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Friday, May 31, 2002  

listening to Beck, "leave me on the moon"



i wake up with vague memories of slavonic boys teetering, shaking their glabrous bodies to the sound of bad disco, gaping at go-go dancers, while improbable couples and intoxicated friendships formed by the bar.
there is now nothing left to do now but set off for a sunday brunch.
we load our luggage in george's car, check out, and head for Nove Mesto. we get off the tram at Vanceslas Square, where we finally get to feel the city's pulse: tourists have been washed off from the streets by the rain, and the sight of mundane shops give us a sense of refreshing realness. we nonetheless opt for the kitschissime "Louvre", and swap the plebeian omelette for rich cream and peachy crêpes.
i cannot resist for long the call of the green room behind us. a few koruna later, my queue hits the first ball, which bounces on the cushion before sinking in the pocket. sigh of relief. the fever of the game seizes all of us with frightening speed, while VB shows the most obvious signs of infection. rusty at first, his old reflexes soon come back with a bang, as the balls whizz across the table. his dexterity and shrewdness outscore the last contending team, which he defeats on his own with a single shot. his girlfriend later confides in me her relief at this result, as she had envisaged to sell her virtue to force fate and fix the game if need be.
the clock strikes two and seals our fate. our time in prague is up.
we walk back out in the rain. our childlike refusal of the separation cast a nostalgic shadow on our short-lived experience.

"it is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. the absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. but even a momentary separation from anyone whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable"

i guess there is nothing left to say.

posted by lsdb | 7:09 AM


j'adore voir quels sont les mots clés qui ont amené les visiteurs à mon blog.
aujourd'hui, bingo! je suis cependant un peu perplexe à l'idée que mon site apparaisse dans les résultats de yahoo sous la rubrique "girls hors fucking".
qui est le mystérieux internaute? serait-ce un jeune paysan tchèque que j'aurais méprisé, dont l'anglais approximatif et l'amour confus pour les prostituées (whores) ou les chevaux? (horses), ou les deux, auraient poussé à effectuer des recherches desespérées sur internet?

posted by lsdb | 3:31 AM

Thursday, May 30, 2002  

listening to Slipknot, Iowa (dedicated to George)



the time has come to disclose to attendees the real motives behind this international meeting. we choose the soft-lit cellars of Klub Architektura to conduct the secret ceremony. George is apprehensive. he turns down the local knoedel (his favourite dish), and orders salad on toast for the third time. i pull out the secret missives from my battered bag. months of underground work, phonecalls, undercover investigations and international bribery to come to this: a list of europe's once most wanted.
george gnaws his last bit of lettuce nervously. i gulp another Berechovka, clear my throat, and start in a shaky voice:
"dear all. we are assembled today to celebrate the memory of the brothers and sisters whom we lost on the battlefield over the past few months. we are here to celebrate the courage and panache of these young men and women who sacrificed their lives on the altar of the only cause worth fighting for: freedom.
from the cold shores of the Baltic to the arrid plains of Mesata, they have joined the ranks of the army of free spirits. they have wiped the scorn from their sullied cheeks and speared cynicism with mighty rage. we are here to remind ourselves and remind to the world that their sacrifice will not have been in vain. hark! their voices have crossed the Rubicon to carry the message: we shall never give up!
brothers. sisters. time to lift our glasses and spirits: to all those who could not be with us today!"

VB wipes a tear at the thought of his depleted battalion, staggers and utters a barbaric "YAWP! SKOHL!" before falling back heavily on his chair.
Little Tomgirl's delicate features suddenly take a horrible expression, as her possessed body starts a demented dance. George falls on the floor and squirms like a worm at the searing pains in his stomach. Mugly's brains start boiling through his nostrils and eyeballs under the rays of a hellish lamp, while Mapgirl frantically bangs her head against the wall attempting to stop the smoky voices from screaming inside. terrorised, Pollon falls on his knees and chants a little prayer for the virgin madonna.
Mr B. pulls out a cigarette from his silver case, snaps the zippo in an elegant twist of the wrist, inhales, slowly looks in my direction and smiles. "shall we?"
he grabs his hat, i take his arm, and we walk out on the dirty streets of Prague, in search of young boys and women of ill-repute.

