How often does this magical triumvirate come to pass: music, massage, and men with guitars? Apparently at a bar called Le ‘Baroc near Belleville, every Sunday night.
At 7 PM, nothing seemed amiss. A few people milling around with drinks.
Then come some boys with their musical toys. Rearranging the room, swapping tables and chairs.
Soon, the place is packed, the boys take the stage to “jam.” They start with uninspired American fare, then take it from there.
(“Ladies, you have come all the way to France to hear American songs”)
All of this is normal – you are not wrong.
Except at the next table over, a man starts giving a woman a full body massage.
Let’s assume he’s out to impress his date. Ignoring egregious PDA’s in Paris is not an uncommon fate (though I had never before seen a man rubbing a woman’s feet, then thighs, then every other part while simply sitting in a bar).
Now that’s done with – phew, no need to avert the eyes. Except no, he gives another woman a massage, then another! The count is up to three.
And now there’s a different woman, introduced by the band. A professional masseuse, apparently there all the time. She wears a nametag, posts a poster and waits for the line (and the customers go for it, blissed out of their minds).
The band has moved onto Prince, and a middle-aged man starts “shaking that a**, shaking that a**” for all of us to see. He’s popping, then locking – all not very well. The robot, then hip-grinding – he’s practically screaming “look at me.”
“You sexy mothaf*cka” the guitarist wails. I notice for the first time he’s sporting one black glove.
That’s the end of the Prince material, it’s onto Miles Davis. The musicians are hitting their stride now, the room is getting warm.
All I can say is, quite an interesting Sunday. Certainly not the norm.