Underground Jazz in Paris

I never thought I’d hear the song “Blueberry Hill” sung with a French accent. But here I was, enthralled at the enthusiasm and energy of a French band belting out the tune that I always associated with reruns of the television show Happy Days. The song came to a rousing finale, the crowd burst into applause, and over the raucous din you could barely hear the lead singer shout “Merci!”

I traveled halfway around the world to enjoy French culture in perhaps the most cultural French city of them all – Paris – and I’m listening to a playlist of early American rock favorites sung in English. Yet I couldn’t be happier. This is exactly how I imagined Paris nightlife to be. It just happens to be set to a different tune.

I’m at Caveau de la Huchette, an underground jazz club in the Latin Quarter of Paris. It’s not considered “underground” as in being a little known jazz club. No, it’s actually under the ground. Just like Paris’ sewer system and catacombs are tourist attractions located underneath the City of Lights, so, too, is the Caveau de la Huchette.

Escaping the busy streets of the Latin Quarter, I ducked into the small entrance for the famous jazz club that seems to be a fixture in France guidebooks.

Walking through the long, ancient foyer with a bar on one side and cozy seating on the other, I suddenly started questioning if I found the right place. Sure, I was 45 minutes early, but no one was sitting around nursing drinks. There was no stage or dance floor. The place seemed to be deserted.

Then I saw it. A small staircase at the back of the room circling down into a mysterious lower level. No signs. No pretense. Just an ancient arched entry. Precipitously traipsing down the unevenstaircase, I entered into a room that was shadowed by dim lighting, looking exactly like its namesake – a cave.

I grabbed a seat on one of the few worn, narrow wooden benches that hugged the walls. They looked like they should have been found in a church several centuries ago. Actually, in this part of the world, the benches probably were in a church several centuries ago. Now their new life was to be witness to the pulsating rhythms of rock and roll. The irony was not lost.

Sitting on the hard seat with my spine ram-rod straight, I had plenty of time to ponder the patchwork room with tiny alcoves and vaulted stone arches. The enclave has been used by The Templars, the Freemasons, and even revolutionaries since 1550. After World War II, Americans spread the joys of jazz to Paris in places like this. Caveau de la Huchette, claiming to be the oldest jazz club in France, is one of the few that remain.

Stirring me out of my revelry, a string of Parisians started to flood the room. It was nearly show time. The wardrobes from another era indicated that these patrons were serious about their intentions for the night. Oxford shoes with coordinating colors of leather were tightly laced up on the feet of the men. Women sashayed in form-fitting dresses of flowery patterns that instantly recalled the post-war days of jazz. Slouchy cardigans, baggy wool pants held up by suspenders and tell-tale towels draped over their shoulders indicated that there would be plenty of dancing tonight.

Seemingly in an instant, the room was packed. The cool damp air inside the stone walls soon escalated into a warm, muggy blanket cocooning the long-familiar friends who were now chatting with each other and catching up on this, their night to shine.

When the five-member band entered the room and took to the stage about the size of a postage stamp, the anticipation was at a fever pitch. A few practice notes strummed on a base was enough to draw couples to the dance floor for preliminary runs of their boogie-woogie moves.

And then it happened.

As the band started crooning their very first stanzas, the floor erupted with swing dancers. The serious, the amateurs, and the tourists who had no idea what they were doing were all doing battle on the small confines of the dance floor. Bodies collided, laughter erupted, and elderly couples embraced in a dance that they had taken a lifetime to perfect.

This wasn’t just a jazz performance to sit back and watch. I wouldn’t even consider it a dance hall. No, on this Saturday night at the Caveau de la Huchette, this could be classified as nothing less than a celebration of life. The joy and the energy was palpable. After all, it’s hard to be stoic and grumpy when the vibrations of jazz and rock songs are pulsing through your body as you are sitting just a mere 15 feet away from the stage.

A young swing dancer with a comically ancient wardrobe made the rounds among the single women. Coaxing them onto the floor, he guided them through beginner swing dance moves, though his free-roaming hands usually resulted in him being left behind on the dance floor. A local man who looked like he was close to his centenary celebration could barely walk into the room, yet somehow came to life twisting and turning to the beats on the dance floor.

The revelry atmosphere in the Caveau de la Huchette was clearly going to continue long into the night. Just as I thought no more people could squeeze into the cave, plenty more did. Late comers were forced to bide their time standing on the circular stairs, waiting until there was an inch of space that opened up on the dance floor.

