IXL Advertiser (21:57)

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Jake Brennan (23:18)

Dexfield Park, Texas 1933 Bonnie Parker sat lookout in the passenger seat of a Ford V8. Not the same V8 that her lover and partner in crime, Clyde Barrow, had rolled into a culvert back in Stringtown, Oklahoma, nearly a year prior. And not the other V8 that Clyde had just recently crashed in Wellington, Texas, doing 70 on a pitch black night. He didn't see the detour signs or that the road ahead was closed. The wooden barricade was no match for Clyde's lead foot. That particular V8 rolled over half a dozen times before coming to arrest to the riverbed battery acid. Hot boiling leaked out onto Bonnie's leg, each drop sizzling her skin. The smell of burning flesh. Flesh that was being flayed away right before her eyes, right down to the bone, which was now poking out for all to see. Well, at least they had each other. That's what Bonnie told herself. But Bonnie needed more than Clyde's love and support right now. Her leg was a mess. It was only a matter of time before some bacterial infection set in, maybe even gangrene. Bonnie needed medical supplies, and the rest of the gang needed food and new clothes. Thus Bonnie sat in yet another stolen Ford V8 while Clyde ran errands on Main Street, USA. Legit errands, not robberies. All the same, it was a risk. Their names were all over the place. The papers. Their pictures, too, thanks to undeveloped rolls of film they left in a car after a shootout in Joplin, Missouri. Dozens of pictures. Pictures that showed a murderous gang in the middle of a crime spree, goofing off, Bonnie pretending to hold Clyde at gunpoint. Bonnie with her foot up on the fender of a sedan, handgun in her right hand, cigar in her mouth. They flaunted both their notoriety and their elusiveness in front of the whole country. A country full of people who wanted to tear Bonnie and Clyde apart. Like the people of Stringtown, their undersheriff dead or Joplin, where Clyde littered a posse with bullets from his Browning automatic rifle. Hitting a police officer in the face and nearly severing his arm from his body. And over in Plate City, where a shootout seriously wounded Clyde's brother Buck and left Buck's wife Blanche with shards of glass in her eyes. Buck and Blanche were new arrivals to the Barrow gang. Buck had only recently left the joint and he was rusty. Rusty enough to catch a slug from a highway patrolman. It came screaming through the air, swiftly entered his left temple and exploded out of his forehead. Ripped off a piece of his skull. It fucked him up and slowed him down. And he couldn't move. Not like his brother and the others were moving now. Rousted from their hottie clothes place in Dexfield park at 5 in the morning. Not because Clyde was caught running errands in town. Because some goody two shoots couldn't mind his own business when he stumbled upon their makeshift campsite. The mob that had shown up to capture them was about 50 people strong. Most of them liquored up. The outlaws were quickly surrounded. They began to shoot their way out. Pistols, shotguns, Clyde's Browning. The posse retaliated. So many holes blasted into the V8 that the gang was forced to hit the ground running down a hill toward a river. Clyde kept firing his.45 until all he heard were empty clicks. Bonnie was slow. Slower than usual. Even her bad leg throbbed every time she took a step. Buck's whole world spinning. The wind blowing a violent kiss where his skull was missing and his brain was exposed. Clyde knew it was either Bonnie or his brother. He couldn't help them both. And he'd already made the decision to never leave Bonnie behind again. So Clyde grabbed Bonnie and ran. He dragged her down the hill. More shots rang out behind them. Bonnie felt a burning sensation there in her abdomen. She looked down. Her nightgown was soaked with blood. Clyde didn't let go. They made it through the river, then into dense brush. They had a few minutes tops before the posse was on top of them. Most likely they'd stopped to deal with Buck and probably Blanche too seeing as her wounds were just as much of a liability. But Clyde couldn't worry about that now. He had to worry about Bonnie. He remained calm and found a nearby farm, pointed his MT45 at the family and told him he was taking their 1929 Plymouth. And he laid Barney down in the back seat. And then Clyde Barrow got behind behind the wheel, hit the gas and drove. Brigitte Bardot approached the motorcycle wearing black thigh high boots. And a black leather miniskirt. Her eyeliner was black, her hair was blonde. Sex on fou so hot that Serge Gaisburg's TV screen appeared to be melting. She was a French female Jim Morrison lighting the fire of anyone who watched. And oh boy, did