Dissidents and Debauchery in Paris
A Tale of Absinthe, Raves, and David Lynch
As cliché as it is to harp upon the romanticism of Paris, everything you’ve heard about the city is true. It’s an onerous task to describe Paris because you will have varied feelings depending on whether you are at the grueling Republique, the stylish Montparnasse, the magic Saint-Michel, the classy Porte Maillot or the more familial Beaugrenelle. Thus, Paris should not be described; it should be felt.
The night started off quite tame before my Warriors-esque, hedonistic misadventure through the city. It’s about Seven and I’m leaving The Bar Hemingway at the Ritz where I just had post-dinner cocktails with my parents. I exit the exorbitant metal gates of the lobby walking over a deep crimson carpet that soon turns to the classic cobblestone streets of Paris and light up a cig next to the Colonne Vendôme. From there I continue on my journey over to a nearby absinthe bar that I was recommended to by the concierge, to meet up with my date for the night.
I arrive a few minutes late and see her waiting outside for me looking lost and out of place among the local Parisians. Like a Woody Allen movie (without the weird shit) I met her earlier that day at the Rodin Museum in the garden next to the statue of Le Penseur. She’s a student at Parsons who happened to be on holiday with her parents as well. I walk over to her and apologize for my tardiness and we head inside the bar. Once inside I realize it’s not a bar at all but, an actual restaurant that I later found out is headed by the famous Chef Caroline Rostang. It’s a cozy, intimate setting, a mix between a typical Parisian bistro and a loft in New York, not what I was hoping for, but it’ll do.
I browse the extensive absinthe list that the maître de gave us while nodding along barely listening to some monotonous story that my date is telling me about her typical nouveau riche college life at Parsons. I pick one of the seventy absinthes they have available and tell her about my obsession with the peculiar substance that supposedly inspired artists such as van Gogh and Picasso.
It was essentially the cocaine of the 19th century -- lofty romantics loved knocking it back because they believed it would aid them in transcending this Earth’s mere mortals. It’s a beautifully complex spirit with strong flavors of anise supported by herbs like melissa, hyssop, coriander, and fennel. Needless to say, I’ve been hooked on sipping the green ever since my first.
Absinthe should be drunk diluted, and there isn’t a more lavish and beautiful way to dilute the drink than with a proper service, which is what we received. The waiter brought over a glass of fine absinthe for each of us, an absinthe fountain filled with chilled water, absinthe spoons, and a plate of sugar cubes. The service was simple: you place the spoon over a filled glass of absinthe with the sugar cube on it and sit it underneath one of the taps on the fountain. Slowly drip water over the sugar until it has dissolved. You should look to have about four to six parts water per one-part absinthe. Once you get the hang of pouring it, you will be able to create the perfect louche and the mixture should look like milky bathwater and taste like warm aniseed cream, almost like black licorice -- easy to forget you're drinking something that's hundred proof this way. After our attempt to chase the green fairy and some lively conversation we head on over to what I thought would be the main event of the night, Silencio. How naïve of me.
When cult filmmaker David Lynch opened the semi-private club for artists and performers near the Paris stock exchange in the second arrondissement; naming it Silencio after the eponymous and eerie club in his film Mulholland Drive, it instantly generated incredible buzz. Being a huge fan of Lynch and after hearing so much about the exclusive club, I had to visit the mecca of weird for myself.
Learning about the building itself, it's not hard to see why the place appealed to Lynch, constructed by the same atelier that designed the Eiffel Tower, it’s a psychogeographer's dream. 17th-century playwright Molière was reportedly buried there, socialist leader Jean Jaurès was assassinated trying to stop the first world war in 1914 in a café just across the street, and the building was once a resistance printing house where Emile Zola printed his famous open letter, J'accuse, in defense of Alfred Dreyfus, in 1898. Although the use of the building has changed, Silencio retains the same goal; a meeting place for the creative minds where ideas can be exchanged freely.
