Serge Gainsbourg: Brigitte Bardot, Bonnie & Clyde, and Orgasmic Pop Songs

Double Elvis Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Serge Gainsburg are insane. They involve illicit romance, scandalous pop songs condemned by the Vatican, and shocking liaisons to Forbidden the Last. He carried out a whirlwind affair with Brigitte Bardot at a time when she was not only the premier sex symbol in the world, but married to a powerful millionaire. Her love inspired him toward a creative breakthrough, just as their fling barreled toward a doomed ending. An ending that resulted in a cease and desist letter in the physical destruction of great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my mellotron called Jazz Hands Confidential, MK1. I played you that clip because I can't afford the rights to Hello Goodbye by the Beatles. Now why would I play you that specific slice of yes, no, high, low, stop, go, cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on January 2, 1968. And that was the day that Serge Gainsburg and Brigitte Bardot released the album Bonnie and Clyde, a star-cross collaboration so powerful that it stopped them from ever again making music together. From this episode, illicit romance, scandalous songs, shocking liaisons, Bonnie and Clyde, Brigitte Bardot and Serge Gainsburg. I'm Jake Brennan and this is This Great Slant. West Dallas, Texas, 1932. 21-year-old Bonnie Parker was glad to be out of jail but not thrilled to be home. She wanted to be with Clyde, out on the road, living by the gun, living fast. But Bonnie wasn't so fast, not like Clyde and the others. She had strengths, like her loyalty, but outrunning a posse was not one of them, which was how she wound up separated from the gang in the first place. They were hauling ass through an unforgiving swamp, lawmen hot on their trail, gunshots echoing in the near distance. Bonnie knew she was too slow. At this rate, they'd all get caught. Even Clyde was faster than she was, limping like he did on the count of the two toes he purposefully cut off his left foot. That was a prison hack, figuratively and literally. It was a bloody painful one at that. Not as painful as the rape that he endured day in and day out for an entire year at the hands of another inmate. A year of sexual torture and degradation that Clyde eventually ended with a lead pipe. Split that rapey fucker's head right in two. And then he split off his own toes with an axe blade. That little stunt got him off work detail and eventually got him paroled. These days, it went without saying. Clyde Barrow was not going back to prison. So Bonnie stayed behind. She let the posse capture her and drag her to the town's single jail cell. And then she told the judge that Clyde's gang had kidnapped her and forced her to go along as they unsuccessfully tried to knock over her hardware store. Of course it was bullshit. Bonnie Parker was no damsel in distress. She was as complicit as the rest of them. But she told the lie to avoid hard time. And she told another lie, this one to her mother, that she was done with Clyde Barrow for good. Which suited her mother just fine. Because Clyde Barrow wasn't welcome here. Clyde was a degenerate. An outlaw. A man who robbed banks and corner stores. A man who stole cars and took lawmen hostage. All while the decent people of America sank into a great depression and struggled to make ends meet. Bonnie didn't tell her mother that Clyde was coming back for her. Clyde was the best man she knew. He made her feel wanted. He listened to her. And she listened too. About how Clyde, a high school dropout, was never going to make a decent wage at an honest job and never wear the clothes other people wore or drive their cars, not legally that is. Clyde was a have not, a never will. And the two lovers bonded in their mutual frustration. And then they did something about it. Together. But tonight, Bonnie and Clyde were not together. Not yet at least. Clyde Barrow was behind the wheel of a stolen Ford V8, rolling through Stringtown, Oklahoma. A one horse town perhaps, but still, he knew it was a bad idea to stop. Clyde's reputation preceded him. So did the murder of a jewelry shop owner some four hours south in Hillsborough, Texas. That man didn't have to die. He put his own fate in motion though, the moment that he reached for the gun he kept next to his cash. One of Clyde's guys beat him to it. Bang. Dead. Made no difference if Clyde didn't pull the trigger. He was the face of the gang, a gang that had finally crossed the line. From stick up men to cold blooded killers. One of those guys, Raymond, wanted a party. Stringtown's open pavilion shone bright in the darkness. A guitar and fiddle played hillbilly music while the locals danced and passed around flasks of bootleg whiskey. In his swanky stolen suit, Raymond stuck out like a sore thumb. Ditto for Clyde, idling in his fancy VA. It was time to move on before they pressed their luck a little too far. Clyde called Raymond back. Raymond didn't return alone. The county sheriff was here now, leaning inside the Ford's open window. He'd made Clyde by cider on the hunch. Perhaps he spied the gun in the backseat. Either way, the sheriff played it cool. He politely informed Clyde that they were all under arrest. Clyde thought of that dead shop owner in Hillsboro. Prison, work detail, the abuse, the humiliation. And then he thought about Bonnie, how he would do anything to see her again. Anything. Clyde and Raymond drew their guns and fired through the open window. The sheriff was blown back off the Ford and landed on the street. This pistol hit the ground. A bystander picked it up and began to shoot. He was joined by the county's under sheriff, who came running up with a sidearm blasting. Clyde threw the Ford into first and hit the gas. The car lurched forward and slammed into a culvert. It rolled over onto its side, stuck. Clyde and Raymond pulled themselves from the wreck, pistols first, firing round after round. The under sheriff was hit. He dropped to the dirt, dead. Clyde and Raymond scrambled for the woods, chaotically shooting behind their backs as they ran. Away from the commotion, Clyde found another car. He hot-wired it and drove it for a few miles, and then ditched it for the next one. He did this numerous times, thinking it would cover his tracks, keep the cops guessing. Cops, who at this very moment were assembling a new posse to track down what was quickly becoming one of the most infamous crime gangs in the country. But no posse was taking Clyde Barrow, not today. He quickly made his way back to West Dallas, where Bonnie Parker was waiting for him. And when he