the homeless in paris

In all my far-flung travels across the globe...or, more accurately, all the times I've ever been to Asia; I have never encountered homeless people in the same way that I do in Paris. Even in India, where the persistence of the children is almost unprecedented. In Nepal, where a man with polio followed me round for half an hour, dragging his distressed and tired limbs along the ground. In Indonesia, where I used to regularly buy snacks for two homeless brothers in my Bekasi neighbourhood who alternated sitting listlessly in front of the BCA and Indomart.


In Paris, there are two notable things about the homeless. One: They smell absolutely terrible. Two: They carry around a ridiculous number of possessions with them.


One of the generalisations that people make about the French is that they don't seem to wash very often. And believe me, if you came to Paris and only ever rode the Line 2 Metro and chatted to homeless people, you would probably believe that this is true. Today, it would not be an exaggeration to say that I almost passed out when pressed against a certain man's armpit. But of course, by similar generalisations, all Brits get drunk all the time and are promiscuous. And if you popped along to Ealing for an evening, you'll probably find numerous examples to back this theory up.


In reality, the Parisians are far too busy being chic to forget to wash. However, I really do believe that the homeless in France smell worse than anywhere else I have ever been. And it is December: It's not exactly 40 degrees outside. Or inside for that matter. I would have slightly more sympathy in baking Delhi heat. But in Paris there's frost on the ground, everyone is wearing those ridiculous puffer jackets and I can't leave home without wearing enough layers to clothe all the contestants of Big Brother seasons 1-11.


Point two: The mountains of stuff they lug around with them. I took less with me when I went backpacking for seven months. Hell, I took less with me when I moved to Indonesia for a year. It's practically a thrift shop laid out on the street. What can they want with it all? Half the time I'm surprised they don't pull out a full crockery and cutlery set, a dining table and chairs and have a proper sit down meal, with candles and napkins and everything. Is it because Paris is so lacking in accommodation that there is nowhere for them to squat? Quite possibly. Is it necessary to carry a cool box with you? Probably not. Except maybe for cheese.

the french: snow-savvy

Approximately 12 hours after I told a friend in England that the weather in Paris was 'cold, but not gloves, scarf, three jumpers kind of cold' it began to snow, in an Alanis Morissette kind of way (as in not really ironic, just not really fair).

Don't get me wrong: Snow's pretty. But if, like me, you have the balancing prowess of a fawn on rollerskates, snow is lethal. I once went to university one sunny day wearing ballet pumps. When I emerged from my lecture, it appeared my ability to predict the weather was akin to Channel 5's ability to show an unbiased documentary: Snow and ice lay thick on the ground, the buses were cancelled and it took me nearly two hours to walk a half hour walk home because I couldn't walk on any slopes for fear that I would fall over and break my fawn-like ankles.

In the UK, we haven't quite got to grips with the fact that when it snows, we will probably need a fair amount of grit to prevent accidents: We run out. Repeatedly. And then we shut all the schools and close down our public transport system because we just can't cope with it and it's much easier to keep everyone indoors watching Come Dine With Me and drinking tea instead of admitting that we've run out of grit again.

In France, it snowed for a few hours, none of it stuck and yet, when I made my way nervously out of work, aware that my shoes had all the grip of a pair of flipflops on an ice rink, I suddenly realised how intelligent these Frenchies are: The roads were gritted, despite the fact that they weren't even icy.

Brits take note: Steal a back up grit supply from the French. They clearly have more then they know what to do with.

catching our house mouse - part deux

Why oh why do I have to live with a clever mouse? He's like Fiver from Watership Down - he can sense danger. Either that, or he's become extremely fussy about what he eats - surely a sign that too much food is being left out for him to browse through. Clever or spoilt, the house mouse problem still remains and although I remain forever thankful that he isn't a same-sized cockroach, he needs to find a new home, because the presents he's leaving us all over the kitchen counter really aren't appreciated.

