Name:
lulu
Profile:
Lulu Le Vay started out as deputy editor of mouthy fanzine Sleazenation in the mid-90s which propelled to her to become a freelance feature writer for publications such as The Face, i-D, Jockey Slut and Xray through to the Guardian Guide, The Independent on Sunday, The Evening Standard and the Observer. More about Lulu at www.lululevay.com
George Demure Archives
As an artist manager, I am fortunate enough to get the occasional opportunity to travel. Last week I took George Demure and his all-girl band to Paris for three shows at allegedly the city's most desirable venues. But it wasn't all glamour, that's for sure. As soon as we hopped off the Eurostar we set off sleepy-eyed and a bit smelly over to hip spot 'Paris, Paris' for sound check. It was blustery and spitting with rain, and there we were, stood outside for 40 minutes, surrounded by a mound of bags, waiting for someone to let us in. Finally a petite, pale faced sound engineer arrived on his scooter and we were in and able to set up for the show. The French aren't the easiest to deal with, let alone the Parisians. Once the venue was open and in full swing, the bar staff barely cracked a smile, the agents a word, and the now cross-eyed sound engineer was oozing a stench of hardcore skunk. It came as no surprise, then, that when the show commenced, the sound at a kid's tea party would've, in comparison, sounded impressive. The levels were off, the vocals too quiet (and then too loud, cringe) and despite my broken French and hurling angry gesticulations into the sound booth, the sound man was clearly twatted and thought it all sounded perfectly fine. The band pulled it off despite a rocky start and got the French wannabes prancing about in the front row for a bit, so not a complete failure.
The second show was at the exclusive Le Baron, a venue notoriously hard to get into. And in retrospect, I wish they hadn't let me in at all. Intimate in size, the decor was a rough and raunchy glam, and the band were to perform on the dance floor. Cute. How wrong could I be. The intimacy of the venue didn't translate to the hideous crowd that entered it. It was London's Mayfair meets French fashion at its ugliest. Full-on glamour dress code on a Wednesday night, people choosing to stand by the bar so their outfits could be given a full viewing, and the band barely received a ripple of applause after each song - the cocktail-sipping crowd far too cool and apathetic for that. An ice-cube was even spotted being hurled at our filmmaker, who was there to document the trip. On the verge of an apoplectic scene, the night was rescued by a sneaked in bottle of vodka which we thirstily decanted under the table. We thought we'd show them how it's down London style. And that we did.
The third night was just the tonic (hic!) we needed. At the infamous floating venue the Batofar, on the city's south side, George and his ladies put on a sterling show produced by people who actually knew what they were doing. The sound was impeccable, the lighting a dream, the staff helpful and happy to have us. They even gave us some dinner, how about that? The crowd was young and musically aware, which made all the difference. As a back slap to my band I gave them a 50 euro note each and let them have a night of it, while I hauled my poor exhausted behind back to the hotel for an early night. Good job done.
Copyright © 2008 LipstickTracez and lulu
Subscribe to this blog's feed
Email lulu