I Love Paris, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Cow Fingers and Mosquito Pie

There’s really no place like Paris, especially in the spring, when people head out to the streets en masse and fill the bars and cafes with bubbling laughter and “Oh la las” and “Oui, oui, ouis” and “Oh, putains!” Not to mention progressively scantilier-clad women to found throughout the city, most of whom are trés foxy (It is true, by the way, that women in Paris are better looking than women in New York. I’ve done a serious comparative study).

And in my opinion, no one expresses this sentiment more accurately than the late great Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. He taps right into the sensuality of the place, especially when it “sizzles” in summer. You know Screamin’ Jay isn’t talking about the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower. He’s talking about that little strip club next to the used guitar shop on Rue Victor Massé, or the funky African markets in the nearby Goutte d’Or. He’s tapping into what I like to call the “seamy underbelly” of the place, where all the grime and sweat collects and never quite gets washed out.

And did I mention the chorale introduction? The juxtaposition of these barber-shop-style white guys (I picture them in plaid bow-ties with Brill Creem-ed hairdos) and Screamin’ Jay’s gritty, grunty baritone gives me chills every time. Sure, write him off as a novelty act, slinging one-liners from the pre-PC era (”I saw Mau-mau kissing Santa Claus!”), but Screamin’ Jay always managed pull it off the guts of Leadbelly and the class of Duke Ellington. And boy did he love Paris.