Mousetrap #1 didn't work. Nor did its successor: Mousetrap #2, which made use of cake crumbs and icing (donations from a present my housemate received in the post that day) and white chocolate which I found in the fridge. I have it on good authority that mice love chocolate. I would understand if Jamie Hince did not like this particular chocolate, however, since I also found in the fridge yoghurts dated from July. July 2010, but still: July was nearly five months ago. They had probably regenerated into a new breed of yoghurt, identifiable by their radioactive glow.


But I digress: Jamie Hince. Definitely still there. We saw him scuttling about earlier, probably because he'd smelt the chocolate, but he obviously weighed up the risk factor and decided that 'terrible things' would happen if he went after it. I don't understand what he thinks we'll do. I even cushioned the bin with tea towels, so when he did fall into it, he'd have a nice soft landing. And when we catch him, we're not planning to let him loose on the streets of Barbès - he would be crushed underfoot by one of the creepy men out there who veer into you to try and gain eye contact. We want to take him to the I Love You Wall, where there's a pretty garden he can run around and plenty of crêpe-eating tourists, so he'd always be well fed.

My next plan is to find some cheese to tempt him whether, never a tall order in France. After that, I might actually have to cave in and spend €14 on a humane rat trap. I often don't even spend €14 on t-shirts (Agnès B, €5, thrift shop), so Jamie Hince should consider himself one lucky mouse.

gig review: the answering machine @ bus palladium, paris

When I was younger, I used to be a bit of a groupie. Not that kind of groupie. The kind that whiles away her misspent youth in London's slightly dingy indie bars following bands around to pick up on the sounds of other bands and then proceeds to follows them around. I was 17; it was probably all some great illusion that I could become what Kate Hudson would've been in Almost Famous if she hadn't slept with them all anyway.

Almost 10 years later, it appears that I find myself a bit of a groupie all over again. And again: Not that kind of groupie. Because come last Friday night, I found myself queuing outside Bus Palladium, tucked away from the main strip of the shining red lights of Pigalle*, waiting to see The Answering Machine again.

They're preluded by a compere in a cowboy hat and sunglasses (it's very dark inside Bus Palladium) who makes lots of jokes about how The Answering Machine boys can pick up pretty girls in Paris. No mention of the pretty Parisian boys for bassist Gemma Evans, but then perhaps the compere knows just how crazy French men are. There's also a singing man with an interesting quiff, backed by two girls who play instruments and 'ooh' a lot. It's so Westlife cheesy, even I can understand most of the lyrics, despite the fact that they are in French. In the UK, this would go down like a lead balloon, but over in Paris, they love it. All that 'beautiful eyes' heartbroken mournful stand-up-at-the-key-change stuff.

But just as I'm beginning to lose the will to live, The Answering Machine steam in with Oh Christina and indie rock paradise is restored once more. It's a great smattering of the old stuff and the new - Lightbulbs, Home Address and Obviously Cold intertwined with Three Miles, Animals and Hospital. It's the nicely gritty sound I've always enjoyed with The Answering Machine - it's not polished rock, but that's what makes them such great listening. And they've got this incredible sense of energy, exaggerated by the way their sounds and stage presence bounce off each other with such ease. Nice guitar work, good vocal harmonies and it's obvious that they're just happy to be out touring and throwing out their songs to the world.

It takes a while for the Frenchies to really get it, by the time the band are winding up with Oklahoma and Lifeline, taken from their new album of the same name, the dancefloor has finally, reassuringly, begun to show some appreciation for music that doesn't fall under the classification of 'ballard'.

*I've noticed most of Paris' best gigs are held in Pigalle. I have no idea why. Suggestions on the back of a postcard please.

girl about paris - catching our house mouse

I've lived with a lot of horrible things in my 26 years: Rats, cockroaches, book-eating larvae and men who bring home more prostitutes in a week than the number of people living in our house (five) are probably amongst the most memorable, for all the wrong reasons. I harbour a deep seeded, uncontrollable fear of cockroaches, but most other things I can deal with.

