Wednesday evening, we entered the Rialto as if we were descending into a church basement. The atmosphere resembled that of a clandestine assembly. Barely a handful of spectators had turned out for Erika Hagen’s opening act, then stayed for Michel Pagliaro… The motley crowd, ranging from twentysomethings to octogenarians, was lined up in two rows of chairs arranged in a half-moon. Gripped by a parasocial nervousness, everyone waited feverishly to see if their memory of Pag would match the performance that was about to begin.
“Come on, I feel like I’m in the Grand Canyon,” Pag says, annoyed by the sound, before moving on completely. “That’s rock and roll!” he adds, introducing his band before the first note even hits.
No nasty surprises. Proud behind his sunglasses, Pag is true to himself, legendary and full of voice. After the third song, Dangereux, the atmosphere heats up. The Rialto fills up. The sedentary crowd abandons their seats to head upstage. It sounds like a ton of bricks, a concrete setlist, just hits, obviously. Good for us, since in this style, any kind of half-measure is prohibited.
Guitarist Corey Diabo knows all the notes. The gentlemen play air guitar, hoping to catch Diabo’s eye during his many solos. The most dashing of them smiles: “You need to relax and let yourself go, young people!” The invitation to dance is unequivocal. I join them.
Far from the Jonquière riots, the army wasn’t invited this time. Fifty years later, less beer is sold, but songs that, like Pag and his voice, bear the marks of time beautifully.
Photo: Charles-Antoine Marcotte
