Breet-a-nee, she iz not 'ere. Ze show, eet aas been can-sealed." This late-breaking news is delivered by a French cabbie idling in his taxi at the entrance of a Paris club called Espace Cardin. Inside, on this drizzly October evening, the world's most obsessed-about pop star is supposed to be taping a French TV special in front of a crowd of adoring, gyrating Parisian partygoers. But outside, the scene now is much more grim, with workmen lugging huge amplifiers and other stage equipment onto waiting trucks while clusters of fans linger under umbrellas looking très misérables. The cabbie didn't have to...
