The Time I Met Joe Cocker
I was in Paris visiting my friend Pasqual. It was a warm summer night and after a long walk thru the city Pasqual insisted that’s I should accompany her to what she touted as the best jazz club in the city. The club was in the Latin quarter just a stones throw away from Notre Dam. It resembled a bunker more than a club. Though there was a normal bar upstairs filled with sleazy French types in matching leather jackets, puffing away and wearing sunglasses to protect them from the nonexistent French streetlights, the jazz was downstairs.
I had met Pasqual on a boat traveling from Athens to Crete. We talked through the night about Paris. As the sun rose she told me of her interest in Jazz. American Jazz in particular. She knew of everyone who had recorded anything over the past 50 years. She knew theirs songs, she knew their histories, she knew the details of each arrangement. Over the past year or two she had supported her love of record buying and performing with her band by singing in the Paris Metro. She would do a song or two in one car, pass the hat then move on to the next car. If things were slow she might switch lines completely. If north -- south was a little tight on francs she would switch to an east west route. After a 5 or 6 hours underground she would call it a day, and always with a respectable take in her pocket. She not only had a great voice but a body that wouldn't quit. Her complexion was dark and her eyes were bright blue. I am sure those sleazy French guys who didn’t give her a coin because of her singing managed to find a franc or two in their purses just because of her looks. One of the unique things about Pasqual was of course that she had to pay for everything, including her rent in coins. That mild inconvenience never seemed to bother her or her landlord though she did tend to jingle more than the average Parisian.
We were seated at a small table in the rear corner of the club. I soon learned that the building had been built over 300 years ago no doubt in the midst of some plague or another that used to grip the continent with clock like regularity. The Jazz club itself had been a wine cellar. I felt very claustrophobic in its brick walls and low barreled ceilings. My years in California must have influenced me. I kept thinking about earthquakes and the fact that there was only one small doorway out of this sub surface tomb of a club that would surly come apart with the smallest tremor.
We entered mid set and sat until the music stopped. The owner of the club came over and gave Pasqual a kiss on each cheek. She introduced me telling him that I was an American friend visiting for a few days. He reached out to shake my had in that was the French do that last you know that they consider hand shaking an inferior greeting. The obligatory “How do you find Paris?” question was asked to which I tried to answer with the obligatory "I loved it and come to the city whenever possible. Before I had finished my sentence however I was interrupted by some typical French rudeness. “There is a Famous American singer upstairs right now” he blurted out. “You should go introduce yourself 'he said to Pasqual. “You should tell him that you too are a singer” Maybe you can sing with him.” That's the way it works I thought. Just go up to someone famous, tell them you sing and they hand you a recording deal. Too many glasses of wine had fogged their perception of reality. Europeans I thought. So silly in the ways of the world. Tell a famous artist you want to sing with him. What a dolt I thought. Then again, if anyone would get handed a contract it was Pasqual. She had that, how do the French say it...a bod. I interrupted some of their endless French babbling and asked the matre’d who the singer was. “Joe Cock-air” was the response in his smarmy accent.
Pasqual was giddy. She was not so blase about celebrities as we in America are and couldn't wait to run up those medieval stone and mortar steps to see this celebrity in person even thought she had no idea who he was.
“Who is he? Will I recognize him? What has he recorded?” she asked. I do not know him. “Is he really famous?”.
We got to the top of the stairs and there standing amidst a sea of black leather jacketed was a balding, somewhat dirty middle aged man in an old brown leather jacket. Shaking and twitching as he carried on a conversation in English with another American.
“He is not famous!” Pasqual insisted that I was playing some sort of joke on her and demanded that I point out the real celebrity. Joe convulsed again. Pasqual pointed to all the handsome men in that bar like a gun at a shooting gallery.
“No really Pasqual, he is famous. I saw him on television just 3 days before I flew over here.” Pasqual insisted that I was joking and became a bit sort tempered with me in that oh so kurt French way. “ Ted. Where is this singer? she demanded.
There was only one way to settle this. We had to approach Joe Cocker and introduce ourselves.
We walked across the room. Until the moment that I tapped him on his shaking shoulder Pasqual was solidly convinced that Joe was some sort of English street urchin who had snuck into the bar for a smoke. She never believed me that he was a singer of some reputation. His teeth, of which if I remember properly he has precious few, were brown, his breath smelled of tobacco. He had just didn’t have a look that proclaimed, “Star.”
“Mr. Cocker, excuse me, my friend Pasqual wanted to met you. She is a singer of some success here is Paris. She does daily shows from one end of the city to the other I thought to myself. Joe turned toward us with a shake. He looked past Pasqual, an unusual occurrence for a male, and focused in on me. “Hey man. You know where I can get some hash here in this city?” I was stunned. Pasqual, who speaks little English, was pulling at my shirt sleeve to signify she wanted a translation from his shaky twitching almost incomprehendable English to my smoother than silk pronunciation. I repeated his request to her. She rolled her eyes. “Is unbelievable” she said.
Joe was of a single thought. He wanted that hash. So you know where I can get some hash? He repeated. “No, I don't really. I just got here” trying to sound a bit more hip that I a really am. I thought it sort of ironic that Joe Cocker was asking the only person in my age group who had never done drugs for a good hash connection.
