The Panoyaux Adventure

While Parisian audiences had discovered deejays live as early as 1979, with Lone Ranger at the Chapelle des Lombards and I-Roy at the Bataclan, the regular sound system night had yet to be invented. The first residency, in a way. In Paris, the local scene was still in its infancy. Alerted by articles in the rock press about the London sound system scene, Didier Vacassin came back won over from his first trip across the Channel and determined to add his stone to the edifice. Roping a few friends into the adventure (Marie, Pascale and Ange), he put together five Reggae Parties, which punctuated the first half of 1983 in rue des Panoyaux, in the 20th.

"We managed to connect different worlds" says Didier Vacassin, aka Ras Gugus, with satisfaction. At the time, he insists, there was "no image, no representation of the sound system. Once there was an image, everybody copied the image that was being conveyed, and we all fell into clichés. Everybody copies everybody." Determined to reach out to the media, Didier ran up against incomprehension (Libé, which kept announcing "bands") when it was not placid indifference: "I invited guys from Radio Ivre, Radio Gilda, Hélène Lee… All the guys at Radio Ivre knew Jamaica and sound systems. For them, it was imitation."

Each night welcomed between 250 and 300 people who came to experience the sound system. The chapel to take in the bass, the courtyard to get some air, the bar to unwind… The setting was idyllic and the graft took. But 9 July 1983 would finally be the swansong of the Panoyaux. "The youth centre warned us the hall would only be available on Saturday afternoons. We had to leave…" Straight afterwards, Didier tried to promote a Mikey Dread concert at La Mutualité, a painful experience. The spring had slackened: "With time… I loved this music so much that being inside it ended up spoiling it for me. I drifted away." What remains is the feeling of having worked towards spreading this culture: "I knew full well that what we were doing was historic. That's even why I did it!", he says with a smile.

We look back on those pioneering nights with Didier "Ras Gugus" Vacassin, who opened his archives to us: we are publishing his text, "Spring 83, the first visible Parisian sound", written in 2006, together with photos by Marie Vaneetvelde. For the most curious, we complete this feature with extracts from Didier Vacassin's diary.

Spring 1983, the first visible Parisian sound

by Didier "Ras Gugus"Vacassin

The sound in rue des Panoyaux had no name. We simply said: "Les Panoyaux". Those who came will remember it. It didn't last very long, alas. But the place was ideal. We haven't known a better one since. There have always been venue problems in Paris, but there, for once, and entirely by chance, we had stumbled on an almost perfect spot. An unsuspected disused chapel, converted into an activity hall by a neighbourhood association. With a courtyard at the front, a bare plot behind, a small outbuilding at the side, in short: space, allowing you to move around, to be in the open air, to go and chat further off, away from the music… We didn't yet know that the place was slated for demolition within the next two or three years.

Of course, there were "sounds" in Paris… At least, that is what was announced from time to time, in a thoroughly underground, informal, almost confidential manner, and not always reliably, to say the least. I remember some announcements around the Gare du Nord. Or in the squats, rue de Flandre in particular. Thirty people at most, doubtful and full of goodwill, around a hi-fi system and a few candles in a dark basement, trying to be convinced by the rasta-gibberish patter of a novice toaster. It was more like a black mass in the catacombs in the days of the early Christians than a genuine blast, frankly. All the more so as every other time the thing was cancelled and you found a closed door. The charms of chance. Era 1981-82.

There was nothing back then, or not much, as far as reggae was concerned. Well, bands. They formed regularly, bands. In Paris, in the provinces. It was the post-Marley era (he died in May 81). The critics spent their time wondering who would succeed the great Bob, who would be the new king, the replacement, the new emblematic figure, a godsend for lazy journalists. A good share of the Parisian reggae scene's events took the form of "Tribute to Bob Marley", a mix of vague militancy and artistic self-assertion. With the Left's arrival in power, free radio stations finally gained recognition. Radio Ivre devoted a good twenty hours a week of its programming to reggae, showing its full diversity, playing Jamaican pressings, shifting the spotlight onto producers (Lee Perry, Augustus Pablo) or recording studios… "Radio Ivre", which Jamaicans passing through Paris pronounced "Radio Irie". (It left its mark… over there, since, as we know, Radio Irie has existed for some fifteen years in Jamaica.) In early June 1982, succeeding Concrete Jungle, the first (historic!) shop in Paris devoted solely to reggae, Blue Moon opened in the 17th. On the press side, let us remind ourselves that no magazine in France specialised in "reggae". The landscape has changed so much fifteen years on that all that has been forgotten. To keep our heads above water, there were Hélène Lee's articles in Rock & Folk and Libé, Dordor's reports and Blum's snippets in Best. As for the rest (books, magazines, newspapers), you had to go rummaging in London or Amsterdam.

