A musician turned live show producer, Pierre-Pascal Houdebine has spent more than forty years navigating the changes in the live entertainment industry. It all began with an old trumpet, his father’s, which he found around the age of 20 in the storage room of the family apartment. At the same time, a friend had just pulled his father’s trombone out of an attic: the two brass players joined Les Satellites, a group of friends that went professional and became a key figure in French alternative rock in the ’80s and ’90s. Eight years of touring, from ages 20 to 28, culminating at the Olympia.
With no degree or trade to fall back on when the band ended, he discovered that he enjoyed organizing as much as playing. He booked the Glazart venue in La Villette for two years, then founded Furax in 1999, ten years after a pointed remark on the set of Nulle part ailleurs, where a guest had predicted that these young musicians would end up becoming business owners. Today, Furax is an independent production company with five employees and a roster of carefully selected, often socially engaged artists.
In this episode of Tales, he looks back on his father’s harpsichord in a public housing apartment, the difference between producing and booking a tour, the structuring of the live sector in France through the SMAC network, the long journey from Hocus Pocus to C2C and Ben Mazué’s Victoire de la Musique award, and what makes a concert irreplaceable.
Pierre-Pascal Houdebine - Live Show Producer
The Tales Interview
As far back as you can remember, what are your earliest memories of music?
They are very clearly tied to my family environment. My parents listened to a great deal of music. My father in particular was passionate about classical music, to the point of having a harpsichord at home. That was rather unusual, because we lived in public housing. He played it strictly as an amateur, but with real dedication: he carved his own plectra, tuned his instrument, and spent time playing by himself in a corner of the apartment.
There were also lots of records—great classics, but also musical story records combining narration and music. And singing played an important role in family life. Singing together was part of everyday life.
So music became a part of your life very early on.
Yes. It came naturally. It trained my ear and sparked my curiosity. Music is an incredibly rich medium: it lets you explore very different worlds, far beyond the simple pleasure of listening. It opens you up to something else.
Then there was that rediscovered trumpet, which was almost foundational.
It’s not a legend. My father came from a large family where every child had to learn an instrument. For him, it was the trumpet, which he later set aside. Much later, when I was around 20, I came across that old trumpet in a storage room.
At the same time, I was hanging out with a group of friends who were putting a band together, and one of them had just found his father’s trombone. We thought two brass instruments could be interesting. That’s how I ended up playing with Les Satellites, a band that mattered in French alternative rock in the ’80s and ’90s, and one of the first to bring brass back into that scene.
Before becoming a producer, you experienced the stage from the inside.
Yes. Les Satellites quickly went from being a group of friends to a professional band. We toured extensively, played dozens of shows a year, performed at the Olympia, in France and abroad. I had eight very intense years, from ages 20 to 28.
It was a time of great artistic freedom, that era of the alternative movement, when we were breaking free from the conventions of mainstream French pop. Looking back, I think that generation also played a major role in structuring what would become the live music sector: venue networks, dedicated spaces, infrastructure, and even institutional recognition.
At what point did music become a profession?
I never thought in terms of a career or a passion. I had no plan at all. Things just happened naturally.
When the project ended, I found myself with no degree and no clearly defined profession. I did a lot of odd jobs and tried other bands. Then, over time, I realized those touring years represented an enormous amount of experience: knowledge of different regions, venues, artists, and how the business really works.
At the same time, I enjoyed organizing things more and more, understanding how everything worked.
There was also that pivotal period in the nonprofit world.
Yes. By chance, I ended up rehearsing in a place that wasn’t yet a real venue: Glazart, in La Villette. The place became more established, and I became its booker for two years.
I received cassette tapes and booked shows with very limited resources, funded solely by ticket sales. It taught me a great deal: booking, payroll, technical production, the behind-the-scenes side of touring. I began broadening my skills—not becoming a specialist, but becoming able to talk with every trade.
Furax was founded in 1999. How do you define your role today?
Furax is an independent live show production company. I really emphasize the word producer.
I don’t just get dates booked. Producing means investing upfront: working with artists on the stage production, residencies, artistic and technical teams, and taking financial risks before even going on the road.
You make a very clear distinction between producing and booking a tour.
Yes, and it’s essential. For example, not all English-language shows coming to France are produced here: they are already fully designed, staged, and financed. In that case, we only book and present them, possibly producing the individual dates, but not the show itself.
