Olympia

Listen for a moment. Taxis hiss along the boulevard, a scooter weaves past, and somewhere a door swings open on a lobby full of chatter. Then look up. Above the pavement, a row of tall red letters spells one word: OLYMPIA. At night those letters glow against the grey stone of central Paris. For many French people, that red sign means one thing. You have made it. You are playing the Olympia.

You are standing on the Boulevard des Capucines, one of the wide avenues of Paris laid out for strolling, shopping and being seen. The Opera house is a short walk away, and the Madeleine church sits just down the road. This part of the city has always been about display: grand cafes, theatres, department stores, and crowds dressed for an evening out. The Olympia fits right into that tradition. It is not a palace or a cathedral. It is a place built for pleasure.

The story begins in the late nineteenth century with an entrepreneur named Joseph Oller. Oller had a real talent for giving Parisians new ways to spend their money and their evenings. He is also remembered as one of the founders of the Moulin Rouge, the cabaret up in Montmartre. In 1893 he opened the Olympia here on the boulevard. It was a music hall, a style of entertainment that mixed singers, dancers, acrobats, comedians and novelty acts into one long, lively programme.

Music hall was the popular culture of its day. A single evening could move from a ballet scene to a juggler to a sentimental song, all under one roof. People came to laugh, to look, and to hear the latest tunes. Over the following decades, tastes changed. Cinema arrived and pulled audiences away from live variety shows. For a period, the Olympia worked as a cinema itself. Its old music hall life seemed to be over.

The revival came in the 1950s, and it came from one man. His name was Bruno Coquatrix. He took over the hall and brought live music back to its stage. Today his name is still part of the official title of the venue. Coquatrix had an eye for talent and a gambler's nerve. Under his direction, the Olympia became the stage that every French singer dreamed about. A good run here could turn a career. A bad night here could follow an artist for years.

Here is a story that many visitors do not know. Around 1960, the Olympia was in serious financial trouble. Coquatrix turned to Edith Piaf, the small woman with the enormous voice, already a legend in France. Her health was fragile. Still, she agreed to perform a long series of concerts here. The shows were a triumph, and they helped keep the hall alive. It was during this period that audiences heard her sing Non, je ne regrette rien, which translates as No, I regret nothing.

Piaf was far from alone. The great names of French song stood on this stage again and again. Jacques Brel, the Belgian singer famous for his fierce, emotional performances, gave some of his most remembered concerts here. Dalida, Charles Aznavour and Johnny Hallyday all belong to the Olympia story as well. For French audiences, a live album recorded at the Olympia carries a special weight. It is a kind of seal of approval.

The hall also opened its doors to the wider world. In early 1964, just before their first trip to America, the Beatles played a long run of shows here. Later that decade, a young Jimi Hendrix appeared on this stage as part of a bill with Johnny Hallyday, before most of the world knew his name. Over the years, international stars from jazz, rock and pop have treated a night in this room as an important stop on any tour of Europe.

Now, a surprise about the building in front of you. The Olympia you see today is not exactly the hall that Oller opened. In the 1990s, the site was threatened by redevelopment, and there was a public campaign to save it. The venue was rebuilt, with care taken to keep its character and its famous look. It reopened later that decade. So what you see is a faithful continuation of the old hall, rather than an untouched original.

If you go inside for a show, the colour that greets you is red. Red seats, red tones on the walls, a warm glow under the lights. The room holds roughly two thousand people. That is large enough to feel like an event, yet small enough that a singer can see faces in the crowd. Artists often say that the Olympia feels intimate. The audience sits close, and the sound of applause seems to wrap around the stage.

That closeness is part of the legend. In a vast arena, a performer can hide behind screens and effects. Here, the voice has to carry the room. That is why the Olympia has a reputation as a test. French audiences here can be generous and loud, but they also know their music. Many singers have described the nerves they felt waiting in the wings, knowing that Piaf and Brel once stood on the very same boards.

Even if you do not have a ticket tonight, the facade is worth a slow look. Watch the people who stop under the sign to take a photo. Some are fans checking the name of tonight's performer. Others are simply travellers who recognise the red letters from album covers and old concert films. On show nights, a line forms along the pavement, and the boulevard fills with the quiet excitement of people who have waited months for this evening.

So take one more look at those red letters. Behind them sits more than a century of songs, nerves, encores and late nights. Coquatrix's gamble, Piaf's courage, the screams for four young men from Liverpool — all of it happened just beyond those doors. As you walk on down the boulevard, listen for music from a cafe or a passing car. In this part of Paris, it is never very far away.