Searching for the building amongst other Parisian nightclubs was almost as hard as actually gaining entrance to it, the entrance is not indicated, no neon lights, no name, nothing. Just an all-black entranceway tucked away amongst the club goers.
When we finally found the entrance, I noticed the bouncers denying pretty much everyone from entry. Most of these people were pitiable: swathed in cheap dresses or gaudy hyped brands. When we got to the front, the main bouncer gave us a look over and asked us what we did, I embarrassingly struggled to tell him in my grade eight level bastardized Canadian French that I was a journalist and that my date was a painter to which he opened the velvet ropes and let us in.
Upon entry, we were immediately engulfed in the darkness of an expansive black staircase which we began to descend. As we descended the six flights of stairs, down, down, down beneath the city street toward the lower-level entrance door, I felt myself beginning to fall hook, line, and sinker for this mysterious underworld. What did me in? It was so simple and yet so surreal -- the silence that surrounded us in our descent, as if we were traveling through a tunnel with just the faint echo of our breaths accompanying us. What a way to enter an edifice. No shoving, no music, no distraction, just us having this intense experience in total silence.
It was almost a total deprivation of the senses and then suddenly it shifted into overstimulation. The staircase opened into a series of dimly-lit alcoves, golden spaces -- not the shiny tinsel-gold of five-star hotels in places like Abu Dhabi or Macau, but soft gold leaf on arches and walls constructed from small blocks of raw oak. The lighting played with reality. Lights ringing off mirrors turning the patrons’ eyes into brilliant cats’ eyes. Walls are not painted but covered with natural materials like decomposed marble. One minute you’re in the dark, the next you’re in a halcyon tunnel of mini mandalas. The effect is somewhere between nirvana, a classy Cincinnati cocktail bar circa 1975, and Goldie's mouth.
The atmosphere was upbeat, and we found a mixture of sophisticates, art elites, club kids, and people who looked like they just wandered in after work at their office jobs waiting in an orderly fashion to check in their coats. We continued on into a crowded bar area where three busy bartenders shook elaborate cocktails created exclusively for the club. To the left, a library-styled lounge offers leather booths and stacks of art books. Many of the seats, however, were reserved in advance, reminding the clientele that even though this is a social club, a hierarchy still exists.
It was clear that the Paris Silencio is much different from the Mulholland Drive Club Silencio -- more opulent than ominous. However, each room we explored still evoked Lynch’s visual style through an incisive composition of architecture, bespoke furniture, artwork, texture, and lighting, a look he achieved working with designer Raphael Navot, architectural agency Enia, and light designer Thierry Dreyfus. This is Lynch's answer to Warhol's Factory, the existentialists' Café Flore, and the Dadaists’ Cabaret Voltaire.
After getting accustomed to our surroundings and the initial awe finally wore off, I spotted a small group who had an excessive amount of Dom Perignon and French energy drinks considering the number of people that were there. The guy whose tab it was all on was celebrating getting into medical school and I convinced him that I was a club promoter in New York and would hook him up next time he’s in the city. We quickly became friends after that, and in return for my “generosity,” I was welcome to his bottle service. My date and I probably drank a bottle each. Who says lying doesn’t get you anywhere?
On the dance floor, a couple got into a shouting match next to us and the guy eventually pushed her. She fell over into me holding a cocktail that splashes, ruining her Versace dress. They both immediately forget their own squabble and try to start a fight with me for spilling a drink on her. Right before the fight could break out, as if on queue, the DJ cut the music and made an announcement that they would be playing a film in the theatre. I remember thinking, “This place has a fucking movie theatre?” while the couple seemingly got distracted by the announcement as well and disappeared into the crowd.
