Michael from South Pasadena inquires, “Mitch, did you know Johnny Hallyday?” I sure did, Michael. I sure did. It was back in the 20th Century. My friend Ashley Kahn had done some production work for him in NYC and, when they called him the next year, Ashley couldn’t do it so he sent them my way. It was this time of year when work is always slow and they agreed to my day rate so I was cool with it, even though I didn’t know what the gig was going to be. Johnny was going to be staying down the street from me at The Pierre and he had me rent a big, white Cadillac. That was all I knew.
I had spent enough time in France to know that Johnny Hallyday was every French person’s one-line answer to the question, “What rock star did FRANCE ever produce?” Johnny was the French-speaking world’s Elvis Springsteen, but maybe a bigger rock star than those two combined. The French equivalent to the Today Show had a Johnny marionette as a permanent guest. He sold out football stadiums whenever he felt like it. Any time he sneezed, it made headlines. No biggie for me; this is what I do.
So, the first day, I pick up him and his 23-year-old girlfriend. I take them to lunch, I take them shopping… “So, Johnny, uh, what are we going to be doing, recording an album? Am I getting the rest of the band from the airport? Renting gear? What’s the plan?” “No,” says Johnny, “this is it. We’re just taking a little holiday in New York.” WHAT?! Three weeks of sitting in traffic in a Cadillac?! How did I get scammed into this one? I was miserable.
The second day they went shopping at some fashionable army/navy-type store with stylized military gear for 5 times what the price should be. I couldn’t stand it. As they walked back to the car empty-handed, I said, “Get in the car. You want army/navy; I’ll show you army/navy.” And I took them to the spots every real New Yorker knew— Weiss and Mahoney, the place on Canal St. They loved them; they cleaned the places out.
So now, instead of me sitting in the car while they ate, Johnny invited me in to the restaurant. And after a couple of days of this, Johnny said to me, “Mitch, it’s getting a little embarrassing: me and her and YOU.” Johnny showed me that day’s French newspaper with a picture of the 3 of us on the cover. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or someone you can invite to join us?” So I called Madame and we went off to dinner at Le Colonial, and the next night it was Le Bernardin (with Johnny’s age-old friend, owner Maguy Le Coze) and the next night it was Nobu and on and on… Night clubs, concerts, secret bars… I was partying like a French rock star WITH a French rock star! It was about time the world recognized the lifestyle that I was owed for all those ants that I didn’t step on.
And I got to know Johnny (and that girlfriend) very well. All those French phrases like “bon vivant” and “joie de vivre” were coined to describe Johnny Hallyday. The guy was unflappably cool at all times and there was always a great story at arm’s reach.
One night we were well in our cups at 3am when Johnny says, “Mitch, have a cognac with me!” “Thanks, Johnny,” I say, “but I have to get you back to the hotel tonight.” Johnny got dead serious and looked me in the eye: “Mitch, you know I am friends with all the race car drivers, 24 hours at Le Mans, and, you know, before the race, there is always a toast of Champagne” (pronounced, of course, the French way: “shom – PON – ya”). He was not to be denied. He refused to accept the idea that I couldn’t park in the crosswalk, couldn’t leave the car with the engine running in front of Macy’s on 34th Street. Didn’t they know I was with Johnny Hallyday?
If I asked him a personal question, he answered it. He had magnificent stories about his friendship with Jimi Hendrix. I would have to imagine that someone must have interviewed him about that at some point although I have never read or seen any of them. Jimi’s first gig in Europe was opening for Johnny at the Olympia (one of my favorite venues). Johnny would scoot over to London to stay with Jimi and Jimi would do the same in Paris, each escaping his own home stardom. The were best of mates although Johnny acknowledged that at that time he was always in it for the girls but for Jimi it was always about the music; it was never not about the music (this, I can tell you, is what everyone who knew Jimi always says).
I don’t want to get too cornball here but, as you got to know him, yes, there was also a dark side. It turns out that France’s number one son wasn’t even French; his father was Belgian. Johnny was raised as a bit of a street urchin in Paris and yet he had never visited the Louvre. By the time he was interested, he couldn’t possibly go out in public like that. People were camped out in front of his place 24 hours a day. And that girlfriend wasn’t quite the devoted sweetheart she appeared to be. I’ll just say that it was a very French sort of arrangement.
Johnny and I got to be very good friends after a few weeks, as one does when one is living that suitcase lifestyle. He gave me his personal contact info in Paris and St. Tropez and insisted on taking pictures together at the airport.
Some years later I was in Cannes and who should be showcasing a new album but Johnny! I walked up to the doors and told them (in French) that I was an old friend of Johnny’s from New York. All of a sudden, I was surrounded by hundreds of people saying that they too were old friends of Johnny’s. I walked around to the back of the venue, found the employees entrance and breezed on in to the dressing room. Johnny wasn’t there but I left him a nice note and came back later to see the show. All that time we had spent together and I had never heard the guy sing! He was kind of a belter, not exactly my favorite kind of singing, but the guy certainly had personality and he held that room in his hand with the best of them.
And that was the last time I saw Johnny Hallyday.
