Curiouser and Curiouser: Club Silencio

Your descent into Silencio is either a tumble through the rabbit hole or walking into another posh nightclub. The latest addition to the Parisian night scene is a fragment of David Lynch’s brain, and how you devour Silencio hinges on your relationship with the multimedia artist’s work.

The night my man and I spent in the Lynch-designed vortex was every bit as decadent, ashen and perverse as I imagined it to be.

A few timid steps past the plain doorway had any lingering noise suffocated – almost instantly. So far, so Lynchian. Bold flashy photographs, snapped by the maestro himself, led us down six flights of stairs beneath 142 rue Montmartre.

Welcome to Club Silencio, christened after Mulholland Drive’s own disquieting cabaret.

A woman of Oriental descent took our coats. I envied her look and her perfect Franco and Anglo tongue. She directed us towards the bar – beyond a dark corridor alit by protruding gold bricks from the ceiling. An upside down yellow brick road, if you will, paved the way to another scene. We were told the specks of gold found up above, below or from the corner of your eye are genuine Au elements.

Further on and around are gray carpets. Again, manhandled by Lynch, the crude black trees crawled, as if sketched with charcoal, out from beneath our feet. My favourite of the carpeted regions were the ones reserved for our filthy habit: lighting up Marlboros. The temporary smoking area is a small black chamber, faintly lit by a few scattered lamps. The carpets here disguise any fallen cigarette butts. Meanwhile, the smoking-area-to-be is reminiscent of the woods in Twin Peaks. Behind the smoky glass are where smokers will be found amidst thin sculptures of white, crooked trees.

Visiting the bar, we came across a waif-thin, petite woman with white hair. She spoke excitedly in French to whoever would listen. Then, she was gone.

Around the same time, I spotted an old acquaintance working behind the bar. He ran away before I could properly place him.

I asked around and learned he was working at another bar within Silencio – probably a secret lair for those who know. I never found out. Instead I was guided towards the art deco cinema currently displaying films chosen by, ehhrm, you guessed it, Lynch. And there’s a small library which plays host to Lynch’s favourite books. And a stage – echoing the 50s American Bandstand – serving as platform for bands he had handpicked.

As part of Silencio’s Carte Blanche series, distinct artists are asked to act as curators. This was the first week of the series and Lynch took to the helm (there are whispers of Jarvis Cocker being one of the slated artists).

The night my beau and I attended, Au Revoir Simone were the ladies with the venue rendezvous. By 10pm, empty seats that my feet, dressed in heels, had noted earlier still remained vacant. But reserved. The crowd, above a reflective dance floor by the stage, swelled in size. The bar was no longer serving drinks. The lights had dimmed.

Annoyed that I didn’t have a gorgeous Old Fashioned to accompany the gig, I relocated towards an empty space near the reserved table from earlier. Now occupied. I focused my attention towards the three girls on stage. Chosen by Monsieur Lynch, they fit the part: Totally bang-able babes. Skinny. Fringe. Alt-girls. They didn’t move much, but they swayed in unison. Punctuated by the blue lights beaming on them, the girls could have easily been in a Lynch film – that bit where the heroine is watching the band perform this camp, lighthearted song, but she sees past it because that melody pulls at the heartstrings. The tears are streaming down. The song’s simplicity is a cool breeze but a stinging slap at the same time. The—

Before I could pretentiously piece together why Lynch waded through the waters to pick this sweet Americana indie girl band, my heart had stopped. A random crane in the neck caused me to glance less than a foot to the right of me. A black cloak, with collars upturned was leaning against a black wall. Above it, the trademark white hair.

Even my breathing ceased to be. The realisation was too much for my body to continue its usual ghastly functions.

Less than a foot, to the right, at the reserved table, was David fuckin Lynch. Yes, I was just not cool enough to be there. I was star struck. And what.

You’ll be happy to know, as my date was, that I played it cool on the outside. I squinted my eyes at Au Revoir Simone. They were the event of the night, and the reason I couldn’t have an Old Fashioned.

Shortly after, Silencio’s lithe white-haired friend returned, snaking through the crowd. Our older lady from before led with her dancing arms, and shimmied towards Lynch. Still excitable as ever. He seemed pleased she was enjoying herself but he wished her to turn it down a notch. It was expressed politely, and friendly. They seemed close.

Then, again, she was gone. How the fuck did that happen again?

I also noted that amongst his company was a beautiful brunette. Her hair had a side parting and was held back in a low bun. A strand framed her face. She wore her shawl with purpose, but it lay on her shoulders carelessly. I saw her turn her head and furrow her eyebrows when some American girls in the back chattered during the show.

Careful calculation. I could not do anything, whatever anything was, until the gig was over.

I genuinely tried my best to turn my attention back to the girls onstage. One, Annie, I believe she was called, caught my eye. She seemed to have a lively sense of humour, or have had the most liquor.

Plus she smiled.

After the encore, my date left to fetch our drinks. I had also made up my mind.

Those that could seat, sat. I adjusted the modish turban I was sporting. I licked my lips. I made a 90 degree turn. Then, eye contact. A hesitation.

“Pardonne moi. Ehhrm, excuse me. Sorry.” I shared with the rest of his party, asking for their blessing – especially of the brunette’s. Then, I gingerly extended my right hand. “I’m sorry…Can I just say, that I’m completely enamoured with your work?”

Ugh. I know. Apologies.

I’m sure I should’ve said something more lasting. Or wittier. I could’ve said anything else that’d have given way to conversation. I was just too dumbstruck, and nothing I had rehearsed during Au Revoir Simone’s songs materialised.

But he greeted my hand. Then grasped it afterwards saying, “Why, thank you.” A smile.

I met David Lynch.

Never in my life would I have thought this possible. Later I learned he had been there for every day of his Carte Blanche contribution. Quelle surprise! I thought it more likely for dwarves to be swirling around a pole, speaking in code, as per some of his work. Instead, there stood DL (we’ve made physical contact now, I can refer to him as I see fit).

Following a dream, quite literally, coming true, I walked in a trance. Poor Jamie. He gulped more of his bourbon, straight up. He steadied me. We smoked some fags. We made another sighting of a couple we’d seen earlier at an accidental supper. The lady’s curly hair was still in place and her plum lips were perfect, but her arms were all over the place. Her date’s hair stayed slicked back and the mole on his cheek still stole the spotlight. Afterwards DL’s son was pointed out, chitchatting by the library.

I found gold flecks on the floor. In the bathroom. In the corridors. But I couldn’t find the legendary filmmaker anywhere, anymore. Annie, of Au Revoir Simone, however, found my boyfriend. She asked if she knew him. He said, definitely not. There was nothing fishy in the air. Silencio just has an effect on its participants.

The club places ideas in your head. Fantasies and realities blur. The past is recalled in a different and unusual setting. Rich elements are jostled against dark components. Drinks aren’t served during live performances.

After the fact, those Can-you-believe-it?! tales are difficult to be regarded as truth. My friends back in London don’t believe I met David Lynch, and they are especially incredulous of the bar being closed during a gig.

But hey, through the looking glass, non?

-Erika Soliven