Currently, in Paris, we have a mouse house. His name is Jamie Hince. He's grey and quite small. He likes bread and being addressed as 'mouse-y'. We're not entirely sure that he is a boy - he could be a girl, in which case we'll probably find out fairly soon when we don't live with just one mouse anymore. I don't mind if he stays squirrelled away behind the microwave, occasionally darting out to steal crumbs of baguette and misplaced spots of brie. But the problem is, Jamie Hince is getting over-cheeky. He's been running around in circles all over the floor while we've been having our late night cups of tea. He's been sneaking in and out of our rooms. He's been out scaring the little old lady who lives in the apartment opposite. He is, potentially, a mouse with a social life. And, worst of all, he's made my housemate sick.

It's time for Jamie Hince to go. I'm all for live and let live, so I really don't want him to be struck down in his glory days, squashed flat by a snap trap with not so much as a lick of peanut butter to soften the blow. Nor do I want him tricked into getting stuck to some sticky cardboard. I've seen it happen before, and it is brutal. Not only do you have to endure their squeals as they realise they are stuck fast, like some messed up version of Roald Dahl's The Twits: You also have to deal with the fact that they are still alive, but you can't set them free, unless they're resigned to spending the rest of their days disabled, or attached to a sheet of sticky cardboard. And once you've seen a mouse being stabbed to death with a stick usually used for fire twirling practice, by a mad eyed bald man from Louisiana, you are never quite the same again.

I don't believe Parisians are great fans of humane traps. I've been to the Aurouze website and let me tell you; there is no way any of that kind of torture material is getting near my Jamie Hince. I can deal with a little taxidermy when it's tasteful - I've been to Russia and they love taxidermy. It's like: 'Red Square? Pah! Come see my Zoological Museum! Then after we'll drink some vodka, who cares if it's only 7 a.m.?' And really, taxidermy was probably the most interesting thing I saw there, apart from Lenin, which is basically taxidermy anyway. But this shop, Aurouze, hangs dead rats in traps up as part of their window display. Jamie Hince will not be joining that brigade.

Here's the problem: I'm a cheapskate. So are my housemates. Humane traps are €14. That's over five times the price of a snap trap. So we decided we are going to make our own, using materials we find around our flat. The result: Mousetrap #1. Dragon's Den, Alan Sugar, Aurouze: Watch your backs. It was constructed using a cardboard loo roll with a tiny square of cracker and peanut butter in, some cardboard to form a roof and a bin; the base splattered in a liberal blob of jam. Improvements will be made pending on results. Paws crossed.

amusing signs in paris

Alternative name for this blog entry:
Indications that I am actually a 13-year-old boy.

According to a letter from the Barbès council, we have a problem with drugs and prostitution

A Chinese restaurant. Probably does good business

It's hard to tell because I took this late at night on my Crackberry, but it says 'Cheap Blonde'

girl about paris - why french men are crazy (pt 65/792)

Dear French Boys,

Here's a little hint from me to you: If I don't pick up, I probably don't want to date you. If I pass up your offer of drinks, I probably don't want to date you. Oh yes, and if I don't reply to your 300 million concerned text messages, sweet though they may be, I still probably don't want to date you.

Of course, it is entirely possible that I am at work, swimming in the Seine, campaigning for savoury crepes over sweet ones, being trampled by the Parisian riots or dead, in which case, when I'm less busy, I'll phone you back. But, for the most part, we can probably assume that I don't want to date you.

Also, if you are going to message me at 5:30pm asking to meet me at 7:30pm that day, you can probably be assured that I will not be free, even if my only plans were to go home, watch Gossip Girl in my pyjamas and eat cereal. Unless you are a highly coveted musician throwing a spontaneous gig, I will not be persuaded to leave the house. The only other situations that would persuade me out would be a fire, Jamie Hince the mouse giving birth to 100 babies and taking over my kitchen or a free giveaway of Alexa Mulberry bags outside.

Oh French Boys, I don't care how cute and charming you are (and generally you are really cute and charming): Reading through the entire library of my journalistic career* is only cute and charming when we have been dating for longer than...actually, make that, when I have met you more than once. Otherwise, it's known as stalking (see my entry, below).

Also, it's very mean to force me to send you a text message letting you down. If I were in your position, I would far rather be ignored than receive an 'It's not you, it's me' message, which I'm sure isn't acceptable anywhere any more. Except maybe in North Korea, but they ban dogs in Pyongyang, so what do they know?