Michael from South Pasadena inquires, “Mitch, did you know Johnny Hallyday?” I sure did, Michael. I sure did. It was back in the 20th Century. My friend Ashley Kahn had done some production work for him in NYC and, when they called him the next year, Ashley couldn’t do it so he sent them my way. It was this time of year when work is always slow and they agreed to my day rate so I was cool with it, even though I didn’t know what the gig was going to be. Johnny was going to be staying down the street from me at The Pierre and he had me rent a big, white Cadillac. That was all I knew.
I had spent enough time in France to know that Johnny Hallyday was every French person’s one-line answer to the question, “What rock star did FRANCE ever produce?” Johnny was the French-speaking world’s Elvis Springsteen, but maybe even a bigger rock star than those two combined. The French equivalent to the Today Show had a Johnny marionette as a permanent guest. He sold out football stadiums whenever he felt like it. Any time he sneezed, it made headlines. No biggie for me; this is what I do.
So, the first day, I pick up him and his 23-year-old girlfriend. I take them to lunch, I take them shopping… “So, Johnny, uh, what are we going to be doing, recording an album? Am I getting the rest of the band from the airport? Renting gear? What’s the plan?” “No,” says Johnny, “this is it. We’re just taking a little holiday in New York.” WHAT?! Three weeks of sitting in traffic in a Cadillac?! How did I get scammed into this one? I was miserable.
The second day they went shopping at some fashionable army/navy-type store with stylized military gear for 5 times what the price should be. I couldn’t stand it. As they walked back to the car empty-handed, I said, “Get in the car. You want army/navy; I’ll show you army/navy.” And I took them to the spots every real New Yorker knew— Weiss and Mahoney, the place on Canal St. They loved them; they cleaned these places out.
So now, instead of me sitting in the car while they ate, Johnny invited me in to the restaurant. And after a couple of days of this, Johnny said to me, “Mitch, it’s getting a little embarrassing: me and her and YOU.” Johnny showed me that day’s French newspaper with a picture of the 3 of us on the cover. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or someone you can invite to join us?” So I called Madame and we went off to dinner at Le Colonial, and the next night it was Le Bernardin (with Johnny’s age-old friend, owner Maguy Le Coze) and the next night it was Nobu and on and on… Night clubs, concerts, secret bars… I was partying like a French rock star WITH a French rock star! It was about time the world recognized the lifestyle that I was owed for all those ants that I didn’t step on.
And I got to know Johnny (and that girlfriend) very well. All those French phrases like “bon vivant” and “joie de vivre” were coined to describe Johnny Hallyday. The guy was unflappably cool at all times and there was always a great story at arm’s reach.
One night we were well in our cups at 3am when Johnny says, “Mitch, have a cognac with me!” “Thanks, Johnny,” I say, “but I have to get you back to the hotel tonight.” Johnny got dead serious and looked me in the eye: “Mitch, you know I am friends with all the race car drivers, 24 hours at Le Mans, and, you know, before the race, there is always a toast of Champagne” (pronounced, of course, the French way: “shom – PON – ya”). He was not to be denied. He refused to accept the idea that I couldn’t park in the crosswalk, couldn’t leave the car with the engine running in front of Macy’s on 34th Street. Didn’t they know I was with Johnny Hallyday?
If I asked him a personal question, he answered it. He had magnificent stories about his friendship with Jimi Hendrix. I would have to imagine that someone must have interviewed him about that at some point although I have never read or seen any of them. Jimi’s first gig in Europe was opening for Johnny at the Olympia (one of my favorite venues). Johnny would scoot over to London to stay with Jimi and Jimi would do the same in Paris, each escaping his own home stardom. They were best of mates although Johnny acknowledged that at that time he was always in it for the girls but for Jimi it was always about the music; it was never not about the music (this, I can tell you, is what everyone who knew Jimi always says).
I don’t want to get too cornball here but, as you got to know him, yes, there was also a dark side. It turns out that France’s number one son wasn’t even French; his father was Belgian. Johnny was raised as a bit of a street urchin in Paris and yet he had never visited the Louvre. By the time he was interested, he couldn’t possibly go out in public like that. People were camped out in front of his place 24 hours a day. And that girlfriend wasn’t quite the devoted sweetheart she appeared to be. I’ll just say that it was a very French sort of arrangement.
Johnny and I got to be very good friends after a few weeks, as one does when one is living that suitcase lifestyle. He gave me his personal contact info in Paris and St. Tropez and insisted on taking pictures together at the airport.
Some years later I was in Cannes and who should be showcasing a new album but Johnny! I walked up to the doors and told them (in French) that I was an old friend of Johnny’s from New York. All of a sudden, I was surrounded by hundreds of people saying that they too were old friends of Johnny’s. I walked around to the back of the venue, found the employees entrance and breezed on in to the dressing room. Johnny wasn’t there but I left him a nice note and came back later to see the show. All that time we had spent together and I had never heard the guy sing! He was kind of a belter, not exactly my favorite kind of singing, but he certainly had personality and he held that room in the palm of his hand with the best of them. There was no question that you were watching a classic at work.
And that was the last time I saw Johnny Hallyday.