they watch. Serge and everyone else with a television and a pulse watched as Brigitte Bardot lip synced her new single, Harley Davidson, another of Serge's infectious compositions. Bridget couldn't care less about motorcycles if she was being honest. Fast cars were her thing. Her Triumph Spitfire with the top down didn't matter. This song was about the vibe. About freedom, rebellion. About how it was better to die than to let someone else tell you how to live your life. Real love vigilante shit. Brigitte Bardot and Serge Gainsbourg were love outlaws on the lam. Not from the law, but from the papers, the paparazzi. They tooled around Paris in her triumph, Bridget behind the wheel and the smoke from Serge's cigarette leaving a pungent trail that awake one minute here and the next gone. Bridget was quickly realizing that her marriage to Gunther Sachs, playboy, multi millionaire, jack of all trades, but master of none, was a sham. She didn't love him, not in the purest sense. She didn't want him like a drug. She didn't watch the world disintegrate before her very eyes when she touched him. At that moment, Serge's hand touched hers on the gear shift. She hit the clutch with her left foot and punched it into third. Serge's heart skipped a beat. She made him feel like a man 21 years old, not 40. Back when he was still green. Up late, playing music in nightclubs. Up early to paint, Burning that candle. Choruses in composition and orchestration, Learning the difference between cabarets and music halls. The snobs liked to clap, but it was the everyday listeners who plunked down cash. Never enough cash, it seemed, at least for a time. A prolonged period of time when Phillips Records enjoyed having Surge on their roster. Even a few people were buying his albums. But then it all changed. First Eurovision, then BB, as she was known. Their first date. A disaster. He could hardly believe she was interested in him, of all people. His confidence was shot. Maybe he was just drunk. He wanted to make it up to her. With a gift. A song. The most beautiful love song he could imagine. Serge Gainsbourg played Je t' aime moi ne plus for Brigitte Bardot on her piano. A duet between two lovers as they have breathless, passionate sex. The ultimate fuck song. But then also the ultimate anti fuck song. Too as Serge once put it, seeing as the title translates to I love you. Me neither. As in come on, you and I know that this is just some raw animal attraction. No need to attach an actual emotion to it. Which was either Serge's own anxieties talking or just his trademark deadpan sense of humor. Either way, it was, in Serge's mind, his first real love song. Just as real as the recording session that followed. Barclay Studios, Paris Serge and Bridget stepped inside a small glass vocal booth and closed the door behind them. They stood chest to chest in front of the same microphone. The backing track began to play in their headphones. A dramatic swirl of strings and organ consumed the three piece backing band like a slow moving tornado of ecstasy. The studio lights dimmed, the two sang. Then Bridget began to moan. Je t'. Aimee. Serge touched her body with his hand and the two felt that electric shock again. He knew his detached response would drive her wild. One on blue. She exhaled with a shudder. J'taim. She made more noises. No words though. Just sounds of orgasmic euphoria. Each sound going straight into the microphone and straight to the bulge and Serge's pants. He thought, thought of her back at his place in his bed, one hand running up the curve of her naked thigh and the other clasping. A Giton smoked down to the filter. The windows of the vocal booth fogged up. The song ended. Serge Gainsbourg basked in the afterglow, knowing that Je t' Aime mon A plus was the most provocative piece of music he'd recorded to date. That alone would be huge for sales. It would also blow the lid off the worst kept secret in France. That he and Brigitte Bardot were fucking. He didn't care. Let the whole world know. The record plant began to press promotional 45s, and before it was even released, the word was out. The new Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot single was scandalous. 4 minutes and 35 seconds of amorous panting, as Paris Sunday paper called it. Word reached. Gunther Sachs, Bridget's multi millionaire playboy husband was beside himself. He wasn't about to sit idly by while his wife made sex records with that clownish Quasimodo. Never mind what it would do to her career. It would make a fool out of him. And Gunther Sachs was no fool. The next morning, a letter arrived at Serge's house. Cease and desist. Destroy all copies. Je t' Aime Mon A plus no longer existed. Serge Gainsburg and Brigitte Bardot were done. We'll be right back after this.

