Amanda Palmer

We met Amanda Palmer in Pigalle, Paris’ sex district, the day before her show at la Boule Noire. In front of the venue, there were five or six of them waiting for us, seemingly from another time. Dressed up with corsets and make-up, leather boots, lace umbrellas, suspenders, a top hat... The night had not fallen yet, and everyone was looking at them. And there’s Amanda Palmer, tall, impressive, with her dress and fishnet stockings, and... her broken foot and crutches. Nat had a dozen ideas for this Take Away Show, and we thought we would have to start from square one in order to involve as little walking possible. Well, obviously it takes more than a fracture to make Amanda stay still. She was open to all of our ideas—she wanted to go there, and there, and why don’t we go there too? We were not very comfortable asking her to sing and play her ukulele while walking, but we didn’t have to; she was the one who suggested it, and she even put as much energy and joy in the second shot.

She had already chosen what she would be singing. After two covers, she chose “Icarus”. It was a song written by Jason Wembley, the guy with the long hair, who used to be a street musician with his guitar and accordion. He’s also the second half of Evelyn Evelyn, the other “Evelyn” being Amanda Palmer. We all wondered whether the violinist would fit and be able to play in the phone booth, and we feared that Amanda would slip and break her other foot. And the song begins like a street performance, and everyone wonders where this band draws all its energy from.

She wanted to cover Brel. Brel is tricky and dangerous: it’s not anyone or anything. Especially Amsterdam. She wanted to start in front of a sex shop, but a camera in front of a sex shop isn’t the greatest thing, so we were called names three or four times before we figured out how to be discreet enough to start shooting Amanda. And her performance was what you call a pleasant shock. I think one must have had to be there to understand why, at the end, we all had tears in our eyes. We were all awkwardly quiet, fearing we would break that intangible “something” the song created. Brel is tricky but Palmer was there, in Amsterdam, for 5 minutes, with sailors, and whores, and the smell of beer.