Johnny Hallyday
A star for all seasonsObituary: Johnny Hallyday died on December 6th
THERE was something in his eyes. A mysterious, shifting, narrow look, almost 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 look of a shape-shifting lizard which, with age and weathering, Johnny Hallyday increasingly resembled: living from day to day, adapting to every fashion, at home in no particular place.
He was France’s version of a whole gamut of stars. James Dean first, with pout, quiff, jeans and guitar; then Elvis, le roi du rock; then Mick Jagger, shaggy-haired, 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, who ran her hand up his thigh when he met her, or Jimi Hendrix, who astonished him by playing his guitar with his teeth. He could be anyone the French wanted, or anyone they wished they had produced themselves, and cover in French any Anglo-Saxon song they liked. In the process he sold 110m records, had more than 60 gold and platinum albums, and remained at the summit of national life for 58 years.