posted by lsdb | 4:29 AM

Wednesday, May 29, 2002  

listening to the strokes, is this it



the morning starts early with some compulsory euro trash pop video watching, without which stays in hotel rooms lose all authenticity.
mapgirl and i then opt for some degree of sophistication by ordering creamy coffees and "bomba calorica" cakes and tarts on the terrace of the luxurious obecni-dum. we hear that George, who'd sworn earlier to sleep until the following evening, has been enjoying the sights with his room mate Pollon, VB & Little Tomgirl for the past three hours. this thought makes me sip my coffee with doubled delight, and i sigh at the soft caress of the late morning sun on my neck.
after strolling down the havelsky market, which by the time we get there, is only able to offer gems of bad art and handycraft in need to be shipped to Mugly's grand-ma asap, we walk back to the Old Town Square and take the second right to Bric-a-Brac. the antiquarian is young and affable, and i scan every xmas bauble, first communion card, Kindersurprise ring and original czeck 60's film poster, while american jehovah witnesses quietly celebrate the apocalypse next door.
we soon have to run back to the golden dog on Charles bridge for out 1.30 meeting. in front of us, Mr B. and Mugly, newly acquainted after sharing one of the pension's twin rooms, already walk in a brotherly synched step, their jacket and sweater of the same brown hanging with the same casualness from their right shoulders. George is already there, hiding a healthy red glow behind his gucci glasses.

we walk up the hills of Hradcany to the castle grounds. Mugly is designated official tour guide, which he accepts with elegance and obvious delight. his natural abilities and expertise soon infuse the group with an unprecedented thirst for historical knowledge. at the end of the tour, our newly acquired science enables all of us to identify Manu Chao as the main source of historical noise coming from the St Vintus cathedral.

while Pollon, VB and Little Tomgirl walk back to the hotel for a rest, Mr B., George, Mugly, Mapgirl and i decide to head for some intellectually challenging café. we warm up on the Ungelt square, and manage to ascertain that at least one of us has once read about Kafka. we are ready.
in the upstairs room of the Blatouch café, i order drinks too sophisticated for me, while Mr B. and George clap and stamp in delight at the quartertonic music in the background. we try our very best and squeeze our wits out to produce streams of clever thoughts. the result is a drift from Tony Hawk II to Big Jim who changes face when you press his lower abdomen; Mr B. suspiciously reminiscing of Barbie's little sister, Skipper; George and Mapgirl discussing smurfs/schtroumpfs/poofies (sorry puffi! italians!), and whether black smurfs are a continental particularity.
mentions of the Thunderbirds and Goldorak, cannot prepare me for the shock of being broken the sad news, 20 years on, that after all, Candy never married Terry.

we leave the Blatouch café with a sense of achievement, as nostalgia already sets in. the parting from the place is indeed all the more intolerable as we have only just discovered it.
the melancholic sound of gypsy and jewish violins slowly dies in the distance as we walk away.


posted by lsdb | 8:52 AM

Tuesday, May 28, 2002  

listening to badly drawn boy, "once around the block".



i get up at 4.30 am and proceed to meet Mr B. in the last carriage of the train to Stansted. he is there, sitting by the window, surrounded by a hord of cheap holiday makers. he waves. i hop in and collapse on the first (yet last) available seat, next to a big dozy bearded man, who later wakes up to get off at Bishop Stortford. Mr B. takes his place next to me. we don't speak much. 5am conversations are not worth the effort.

the flight to berlin is uneventful. George meets us at terminal A. we walk altogether to the top end of the small airport's car park, climb into the VW and drive off to the czeck border.

past the idyllic hills of Altenberg, we finally reach North Bohemia. the little village of Dubi immediately grabs our touristic attention by displaying its most obvious charms on each side of the narrow winding road. short-skirted creatures emerge from behind the trees, bus shelters, out of car parks, trucks, houses, windows, gardens, big, bare and blonde every yard for miles on end. forgetting for a moment that i am neither a boy nor into girls, i join in the contagious excitement of my two friends, who ecstatically jump up and down on their seats, childishly waving at these friendly locals. George and i catch sight of the unique shop left in the village: no bread or souvenirs, just a young girl crouching in the mundane day-lit shop window.
we laugh our shock off and drive on.


"Mapgirl, where are you?" Mr B. tries to locate our first italian contact.
"lilou, take us to Namesti Republicky." we find her amongst a group of folkloric dancers. nice cover.
now, to our final destination: Zizkov.
the friendly receptionist distributes the keys and cashes in the money for the first night. he then scribbles on a scrap of paper something that vaguely looks like a map. "for the car, one, two" he explains. we drive round in search of the 24h secure car park but fail to find it. i walk back, his last words echoeing in my head "DO NOT DISTURB ME, my dinner i eat now". knock knock. sorry. "Mmmmphhhhffffffffff"! i told you! car here, one, two!" he underlines frantically every stroke on the scrap. "we couldn't find it" i sheepishly apologize. "I MADE YOU A PAINTING!!" he explodes, shuffling his plate to the side. " i take you". we walk out again and stop in front of the rusty corrugated steel facade we had spotted earlier. a small door gives into a greasy courtyard, where mechanics are taking apart remains of three decaying skodas.
"- here? but where...
- here?! here?!? HERE??!!?" he interrupts at the top of his voice, then walks off to speak to one of the mechanics. the gates finally open, and George drives in, muttering "mein auto ist morgen in Polen" and then to Mr B and me, displaying some german George spark of genial humour "we might need to leave early on sunday. how long does it take to drive from prague to berlin with a 2CV engine?".

