The Godfather's Still Got It
Pagliaro's show had elements of greatness, hampered by a haphazard pace

Juan Rodriguez, Montreal Gazette Sunday, August 04, 2002

Le Parrain du Québec Rock, as Michel Pagliaro is known, now looks like the Godfather in sunglasses, Hendrix hair and a loose black shirt shielding his gut. In other words, at 53, he looks impressively larger than life. Pag is Canada's pop enigma, the best rocker in the world that few folks outside Quebec know much about. The man hasn't helped his cause by going missing in action - a seven-year hiatus in the 1980s (spent largely in France producing discs for Jacques Higelin), and his last "new" album dates back to 1989. Since then, the obsessed studio hound has worked on a now-mythic follow-up (supposedly set for release later this year). His show at Metropolis on Friday night as part of the FrancoFolies had all the elements of greatness that some swear by (U.S. critic Richard Meltzer once called him "the real Springsteen").

Unfortunately, the show's haphazard pace, which eventually yielded 13 songs, did his reputation no favours. As per custom, he opened with his first major hit, 1969's J'ai Marché Pour un Nation. Then he launched full-throttle into the evening's tour de force, Émeute Dans la Prison, his adaptation of Riot in Cell Block #9 (a 1954 Leiber and Stoller song by the Oakland group the Robins that sold 100,000 copies on the West Coast). Pag was full of comic macho swagger, packing a mordant rock-solid punch and mock-Dragnet documentary style. After making his stand, what did Pag do? He left the stage to Les Respectables, who are fine under his marching orders but pale by themselves.

Close to an hour later Pag returned with Le Temps Presse, a song of desperate urgency ("Ohhh, quelle scène, scène!") that was now ironic relief. Toward the evening's end, Pag inexplicably handed the reins to the group for a tune that cut the momentum. Still, there's enduring magic in Pagliaro's songs - popcraft at its zenith - and the way he relishes attacking them. L'Espion is the flip side of Every Breath You Take and every bit as haunting. Here there's no deceit: he's a hapless lovelorn "spy," "traqué dans un désert de solitude." Fou de Toi, more of a Parisian take on pop, bounced along with unbridled joy for a crisp three minutes and 20 seconds. Setting up Lovin' You Ain't Easy, one of his crafty Beatles-esque classics from 1970, he asked how many were born by then. After a round of cheers, he paused, arched those thick black eyebrows over his shades, and slyly singled out a group of hot teen babes crowding the stage: "Heh, not up front!" The song is propelled by an ingeniously pithy story-telling structure, like a mini-opera. There was Dangereux, with galloping, hard-charging ("peace, baby!" he yelled announcing the bridge), Pag in full-throat Little Richard mode. His neck bulging, he pursed his lips as he yelled "Louise!" The redefined reggae rhythm of Héros complemented its endearing message, "T'as pas besoin d'être un héro pour être quelqu'un." This, of course, was the cue for another heroic solo by Jerry De Villiers, whose cast-iron guitar matches Pag's intensity, and anchors his crack band of keyboardist Josh Lebofsky (from Sainte-Foy), bassist Mathieu Cormier (Montpélier) and drummer Anhtu Vu (Saigon). Les Bombes, yanked 15 years ago out of headlines that don't seem to go away, is arguably the best-conceived protest song ever. By now Pag delivers it sternly, as a matter-of-fact militaristic march. An infernal dive-bombing solo from De Villiers had us running for cover.

It wouldn't be a Pag show without J'Entends Frapper, unofficial theme song of the 1970s revolution in Quebec society (and biggest-selling 7-inch single ever), filled with bonhommie.

Yeah, we hear you knocking, but can we have more next time?