IXL Advertiser (33:35)

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Jake Brennan (35:14)

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IXL Advertiser (35:36)

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Jake Brennan (35:49)

Texas Highway 114Easter Sunday 1934 Clyde Barrow leaned against the latest stolen Ford V8 parked on the stage side of the road. With his brother Buck dead and gone, it was now more important than ever to pay visits to family back in West Dallas, especially around the holidays. But Clyde Barrow and his outlaw lover Bonnie Parker were the most Sought after criminals in the country. And that made visits tough. So instead of going to family in the city, they arranged for family to meet them at strategic spots out in the country. Like this isolated stretch of road where they now wait, waited for people to arrive. And people did arrive. Just not the people they were expecting. Bonnie was sitting in the passenger seat, thinking about how much her leg continued to bother her. They had yet to find proper medical treatment for her injuries. Bones still protruded from the skin. She drank whiskey to take the edge off. So did Henry Methven, the only other member of the Barrel gang here at the moment. Standing next to Clyde. Henry was a convict who'd managed to escape from a prison farm a few months earlier when Bonnie and Clyde staged a dramatic breakout for another gang member that left one guard dead in its wake. Henry was new here. And Henry was drunk. He didn't fully understand Clyde Barrow's code, that Clyde didn't actually want to kill anyone. Well, the son of a who raped him back in prison got what was coming. But out here on the road road, Clyde only shot when he was out of other options, which happened far more frequently than he liked. He was actually more fond of taking cops prisoner when the gang wasn't outnumbered, that is. Show them what he was capable of. Show them that he had some compassion. Henry. Though Henry wasn't feeling very compassionate when they heard the rumble of motorcycles coming from down the road. He was just buzzing on some high proof liquor. Soon, too, fish figures came into view. Not Bonnie and Clyde's families. Two Texas highway patrolmen riding two wheelers with shotguns strapped to the side. Henry grabbed his rifle and hid it behind his back. The patrolman slowed their bikes upon approach. Clyde didn't want to wait to see if they would be recognized. Let's take them, he told Henry. Meaning let's force them at gunpoint inside the car and take them for a ride. Henry, new and drunk, interpreted it in a different way. He quickly pulled his rifle from behind his back and aimed it at one of the cops, point blank. He pulled the trigger. The cop was blown off his bike and hit the dirt dead on impact. The other cop grabbed shells from his pocket and frantically began to load them into his shotgun. Clyde was irritated. Henry, she wants something done right. All that. Clyde pulled his pistol and fired. Not a kill shot. That was intentional. The cop fell off his bike, wounded but still alive. But not for long. Henry reloaded, then pointed his rifle directly at the cop on the ground, bleeding out, begging for his life. And the Barrel Gang claimed Their next victory. Serge Gainsburg thought about shoving a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. Or maybe he'd just throw his body into the sand. He was despondent, denied love. Denied expressing that love in a song. Worst of all, denied her. Didn't matter that the Paris papers were just now getting around to publishing photos of the two of them together. Christmas shopping. That was old news. Now Bridget was gone back with Gunther, her husband, a man that Serge knew she didn't love, not in the way she loved him. Regardless, she had a marriage to consider, a career as well. Even the world's premier sex symbol could push things too far. Hence the last minute decision to pull Je t' aime on a poo. Or so the thinking went. Serge went back to his house and spent Christmas alone, his two children with their mother. Mother elsewhere. Just his piano, his gitans, some French wine and his regrets to keep him company. And then there was a knock on the door. He opened it and was stunned into silence. Bridget stood before him, suitcase in hand. She couldn't stay though. She was on her way to Almeria in Spain to shoot a movie with Sean Connery. But she needed to see Serge one more time. She needed closure. Inside the house, Bridget picked her right indix finger with a needle. A droplet of blood, crimson red, emerged on the tip of her white skin. She took a page of Serge's sheet music and wrote in her own blood, je t'. Aime. She passed the needle to Serge. He pricked his index finger and watched as the blood began to ooze out. He took the same piece of sheet music and with his own blood wrote his own Moi non blue. The two outlaw lovers felt that surge of electricity again. The same one they felt when they touched under the table and then again when they sang into the same microphone inside a vocal