Lastingly impressed, even a little obsessed, by the sounds I had seen, and kept going regularly to see in London since the spring of 1980, the project of trying something in Paris began to nag at me seriously. In the fine days of 1982, I got in touch with a certain Camille, a Haitian, in charge of a place that must have been a cultural centre for the overseas territories or perhaps a disused former embassy, at 8 rue Bossuet, behind the Gare du Nord. The place was not huge, but… original (a large mural depicting a tropical landscape, palm trees, lush vegetation, filled the whole back of the main room). With Camille and others, notably Guillaume (Radio Ivre), we made a few attempts there, rather nice ones (the party of 1 May 1982, which gathered about a hundred people, a 400-watt rig, Guillaume as host/toaster, was encouraging), but not entirely satisfying. And then, very quickly, murky troubles complicated things, alas. Hassles, as we say today. And we had to let it go. I had nevertheless believed in it tirelessly, from May to September, almost daily, without respite. The whole job consisted of putting people in touch, bringing together as many skills as possible, at every level. I remember bringing in Patrick (Leygonie, of Radio Ivre), who joined us one afternoon to have a look at the place. He was convinced… by the project, and gave us his encouragement… (which was already a lot, the attitude generally met being rather scepticism, to say the least).

A quality sound in Paris, not too amateur, serious without being too serious, taking place regularly, and in a roots venue without being grim, was on people's minds, was the desire of quite a few. But not so many had had direct experience of it, apart perhaps from the summer of 82, on the occasion of a few dates by the English sound Armagedeon in France. It was at that time, late 82, that live recordings of sounds in Jamaica were released on record for the first time. ("Aces International" produced by Junjo, "Gemini: Live at Skateland", Yellowman: "Live at Aces".) At the very start of 1983, Blue Moon brought Coxsone Sound, the legendary sound system from across the Channel, to the Palace for two (memorable) nights. That was about all, at the time. The Ivre people, and those of Blue Moon (Jean Cotton was publishing an article on deejays in Jazz Hot at that moment) toyed with the idea of doing something along those lines. In the previous months, their attempts to approach the Opéra Night, a rather chic and trendy club on the boulevards, had come to nothing. For club owners (I also experienced this with, among others, the Gibus), as soon as the word "reggae" was uttered, the reaction was invariable: drugs, trouble, unmanageable crowd, hassle with the police, and so on. It was still a public, a world, that venues did not know, did not control, and about which quite a few fantasies circulated. Black people, West Indians, Africans… Misfits. Anarchists. Nothing but troublemakers… They'll try to get in without paying, they'll smoke… For ordinary people, "reggae" invariably remained synonymous with "Bob Marley" first; immediately coupled with "a little smoke". (The euphemism that hides the spliff.) So exit the clubs. Wrong track. Nothing would be done on that side. The times were not ripe. That left the youth centres. But there, it was the hours that didn't fit. Everything had to be packed away by midnight. Not to mention the sound level that these youth centres could not accept. In short, the difficulties were many. And the thing didn't yet have an image. The culture of the sound system was, one may say, almost unknown. Putting on nights with no star, no artist, disoriented quite a few people. It had never been done before (when we started the Panoyaux, Libé, despite my repeated explanations to Conrath, obstinately kept announcing "bands" the first few times. Very irritating. That was what breaking the ground was like).

