Iron Maiden: Pas de moshing, s’il vous plait!

"MES AMIS, il faut que nous arretons un moment," says the longhaired singer in leather jacket, skintight sports trews and a French accent truly Churchillian in its valour and awfulness tous deux. Six thousand blue-denimed Parisians, reeling as the supportive thrust of 100 decibels against their breastbones is suddenly removed, fall to puzzled murmurs and Gallic shrugs. He takes his time, rests a boot on a stagefront monitor and leans forward, elbow on knee, faintly schoolmasterish of posture.