et étrangers, devenir le repère des musicos et noctambules.Son esprit, forcément rock, populaire aussi, en harmonie totale avec Pigalle.Cest ainsi qu’on voulait le New Moon, c’est comme ça qu’il a existé.» Claire-Ange (soeur de Pierrot du New Moon) Une amie, trés jeune, m’apprend qu’un groupe de rock français aurait déclaré sur France Inter : « ils nous font chier ces trentenaires, avec leur punk et leur Sex Pistols ».Ah, la guerre - enfin.Voir en ligne : Le New Moon par ceux qui l’ont fait [1] toute précision historique bienvenue, toutes photos aussi... [2] à propos du second, lire aussi ça.After we had said goodbye to our guests and made our way to the honeymoon suite—a rundown apartment in Montmartre that smelled of mildew and stinky cheese—I proceeded to recap the evening.

It was a wonderful wedding; everyone had a great time dancing until 3 a.m., a bottle of champagne in each hand."I love your brother-in-law," I said in between bites of bad French pizza that we somehow managed to find along Boulevard de Clichy in Pigalle."I really love him," I continued."I just adore the dickens out of him."Henriput down his slice and his eyes began to look damp, as if he were about to cry.Considering I had just complimented his family, I thought they would be tears of joy."So, you want to leave him for me?"he asked in his thick French accent through a mix of sadness, anger, and betrayal."On our wedding night, you tell me this?"There I was on our wedding night, consoling my French husband and reassuring him that I didn't have any interest in his brother-in-law."Henri's brother-in-law was old enough to be my father.Heavy-set and intellectual, he had a house in the French Alps and a black Porsche; things some women might be wooed by, sure, but even if he weren't married to Henri's sister, I didn't want to leave Henri for him.

Even if I was single, I had zero interest in this older man.I simply loved him the way one loves pizza or a Jimmy Stewart movie.But there I was, on our wedding night, consoling my husband and reassuring him that I didn't have any interest in his brother-in-law."I love him like that Bon Iver song I can't stop playing," I said.To which he responded that Americans were careless with the word "love" and used it too frequently.He also brought up how he was hurt by the way I occasionally thanked servers at restaurants with "Thank you, love," as I would say to a friend who passed me the salt at the dinner table.This was not appropriate behavior and, according to my husband, it led these men on.I told him he was being dramatic—a trait that comes easily to French men.Being married to a Parisian was a cultural wake-up call.New Yorkers seem to think—at least compared to the rest of the country—that we're more in line with the thinking of Parisians; but we're not.We'll ask each other how much we pay in rent without the slightest hesitation, but dare to ask such a question of a Parisian and you're deemed rude and nosey, or simply very "American."

"He responded that Americans were careless with the word love and used it too frequently."We also rush through our meals, even the dinner parties we have at home, because there must be a football game or an episode of Game of Thrones to watch.Or maybe if we make it through dessert in record time, we can get to the bar before last call.Besides, is it really necessary to have so many small courses spread out over several hours, with cigarette breaks in between?We have places to go, we think, although we're not really sure where exactly; it's just that we need to get up and move.Shortly after our wedding, Henri and I were walking along Rue des Martyrs with his teenage daughter from his first marriage.At one point, as we paused to cross the street, Henri grabbed me by the waist and pulled me into him.Before I could escape, he planted a very wet and very "French" kiss on me, as I struggled to get away.We were in front of his daughter!What on Earth was he thinking?I began to apologize profusely to Madeleine."Prude,"

she said, laughing at me."Americans are such prudes.When you love someone, you kiss them no matter where you are.When you're attracted to someone, you make love to them.""No matter where you are?"I asked.She smiled slyly."And when you do, you don't second guess it.You tell yourself you're the best at making love or giving oral, so then you are.was a 17-year-old telling me the ways of love and sex, in front of her father, no less.Even now, as I'm about to be on the other side of 35, I can't talk that way in front of my own father.But Henri was unfazed, and even agreed with Madeleine: I was a prude by French standards.I believed in the phrase "get a room," something that the French do not."Even if you asked a French person, in perfect French without a hint of your American accent, what they did for a living, they would know you're American."We also disagreed with how to achieve a work/life balance."You work too much," Henri would tell me.Whether we were in our apartment in Paris or New York, I would spend 10 hours a day at my computer writing—I needed to earn money.

And even if I had the means to be a "lady who lunches," I'd still get antsy and have to do something with my time.If I didn't work, I'd lose my identity.What am I, if I'm not a writer?I even worked during our honeymoon in Italy.I tried not to; I really did.But I got nervous and shaky, like an addict who needed a fix."Just one article," I'd say to Henri."Just one and I'll be done."But one turned into two, and by the time dinner rolled around, he'd be dragging me away from my computer.If I ceased to work, I feared my editors would forget me.That I'd have to start the pitching process all over again, as if the record of what I had done, the career I had built, would miraculously disappear and there would be no trace of me.I couldn't understand how Henri could so comfortably not work."Because we don't define ourselves by what we do," Henri explained to me more than once.But still that didn't stop me.I consistently asked people what they did, and when they listed off hobbies or passions, as opposed to professions, I pressed for details.

"I mean a job," I'd say."What is your job?"Did it really matter that one waited tables or worked in finance or was a curator at the Louvre?What mattered was what they did in their off hours, with their several-hour-long dinners, their wine, their cigarettes between courses, while not using the word "love" in regards to the chef that had made an epic pistachio-encrusted chèvre.That's what mattered; that's all that mattered."Being married to a Parisian was a cultural wake-up call.New Yorkers seem to think—at least compared to the rest of the country—that we're more in line with the thinking of Parisians; but we're not."When our marriage came to an end for several reasons that had less to do with cultural differences and more to do with Henri's infidelity (which, depending on who you ask, could be deemed cultural), part of me hoped that what I learned during our relationship would stick with me.For a while, I tried to steer clear of asking people what they did for work.I forced myself to sit at the dinner table for hours, even if there was no one to talk to anymore, and I stopped telling the pizza delivery guy that I loved him.

But it didn't last.I loved the pizza delivery guy at 3 a.m.just as much as I loved the taco truck guy on the corner of East 2nd Street and Avenue A at 1 a.m.or the barista at Starbucks on 1st Avenue who had my order ready the second I walked in every morning.As New Yorkers, we try to be more international in our behavior.We've adopted the kiss on the cheek when we greet or say goodbye to Europeans.It's a bizarre dance of the faces, to say the least, and noses are usually bonked, while apologies are made.Basically, we just can't pull it off.Although I still live part of the year in Paris, I know I will never be completely Parisian in my behavior.I will try my best to walk slower, to sip my wine as a means to savor it as opposed to getting drunk, and to keep my inside voice at a low level that separates me from the American tourists.But being a New Yorker isn't something you can easily shake.And, perhaps, we're just not supposed to—the world needs brash, overworked, rent-obsessed, "love"-slinging New Yorkers just as much as it needs Parisians who will never understand these things about us.