reached her and put her hand in his once more, something clicked. It was electric. Bonnie and Clyde would never be apart again. Paris, 1967. Bridget Bardo let her hand wander underneath the table until it met his. She wasn't expecting what happened next. A shock. A vibration. A motion and lust cascading in a physical ripple that shot up her arm and enveloped her entire body. She looked deep into his eyes and felt the connection. Mental. Physical. Spiritual. The rest of the world fell away. It crumbled. It burned. It sank into the ocean and was swallowed by the ground. From this moment on, it was just the two of them. Before she took hold of his hand, Serge Gainsbourg was already in awe of the woman sitting across from him. I mean, just look at her. This Bridget Bardo we're talking about. Just like millions of other men around the world, Serge was undeniably drawn to the French sex symbol Jeune Sécois. Okay. Actually, that's bullshit. We do in fact, Sécois. We Sécois Trayvien. But Serge Gainsbourg was different. He knew this. He was a traditionally handsome like Jacques Dutron, with Johnny Halliday. He thought his ears were too big. His mug was too ugly. He was just a songwriter. And unorthodox, yet provocative singer who for years tried unsuccessfully to fit in with French chanson or French yeye before a big win at the Eurovision Song Contest suddenly put him on the world map. He didn't realize it at the time, but he wasn't destined to fall in line. Serge Gainsbourg would redefine French music. More on that later. Bridget Bardo, she didn't just want Serge Gainsbourg to write songs for her. She wanted him. Their blossoming romance was, by definition, not only surprising, but illicit. Bridget Bardo was married to a German playboy. But Bridget Bardo got off on the illicit. And twice divorced, Serge Gainsbourg was as much an agent provocateur as he was a musician. After all, this is the man who followed up that Eurovision win by writing a song called Les Suisses for an 18-year-old chanteuse who thought she was singing about how much she liked to suck on lollipops. But, well, you get the picture. So for Bridget Bardo and Serge Gainsbourg, keeping their newfound love under wraps only added to its allure. And it greatly inspired Serge to write songs unlike he or anyone else in the French pop world were writing. Songs like Bonnie and Clyde. Both epically romantic and also patently fucking weird. A duet between Bridget and Serge, The Beauty and the Beast. The duo performed the song on French TV on January 1, 1968. But they kept the chemistry very detached. So French. Serge, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, gun in a shoulder holster, huffing on half-smoked jitom. Bardo in a long skirt with an even longer slit. Garter's beret, black eyeliner, Tommy gunner in her very capable hands. They weren't actually Bonnie and Clyde. Not really. But like Bonnie and Clyde, they were empowered by lust, if not love. They were consumed with passion. But the provocative nature of their union, its illicitness, it was either truly beautiful or it was doomed. They didn't care. Nothing mattered as long as they were together. This is your latest idea. It's unique. It's game-changing. It's huge. But you can go even bigger with AI-powered PDF spaces in Acrobat Studio, turning your files and links into actionable insights and content. Plus, share projects and collaborate seamlessly while keeping everything private and secure. So your excellent idea stays yours. Do that with Acrobat. Learn more and try it out on Adobe.com. It is not hard to destroy a college. Last season, the podcast Campus Files brought you stories of fraternity drug rings, stolen body parts, campus cults and more. And now Campus Files is back for another season. There's a guy screaming into his phone. He's like, I just saw Charlie Kirkus ass-nated right in front of me. Every week is a new episode and a new story. It's so chaotic. It's almost like a university on a siege. Listen to and follow Campus Files, available now wherever you get your podcasts. 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 sign so 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 a rest at a 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 gain green. Bonnie needed medical supplies, and the rest of the gang needed food and new clothes. Thus Bonnie sat in yet another stone 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 papers, and 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 under sheriff 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, the 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. They came screaming through the air, swiftly entered his left temple and exploded out of his forehead, ripped off a piece of his skull. They fucked him up and slowed him down and he couldn't move. Not like his brother when the others were moving now, rousted from their hiding place in Dexfield Park at five in the morning. Not because Clyde was caught running errands in town, because some goody two shoots fuck up 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. Tisted, shot guns, 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 the 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 to 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 the deal with Buck and probably Blanche too, seeing his 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 empty 45 at the family and told them he was taking their 1929 plinus. And he laid Bonnie down in the back seat. And then Clyde Barrow got behind the wheel, hit the gas, and drove. Bridget Bardot approached the motorcycle wearing black thigh high boots and a black leather mini skirt. Her eyeliner was black. Her hair was blonde. Sex en fou. So hot that Serge Gainsbourg'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 for the television in a pulse watched as Bridget 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. Bridget 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 their triumph. Bridget behind the wheel and the smoke from Serge's cigarette leaving a pungent trail in their wake. One minute here and the next gone. Bridget was quickly realizing that her marriage to Gunther Sacks, 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. He made him feel like a man 21 years old, not 40. Back when he was still green, out late playing music and nightclubs, up early to paint, burning that candle. Courses and 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 had seen, at least for a time. A prolonged period of time when Phillips records enjoyed having Serge 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 Gainsburg played Je T'aime Moin en Plume for Bridget 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. The dramatic swirl of strings and organ consumed the three-piece backing band like a slow-moving tornado of ecstasy. The studio lights dimmed and the two sang. Then Bridget began to moan. Je T'aime. 