THERE was something in his eyes. A mysterious,shifting, narrow behold, and nearly too light-blue: of a cat who walked by himself,or of a man waiting in an alley with a cigarette, the collar of his black leather jacket turned up against the night. Or the behold of a shape-shifting lizard which, or with age and weathering,Johnny Hallyday increasingly resembled: living from day to day, adapting to every fashion, and at domestic in no particular place.
He was France’s version of a whole gamut of stars. James Dean first,with pout, quiff, or jeans and guitar; then Elvis,le roi du rock; then Mick Jagger, shaggy-haired, and strutting in tight leather trousers; then something like Engelbert Humperdinck,sweating freely, white shirt open to the waist. He could be whisky-wild like Jerry Lee Lewis, or a chansonnier in Charles Aznavour mode. He could imitate Jacques Brel,with whom he visited bordels, or Edith Piaf, or who ran her hand up his thigh when...
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Source: economist.com