Hot, worn-out and thankful to have experienced this Parisian underground jazz club scene, I ventured up the staircase and through the bar (no one was there – they were all dancing!) into the cool night air on Rue de la Huchette. The crowds were thick and raucous out here on the streets of the Latin Quarter, too, but in no way could compare to the joyous cacophony that could only be found underneath Paris.I never thought I’d hear the song “Blueberry Hill” sung with a French accent. But here I was, enthralled at the enthusiasm and energy of a French band belting out the tune that I always associated with reruns of the television show Happy Days. The song came to a rousing finale, the crowd burst into applause, and over the raucous din you could barely hear the lead singer shout “Merci!”

I traveled halfway around the world to enjoy French culture in perhaps the most cultural French city of them all – Paris – and I’m listening to a playlist of early American rock favorites sung in English. Yet I couldn’t be happier. This is exactly how I imagined Paris nightlife to be. It just happens to be set to a different tune.

I’m at Caveau de la Huchette, an underground jazz club in the Latin Quarter of Paris. It’s not considered “underground” as in being a little known jazz club. No, it’s actually under the ground. Just like Paris’ sewer system and catacombs are tourist attractions located underneath the City of Lights, so, too, is the Caveau de la Huchette.

Escaping the busy streets of the Latin Quarter, I ducked into the small entrance for the famous jazz club that seems to be a fixture in France guidebooks. Walking through the long, ancient foyer with a bar on one side and cozy seating on the other, I suddenly started questioning if I found the right place. Sure, I was 45 minutes early, but no one was sitting around nursing drinks. There was no stage or dance floor. The place seemed to be deserted.

Then I saw it. A small staircase at the back of the room circling down into a mysterious lower level. No signs. No pretense. Just an ancient arched entry. Precipitously traipsing down the unevenstaircase, I entered into a room that was shadowed by dim lighting, looking exactly like its namesake – a cave.

I grabbed a seat on one of the few worn, narrow wooden benches that hugged the walls. They looked like they should have been found in a church several centuries ago. Actually, in this part of the world, the benches probably were in a church several centuries ago. Now their new life was to be witness to the pulsating rhythms of rock and roll. The irony was not lost.

Sitting on the hard seat with my spine ram-rod straight, I had plenty of time to ponder the patchwork room with tiny alcoves and vaulted stone arches. The enclave has been used by The Templars, the Freemasons, and even revolutionaries since 1550. After World War II, Americans spread the joys of jazz to Paris in places like this. Caveau de la Huchette, claiming to be the oldest jazz club in France, is one of the few that remain.

Stirring me out of my revelry, a string of Parisians started to flood the room. It was nearly show time. The wardrobes from another era indicated that these patrons were serious about their intentions for the night. Oxford shoes with coordinating colors of leather were tightly laced up on the feet of the men. Women sashayed in form-fitting dresses of flowery patterns that instantly recalled the post-war days of jazz. Slouchy cardigans, baggy wool pants held up by suspenders and tell-tale towels draped over their shoulders indicated that there would be plenty of dancing tonight.

Seemingly in an instant, the room was packed. The cool damp air inside the stone walls soon escalated into a warm, muggy blanket cocooning the long-familiar friends who were now chatting with each other and catching up on this, their night to shine.

When the five-member band entered the room and took to the stage about the size of a postage stamp, the anticipation was at a fever pitch. A few practice notes strummed on a base was enough to draw couples to the dance floor for preliminary runs of their boogie-woogie moves.

And then it happened.

As the band started crooning their very first stanzas, the floor erupted with swing dancers. The serious, the amateurs, and the tourists who had no idea what they were doing were all doing battle on the small confines of the dance floor. Bodies collided, laughter erupted, and elderly couples embraced in a dance that they had taken a lifetime to perfect.

This wasn’t just a jazz performance to sit back and watch. I wouldn’t even consider it a dance hall. No, on this Saturday night at the Caveau de la Huchette, this could be classified as nothing less than a celebration of life. The joy and the energy was palpable. After all, it’s hard to be stoic and grumpy when the vibrations of jazz and rock songs are pulsing through your body as you are sitting just a mere 15 feet away from the stage.

A young swing dancer with a comically ancient wardrobe made the rounds among the single women. Coaxing them onto the floor, he guided them through beginner swing dance moves, though his free-roaming hands usually resulted in him being left behind on the dance floor. A local man who looked like he was close to his centenary celebration could barely walk into the room, yet somehow came to life twisting and turning to the beats on the dance floor.

The revelry atmosphere in the Caveau de la Huchette was clearly going to continue long into the night. Just as I thought no more people could squeeze into the cave, plenty more did. Late comers were forced to bide their time standing on the circular stairs, waiting until there was an inch of space that opened up on the dance floor.

Hot, worn-out and thankful to have experienced this Parisian underground jazz club scene, I ventured up the staircase and through the bar (no one was there – they were all dancing!) into the cool night air on Rue de la Huchette. The crowds were thick and raucous out here on the streets of the Latin Quarter, too, but in no way could compare to the joyous cacophony that could only be found underneath Paris.