We found the hall… at 20 rue des Panoyaux (in the 20th) thanks to Bébenne, of Radio Berbère/Radio-Afrique, a free radio with two heads, born in the summer of 82 from the regroupings needed for recognition by the Ministry of Communication. Advertising not yet being authorised, community radio stations regularly financed themselves by organising shows. It was in this context that, with Papa Ange, we convinced the radio to fund the few essential improvement works. Essentially what concerned the power supply, more than insufficient as it stood for what we wanted to do. In my mind, it was imperative to have a sound worthy of the name, in volume and quality. We ran long cables that the R.A.T.P. had sold us. Potential power: 6,000 watts. We only used 2,000. Which was not always to everyone's taste in the neighbourhood, though there was never any insurmountable problem with the neighbours. Nor any police raid, for that matter (it is true that every diplomatic precaution had been taken). Another requirement: a minimum of mixing… hmm… sociological. The regulars of the African hostels, the rastas from the squats, the plugged-in enthusiasts, by definition always on the lookout, the punk defectors, the free-radio people, naturally the musicos nursery, and a wider public rubbed shoulders harmoniously at the Panoyaux. There was never the slightest incident in the five months that these Reggae Parties lasted.

To reach this diverse public, each time we handed out leaflets (we didn't say flyers back then; it was with the techno tidal wave of the 90s that people started talking like that). We put up small posters here and there around the neighbourhood. Above all, we relied on the announcements on the air at Radio Afrique where, from autumn 82, Papa Ange and I each hosted a reggae show. The other free radio stations were contacted by means of invitations, and sometimes through direct, personal contacts. (At Radio Ivre: Guillaume and Burny; at Gilda: our friend Thialy Thian. And more generally all the stations on the FM band likely to be interested. So on). This relay of the airwaves, and the music press too, were in our minds meant to ensure both an audience and the guarantee of a minimum of seriousness. But the media sauce never completely took. Essentially, we can say with hindsight, because we had no ready-made image, no "star", no name to put forward, which seemed premature to me. Simply on the posters this tagline: "Reggae Party Sound-system". We were not a posse, the gear was hired, we didn't criss-cross the country with an imposing removal lorry. In short: no question of doing Jamaican or English mimicry. All the less so as, in those heroic times, there was absolutely no competition. The question didn't even arise. That explains this. Word of mouth in any case ensured us an average of 250/300 entries each time. More people would have bordered on saturation, and it would have become something else. Which we didn't necessarily want. There was room in the chapel to skank comfortably without too much jostling, you could go and get some air at any moment, or talk further off, talk bizness (there was a lot of talk of business and projects, plans, since everything was yet to be done, everything was yet to be invented…). In the small building at the side were various stalls with ital food, drinks and the like. We even had a roving vendor (Man called Mood…).

There were five editions of these… "Reggae Parties". (That is what we had christened them; an Eek-a-Mouse tune bore this title). They took place on 19 February, 26 March, 30 April, 28 May and 9 July 1983. It ran… "from 10pm till dawn". Once a month. What mattered to us above all was first the permanence of the venue, its immediate identification with our sound and, an essential point, the regularity of the thing. Letting people know that every month there was the sound. To win the loyalty of the underground reggae diehards in Paris. To establish a ritual, rather than remaining at the mercy of the eternal vagaries, makeshift arrangements and imponderables. Naturally, a modest entry fee (35 francs…), it was precisely not the "nightclub" trip.

Comfortable sound power, a well-distributed layout of the speakers (stacks in three-way steps: bass, mid, highs separate), monitors, 27-band equalisers, echo chamber… A Syndrum too, that thing you mostly heard on the Joe Gibbs maxis. The whole desk (turntables, mixing desk, mics, selector, in short: the control tower) was set up high, the deejay addressing the crowd from a sort of balcony-like projection. You reached it by a spiral staircase. Fortunately, a door at the bottom stopped us being overrun, because very quickly everyone wanted to climb up (we kept it to ten or twelve at most up there…).

And the deejays, you will ask. A crucial question. They weren't thick on the ground back then, deejays. (I'm not talking about good ones: there weren't any.) In our fair land of France, toasting didn't yet exist, children. Let's not even mention rap. (Over here it was still the smurf craze at that moment: Adidas tracksuit, cap peak turned sideways, and ghetto-blaster on the Trocadéro esplanade. Sidney, every Sunday afternoon on TV, organised break dance contests.) All the same, on Ivre (which would go on to fertilise Nova in the summer of 83) a few hosts sometimes toasted live over the extended part of the maxis. Without necessarily taking themselves seriously.

