My Almost-Friend Patrick
Patrick Juvet died today. I didn’t know him at all well, but I liked him a lot and meeting him led to one of my life’s unforgettable moments.
Patrick was a French rock ‘n’ roll star in the 70s. He was Swiss, and my late sister Florence discovered his vocal talents and fashioned him into the French David Bowie, make-up and all.
Like Bowie he was unforgettably handsome in a thin, androgynous way. For a while, he and Florence—though she was quite a bit older—formed one of Paris’ celebrated couples with matching mink coats and Porsches. I knew he’d gone through hard times, had had issues with drugs and alcohol, and was not, according to my sister, an entirely safe person to be with.
I saw him perform a few times in Paris, and he once called me in the middle of the night to seek my opinion on breaking into the American music market. I know he went to Nashville and recorded a few songs there, but bigger French pop stars than he had tried and failed to make it in the US. The last time I saw him was almost 20 years ago at Florence’s funeral in Paris. He had aged and put on some weight, but proudly told me he was doing a show that very evening in La Rochelle, a coastal city in southwestern France, where the Knight Templars once had their base.
My iconic moment had occurred a decade-and-a-half earlier. Florence had invited me to join her in St. Tropez, a town on the French Riviera, where Patrick was to perform. I took the train from Paris where I was vacationing and met her and Patrick for lunch at a small and ridiculously overpriced bistro. Florence told us to wait as a friend of hers would join us shortly.
We waited and waited, drinking Pernod and Vichy water, until eventually a large black chauffeur-driven Citroën pulled up. A diminutive woman wearing a large hat emerged. It was Brigitte Bardot.
In minutes, paparazzies swarmed the restaurant. I thought my moment of fame had arrived and put on large aviator sunglasses to appear media- worthy. We ate as photographers yelled questions at Bardot which she ignored. I think I might have spoken one full sentence during the 45-minute encounter, but I anticipated seeing my photo in the local and regional papers. After all, I did look mysterious and somewhat Peter Fonda-ish.
After Bardot left, I learned she and Florence were more acquaintance than friend. Bardot’s star was waning while Florence’s was ascending. They’d been introduced in Paris and Flo had suggested Bardot record a song with Juvet.
The next morning’s newspapers touted a rumored affair between Bardot and Juvet. Several photos showed the singer and actress sharing a meal at the bistro and leaning close together in an intimate moment.
I had been cropped out of every single picture, which Flo found hilarious.
Patrick wrote a pretty good autobiography, which I have. I think at some point he relapsed, then got clean again. He was supposedly planning a comeback album when he died in Barcelona.
My sister Florence died in 2002. Bardot is 86, Patrick was 70 when he passed away. Somewhere, I have a photo of us with Flo, but I’m not sure where it is. It doesn’t matter. The moment is there forever.
Patrick was a French rock ‘n’ roll star in the 70s. He was Swiss, and my late sister Florence discovered his vocal talents and fashioned him into the French David Bowie, make-up and all.
Like Bowie he was unforgettably handsome in a thin, androgynous way. For a while, he and Florence—though she was quite a bit older—formed one of Paris’ celebrated couples with matching mink coats and Porsches. I knew he’d gone through hard times, had had issues with drugs and alcohol, and was not, according to my sister, an entirely safe person to be with.
I saw him perform a few times in Paris, and he once called me in the middle of the night to seek my opinion on breaking into the American music market. I know he went to Nashville and recorded a few songs there, but bigger French pop stars than he had tried and failed to make it in the US. The last time I saw him was almost 20 years ago at Florence’s funeral in Paris. He had aged and put on some weight, but proudly told me he was doing a show that very evening in La Rochelle, a coastal city in southwestern France, where the Knight Templars once had their base.
My iconic moment had occurred a decade-and-a-half earlier. Florence had invited me to join her in St. Tropez, a town on the French Riviera, where Patrick was to perform. I took the train from Paris where I was vacationing and met her and Patrick for lunch at a small and ridiculously overpriced bistro. Florence told us to wait as a friend of hers would join us shortly.
We waited and waited, drinking Pernod and Vichy water, until eventually a large black chauffeur-driven Citroën pulled up. A diminutive woman wearing a large hat emerged. It was Brigitte Bardot.
In minutes, paparazzies swarmed the restaurant. I thought my moment of fame had arrived and put on large aviator sunglasses to appear media- worthy. We ate as photographers yelled questions at Bardot which she ignored. I think I might have spoken one full sentence during the 45-minute encounter, but I anticipated seeing my photo in the local and regional papers. After all, I did look mysterious and somewhat Peter Fonda-ish.
After Bardot left, I learned she and Florence were more acquaintance than friend. Bardot’s star was waning while Florence’s was ascending. They’d been introduced in Paris and Flo had suggested Bardot record a song with Juvet.
The next morning’s newspapers touted a rumored affair between Bardot and Juvet. Several photos showed the singer and actress sharing a meal at the bistro and leaning close together in an intimate moment.
I had been cropped out of every single picture, which Flo found hilarious.
Patrick wrote a pretty good autobiography, which I have. I think at some point he relapsed, then got clean again. He was supposedly planning a comeback album when he died in Barcelona.
My sister Florence died in 2002. Bardot is 86, Patrick was 70 when he passed away. Somewhere, I have a photo of us with Flo, but I’m not sure where it is. It doesn’t matter. The moment is there forever.
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