Je renoue avec les plaisirs du noir et blanc pour cette vidéo de "A World Worth It All", qui fera partie du nouvel album sur lequel je travaille en ce moment. Cette chanson, sur l'absurdité de la guerre et la question du monde que nous laissons à nos enfants, écrite en l'espace d'une soirée il y a un peu moins d'un an, trouve évidemment un fort écho dans l'actualité de ce mois de Mars 2022
A world worth it all
Musique et paroles de Julie Jeavons
Time after time
We give in to the hate
There's much to be had
For both side share some blame
Yet still we fight
'Till nothing's left but shame
Deep in our heart
Now there's a light follow it
Out of the dark
There's a path now take it
Deep in our souls
Forgiveness lies awake
And so for tonight take a deep breath
and go on save what we might
From the pain and sorrow and let's make
it right
If it's all we can ask for
To leave behind a world worth it all
Yesterday's gone
So now the choices we make for tomorrow
So our children awake to a better world
Than the one we fight for
And so for today think of tomorrow and
save
Whatever's left of our dreams and our
hopes
Let's try our best if it's all we can
for
To leave behind a world worth it all
Give and forgive for evrything
If no one's right then no one wins
If we forget what we're fighting for
To leavve behind a world worth it all
Give and forgive for everything
If no one's right then no one wins
If we forget what we're fighting for
To leavve behind a world worth it all
Thursday, October 21, 2021
Edge of your World
Le touquet,
France, summer 2016
I don't know where inspiration comes from, or what inspiration even
means. All I know is, every now and then, I feel it's the right place
and time to sit down with my guitar and write a song. This is one of
these times.
I am standing in front of a carroussel set up on the sea front of Le
Touquet-Plage on the West Coast of France. The light of day is
dimming now and the cool breeze of the evening is settling in nicely.
Wooden horses, elephants and cups swing round and round again to the
sound of accordeons in a fairytale dazzle of lights. I like
carroussels. I'm not sure why, because as far as I can tell I wasn't
particularly fond of them as a child. But I feel good here. I'd like
to sit down with my guitar and just play for a little while. I notice
a couple of benches to my left. That would be perfect. Right, I'll go
and drop of my stuff at the car and come back.
I turn around and head back up the Rue Saint Jean, the main walking
street of the town where I have been playing for a couple of hours
this afternoon. It was a nice little session. In fact now would be an
even better time to play here, but I really want to sit down by the
carroussel. As if some mysterious force is drawing there.
Arriving at the car I meet up with my friend Sophie who's travelling
with me. I ask her if it's ok for me to go back and songwrite for a
little while. I then head back towards the seafront with my guitar,
my pen and my notebook.
It is dark now. I sit down on the bench I had noticed earlier. It's
far enough from the carrousel so that I can still hear a bit of the
1930's french songs that are playing, but still quiet enough for me
to write. From the moment I sit down it all goes very quickly. I have
no idea what, or if I 'm gonna write a new song at all, but I can
tell the mood is right. Time to give it a shot. I randomnly put on a
capo on the 3rd fret, start of with a D chord followed by
a F#m. The words « Meeting you somehow, wondering
where you've been » come out almost simultaneously. From
then on I know what the song is about, and the whole process of
writing it goes down very naturally. Within a matter of 20 minutes or
so I have it. The missing lyrics I will complete within the next few
of days.
There is something trully magical about the whole thing. I know now
that this song was waiting for me here. Maybe she was with me all
along, and this was the place for her to come to life. All I know is
that there is nothing like these few seconds in which a new song
takes shape for the first time. It's just one of the best feelings in
the world. Maybe like a miner who just struck gold, only so much
better. Because this song isn't just for me. In time it will come to
mean as much to someone else. Maybe even more. It will have a life of
it's own through the hearts of those who'll take her in. I feel
blessed to be the messenger.
Live performance of Taxi Driver with the Rhythm Kings at Crossroads Café in Antwerp!
Taxi
Driver
Calcutta, India, summer 2011
A chauffeur from the school is waiting for me in the airport lobby.
As the sliding glass doors open to let us out of the airport, the hot
and damp air of the Indian summer hits me. I am welcomed by the soon
to be familiar sounds of honking from the streets. I climb into a
grey jeep along with a little group of Italian students also here for
a 6 months exchange program at the Indian Institute of Management in
Calcutta.
This is my first time in India, or any oriental country for that
matter. I am in for the ride of my life, as our driver takes on the
City of Joy's busy maze of restless streets. The airport is on the
opposite side of the city to the campus, so we have to go all the way
accross, and I couldn't have dreamt a better introduction tour to the
city's wonders.
There's so much happening it's overwhelming. Our driver swerves
through the jungle of stray dogs, herds of sheeps, chickens, pigs and
cows, pedestrians, dog carts and push carts,bikes, mopeds, rickshaws,
cars, yellow taxis, buses and lorries of all colours. It's total
chaos out there, and I feel a sense of relief to be safe inside the
car. A dare devil green a yellow rickshaw zooms by in between the
lorries and trucks, and I tell myself I'll never get into one of
those death traps on wheels. The next day of course I'll be taking
one from the campus to the center of town.
In front of us is a bus of yellow and red with the words « Danger,
Blow Horn » written in thick black and red letters on it's
bumper. A fair warning indeed. Here it seems there are no indicators
for turning left or right, or for overtaking. If there ever was they
stopped using them a long time ago. Honking is the way to go. It's
also hard to tell whether there are any trafic rules. We take a turn
out of a little street onto a boulevard. And all of sudden, just when
you think it can't get any more complicated, trams are added to the
equation. And they don't stop for anyone or anything. Our driver
blows his horn at a couple of kids crossing ahead.
On both sides of the road life is happening. I take in the various
scenes as they come before my eyes. An old man is washing himself on
the pavement from tap water coming out of a concrete block. A bit
further down a mother surrounded by two young kids is cooking rice
and chapati from steaming pots on the sidewalk. Improvised vending
stalls take over most of the sidewalk : on offer is anything
from fish to piles of books and pieces of clothing. Colourfull shop
banners of all sorts bring life the otherwise washed down and
dirty facades. It looks like the city could use a fresh coat of
paint. But Calcutta's architecture shows fantastic heritage and
diversity. Worn out dull looking buildings share ground with
victorian style palaces and mansions of great beauty and refinement.
No two houses are the same, and there's no telling what's coming
around the bend. In the corner of my eye, a splendid red building
with white frames and columns from the british era. A bit further
down another massive colonial building has trees and plants growing
all over it. Everynow and then hindu temples of a variety of shapes
and colours pop out of nowhere.
We come to an intersection where a policeman standing outside of a
little booth seems to have the impossible task of regulating the
crossings' trafic, hopelessly waving his arms around every which way.
Dressed in a white uniform with a white round helmet, he stands out
of the crowd, which is probably a good thing. Traffic lights haven't
made it here yet it seems. We are now back on a huge boulevard and
heading to the outskirts of town when our chauffeur slows down to
make a turn left towards what appears to be the entrance of the
Indian Institute of Management, with its white and green gates. A
couple of guards are posted at the entrance. I'll later learn that
you actually have to check in and out with them anytime you leave the
campus by writing your name down on a sheet of paper. But for now
this is it : home for the next couple of months ! And
judging by that first experience, it's going to be a hell of a ride.
