48. LES FOUFOUNES ÉLECTRIQUES

    William S. Burroughs, Godfather of the talking asshole, once performed in the notorious Montréal bar, Les Foufounes Électriques, located at 87 Saint Catherine Street East. It was the hang-out we called home, from its inception in 1983, until our departure from Montréal in 1986. Still carrying on today, its name, translating roughly to "electric buttocks", is said to have originated from "the founders habit of exhibiting their painted derriéres in old tv sets." A punk Dada Moulin Rouge!

                                                                  Hopper, Edward, Soir Bleu (1914)
     Super-coiffed dominatrix / barkeep, Vava Vol presided over the stoned bohemians, hunched along a wall-length, mirrored bar. A 360-degree panorama featured the usual suspects "Deling Deling" : selling the shit, shooting the shit, snorting the shit, and sucking face in "Dark Entries"1, against a back-drop of french windows (laden with copious amounts of snow, inside and out!). A tiny stage, tall metal drink stands, stark grey interiors, and low ceilings completed the bloody visuals (we wore red-lensed spectacles 24/7) (Les Foufs later grew to three razzy floors! hosting outdoor barbecues, a florescent putt-putt / mini-golf course; neon, plastic, sculptural hallucinations, and a black-light art-maze for goo-goo eyeballs).

                                                                      Derain, André, Arlequin et Pierrot (1924)
     Bloody knuckle time....3 a.m....de rigeur, pointy black boots and Doc Martens juxtaposed; in nose-bustin', inebriated fights; tense, circling, knife-clenching, Riot Grrrl catfights; ugly, shit-kickin', skinhead boot-stompers; English vs. French fight club brawls; and, for comic relief, resident diva Renaissance's signature, drag-queen-drama-after-sex-in-the-can skirmishes.

                                                      Cézanne, Paul, Pierrot et Harlequin (Mardi Gras) (1888)
     Late-night sets featured killer live bands; including NYC's RATARRATAR, the Dickies from San Francisco, jolly ol' England's Psychic TV, Toronto's Cowboy Junkies, and Montréal's own wacky musical tribes of irreverents; Vomits and the Zits / DBC, the 222's, Terapi, Déjà Voodoo, Terminal Sunglasses, and The Gruesomes, among many. Les Foufounes DJs cranked out Parisian punk (Les Negresses Verte, et Le Berrurrier Noir's, "Salut a toi!") and hosted eclectic and decadent performance art (shit-disturber Monty Cantsin - the electro-poop Neoist - who infamously blended live mice onstage) (Dégueulasse!)

                                                            Antoine de Saint Exupery, Le Petit Prince (1943)
     We temporarily unstupored for the artist collective PDG's live painting / art auctions, and were inspired (with fey artist friends, "Le Petit Prince" Philippe and Natasha) to obtain a government grant, to create an art space for children. We transformed a near-by apartment flat into a kiddie-amusement park / haunted house, resembling a Foufounes-daycare, featuring a theater of urban myths, rap music, walls-covered-in-black-light-murals, and a climb-aboard UFO, lit with sparklers. They loved it! (the ones who didn't run out screaming).

                                                          Geiger, Richárd, Pierrot, Pierrette és Columbine
     Every evening at sunset we'd stir from our bat-cave to our tailor-made, ladies and gentlemen's club, to savour fine whiskey, smoke wine-tipped cigarillos, dance like maniacs, powder our noses, and pop mystery pills, with fellow vamps, nighthawks, Ben La Baseheads, and scampy punk / skinhead glitterati, while the bouncers cracked.......350-pound smiles (je te vois, Le Gros Michel!). We parlayed in Isabelle's Extension, the fashion art clothing outlet run by F's significant other, who designed, ripped, spray-painted, and graffitied punk couture and prêt-a-porter (our very own Vivienne Westwood).

                                                             Ludovic, Pauve Pierrot (1915)
     I've blasted memories of the-wee-hours (tripping on my yo-yo and falling downstairs) on M's arm, regaling the Saint Laurent Street nightlife laid bare; an ongoing procession of hookers, johns, transvestites and transexuals. No shortage of freaks in sight! A cut-up tape loop of the insomniac city; a dusk-til-dawn assemblage of acid tweakers, anarchists, jones-ing addicts, sex-trade workers, chronic alkies, cheeky tourists, perverts and porn fiends; consuming dirty looks, XXX flicks, poutines (cheesy fries and gravy), and live triple-X sex shows (in strip joints and alleyways).
     Electric assholes! - virtuosos of stimulating conversation and intoxicated song. If Montréal is ever declared the aristocratic Renegade Harlot / Queen Dowager Whore of North American cities (as I've always attested She is), Les Foufounes Électriques is the crown jewel in Her stinking vulva, and we, Her ass-kicking Harlequins in tribute.

1 Bauhaus, "Dark Entries"