Once again traversing the maze of underground alcoves, I follow my new companions to a black door that leads to perhaps the most impressive aspect of the space -- the movie theatre. A short film played, “Mort Dans Le Film”, which tells the story of a young West Indian in France. Although, I barely had any idea of what was going on and had to get most of the plot translated after the movie. The director came on-stage afterward and explained to us that, “Mort Dans Le Film was inspired by a medley of stories experienced by my relatives, friends, brothers, all young West Indians living and evolving in metropolitan France. It is above all a lesson in life. A life requiring certain tools, certain knowledge but above all patience in order to live or survive this feature film of life.” At least, that’s what I was told he said.
Immediately after the director finished addressing us, the crowd was ushered back to the dance floor where the main actor in the film, Tuco Gadamn began performing a set with some additional bars from his co-star Joeystarr. The crowd rapidly became a moshpit to which I happily joined in. However, that was the last time I saw my date. Oh well.
When the set finished and the DJ returned, I left to have a cig in the Dream Forest. The Dream Forest being a smoking room that looked straight out of a scene in Twin Peaks, with pale yellow steel trees and two-way mirrors that gave the illusion of infinity. While enjoying my cig and cooling off from the pit I was approached by two girls asking for a light. Following some small talk with them, they invited me to come with them to a rave nearby. With the mysterious disappearance of my date in mind I obviously accepted their invitation.
While departing the club with my new friends and once again hitting the familiar cobblestone streets, my journey now taking me into the heart of one of Paris’ famous clandestine “fêtes sauvages," I had no doubt about it, Silencio is a beguiling curio and truly a Lynchian masterpiece.
We quickly arrived at the metro and after three different trains, we had ridden public transport to its end outside of Paris. We were still 20 minutes from the venue and on the street outside, a young couple dressed in multi-coloured jeans, crop tops, and oversized jackets stood around lost. We knew we were heading to the same place and joined them to split a cab.
Pulling into a dark street in the seemingly abandoned suburbs, we heard the bass shaking the world from a mile away. We had arrived at the venue. “What are you here for?” the driver asked. “Une soirée techno,” the girls said, “Wanna come?”
When we got there, eight people were standing in a semicircle in a cloud of smoke wafting from their cigarettes. Two, tall, muscle-bound men stand in front of two likewise enormous metal doors. We greeted them and as they opened a smaller door within the big doors, they waved us through with a friendly smile.
We end up in a crowded alleyway and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. People in the most eccentric outfits fill the tiny street. I walk past a tall guy in a long latex coat, and, as the cigarette smoke dissolves in the cold autumn air, it reveals the eyeliner on his face, starting from his eyes and forming into a dragon covering half of his face.
Facing him is a girl with a dagger tattoo on her neck. I see a man with beautiful black shades, covered in pearls. A girl stares at me and the icy lenses in her eyes stand out from the abundance of black eye shadow on her face. I’m mesmerized by creativity, surrounded by people in their DIY outfits. I notice how the city’s feeling for fashion is reflected in its “rave-chique.”
The energy in line is tense and I can sense everyone’s collective excitement. Eventually, we reached a large warehouse, with more people packed around the entry, and then we passed through into a second warehouse through a small hole in the side of it.
It’s dark, we can't see a thing, but we knew there were hundreds of people around us. The room was hot and humid. A blinding white light flashes and I could faintly see that people were already climbing up the stage, dancing wildly under the strobe lights. The air smelled of sulfur -- smoke from a fog machine somewhere in the ceiling. A computerized voice filled the room and hundreds screamed in response. Then, suddenly, the crowd let loose as we were hit by the full force of the techno beats. Dizzying red lights swirled around. Lasers flashed and scanned the room. Strobes pulsated. There was a steady boom, boom, boom pounding from the speakers surrounding us -- 120, 130, 140, 150, 160 beats a minute. Few lyrics, no melody. The sound was hardcore -- a brutal, primal, high-speed brand of electronic music.
There's no real way to dance to this. Dancing to techno is like keeping time with a blender. You just move. Jump. Shake. Run. Scream. Arms and legs flailed. Dozens of Doc Martens stomped the concrete floor. Scores of pageboy haircuts bobbed back and forth. Hips twisted. Left and right swinging baubles, whistles, dog tags, and pacifiers hanging from necks on long black cords. It was a ritual. This was dancing with an intense single-mindedness -- to enjoy the sheer energy and rhythm of the music, to celebrate youth, to stay up all night, and to perhaps feel a little dangerous.