Bisous,
(Actually...no bisous. You're crazy and would probably take it the wrong way)
Kate

PS. It might also be nice if you washed a bit more. But I think that would benefit the world in general, not just me. Just a thought.


*I admit it's not very long, but still, most of the recent stuff is about business. Not even my dad will read it.

i don't think, therefore i blog

Way back when I first started all this blogging malarky I used to suffer from blogging shyness. I would re-read and triple check and take five minutes out to make a cup of tea and come back with a fresh, tea-drenched mind to quadruple check whether I really, really wanted to put this blog post out to the world at large.

Now, it appears, I've swerved rather drastically over to the other side. I have no blogging shame. I blog, whack it up on the internet and hope that no one I've defamed accidentally stumbles across it. It's only when I re-read them weeks later that I realise that I still can't spell or, that since I've moved to Paris, I've adopted an inconsistent attitude as to whether I prefer to adopt the English or American versions. Say it with me: R-E, not E-R, S not Z, and what the hell is 'mono'?

This is all well and good. I write because I love it, because the internet allows me the chance to provide the bored and unemployed procrastinate an extra 10 minutes' worth of material and (trade secret here), if I don't, I actually get really antsy. I'm not joking - if I were trapped on a desert island, I would definitely be replacing my copy of the Bible with blank paper and extra pens.

The strange part now is the fact that people I know occasionally read my blog. More specifically: They read my blog and then relay pieces of information about my blog back to me, in a manner that suggests that I personally told them, rather than me mindlessly posting it up online and them killing time reading it.

I love that people I know actually take the time to read the endless rambles that project out of my brain and blog-wards. But sometimes, just a little bit; it freaks me out. If you begin the sentence: 'Didn't I read on your blog that...', then that's fine. If you suddenly relay information about me in a sneaky kind of way when I haven't told you it in person and you haven't provided the source of information, I will therefore assume you are a little bit of a sneaky blog stalker.

Comments of this type include:
Was it you who had that guy follow you home from La Chapelle, try to give you money to sleep with him and then attempt to lick your face?
Remember that time you drank six double espressos and went a bit loopy?
You should know all about being homeless!
 
Who knows? Next you could be tracking every 'see friendship' possibility on my Facebook (which, while we're on the subject, is a terrible replacement for the wall-to-wall), disguising yourself as a cigarette seller and parking yourself outside my Paris apartment, growing a moustache for Movember because I said it would be a good idea and buying me an Alexa Mulberry...actually, go with those last two, they're both fabulous ideas.

PS. A note to some of you who think this sort of thing is funny and will now use my blog material to freak me out. You are far too predictable: I know your type and I'm fully prepared.

parispretties

Shameless self promotion (I'm getting good at this): Head to ParisPretties, sister site to LondonLovelies for fun and cheap little activities to do in Paris. Expect them to get more unusual the better my French gets or as more friends come to visit me (ahem).

movember

They don't have Movember in Paris. In France, actually. And I can't quite figure out why. The French like their stubble. And who can forget the stereotype of the Frenchman in a beret with a stripy tee and a little twirly moustache. Perhaps they're afraid it would get too long and become tangled in the handlebars of their bicycle.

I'm a bit sad about this. Selfishly because I like facial hair and although Frenchmen are already pretty cute, an extra bit of moustache action can only heighten their level of attractiveness. Unless you're Spencer Pratt, of course, but then he didn't have much to work with in the first place. As far as Pratt goes though, that's not Movember; that's Fluff-all-over-your-face-ber and he probably doesn't even know what the word 'charity' actually means.

Movember, more importantly than eye candy then, should be launched, grown and talked about because it's for a good cause. So if don't know why men everywhere are suddenly sprouting an above the lip fuzz, it's not because their nose is cold: It's to raise awareness and funds for prostate cancer.

And if they're not, they should be.  Sign up. You can make up the extra days in December, when it really is getting cold and the face blanket will be even more appreciated. If you already have, or if you're female, then tell your brother/father/boyfriend/best friend/local bearded lady to head here for more details.

isn't that a bit 1970s?

Whatever your night out was like in Paris you can be sure that someone, somewhere, had an even stranger experience.

girl about paris: a word on les garçons

When I lived in Bekasi, I shared a house with an Australian, an American, a Canadian and a Welsh-ian. Our multiculturality was an endless source of fascination. The bell pepper/capsicum/pepper debate. The 's' versus 'z' when we were doing crosswords (sadly it was the New York Times and the 'z' always won out, unless you wanted to spell 'zigzag' 'zigsag'). Which country produced the best chocolate (universally established as Galaxy). But mostly, it was our varying dating techniques that were of the most interest. Throw in an Indonesian or two and we were endlessly confused. If we'd been sitting there with a Frenchie, I think my head might have exploded. Namely: We just don't understand each others dating etiquette.

My current housemate, who is English, and I have resigned ourselves to the fact that we will be forever confused about Frenchmen and French dating etiquette for the following reasons:

1. My housemate returned from a night out with a bunch of flowers. And not your averge bunch of daffs, half-inched from someone else's garden. It was lilies and roses to be precise, from a Frenchman she had only met that night and whose only interaction with her had been to ask her to dance. Three times. She refused. Three times. The only men who have given me flowers have been an award-winningly gay Brazilian, one of my best male friends and a guy I worked with who thought he was being cute and a little bit clever. He wasn't.

2. Instead of a Knock 'Em Out 'You alright...yeah, you look alright' kind of compliment, it's that slightly ridiculous, over the top 'trop belle'. Perhaps this is just Barbès but really, my morning cup of tea hadn't kicked in yet and I had forgotten my umbrella so I looked a bit like I had been dunked in a fountain, whilst half asleep. Alright, possibly, but trop belle...huh.

3. If you give your number to a British man, he will immediately call your phone to check that you haven't tried to fob him off with a fake one or, worse, Flirt Divert. Frenchmen don't do this. Therefore you have no way of obtaining, and therefore either screening or drunk dialing, their number.

4. ...You would therefore assume that they would text you saying: 'Hi, it's Jean-Paul/Pierre/Luc...' But oh no. Instead, they call. They really should've figured this out: No one who has ever had to suddenly adopt a foreign accent to deter the person they gave their number to on a tequila soaked night picks up on an unknown number.

5. If you don't pick up, they send a highly surprised and distressed text message.

6. Make that: Numerous text messages.

7. And more phone calls.

8. It takes one date - that's it - and suddenly, you are 'en deux'. Perhaps it is just the British men that I meet, but I have enough trouble getting them to commit to making me a cup of tea without asking, let alone something really scary like, oh, holding your hand in public or sharing a toothbrush.

9. After all that texting, phoning, pro-commitment palaver, they cheat. Every girl I know in Paris has had a bloke try to charm them with their zee charming French accent. Of course this is by no means a characteristic that applies solely to the French, but I find it bizarre that a nation of men so committed to labelling someone their girlfriend can be so casual about hooking up with someone else, even if she is trop belle.

10. They don't drink tea. Total. Deal. Breaker.

gig review: the drums, carl barât, surfer blood & pure energy @ la cigale, paris

Who starts a gig at 6:30? Really, who? Not us Brits. We're too busy watching Hollyoaks (no, I mean the news, the news), trying on and discarding our entire Primarni-laden wardrobe, applying 7,000 coats of black eyeliner and getting pre-gig loaded to ensure we're in the perfect mood to mosh. And then realising we've overdone it, as us Brits are prone to do, and putting the kettle on for a quiet, sobering cuppa.

So I missed Pure Energy. Because I was layering on eyeliner and necking €2 red wine and listening to I Blame Coco. And then I checked on the internet and saw it started at 6:30 and literally legged it down to La Cigale, past all the people waggling their illegally imported cigarettes and cheap perfume at me, then coolly strolled up in a manner that suggests that I am always guestlisted, checked in and got myself a beer. But I'm sure it was great.