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 en blu. She exhaled with a shutter. Je T'aime. 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 of her back at his place. In his bed, one hand running up the curve of her naked thigh and the other clasping a jeetan smoked down to the filter. The windows of the vocal booth fogged up. The song ended. Serge Gainsberg bassed in the afterglow, knowing that Je T'aime on a plough 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 Bridget 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 Gainsberg and Bridget Bardot's single was scandalous. Four minutes and 35 seconds of Amoris panting as Paris' Sunday paper called it. Word reached Gunther Saxe. 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 Saxe was no fool. The next morning, a letter arrived at Serge's house. Peace and desist. Destroy all copies. J'attends monable. No longer existed. Serge Gainsberg and Bridget Bardot were done. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Idol money lies in your current account picking crumbs out of its belly button wondering should I eat them? But when you start investing with Monzo, your money's always busy. It turns on regular investments, invests your spare change and tops up your stocks and shares isa. It even helps you make sense of risk and return. Monzo, the bank that gets your money moving. You could get back less than you invest. Monzo current account required UK residents 18 plus T's and C's apply. Attention. Rail travelers, platform paces, window gazers and arm rest negotiators. Have you heard? The big rail fare freeze is here. Railfares have been frozen across England until March 2027 on standard class tickets, including off-peak, anytime and season tickets. For more information, visit nationalrail.co.uk slash fares freeze. T's and C's next groupings apply. Texas Highway 114, Easter Sunday, 1934. Clyde Barrow leaned against the latest stolen Ford VA parked on the 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 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 Methvin, the only other member of the Barrow 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 at its wake. Henry was new here and Henry was drunk. He didn't fully understand Clyde Barrow's code. The Clyde didn't actually want to kill anyone. Well, the son of a bitch who raped him back in prison got what was coming, but out here on the 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, two 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 hit it behind his back. The patrolmen 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. And 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. Fucking Henry. If you want something done right, know 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 victim. Surge 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 was gone. Her husband. A man that Surge 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 J'attainment à Poul. Or so the thinking went. Surge went back to his house and spent Christmas alone. His two children with their mother elsewhere. Just as Piano, his J'attains, some French wine and his regrets to keep a 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 Almira in Spain to shoot a movie with Sean Connery. But she needed to see Surge one more time. She needed closure. Inside the house, Bridget picked her right index finger with a needle. A droplet of blood, crimps in red, emerged on the tip of her white skin. She took a page of Surge's sheet music and wrote, in her own blood, J'attain. She passed the needle to Surge. 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 message. Moin en bleu. The two outlaw lovers felt that surge of electricity again. The same one they felt when they touched them to the table and then again when they sang into the same microphone inside a vocal booth. Bridget packed the bloodstained piece of sheet music in her suitcase and kissed Surge 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 Surge's hands, his mouth, his breath, and his tears. As he was in hers. Their love refused to die. It was eternal. The End Bienville Parish, Louisiana. May 23rd, 1934. Six police officers lay in wait in the bushes. Guns drawn. Loaded. Ready. They watched as the 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. 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 to 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 stand up from where they were hiding and give the outlaws a chance to surrender. But someone else stood up first. The Bienville Parish deputy with an itchy finger on the trigger of his remington bodily. He took aim and fired. The semi-automatic rifle burst open with shot after shot. Most of the bullets hit the Ford, but one sailed directly through the driver's side window into Clyde Barrow's left temple, then 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's shrieked. The rest of the lawmen were up right now, all of 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 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. Just as Serge Gainsburg and Bridget Bardot would be doomed some 34 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 Chatham Wanapu with him. When it was released in 1969, it was called pornographic. Band in Portugal, Brazil, Sweden, and Italy were the Vatican deemed it obscene. But not before it got to number two on the Italian charts. Not before Serge Gainsburg earned his first global hit, the kind of hit he could never have with Bridget. Serge was thinking about her now. The index finger he once pricked the 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 cuica, 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 soundstage again, dressed in character, recording their Bonnie and Clyde video. He with his Colt 45, she with her Tommy Gunn. 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 Bridget, Les Inéchelles BB. 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, dump their sacks. 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 Disgracedland. Disgracedland 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 at DisgracelandPod.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. 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 slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook at DisgracelandPod. And on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod. Rock a Roll. He's a bad, bad man.