John-ny, John-ny!

Johnny Hallyday is stalking me.

He’s been at it since I was thirteen, pouncing on me as soon as I set foot in France. Who is this creep? An old guy with a sleazy voice from too many cigarettes, too old for his look, battering me with his guitar and single-mindedly keeping the long-haired rocker look alive.

I can go for months, years even, without being bothered by him. But just over the Channel, there he is on the radio, on people’s lips. Unheard of on our side, for the French he’s some kind of Elvis. Decade upon decade, still wearing that black leather, still filling arenas and provoking radio stations to count down the tickets sold.

This time it’s worse. Turn on the TV and there he is. Is it the leather or just his bones I can hear creaking? The mottled, aging face is hidden behind sunglasses big enough to do duty in a racing car. Yes, Johnny Hallyday does glasses ads now. Yet he can still fill the Stade de France.

I just don’t get it. I just don’t want to.

And now he’s sly. He’s using a pseudonym: Jean-Philippe Smet. That’s how he slipped in one Sunday night, into our room. And before we could put up defences, Johnny Hallyday was all around us, in a film that – gasp! – suggested a parallel universe where Johnny Hallyday was not famous; was just a loser by the name of Smet.

It was a baptism, that film. A rite of passage, an initiation trial. Johnny’s life and career laid out for our education under the guise of a thin comedic plot. A great many of his songs belted out for our appreciation, usually by his adoring fan, played by Fabrice Luchini – Johnny-worship being a largely male pastime, it seems.

Johnny was slit-eyed and pock-marked, the hair worn extra long only so it could be trimmed to a ‘reasonable’ length. I couldn’t tell if this Hallyday guy’s ego is so big he thinks his not being a star is clearly an absurd joke; or if he shows the most endearing, self-mocking humour in making this film.

Because, by the end of it, we were oddly uplifted, grinning as we hummed along with Johnny and Fabrice to the final rock star anthem, the one that has continued stalking me through every walk since:

“Tout en haut,
Tout en cuir,
Tout en noir!”

Just as he has always been.

28th April 2008