I arrived just in time for five-piece indie rock band Surfer Blood. Their lead singer, John Paul Pitts has an incredible voice, something akin to a fallen choir boy, with this incredible roar that struck me with just a hint of Brandon Flowers. This was probably heightened with a helicopter-like sound swinging into one of their songs that gave me flashbacks of Jenny Was a Friend of Mine. Really, they're a little more like Weezer. I'm not entirely sure that the long haired men with maraccas who appeared on the stage, moshing enthusiastically, worked, but what the hell - it was energetic, it was enthusiastic and if they're playing the festivals next year, I would swing by and take another listen.

I'd seen Carl Barât two days before, so I wasn't intending to double review him. That is, potentially, a lot of Barât. 'Barât' and 'Doherty' are, shamefully, among the most used labels of my blogs, after tags such as 'music', 'review' and 'Paris' - all of which, of course, will feature here.

But actually, as it turns out, I have to, because it was a very different kind of act; namely I take back what I said about Carl being mellow. He is mellow, but that's when he's in a soulful solo album small audience being filmed for television kind of mood. Throw him in La Cigale and he's rocky. Full on black vested, floppy haired, sweaty, grungy, crowd jumping, voice roaring, guitar smoking rocky.

Je Regrette, Je Regrette is the leading song, definitely a favourite with the French, despite Carl's insistence that the French lyrics are sung with an entirely Brit accent (it works - it makes it rough and ready and oh so rock and roll). Run With The Boys is next, and it's an almost symmetrical lineup of solo album, Libertines, solo album and Dirty Pretty Things. Venue in mind, it's the grittier, rockier side of his solo album that comes out: Death Fires Come At Night and The Magus. Instead of the flurry of strings behind Carl, there's a cello - the girl playing also provides beautiful backing vocals - and a double bass which switches intermittently with a bass guitar.

 

Deadwood and Bang Bang are the choices for Dirty Pretty Things, with Death on the Stairs, The Man Who Would Be King and Don't Look Back Into The Sun making up the Libertines' selection, all of which are eagerly devoured by the crowd. It's in the latter - the closing song of his act - that there's just a hint of Carl missing a Pete to push up against and jostle for microphone space.

Last on are The Drums, who, unsurprisingly, enter on an over-dramatic start to Best Friend and continue along the same path of what I've grown to know and love: Those flourishes and over-dramatic hand gestures that would probably make even Morrissey a little uncomfortable. All those deep bows and 'merci's', fingers twisting into the air to accentuate the lyrics - it's stage presence on steroids, but, oddly, it works. Jonathan Pierce is flanked by his guitarists - one old, one new (he's settling in well). One gives Pierce a run for his money with his own twisting and flailing about - quite a feat when you're playing a guitar at the same time. The other does the moody guitarist act, but looks so sweet and clean shaven he doesn't quite manage to pull it off. It's still fabulous though - Let's Go Surfing and Forever and Ever, Amen receive a roaring, feet stomping response.

Lastly, a note on French indie rockers, all so frighteningly well behaved. In the UK, there are mash ups and sweat and pushing and rib crushing oxygen deprivation and crowd surfing. And then the bouncers get angry and haul people up and out. Over in La Cigale, was this just a bad sample? Do they usually, as recent riots suggests, scream and burn and pillage and the bouncers shake their heads and say: 'Zut alors! We'd better get the tear gas out again.' Because instead, there's no queue at the bar, the dancefloor clears between acts and no one gets a nosebleed as per my Pete Doherty experience. I don't even get a beer thrown down my back. I'm almost a tad disappointed. I'm just saying, Surfer Blood; would you trust a Brit with your drum?


The Drums, Carl Barât, Surfer Blood and Free Energy played La Cigale, Paris, on 5 November, 2010.

review: stagecoach 'not even giles would say we'll be ok'

Not Even Giles Would Say We'll Be OK is the new soon-to-be-released offering from Surrey quintet Stagecoach.


Indie-grunge with a nice smattering of folk, it's got a hint of Los Campesinos! meets Mumford and Sons, swerving from gorgeous harmonies to perfectly executed chaotic rock. These boys definitely know what they're doing, providing a tune that screams get up and have an inhibitions-lowered, pint-glass-in-the-air jump about to.


They played Reading and Leeds Festival's BBC Introducing stages this summer and, as of 18 November, are setting off on a UK-wide tour - tickets are available from their bandsite so off you pop and nab yourself some.


