M83: Racing across France in the wee hours
Kevin Bronson on
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[Links to previous M83 installments at bottom of this post]
Chapter 4: In the back of a rental car speeding toward Paris, there are suitcases, a drum set and lots of Red Bull, which, until recently, was illegal in France. Oh, and me. We just completed rehearsal in Antibes and are trying to make Paris by 5 a.m. — Loic and PM to spend a little time with their ladies before our first date in Athens, and myself to do je ne sais quoi. Originally, I was going to stay in the south with Anthony, but adventure called, so I squeezed into the car and arranged to visit my dear friend Eva Husson [that’s us, below], who introduced me to M83 and directed the video for “Kim & Jessie.”
Call me a romantic, but I never get tired of road trips. Blasting your favorite music with miles and miles to cover always holds that insane feeling of freedom. We’ve been listening religiously to a band called Chairlift this past week, particularly the song “Bruises.” Maybe it’s my love affair with long trips that makes the music especially winsome, but this has got to be one of my favorite songs of the year.
French radio really knows how to crank it out. Between Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch” and Haddaway’s “Baby Don’t Hurt Me” (which we realized shares the same exact bassline as “Couleurs” off “Saturdays = Youth”), we occupied ourselves with yodeling choruses and remembering past decades with misty eyes. Eventually I passed out in a heap and woke up in time for a planned 5 a.m. rendezvous with Eva.
Hmm. I stood forlorn in the freezing morning air only to find out Eva had lost her cell phone. By the time she and her roommate Alexander appeared, I had memorized the tile pattern on the entryway of her building. Wanting to bitch but too tired to talk, I started to hike up the mandatory mountain of Parisian stairs when suddenly Alex drunkenly insisted on swinging my 25-kilo suitcase on his shoulder, where it teetered and swayed dangerously every step of the three-story trek.
My lousy mood suddenly turned to hysterical laughter. Whiskey came out and hoods were pulled over disheveled heads as we reviewed tales of drunken ATM withdrawals and heavy petting with ambiguous crushes. Alex then asked if we’d like to partake in his stash of illicit substances, but when he reached into his wallet and fished out a small piece of paper, it turned out to be nothing more than a woman’s e-mail address written on a cocktail napkin. Hearty laughter, followed by more laughter. [Above, my friend Raphael Paris lets me and a sculpture of a panther in on a secret.] … I was glad I came.
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