What better send-off for a rocker than the vast, silent concert on the steps of a church? And what better farewell to a great performer than the one delivered by the immense crowd chanting around a body that seemed to have arranged, from the great beyond, this last demonstration of enthusiasm and love?
Herein lies the beguiling feature of the funeral Dec. 9 of Johnny Hallyday, France's national singer: his ability to stage-manage his destiny, right up the final hour, and the star power that his being retained even in death.
Nothing remained of his swaying hips and his howls, or of the pale eyes perpetually on the verge of laughing or crying (you never knew which). And yet there he was, charisma and presence, the spell of a shaman inviting you one last time to dance the eternal chorus in the aura of his mystery and his smile. And there was the spirit of France: young and old, the president and two of his predecessors, celebrities, artists, fans from 50 years ago wearing Apache fringe, a remembrance of the striking miners of Lorraine, the words of Jacques Prevert, tears shed by ordinary people.