Not Even Giles Would Say We'll Be OK by Stagecoach is out 15 November.

gig review: carl barât secret pre-la cigale show

‘Kate, I don’t think we’re in Paris any more,’

My housemate and I, both from the somewhat questionable neighbourhood of Barbès, had just crossed the Périphérique that marks the boundaries of Paris. We now found ourselves on the outskirts of Saint-Denis. Put it this way, if Barbès is Brixton meets Holloway Road, Saint-Denis is Peckham meets Canning Town, famed for its race riots and somewhere where you don’t want to be two twenty-something-year-old girls walking alone at night. In fact, somewhere you just don’t want to be, ever.

That is unless, of course, you’re guest-listed at a secret Carl Barât gig. I offer no more details as to its location than that, but would recommend Frenchies and temporary Parisian residents keep an eye (or should that be ear?) out for a televised version of his set.

When I saw his Libertines’ sets over the summer – the warm up show at the HMV Forum and at Reading – he was all caught up in the gorgeous Carl-and-Pete, Pete-and-Carl reunion happiness of it all. It’s almost easy to forget what a seriously talented artist he is all on his own. With a baby on the way, he’s grown up and settled down, and far from drag him away from the (misguided) belief that being fucked up and footloose breeds talent, he’s positively shimmering with it.

Just to prove this, he opens with Run With the Boys, making jazzy use of a trumpet and saxophone, then almost breathes into She’s Something, accompanied by a raven haired beauty on vocals.

The break from a mash up of Libertine chaos is obvious throughout most of his set – he’s said in recent interviews he was pretty much forced into using guitars – but there’re still those tender, poetic vocals that just break your heart. Just this time, instead of the mess and the drums and the guitars, there’s a practically orchestral line-up glowing behind him. Blink, and there’s suddenly a sextuplet of strings.

With leather jackets firmly replacing the Libertines' ones, he's got a bit of a moody meets mellow edge. It works, with all those rippling, roaring strings that make those haunting tracks like Carve My Name. He, along with his band, are all in black and there are harsh beams of light coming from the spotlights set up like tic tac toe boards. As well as his main back up singer, there are two others, who flit between violins and choir-like vocals.

Carl throws us through all of the songs on his solo album, including a bonus track not released on the original: Irony of Love, which begins with piano arpeggios reminiscent of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and the cello practically sings into the end of his ‘oh darling’. There’re snatches here and there from earlier music days – Death Fires Come at Night has glimmers of The Saga. Je Regrette, Je Regrette probably the one the audience is waiting for – we are in Paris…or at least just outside of it – comes at the end, and the band troop off, leaving Carl and his guitarist. And then yes, because it just has to be…he picks up his acoustic and plays France, the bonus track from The Libertines’ self titled album, proving, if the reference to his blue eyes wasn’t enough, that it was always his song, not Doherty’s.

Carl Barât played at an undisclosed location in Saint-Denis, France, on 3 November 2010 as a warm up to his show with The Drums at La Cigale on 5 November 2010.

girl about paris - on being a barbès pro

10 signs that you've been living in Barbès too long...

1. You have a favourite street seller to buy your illegally imported Winstons from.

2. You've scoured out your own bit of pavement where you plan to sell your own fake designers. And ensured you have even purchased a sheet for a quick 'roll them up in it and run' getaway if the police pay a visit.

3. You always jump the Metro barriers. Gracefully.

4. You've been approached by a man trying to give you money in exchange for sex. And by trying to give you money, I mean actually physically trying to put it into your bag and then attempting to tongue you while you're taking the money out.

5. You're seriously considering a getting a weave, despite the fact that the ones sold in the shop next door look like the manes of My Little Ponies.

6. You know all the homeless people by name.

7. You've had to buy back your mobile phone.

8. You accidentally use French street slang in polite company.

9. The men selling used Metro tickets don't call you 'magnifique' anymore - now you're just their 'pote'.

10. You have drunk bought and eaten one of those burnt corn on the cobs despite knowing that at least seven people have touched it while it was being cooked.

And one more for luck...

You've discovered the French word for 'heroin'.