Reckless: My Life as a Pretender by Chrissie Hynde

Author:Chrissie Hynde
Language: eng
Format: azw3, pdf
Tags: Non-Fiction, Music, Biography, History
ISBN: 9780385540612
Publisher: Doubleday
Published: 2015-09-08T00:00:00+00:00

20

PARIS

Flipos’ band had no name. In fact, Flipos’ band had no band. It was the fantasy of a mad urchin and homeless gypsy, a failed magician who could make things appear and disappear but couldn’t materialize musicians or guitars or songs. But it was a start. The bee trapped in my bonnet was now a roaring cicada demanding attention.

The dark-eyed gitano, whose clanging silver talismans led a trail from up his sleeves, installed me in a tiny house near the Eiffel Tower, home to a Jewish heiress who kept fur throws, Moroccan pillows, Persian carpets and a sofa where I could crash. It was a typically Parisian one up, one down, connected by a spiral staircase, with a tiny kitchen and toilet at arm’s reach in a courtyard off Rue Lecourbe. (I was going to have to get used to staying in places whose names I couldn’t pronounce for the life of me.)

Her name was Lilian; she had long blonde hair, wore silk scarves and served tea and oranges that came all the way from China. Her Jewishness made me feel like I was back in Debbie Smith’s mum’s house in Fairlawn, cozy, with a life-affirming full fridge. I came to realize that the Jewish Princess is a universal stereotype regardless of nationality (except in Israel).

Then I met Sasha. Sasha was half-Dutch, half-Chinese and a little older than me, late twenties. I knew she had been a rock singer at some point, because Sabrina, her husband/wife, snuck me a picture showing her all done up like a rockabilly—quiff, short-sleeved checked shirt—and singing real intent down a mic in some basement club somewhere. Amsterdam, probably.

We hid the picture of Sasha in a little drawer in the tiny Indian bureau near the brass tray. Sometimes I would sneak it out and Sabrina and I would laugh, unbeknownst to Sasha. It was one of the things that was understood between us, our only language in common. Sasha no longer looked like she did in the photo. Her blue-black hair fell down her back like a horse’s tail and she dressed like a monk now—but not for long.

Sasha was meant to be the other singer in the band, and within a couple of weeks she invited me to stay at the apartment on Avenue Denfert-Rochereau. I bade farewell to Lilian, shifting my worldly goods to chez Letronière. Sasha and I had much in common: we both read the Bhagavad Gita, with lifelong devotion, and you can’t have more in common than philosophy.

Sabrina was the star of l’Alcazar—a typically Parisian cabaret and one of the last in a great tradition. Sabrina went onstage around midnight in feathers and sequins, dazzling the audience while flying through the air on a swing trailing glitter, and performing French dance-hall classics. She designed all her costumes and was constantly drawing and putting new outfits together.

In civilian life, “Sabo” looked like Lou Reed. “He” wore a motorcycle jacket, jeans, boots, striped mohair sweater and studded leather cap. I loved walking

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