I made my way past the abandoned bookstalls on Rue Montague, a tattered homburg my only shield from the icy darts falling from the sky, crossed the rain slickened cobblestones, and cautiously approached the café on the corner. Given the late hour, the café was shuttered for the night and, other than the tortoiseshell tom cat fleeing the miserable weather down the alley ahead of me, not a soul was in sight. Discreetly glancing left and right to confirm I was alone, I quickly descended the six cracked slate steps partially hidden from view by the café’s trash bins, creaked open the massive oak door that served as the underground speakeasy’s only security measure, and slipped inside.
The indoor lighting was barely more than the gloomy night I had just escaped. I took a moment to scan the room as rivulets of rain streamed off the brim of my hat and saw only one other patron – a sad-sack old man with a faded tweed coat and Churchillian nose, morosely nursing the remnants of a pint at the far end of the bar. A mustachioed bartender with sleeves rolled past his elbows paused his vigorous wiping down of the line of coupe glasses in front of him just long enough to give me an almost imperceptible nod in the direction of the back corner of the room, where a high-sided booth waited, the lazy swirl of cigarette smoke hovering above it outing the hidden presence within.
Ignoring the good manners my mother taught me, I left my damp trench coat and homburg in place and started across the scarred hardwood floorboards in the direction of the booth in the back. Walking past the weathered bar, the bartender deftly slid out a cut glass tumbler of generously poured scotch that I grabbed in stride, no eye contact necessary. Ten more steps brought me to the head of the booth and I eased my lanky frame into the seat across from the rumpled occupant.
I knew him only as Marcel, though I doubted that name could be found on any birth certificate he owned. He was hatless, wore a frayed and wrinkled fawn London Fog, had at least three days’ worth of stubble on his face, dark purple crescents under his eyes, a half-smoked Gauloise in his hand, and four more stubbed out on the tin ashtray in front of him. The only light at the booth emanated from a candle jammed in the neck of an old wine bottle, fresh wax dripping down to obscure the label, but that was all I needed to see that Marcel was as tense as an overtuned cello.
He glanced at me briefly as I sat but otherwise kept his shifty-eyed gaze averted, his left knee endlessly jiggling up and down beneath the heavily lacquered table. I took a sip of the smoky Lagavulin and softly tapped the glass bottom on the table to get his attention.
“Is it done?” I asked, quietly but with enough firmness to indicate I was in no mood for tomfoolery.
“Let’s not do this here,” he pleaded, a trace of hysteria in his voice. “There’s too many ears around.”
“No. We’re doing this now. The bartender is on the payroll and the sad-sack at the bar is oblivious to the external world. I’ll ask again: Is it done?”
“You won’t get away with this,” he hissed. “The archive. Keeping everything free. It’s not right. No one gives content away like this for free. No one! It’s not right, I say!”
I was getting annoyed.
“Is it done or not?”
Sweat was beading on Marcel’s forehead as his clumsy nervous fingers fumbled with his lighter, unable to get a flame going. He stuck the unlit Gauloise in his mouth anyway.
“There’s going to be trouble, I tell you. Trouble. When the others hear about this. You can’t keep doing this. The archive. I wish I never heard of the archive. I wish I never heard of you!”
Gently setting down the glass with my left hand, I swiftly grabbed Marcel by the lapels of his raincoat with my right hand, pulling him halfway across the table until our faces were inches apart, his tobacco-stained breath making me instantly regret this action.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” I growled. “Is. It. Done?”
I stared directly into his bloodshot eyes and waited. Marcel swallowed hard and finally croaked out in a strained voice,
”Yeah. It’s done. The archive is updated. Everything is on there. Every session from every year. Everything free.”
Without a word I released my grip, his torso slumping across the table. I finished off the last of the scotch and slid out of the booth. As I walked away, I could hear Marcel muttering “He’s a madman” as he straightened himself up and tried again to light his cigarette.
A curt nod to the bartender and I was back out the door and up the steps. It was still raining. Slowly crossing back over the slippery cobblestones, I flipped up the collar of my coat, adjusted my hat, and walked off into the night.
The CMEpalooza archive has been updated with every session from CMEpalooza Fall 2023 (Thanks, Marcel!) You will also find an archived version of every session from every CMEpalooza, including the very first CMEpalooza ten years ago.
The race to CMEpalooza Gold sponsorships has become a curious annual phenomenon, right up there with 
CMEPALOOZA 