It’s a late summer morning at the Église de la Madeleine in Paris. As tourists wander into the imposing neo-classical church, hundreds of the faithful rise from their pews, singing their hearts out to the accompaniment of the church organ. Standing before them, a priest dressed in a green chasuble raises his hands heavenward in prayer.
Nothing unusual, you might think. Except that the faithful are singing the hits of the recently deceased French rock star Johnny Hallyday, who gazes out with his distinctive lupine eyes from a portrait placed on the steps of the altar. “Je t’en supplie, à l’infini, retiens la nuit,” they sing (“Please hold back the night forever”).
It’s been nearly a year since the “French Elvis” departed this mortal coil. “Johnny”, as he is known to the French public, died at 74 after nearly six decades of lip curls and hip swings, his 79 albums running the gamut from yé-yé to blues, country, hard rock and even Christian rock. (Although a Catholic, he was reportedly almost excommunicated in 1970 for writing a song entitled Jésus Christ which described Jesus as a hippy.)
But more than the music, it was about the man, for people related to Johnny’s candid accounts of depression and drug addiction, health troubles and heartache. Not for nothing did French President Emmanuel Macron tweet: “We all have something of Johnny in us.”
Ever since Hallyday died, after a battle with lung cancer, his fans have flocked to “la Madeleine”, one of the most famous churches in Paris. Far from fading away, the movement has turned into a cult event, an unlikely but potent mixture of religion and pop culture. Attendance is so large that the monthly Masses are likely to continue beyond 2018, says Fr Bruno Horaist.
“More than 200 people came in January, 500 in February, 600 in March and almost 2,000 in June. Normally, I don’t get more than 50 people at weekly Masses,” he says.
The ceremonies were Fr Horaist’s brainchild. Touched by the distress of the million fans who attended Johnny’s funeral in December 2017, he decided to give them a place to congregate and mourn.
There was no resistance from on high. According to Fr Horaist, his superior, the vicar general of Paris archdiocese, tacitly approves the Masses.
Fr Horaist takes his newfound role as a conduit for the nation’s grief very seriously, driven by the feeling that he did the right thing. “I’m not a fan, though I knew Johnny’s songs. But I’m struck by the power of love he had, the hearts he touched and the fervour he still inspires in people,” he says, sitting in his tiny office before the Mass.
There is, indeed, no shortage of fervour. As the Mass unfolds, the fans can scarcely hide their emotions. They might look tough in their leather attire, black tour T-shirts, biker bling and tattoos, but they shed tears for their idol.
Many in France are still coming to terms with Johnny’s death. This is the only place they can express their grief, for the singer was buried thousands of miles from Paris, on the island of St Barts in the Caribbean. That’s out of reach for the vast majority of fans, most of whom are working-class folk who could never afford the ticket. Instead, they make do with this Mass, even if many of them had long stopped attending church. “We come here because we have nowhere else to go,” says Nicole Monceau, a fan since the 1960s, who has attended the Mass twice. “It is a gathering place.”
Alain Lefebvre, a long-haired, tattooed devotee, wears the de rigueur black leather gloves, with a crucifix featuring Johnny and his guitar dangling from his neck. He may be in a wheelchair, but he travelled two hours from the north of France to pray for his idol.
The 60-year-old, who is such a big fan that his friends call him “Johnny”, lost his legs in a car accident three years ago. One too many drinks, he recalls. “I was waiting for my wife to get time off work so she could help. I couldn’t have come otherwise,” he says, overwhelmed by emotion.
As the ceremony draws to a close, fans receive Communion before bursting into song once more. Que je t’aime, a Johnny Hallyday classic, is perfectly recognisable, except for the notable absence of some of the raunchier lyrics, which have been cut out. Through the tears, they applaud, as if Johnny were there before them, belting out the hits on stage.
Then, after reflecting in silence, the crowds exit the church. Alain Lefebvre, eyes red with all the crying, waits for us outside. Clearly heartbroken, he also feels a sense of relief, just like the hundreds of other disciples of “St Johnny”, who are now filing out into the bright sunshine. “The next months will be very hard because Johnny is gone forever,” he says. “But I know now that he is in heaven, sitting next to the Lord.”
Lefebvre is pondering a trip to St Barts. As early as next year, bank balance permitting, he will make the trip to pray at his idol’s grave, one last step before he can definitively turn the page. “That day,” he says, “my mourning will be over.”
Jean-Christophe Laurence is a freelance journalist based in Paris
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