booth. Bridget packed the blood stained piece of sheet music in her suitcase and kissed Serge goodbye. Then she walked out the door and got on a plane. But she didn't actually leave. She wasn't truly gone. She was still here, long after her body left the room. In Serge's hands, his mouth, his breath and his tears. As he was in hers, their love refused to die. It was eternal. Bienville Parish, Louisiana May 23, 1934. Six police officers lay in wait in the bushes. Guns drawn, loaded, ready. They watched as The Force Ford V8 moseyed along at a good clip, probably 60 miles an hour or so, down a straightaway stretch of road. Behind the wheel, Clyde Barrow couldn't see the men Hiding up ahead from the passenger seat, Bonnie didn't pay much attention. But Clyde did see a logging truck stopped in the middle of the road, blocking his way. As he got closer, he recognized the man standing next to it. Henry Methven's father. Father Clyde came to a stop next to the truck. He rolled his window down and asked Mr. Methven what seemed to be the problem. Damn thing won't start, Clyde, came the reply. It was all a ruse. A plan concocted by the concerned members of the Methven family, along with the posse of lawmen who had been pursuing Bonnie and Clyde for two years. The plan being that right now, at this moment, the Texas Ranger in charge would steal, stand up from where they were hiding and give the outlaws a chance to surrender. But someone else stood up first. The Bnville Parish deputy. With an itchy finger on the trigger of his Remington Model E, he took aim and fired. The semi automatic rifle burst open with shot after shot. Most of the bullets at the Ford, but one sailed directly through the driver's side window into climbing Clyde Barrow's left temple and out the right side of his head. Clyde went limp, dead. His foot eased off the brake pedal and the V8 began to roll forward. Bonnie shrieked. The rest of the lawmen were up right now, all them aiming their firearms at the Ford. The bullets flew, smashing through the car's metal, the doors, the windows and into Bonnie Parker's estate. Hysterical body, the Ford rolled to a ditch on the side of the road and stopped. Living by the gun, dying by the gun fast living on the slow road to doom. Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow doomed justice. Serge Gainsburg and Bridget Bardot would be doomed some 34 four years later. The whole thing was too good to be true. The ugly agent provocateur and the beautiful sex goddess, beset by morals and expectations of the world they were born into. Serge, for one, coped with the loss of Bridget by drinking, smoking and writing. His song, initials BB awash in cinematic strings and horns, immortalized the memory of his illicit romance. A crime against what was right, against unions and vows and holy matrimony. A crime that nonetheless felt good to commit. Serge could never give up on love, no matter how moral or immoral. He found it again with Jane Birkin, a British actress and singer who re recorded Je t' aime mon a plus with him. When it was released in 1969, it was called pornographic. Banned in Portugal, Brazil, Sweden and Italy, where the Vatican deemed it obscene. But not before it got to number two on the Italian charts. Not before Serge Gainsbourg earned his first global hit, the kind of hit he could never have with Bridget. Surge was thinking about her now. The index finger he once pricked with a needle, writing a message in blood, began to throb. He could feel his heart beating there, but not just his own heart. Bridget's heart too. The two hearts pounded in his ears. 97 beats per minute, the tempo of their song Bonnie and Clyde. The other instruments fell in line, the drums, the bass, the queeka sounding out an eerie call in the distance. Every two measures, the strings began to rise like swells on the ocean. The two of them were on that sound stage again, dressed in character, recording their Bonnie and Clyde video. He with his colt.45, she with her Tommy gun. After the shoot, they jumped back in her triumph Spitfire. The top was down and the wind blew her hair back. The sound of the engine revving made him hard as a rock. Serge gazed into the black eyeliner circling her two eyes and was ushered down a tunnel. His stomach twisted up in knots. Mon amour, Brigitte. Les enerchals, Bibi. She pressed hard on the gas pedal and the Spitfire surged ahead. The road became a sound, a feeling, a feeling of love so overwhelming it felt wrong to pursue it. But they continued. Once again, the world was falling away, Crumbling, burning. It all sank into the ocean. The press, the paparazzi, Gunther Sachs. None of it mattered. It was just the two of them, living fast and living for passion. Physical, fictional, forbidden. Doomed. Disgraced. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening. As a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland Ad Free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, Bad man.

Progressive Insurance Advertiser (48:26)

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