Pulling Focus

By Fred T. Miller

In May of 2003, I found myself in Paris, France. Of course I visited the wonderful museums, gazed upon awe-inspiring architecture, and consumed amazing food and drink. I did my part in keeping the local souvenirs shops in business as well. I bought way too many. But one souvenir far out-ranks the others. It was a copy of Rolling Stone magazine I purchased from a street vendor a couple days into the trip.

I scanned each page of the publication but found it difficult to take in the information as it seemed to be written in a completely different language. What a rip off. 

Then I got to the last page.

At the top it read “Concerts.” Wrapped up in all that Paris had to offer, it had never occurred to me – even as a life-long music fan – that I might be able to take in a rock show on my trip. I ran my index finger down the list of shows playing in the area. Many had already come and gone. I was holding out hope. 

I was almost down to the end of the list when my heart leapt. The White Stripes were playing the NEXT NIGHT, two blocks from our hotel. I immediately went into “acquire tickets mode.” Concert goers know that mode well. Where do I get tickets? Is it sold out? What is the venue like? Are there any good seats left?

I high-tailed it back to the hotel and asked our very helpful concierge if he could assist in locating tickets. After a few moments on his computer and a quick phone call he returned with bad news. It was sold out. Ugh. “Why didn’t I plan this out?” I cursed myself.

He suggested I try getting tickets outside the venue the night of the show. But warned it may cost me. It was my only hope. I was willing to pay whatever I had to. Within reason. Nope. Screw reason, I had to get a ticket. With about $100 worth of Euros on me, I exchanged more of my American cash, determined to get into that show.

Many American bands are in high-demand in Europe. And the White Stripes had just released their masterpiece “Elephant” only two months before, making their tickets all the more coveted. I played that album so much on my headphones while on the trip that to this day, every time I hear one of those songs, it takes me right back to that wonderful city.

The next evening I grabbed my wad of Euros and made the walk down to L’Olympia Theater to try and claim a ticket. What I didn’t realize at the time was the history behind the theater itself. It opened in 1888 as the first music hall in Paris. It closed its doors during both World Wars and had among its performers the Beatles in 1964, the Rolling Stones in 1966 and a young Bob Dylan played there on his 23rd birthday in 1964. My rendezvous had me heading to hallowed ground. 

I arrived about three hours before the show to a line already about a block long. That didn’t bolster my chances. Unlike most American shows, there wasn’t a dozen guys waving tickets above their heads, trying to make a quick, lucrative buck. That only added to my anxiety. What I would give to have one of those vultures swoop in and peck at my bones at this moment. Where were they when I needed them? And it didn’t help that the only French I knew was “hello,” “please,” and “thank you.” Negotiating was going to be difficult. 

Guess I’d just have to rely on my incredible American charm.  

I walked up and down the sidewalk, casually craning my neck to see if anyone was selling. The line grew longer. Thirty minutes had passed and I still didn’t have a ticket. I felt like a teen watching all of his friends heading to the best prom ever while he was locked out. 

Then I spotted a guy standing just to the left of the line, counting cash. I quickened my pace in his direction. 

“Are you selling tickets?” I asked as I watched him hand two tickets to a guy on the sidewalk, my hopes rising. 

In a thick French accent, but speaking English, the guy said, “Ehhhh, I was. But these were my last two.”

My heart sank. My face gave away my grief. 

“If you wait here, I can find my friend who is also selling,” he replied with a smile, perhaps sensing a big sale. 

“Yes! Yes please, S’il vous plaÍt!” I stammered. 

When he took off, I asked the couple how much they had paid for their $25 face-value tickets, expecting maybe $200 or $300. They replied $30 apiece. Insert spit-take here. WHAT?

I was taken aback to say the least and crossed my fingers that my luck would be as good. When the two gentlemen approached I saw that the new guy was holding tickets. My optimism grew. 

Hoping to get the same deal as the couple standing next to me, I told the guy I’d give him $30 for the one ticket. He shook his head. “Here we go,” I thought. “So how much do you want?” I asked.

He looked at his friend, then back at me. I’ve seen that look before. And it usually meant I was about to be fleeced. 

“Ehhh, how about $35?” He said trying to gauge my reaction. 

“Well, he just sold his for $30 apiece,” I countered. Why I was negotiating at this point, I have no  idea. “Just pay the the few dollars extra, you idiot!” I screamed inside. 

The guy hesitated and feigned walking away. And the trick worked. Sound judgment quickly kicked my greed to the curb and I brandished the cash and took the deal. He was quite pleased with the transaction. But not nearly as much as I was. 

It was the first time I had seen the White Stripes live and it was très bon. For the show they took out all of the main floor seats in the small theater. Allowing guests to stand where they would like. I got up to about the fifth row of people. I could see Jack White’s sweat dripping off his face. 

I had never heard the guitar played like that. He played with reckless abandon as the band tore through song after song, hardly hesitating in between. Songs like “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” “Black Math,” and the song that initially got me hooked on this band, “Fell in Love With a Girl.” They did a number of covers including Dolly Parton’s “Jolene,” Lead Belly’s “Boll Weevil,” and Bob Dylan’s “Love Sick.” Of course the encore included their big hit, “Seven Nation Army,” which had just come out as a single a few weeks prior. 

The performance would inspire me to name my first two cats Jack and Meg after the two members of the band. 

We still had a few more days left in Paris after that show. You couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. In the wake of that experience, the Eiffel Tower seemed a little more magical, Mona Lisa’s smile a little brighter, and the Arc de Triumph took on a new meaning – just for me. 

Oh, and also on that list of concerts was Bruce Springsteen. We managed to gets tickets for that as well – at a 90,000-seat stadium. But that’s a story for another day. 

I still have that Rolling Stone magazine. Every few years I take it out and look at that last page and smile. Who knew a silly souvenir would bring such joy?