Sorry Joe. I can't help you. “I shouldn't have asked you to get me drugs. I don't blame you for not getting them. You don't know who I am. I was thrown by this line of reasoning. “Yes, I do know who you are! You are Joe Cocker. You don't know who I am”
“You are right. I don't know you” he answered and turned back to the bar.
I had met Pasqual on a boat traveling from Athens to Crete. We talked through the night about Paris. As the sun rose she told me of her interest in Jazz. American Jazz in particular. She knew of everyone who had recorded anything over the past 50 years. She knew theirs songs, she knew their histories, she knew the details of each arrangement. Over the past year or two she had supported her love of record buying and performing with her band by singing in the Paris Metro. She would do a song or two in one car, pass the hat then move on to the next car. If things were slow she might switch lines completely. If north -- south was a little tight on francs she would switch to an east west route. After a 5 or 6 hours underground she would call it a day, and always with a respectable take in her pocket. She not only had a great voice but a body that wouldn't quit. Her complexion was dark and her eyes were bright blue. I am sure those sleazy French guys who didn’t give her a coin because of her singing managed to find a franc or two in their purses just because of her looks. One of the unique things about Pasqual was of course that she had to pay for everything, including her rent in coins. That mild inconvenience never seemed to bother her or her landlord though she did tend to jingle more than the average Parisian.
We were seated at a small table in the rear corner of the club. I soon learned that the building had been built over 300 years ago no doubt in the midst of some plague or another that used to grip the continent with clock like regularity. The Jazz club itself had been a wine cellar. I felt very claustrophobic in its brick walls and low barreled ceilings. My years in California must have influenced me. I kept thinking about earthquakes and the fact that there was only one small doorway out of this sub surface tomb of a club that would surly come apart with the smallest tremor.
We entered mid set and sat until the music stopped. The owner of the club came over and gave Pasqual a kiss on each cheek. She introduced me telling him that I was an American friend visiting for a few days. He reached out to shake my had in that was the French do that last you know that they consider hand shaking an inferior greeting. The obligatory “How do you find Paris?” question was asked to which I tried to answer with the obligatory "I loved it and come to the city whenever possible. Before I had finished my sentence however I was interrupted by some typical French rudeness. “There is a Famous American singer upstairs right now” he blurted out. “You should go introduce yourself 'he said to Pasqual. “You should tell him that you too are a singer” Maybe you can sing with him.” That's the way it works I thought. Just go up to someone famous, tell them you sing and they hand you a recording deal. Too many glasses of wine had fogged their perception of reality. Europeans I thought. So silly in the ways of the world. Tell a famous artist you want to sing with him. What a dolt I thought. Then again, if anyone would get handed a contract it was Pasqual. She had that, how do the French say it...a bod. I interrupted some of their endless French babbling and asked the matre’d who the singer was. “Joe Cock-air” was the response in his smarmy accent.
Pasqual was giddy. She was not so blase about celebrities as we in America are and couldn't wait to run up those medieval stone and mortar steps to see this celebrity in person even thought she had no idea who he was.
“Who is he? Will I recognize him? What has he recorded?” she asked. I do not know him. “Is he really famous?”.
We got to the top of the stairs and there standing amidst a sea of black leather jacketed was a balding, somewhat dirty middle aged man in an old brown leather jacket. Shaking and twitching as he carried on a conversation in English with another American.
“He is not famous!” Pasqual insisted that I was playing some sort of joke on her and demanded that I point out the real celebrity. Joe convulsed again. Pasqual pointed to all the handsome men in that bar like a gun at a shooting gallery.
“No really Pasqual, he is famous. I saw him on television just 3 days before I flew over here.” Pasqual insisted that I was joking and became a bit sort tempered with me in that oh so kurt French way. “ Ted. Where is this singer? she demanded.
There was only one way to settle this. We had to approach Joe Cocker and introduce ourselves.
We walked across the room. Until the moment that I tapped him on his shaking shoulder Pasqual was solidly convinced that Joe was some sort of English street urchin who had snuck into the bar for a smoke. She never believed me that he was a singer of some reputation. His teeth, of which if I remember properly he has precious few, were brown, his breath smelled of tobacco. He had just didn’t have a look that proclaimed, “Star.”
“Mr. Cocker, excuse me, my friend Pasqual wanted to met you. She is a singer of some success here is Paris. She does daily shows from one end of the city to the other I thought to myself. Joe turned toward us with a shake. He looked past Pasqual, an unusual occurrence for a male, and focused in on me. “Hey man. You know where I can get some hash here in this city?” I was stunned. Pasqual, who speaks little English, was pulling at my shirt sleeve to signify she wanted a translation from his shaky twitching almost incomprehendable English to my smoother than silk pronunciation. I repeated his request to her. She rolled her eyes. “Is unbelievable” she said.
Joe was of a single thought. He wanted that hash. So you know where I can get some hash? He repeated. “No, I don't really. I just got here” trying to sound a bit more hip that I a really am. I thought it sort of ironic that Joe Cocker was asking the only person in my age group who had never done drugs for a good hash connection.
Sorry Joe. I can't help you. “I shouldn't have asked you to get me drugs. I don't blame you for not getting them. You don't know who I am. I was thrown by this line of reasoning. “Yes, I do know who you are! You are Joe Cocker. You don't know who I am”
“You are right. I don't know you” he answered and turned back to the bar.