Danielle, We're Savages!
Amine Benotmane
I was bartending in an Irish pub in St. Michel. It was a very different epoch in my life. My boyfriend had just moved to London and I was working two part time jobs while attending photography classes. One of the jobs was in this bar, owned by a Turkish man who’s real name was probably not Charlie. The other was for a photographer who shall remain nameless, but whose assistants, un-fondly called Le Monstre. I was living in a 13m2 apartment and in my spare time would pile all my belongings into the bathroom and practice taking portraits with lights borrowed from my school. I lived this way for about a year but it seemed like five.
Amine came into the pub regularly for a Coke. Our very first conversation began with him asking me, “are you Muslim?” I was making a mess, pouring an excessively-frothy beer, and he saw the ring on my middle finger. I bought it on my first trip outside the U.S., to Mexico at the end of high school. It was a silver moon and star that wrap around my finger and cuddle each other without touching. I’d completely ignored this symbol’s many meanings and uses, and simply wanted to wear a couple of elements of the night sky on my hand.
Amine is from Constantine, Algeria, and when I talk about wanting to visit his country he tells me, “Danielle, I’ll take you there.” And, after thinking a momtent, “You have to be careful, we’re savages!” He says this with a big smile and playful eyes. He’s a sweetheart, the friend you can count on whenever needed. When I bought my guitar, he took me to every store on rue de Douai and played guitars for me so I could hear which one felt and sounded like it should be mine.
He makes friends easily, everywhere, and is a remarkable diffuser of conflict. I’ve seen him use kindness to completely extinguish another man’s anger. The streets of Paris can be aggressive, everyone walks around owning the space around them and pushing you off the edge of it if you penetrate their perimeters. Amine has such an ever-accessible sense of humor and lightness about him, that walking through the city with him, I feel we float above the angst.
In the time we have known each other, he has created a heavy metal band called Acyl. I finally heard their music when they got a gig playing at the Maroquinerie in Belleville and he asked if I would come take photos. It was summer, and I walked in wearing a pale pink tank top, jeans and sandals. I usually try to blend in if I’m going to be photographing, but doing so had completely slipped my mind that day. I believe I was the only person not wearing all black, with very heavy boots on. I felt like a spring chic walking into a dungeon.
When Amine came on stage, I was down in front, ready. Except that I wasn’t. For my uninitiated-to-metal mind, there was no build up, they jumped right into the fire and took us with them. Heavy guitar, heart-palpitating drums that over-rode my own heartbeat, and then Amine started screaming. Growling, guttural sounds he was forcing into the microphone, from someplace deep inside that I had never seen. I was stunned. I completely forgot what I was doing there. A little confused. Where was this anger coming from? How do you go from absolute silence, to making the most devilish sounds your human voice can create?!?! I was impressed, admirative of the courage and raw emotion! That might feel really good to let out!
Because I consider him such a gentle giant, I think I smiled like Amelie Poulain discovering who the photo-booth repairman is, fascinated by the contrast and delighted to see my friend expressing himself so fully. I stopped just short of laughing out loud as if on a roller coaster, because I could see this was serious business, this metal music that was so foreign to me.
What I find so interesting, and maybe naive of me, is the contrast between their on-stage personae and them being this bunch of really nice guys that wouldn’t harm a fly. Amine is right, they are savages, but only when they express themselves through their music.
