The Auteurs quotLive Acoustic EPquot Paris 93

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Recorded live at Passage du Nord-Ouest, Paris, 22/02/93, by Morgan Productions and Paris Première. • This was actually released as a giveaway 7 single and never released on general sale. • Acoustic Guitar, Vocals -- Luke Haines • Cello -- James Banbury • TRACKLIST: (*Lacks the 2nd song from the A-Side Junkshop Clothes ) • A1 Housebreaker 0:00 • B1 Star Struck 2:45 • B2 Home Again 5:41 • Early February and Paris is calling me. France is a country where English rock groups traditionally sell jack shit, and so despite all the press attention in the UK weeklies no one at the record company has particularly high expectations. Then something happens. The French press add two and two together and come up with 12. You see the album's called 'New Wave' - which translates as 'Nouvelle Vague'. The band is called the Auteurs. Auteur theory, 'Cahiers du Cinéma', ah, it all makes sense, a band of English Francophiles. Hell, the singer's name even means Luke Hatred. The second most touted band in Great Britain seem to have French art house leanings. In interviews I am constantly asked if the title of the album refers to a new wave of British bands of which I am at the vanguard. 'A new wave of Brit Bands all influenced by this Francophile English songwriter?' Well the French wouldn't mind a bit of that. • The Cellist, Manager Tony Beard and I fly to Paris to test the water with an acoustic gig at the Passage Nord Ouest - sadly not the elusive North West Passage beloved of psycho-geographers and Daniel Defoe but a Bohemian venue close to Gare du Nord station. (The low-key acoustic promotional gig is a sure sign that the record company thinks the artist is going to tank, so keep the costs down and that's your lot. Ta very much.) We soundcheck and then go off to tackle a French restaurant. The Cellist reveals himself to be something of a bon viveur in search of an onion pastry called 'pissaladière'- As a 'non' viveur, I find his quest rather disappointing on any number of levels. • There's some kind of movie premiere at a cinema a few hundred yards from the venue and they're queuing round the block for a glimpse of Gerard Depardieu. Then it hits me. The punters aren't here to worship the old French idol; they're queuing to get a glimpse of the new one. C'est moi. The tiny 250-capacity venue sold out in minutes. We could have filled it three or four times over. The gig is a revelation. The French existentialists listen in religious reverence. The 'New Wave' songs deconstruct perfectly with acoustic guitar and cello. The audience lap it up, surrendering themselves to abandon at the end of each song. Fours standing ovations later and I'm back in the dressing room. My good vibes and bonhomie quickly evaporate when I realise there is a dastardly Gallic plot affot. Within seconds, I'm standing toe to toe and looking down at the top of tiny promoter Dominic's head. Dominic's old pal Guy Chadwick from the House of Love has turned up, and Dominic thinks it would be nice if Chadwick were to play a short improptu set to my audience, most of whom are still here and drinking at the bar. • 'It eez ze way it 'appens in Paris', offers the French fool. The verbal equivalent of the Gallic shrug. • I'm about to land one on Dominic when Manager Tony steps between us and whisks me off to a toilet cubicle to give me my calming-down pills. • 'Dominic is a very powerful promoter. He could be very useful to us.' • Man, I hate all this lickspittle nonsense, but I try and remember this is why I have a manager. I go back and make up with the little French guy. Dominic is all smiles, laughing and joking with me. He knows he's a scamp. He gets his way and poor Guy Chadwick goes onstage. He shouldn't have bothered. It's just one last gasp from a dead man. Chadwick plays his weak psychedelic House of Love ditties and leaves the stage, his psyche dismantled by the indifference of the crowd, my crowd. I smile and shake his hand when he shuffles back into the dressing room. He congratulates me on my amazing performance. I feel no pity towards him. He's yesterday's man. He should be honoured to be in the presence of the new King. Manager Tony and I stumble out of the venue, stoned and giddy with success and possibilities. I run the gauntlet of French fans and drug dealers, who all seem to have a job lot of 'ze good Iranian zmack' that they all want to kindly offload on me. Hmm, maybe they don't like me here so much after all. We finish up in an all-night bar, plotting world domination, wide-eyed and awestruck. We really are getting ahead of ourselves. • (Luke Haines, Bad Vibes. Britpop And My Part In Its Downfall. , Windmill Books, 2010, pp. 38-40)

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