Paris Jackson @ la Maroquinerie, Paris - March 5th, 2022

Odd atmosphere tonight at La Maroquinerie, where about two thirds of the audience are teenage girls spending the evening taking selfies and shrieking “Pariiiiissssse! We love you!” The remaining third is harder to define… perhaps fans of the star’s father who came out of curiosity, hipsters attending for irony’s sake, and a few lecherous old men there to feast their eyes.

To be fair, I had no idea what this young woman’s music was like or what kind of artist she was. I didn’t even know she was pursuing a singing career. The last time I heard her name, her father was dangling her out a hotel window in Berlin.

A quick Google search tells me it was actually another of Michael’s children he almost sent to join Conor Clapton in the celestial nursery of fallen rockstar offspring, mea maxima culpa. I hadn’t realized Bambi had been quite so prolific.

As for young Paris, the physical resemblance to the King of Pop isn’t striking, and the musical one is even less so. A self-professed, and therefore half-forgiven, Radiohead fan, she offers a kind of softly melancholic pop-rock blend that is surprisingly pleasant and decently crafted. Alone on stage with her acoustic guitar, she performs her songs with conviction, carrying the fragile charisma of someone inevitably shaped by trauma. She even slips in a Beirut cover, which makes perfect sense.

For those who expected a disco-pop diva lip-syncing her way through a famous last name, the surprise is a good one. And for the believers already on board, clearly a large group, the evening is something special. The small room overflows with young fans weeping or screaming. It’s a little ridiculous, yet strangely moving, like the person on stage herself, laying her story bare, who, if you didn’t know better, might almost pass for an ordinary young woman.