For my part, I have virtually no foreign artists. It can happen, but it remains very occasional. Above all, I produce French artists.
Producing means reaching an agreement with them to create a show, investing in that project, supporting its development, and then taking it on tour. Then you hope—which does not always happen—to recoup that production at the end of a tour, so you can keep developing careers and sustain the company.
Your career is also closely tied to the structuring of the live sector in France.
Yes, very clearly. The alternative movement of the ’80s and ’90s was foundational. There was growing public awareness, but also a realization on the part of public authorities.
Political decisions were made to structure something that did not yet really exist, notably through the creation of the SMAC state label, which enabled cities to invest in real venues dedicated to contemporary music. These partly subsidized venues made it possible to rehearse, hold residencies, and work under professional conditions.
This structure was gradually put in place from the mid-’90s onward. Today, there are around 100 SMAC venues in France.
It opened up opportunities for a huge number of musicians. There were more projects, more artists. Economically, it sometimes created more competition, but above all, it made it possible to recognize music as a profession. Back then, people thought we were strange. Today, working in music is recognized. And that’s something wonderful.
When we talk about remarkable career paths, can we use C2C as an example?
Yes, but you have to understand that it’s a long-term story. It all started with Hocus Pocus, around 2005, initially with a strong regional following, especially in Nantes.
Two members were already part of C2C. With the other two, we began working gradually: clubs, residencies, stages such as La Seine. Little by little, a real musical and artistic strength emerged.
We supported that development over the long term, eventually ending with Hocus Pocus at a Zénith in 2011, which clearly foreshadowed the launch of C2C the following year.
It’s exactly the same logic with Ben Mazué. The first time I saw him, he was opening for Hocus Pocus at La Cigale. Ten years later, we received a Victoire de la Musique. And that day, many people called him a “discovery,” even though we had been working together for a decade.
There is no magic formula. You have to adapt and understand the world we live in. Today, an artist who completely rejects social media does not exist. It isn’t easy for every generation, but it’s a reality.
With your experience, what really makes the difference for an artist?
In my experience, determination and the ability to question yourself are essential. You have to be open to discussion and dialogue with your live show producer and your partners.
But above all, the artist has to carry a vision. Even if they are wrong. If someone simply says, “I write songs, figure it out,” it doesn’t work.
Ambition can take very different forms: playing 500-capacity venues or aiming for stadiums. Everything in between is equally valid. The only real benchmark is moving from amateur to professional status and making a living from your music.
In live entertainment in the broadest sense, you can make a living from your art without ever playing the Olympia, and that is perfectly respectable. In music, live performance moves in step with albums, marketing, and commercial development.
Ultimately, what makes live performance absolutely irreplaceable?
As I was saying earlier, obviously, it’s my profession, so I can’t say otherwise. But that moment when we come together in a small, medium-sized, or large venue, with a shared sense of empathy between the audience and the artists on stage, is something unique. It’s exceptional, completely ephemeral, and that is precisely what gives it its value.
A concert exists only in our memories. The concert at the Olympia, at Stéréolux, or elsewhere—that incredible moment when we experienced something powerful, met people, and there was a kind of connection between everyone present—is irreplaceable.
In theory, it could be made to disappear through politics, by an administrative or institutional decision. But that would be a technical shutdown. The fact of coming together, enjoying ourselves together, understanding one another, sharing a powerful emotion (an emotion very different from the one you can feel alone at home listening to a recorded album)—that can never be made to disappear.
This shared moment is part of human nature. And in my opinion, it will always remain.
To wrap up, if you had complete free rein: which artist would you dream of working with?
Which artist would I choose if I truly had the ultimate choice? It’s extremely difficult. Because in my mind, there is both what I appreciate musically and how my perspective has evolved with age. We change, we grow, and music is above all a matter of initiation. I have always defended this idea: we are introduced to music, then we delve deeper and deeper into it.
And the work I do is a very close, very deep collaboration with an artist. So saying I would like to work with someone I don’t know, simply because it is a dream or a projection, is very complicated for me.
I know some of my fellow producers could answer that question very easily. I don’t have that die-hard fan perspective. Saying that I would have dreamed of working with the Rolling Stones, for example (I’m just saying anything), doesn’t interest me.
What matters to me is the encounter, the shared journey, the real work with an artist, not the fantasy.
Is there a concert venue that means something special to you?
I would say the Bataclan.