People seemed to be having the time of their lives, most of them I assume because of all the booze and drugs. Everyone is either doing lines or popping molly, depending on the mood, and they are not concealing it. At Silencio, you had to go to the bathroom to do a line. Here you could just do it on one of the scattered tables in the middle of the room.
It’s safe to say that this secret soirée would’ve resonated with the no-holds-barred escapism of the original ‘90s party spirit. There was an air of utopianism, hedonism -- a certain taste of freedom and carelessness that was recreated in this nocturnal wonderland. Where deviancy was the norm, and one could let loose away from prying eyes.
The rave featured an eclectic mix of music from a range of DJs where the collective construction of vibrational ecologies concentrated on low frequencies, where the sound overlapped tactility, and also some ABBA.
You could also hear them clinging to childhood in the music. The sound is gritty and unpolished, something that sets it apart from the minimal techno that filled the gaps between the early ‘90s and today. A pounding, aggressive kick is sliced by high-pitched laser-y synths, grainy handclaps, and samples of spoken words that sounded like they were from old French cartoons. There was a sense of chaotic enjoyment -- completely uncontrolled and made for the dance floor. However, adulthood, with all its responsibilities, will come soon enough. Like yesterday's hippies and flower children who became today's lawyers and accountants, this crowd, too, will change in time. But for now, young, free, and not burdened with 8 A.M. budget meetings, it goes raving.
Beyond being extremely cathartic, dancing for up to 12 hours straight carries more meaning. The rave was an interminable emblem of freedom to them. It was a safe space to unwind and unleash the most raw, authentic, and unashamed version of themselves. Inherent in the rave was a defiance of the establishment, a disregard for the rules; it was a place without boundaries. Among those ravers was a space of self-managed counterculture that, beating society’s attempts at suppression, continued to exist and even thrive, much like those in it. The ravers relished in that knowledge and felt empowered by that freedom.
After a couple hours, my friends began arguing in favour of their favorite set, while someone in the crowd caught my attention. A man, about forty-years-old. I saw him earlier in line, and he already looked like he was tripping balls then. But in raves, a lot of people don’t look quite right. Whether it is their dilated pupils or dazed look, their strange style, or just the way they behave, techno parties are always places filled with weirdos. Don’t get me wrong, I like being surrounded by weirdos -- why would I even go to such parties if I didn’t? But for this man, it was different.
Never had I seen someone reach this level of worrying abstraction. He was walking slowly, talking to himself, then turning around, almost falling on the ground, turning again, and looking around in complete distress. He looked as if he’d completely forgotten where he was, why he was there, and most importantly, who he was. It looked like he was about to OD… and then suddenly he stripped to his boxers and started stretching against the stage before dancing. I couldn’t help but laugh.
A little time passed, I looked in his general direction again. The guy had found a support pole, wrapped his body around it, and was looking rapidly in all directions like a lizard, bending his body backward and flicking his tongue. At that point it was obvious he was enjoying Ketamine.
I tapped one of the girls on their shoulder to check out the spectacle, and she started laughing her ass off. Turned out, John Doe is their fucking dentist. That explains his love for ketamine I suppose.
After the show from the dentist, it was time to go and from here on out the rest of my memories are hazy fragments of the epicurean night’s end. The only event I remember being worth sharing was at an afterparty at one of the girls from Silencio’s apartment One of the guests got a little out of hand, breaking wine bottles on the floor, and had started dancing in the shards of glass in his bare feet. The dance floor cleared and formed a circle around him, watching as he began rolling around on the floor cutting himself on the glass. The owner of the apartment started yelling at him to get out and he turned to her and said, “Stop censoring my art.” I passed out on a couch soon after, the only fitting end to my night’s journey.
