17 FLORIAN NOACK In Paris, you can prance around, wearing a banana loincloth or shamelessly swaying your hips; dancing girls sing their hearts out and release the energy they have gained thanks to machines – ‘Victory!’, cry the housewives: the electric toaster is starting to appear in the kitchen, the first washing machines are running at full speed. The refrigerator is just round the corner. Far from the elite, in dives everywhere, people gather around the wireless set, their eyes riveted on this machine that broadcasts Radio Tour Eiffel and Radiola. Voices are born that speak to everyone: Mistinguett, Maurice Chevalier and their like sketch a portrait of Paris for the whole world. Voices for everybody. Who sing to you over the surface crackle: Dans la vie, faut pas s’en faire; Paris sera toujours Paris. The records turn fast: seventy-eight revolutions per minute. Only one song per side. Just enough time to get yourself a drink before turning over the shellac disc. And everywhere there’s dancing, because Paris is a party. Everywhere people are drinking, remaking the world, mixing genres, getting to know each other; artists haunt La Coupole, La Rotonde and La Closerie des Lilas.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTAwOTQx