Aftershow Diaries

Chapter II

Last Call: L'Olympia

Written in Paris — July 4, 2026

Nina Naskidashvili

—

“Go hardcore on the hairspray, there’s a rock show tonight,” Shot to Greg – a hairdresser, part confessor, part archivist of  Paris that doesn’t quite exist anymore. Somewhere between the scissors and the stories, he paints a picture of after-parties from twenty, thirty years ago—when nights bled into mornings and nobody checked the time.

“Who’s playing?”

Jack White.

A man who proves each time that rock is not dead. Every time “Fear of the Dawn” comes on, I'm reminded that rock isn't preserved in museums. It's still alive, still unpredictable. I missed him in New York in 2019 with The Raconteurs. Missed him again in Paris in 2023. That kind of mistake doesn’t get a third chance. So this time, no hesitation—ticket secured, wrapped as a birthday gift.

It is my first time at L'Olympia. A red neon light is buzzing overhead like a warning. The show starts at 8. I arrived at 6, and the line is already kilometers long. Some fans have obviously been there since the afternoon. They opened the doors around 7.

Phones were locked away in pouches. No evidence. Just memory.

I walk down the long corridor that leads to the bar and the concert hall, thinking of the 18-day performance of The Beatles that started on January 16 and ended on February 4, 1964. Ceilings are high, posters look like they are wizarding portraits, and the walls feel like equal parts red Barolo and cheap red lipstick.

The bar looks functional, almost like a vending machine. “A crisp IPA will do,” I thought while leaning against the bar, ordering an IPA—no foam. Old reflex. Watching a bartender rush the pour tells you everything you need to know.

I made my way up close, just off the left wing. There was still an hour to go. I'm with a friend. We are observing, making jokes, laughing, but time seems to slow down. I make a round and order a double Grey Goose at the bar packed with ice. People still think less ice means more drink. It doesn’t—it just dies faster.

And… here we go…

The Scanners  blast the stage with alternative synth-punk, early ’80s Berlin energy. The crowd is with them. I'm somewhere else entirely until I hear them tear through their last song, the lights go out, and I recognize Mancini quietly inspecting Jack’s arsenal of guitars one last time. Nobody rushes. They don’t have to. The room already knows what's coming.

There’s an explosion to the pulse of what I thought was Boney M.’s Rasputin. Later, I found out it was actually Dance with the Devil by Cozy Powell.

White hits the stage like a superhero, unleashing an almost absurd amount of energy. The stage is, of course, bathed in his signature blue. With his electrified, Edgar Allan Poe–ish black-crow hair and ghostly pale face, he looks like a character straight out of a Tim Burton film.

Jack White doesn’t operate by setlist—he reads the crowd and plays like an instrument. Ecstatic satisfaction runs through me. The floor rises and falls beneath me in waves, moving without me moving. It feels like riding a skateboard. I scream along to G.O.D. and Broken Ribs. Four beautiful guitars on rotation. His “Volt” is one of my favorites. I think I died when he sang Love Interruption. A delightful surprise was The Raconteurs’ hit Steady, As She Goes.

I didn’t realize how quickly time had passed between the opening song and the encore, which seemed to go on forever—one song after another. Then came the inevitable Seven Nation Army, blowing the crowd away. And then Jack White disappeared the same way he arrived—suddenly.

Olympia’s bar was already closed after the show. The next thing I remember, after unlocking my phone from the pouch, is a Picon bière and a hot dog at Harry’s New York Bar.

We are left dissecting the concert—guitars, sound, the crowd—down the rabbit hole of a long music conversation. A night that will reverberate for days, weeks… and not a single photo to post, only a story to tell.