Pigalle was known as debaucherous and dangerous, but Paris’s former red-light district, famous for its lively nightlife, cocktail bars and Moulin Rouge cabaret, is also where many LGBTQIA+ people found their community and platform. But as gentrification creeps in, how is its ethos—and cabaret scene—changing? France resident Anna Richards explores a different side to a familiar city.
Neon lights, dog chains and harnesses. The windmill blades of the ubiquitous Moulin Rouge. The scent of late night kebabs, motorbike exhausts and overflowing bins. The crunch of plastic wrappers under foot.
At the same time, hanging Edison bulbs in pine-paneled craft breweries, mullets and moustaches, and slow-roast coffee joints painted in varying shades of beige. The beige and monochrome microbreweries and cafés may not scream as loudly as the neon signs above sex shops and swingers clubs, but they’re just as present. Nearby, tourists pile into the Sacré-Coeur Basilica.
Pigalle was Paris’s underground quartier for two centuries until surprisingly recently—the New York Times began reporting on its gentrification in 2013. Notoriously dangerous in the 19th and 20th centuries, many of the clubs were mafia-run, prostitution and drugs rife, and violence common, particularly among marginalized groups including prostitutes. This was particularly marked in 20th-century Pigalle, most notably in the 1970s when many trans prostitutes made Pigalle their home. But, for better or worse, it was also where members of the LGBTQIA+ community found knowledge, solidarity and a stage to perform on.
Paris’s original drag cabaret club, Madame Arthur, opened in 1946—long before Ru Paul graced our screens. ‘Drag’ typically refers to cross-dressing, but at Madame Arthur, it covers a wide spectrum. Some performers have transitioned, and dress as their transitioned gender. Others don’t wear drag at all, but accessories and outfits tend to be flamboyant. All of the performers are LGBTQ+. Some of the earliest celebrities to publicly transition regularly performed at Madame Arthur, including Coccinelle and Bambi.
Cabaret is equally broad, and means a venue combines food, drink and generally a dance floor with a show (and different to burlesque). Cabaret entertainer, actress, and transgender activist Jacqueline Charlotte Dufresnoy aka Coccinelle (‘ladybug’ in French), whose marriage in 1960 was the first legally recognized transgender union in France, even began her career at Madame Arthur. In turn, other people struggling with their gender identity came to learn from Coccinelle and other transgender artists in a safe space.
I’m backstage with performers Grand Soir and La Briochée as they prepare for tonight’s show—Starmania, a Canadian-French rock opera, is a classic, and performed regularly at Madame Arthur. The venue is immense, mushrooming like a Mary Poppins bag behind a standard-fare façade. The staircase winds up over three, high-ceilinged floors, and soirées here regularly finish at 6am. Both artists are bare-faced and dressed in neutral clothing, a far cry from the brash make-up, glitter and outfits they’ll be wearing that evening.
La Briochée has been a ‘creature’—as the performers are referred to here—at Madame Arthur for four years. She tells me it was the history of the club, and artists like Coccinelle and Bambi that made her so keen to perform here. “Trans people are among the most attacked in the world, so it has always been necessary for places like Madame Arthur to exist,” La Briochée says, “regardless of the political climate, so that trans and queer people can shine in a safe place.”
And it was through cabaret that in 1925, Joséphine Baker, one of the most celebrated cabaret stars of all time, challenged France’s racial stereotypes. A black woman from Missouri, she found more acceptance in France than in the United States, and her performance at Folies Bergère in a tutu made from ornamental bananas to mock the exoticism of Africa that existed in France (and elsewhere)—would become one of the most famous images of cabaret in history. So when Madame Arthur championed drag cabaret and the LGBTQIA+ community, it was in keeping with cabaret’s rebellious roots.
Grand Soir’s character is always evolving. Much of the time, he doesn’t dress in drag at all, but simple, generally scanty outfits accessorized with glitter, dangly earrings and tinted glasses. At other times, he becomes a drag creature, complete with wig and dress.
“I chose my stage name for its double meaning: Festive but also revolutionary,” explains Grand Soir. In French, ‘Grand Soir’ is a way of saying ‘the day of a social revolution’.
For those that need help creating their character, Paris’s Drag School runs classes in make-up, theatre, improv and much more. There are sessions for people questioning their gender, and people who want to try dressing in drag just to get a feeling of gender euphoria.
ccording to its founder, Jay des Adelphes, drag is becoming increasingly political. Popular culture and shows like Ru Paul and France’s Drag Race have catapulted drag queens into the spotlight, but drag kings—performers who wear masculine clothing and perform as a man for entertainment—haven’t enjoyed the same attention.
“Drag kings were politicized, and seen as something very radical,” Jay des Adelphes tells me. “Now, kings and queens are starting to work together, because drag queens have become politicized too. It’s made ‘queen’ or ‘king’ obsolete and many of us simply identify as ‘drag queer’ these days.”
That evening, I head to a drag show at Le Cancan Pigalle, a few streets away from Madame Arthur. Natacha Polémique and Marie Jo Dassin both sport thick moustaches and brash make-up: Electric blue eyeshadow for Natacha and shimmering lilac for Marie Jo. In true Parisian style, we go outside for a cigarette and chat before the performance. Le Cancan Pigalle is the first place that they’ve had a regular contract for their drag performances, and it has made all the difference to them to have job security.
Le Cancan Pigalle is warm and intimate, and the audience are invited to participate and get on stage as much as possible. The performers mingle with the public, and there are music quizzes, quick-fire rounds, and plenty of singing. Many of the songs are in French, and I’m even worse than I’d usually be during a pub quiz. Then we’re on Britney, and I’m back in my comfort zone.
“Our audiences have become much more mainstream, they’re probably only around a third queer now,” says Marie Jo Dassin. “When heterosexual couples come along, the man often looks uncomfortable at first. By the end, he’s as involved as everyone else.”
Even though publicly appearing in drag outside Pigalle, or Paris in general, is more dangerous, it’s when Madame Arthur’s ‘creatures’ go on tour that they feel as though they’re having the most impact.
Their tours take them all over the world, from New York to Tokyo, but both Grand Soir and La Briochée particularly enjoy their shows in other French cities.
“Young, queer people in rural France often feel isolated, and since there aren’t thousands of drag shows outside Paris, we get lots of them in the audience,” says La Briochée. “That’s when you feel as though you’re making a difference, and you get such joyous energy from the audience. I noticed it particularly in Tours [the Loire] last year. The standing ovation lasted for over five minutes!”