Guillaume (alias I Man Dread) and Burny (aka General Burning or Prince Burny), two Ivre regulars, inaugurated our formula one night in February 83. They mostly did covers. In tribute to the likes of U Brown, Lone Ranger, Michigan & Smiley, Jah Woosh, General Echo… And above all Yellowman, for whom 1982 was the rising year in Jamaica. But as soon as they started dropping toasts in French, always over the same riddim, whistles, boos and protests rose from the hall. The atmosphere at this first one was rather peculiar, uncertain during the toasts… (because they were two white guys? There was a bit of that), then warm and enthusiastic again as soon as we calmed things down with a maxi by Bunny Wailer, Mikey Dread or Tony Tuff. As the hours went by, and for a good part of the night, steadily, people kept arriving, the vibes were circulating. Patrick (Leygonie, from Ivre), a good sport, came to greet me: "That's good, he told me, you're a tenacious guy." (After all these years, it remains my marshal's baton).

Little by little, over the months, other would-be chatterers turned up. It was in the air, everybody wanted to hold the mic. They multiplied like mushrooms after the rain. Let us mention Ras Daniel, one of the first, a West Indian. Once there were two Jamaican women, friends of Guillaume, who, in combination with him, held the floor for a good part of the night… And then, quite soon, "credibility" obliging, we reactivated our contacts from the rue de Flandre squat, notably, with the Ti’M, Iro, Jah Can and the like. I Jah Man (a Parisian rasta, unrelated to the author of "Are we a warrior") was there too, as were Zoumi, Killer… I wouldn't offend anyone by saying that none made a striking impression at that point. Everyone did their own thing without harming the others. The inevitable moments of tension ended up dissolving with the timely passing of a friendly joint… It was "at the Panoyaux" that Daddy Yod and the very young Jacky (future Super John) made their debut. "Papa Jean" (from Blue Moon), quickly approached but cautious, ended up admitting that something was happening in Paris. At our third… er: edition, he brought his selections (the latest arrivals from the London tides) and stayed glued to the control for a good three hours, spliff in mouth, both hands riveted to the knobs. Despite the inevitable criticism, the virus was starting to take hold seriously… We had a visit from Satta Blue (a DJ working in the United States), who stayed a spectator, perhaps taken aback by this likeable shambles. Once, a Jamaican appeared from nowhere, speaking to no one, and whom apparently no one around us knew, grabbed the mic and would not let go. Somewhat aggressive, with a vaguely worrying demeanour, he was also good, neither worse nor better than the Parisian rastas, so we let him be. In the early days, it bordered on a free-for-all to get hold of the mic. (One of the two.) Set back from the turntables, a few chairs where the musicians of Adioa, while cleaning seeds on a maxi sleeve, discussed the progression of this or that bass line… Downstairs, outside, on the plot behind, we went out for some air… Little groups talked in the night, made contacts… There floated a sort of effervescence, a concentrate of undemonstrative excitement, of faith in what seemed about to become possible, which all those who were there undoubtedly felt.

The people announced on the programme were paid. A matter of principle. The sums were not extravagant but, in those still amateur times, I felt we had to be taken seriously by everyone we worked with. In short, in every respect, it is no exaggeration to say that we strove to be clean.

Artistically, in terms of the quality of the performances, obviously all this was rather embryonic. People were finding their feet. You can't say that recordings of these nights would have made it onto record, but for most of those who attended these five editions, the habit was formed. And when the person in charge of the hall asked us to change the times of our Reggae Parties, telling us that it was no longer possible to have the venue at night, we had to give up. Others, I'm told, came to occupy it for a while afterwards. Then, shortly before the demolition (yes, the place no longer exists), the crew of the film "Black Micmac" shot a few scenes there.

In October 83, I started looking for a hall again. Surely with less motivation. In Montreuil, metro "Robespierre", a club accepted sounds. That meant the graft was taking, that we weren't going back to the cellars and basements. Besides, my friend Peers, who owned a space in the fridges of Quai de la Gare and his own gear… wanted to play the "sound" card, and asked me to look after the promotion of his nights. With Dread Lions Sound System. (Ti Em’, Judas…) Which I did, only twice. Then I had to move on to something else.

The following years saw the birth of Youthman Unity (84?), Kwame N’Kruma Sound System (86?), etc… The semi-underground of reggae in Paris lasted a few more years. Until the first French reggae 45s, namely: Pablo ("En I, en A, en O") and Super John ("Inventeur") around 1986-87.

© D.V, March 2006