our southern contacts soon turn up. we giggle some introductions to the hotel and local customs, and all sit in george and pollon's room. i recognize pollon from a previous international meeting, though he swapped his botticelli hair for a shorter crop. Mugly, whom i only worked with via phone and all digital forms of communication, looks through me at the ghost gallery of all possibles that i turned out not to be, slowly fade away behind me. i let him adjust and concentrate on my maths: "1900 kronas times 60, one pound, 2350 a triple, minus one night discount, 34 to the dollar, 1 single sunday." my hands shake out of exhaustion as i keep pressing the wrong digits on the italian mobile's calculator, and i soon give up. i join Mr B. and george for a fag. the immediate relief it gives me convinces me further to remain a non-smoker.
while they all head for the local bar, i die on my bed then crawl for a scorching hot shower which partially washes off some of the exhaustion. a few beers later, i show off with my czeck and condescendingly thank the waiter, who calls his boss because he doesn't speak english. "but i was speaking czeck! DE-KU-D-JY!". the waitress smiles. "DE-KUY-YEE". my credence sweeps the floor nicely.

we head for charles bridge, in search of the magical cross that turns your wishes into reality when you touch it. when we get there, the clouds have cleared and give way to a nearly full moon. the castle's lights shimmer in the distance, and the Vltava's soft babble achieves to deliver the city's magic to our eager tourist senses. the cross is unreachable, too high. that is about right. that is where my dreams are meant to lie. somehow the herds of tourists have all stroked the dirt off the golden dog which sleeps at the feet of Saint John of Nepomuk's statue. i ponder and wonder what luck it all brought them.

a meal and a few beers later, we decide to head back to make the most of the following day. mapgirl and i start the inevitable girls dorm chat into the small hours of the morning. my head falls back on my pillow with spinning images of distorted homepages, mad emails, grandiloquent artists and unlistenable music. i wake up at 4.30 again, covered in cold sweats. i run to the bathroom and regurgitate in the most profound silence.
tomorrow is a new day.


posted by lsdb | 7:39 AM

Thursday, May 23, 2002  


je pars à Prague pour le week-end, avec un peu de chance je rapporterai quelques souvenirs...

à la semaine prochaine...

posted by lsdb | 9:50 AM

Tuesday, May 21, 2002  

So, Tony Blair has come up with the answer to the rise of the far-right across europe: cut aids to countries on the border of the EU

great. that is immigration policy.

now generally on the issue of immigration, can someone help me?

let's picture this:
take into account that the US, UK, Japan, Germany and France account for 60% of the global GNP (in dollars) and 10% of the global population.

think of your crap wage and then picture that nearly half of the world population (2.8 billion) live with less than $2 a day.

try and put aside the guilt of pissing on other nations' heads for the last century, by accusing third world countries of being unable to look after themselves and had we not colonised them, they would be even further behind today. try and forget the resentment that has been building in these countries for generations.

be blind to economy's globalisation and its implications. freedom of circulation of funds, goods, people. intensification of exchanges. if these aren't some of the implications, what is the EU?

refuse globalisation. blitz centuries of history and progress. bury money and define a clever barter grid. introduce temporary commodities on bits of paper when barter grid inadequate. frantically dig out the garden at night to find those bloody *"!!@~#!! green $ things again.

how exactly viable is it to pounce around in our walled garden while having megaphones on day&night yelling "let them have cake"?
how much do we intend to spend on security? do we give our guards licence to shoot intruders?

how long until angry neighbours bulldoze the wall, us and our pansies?

posted by lsdb | 10:14 AM

A DAY IN THE LIFE (of a blogger)

Fraser 20/05/02 18:32 Blimey. Visted your presidential site recently?

lilou 20/05/02 18:33 why?

lilou 20/05/02 18:33 ah yeah, does that all the time

Fraser 20/05/02 18:34 The blogpost thing?

lilou 20/05/02 18:34 it is fucking annoying

Fraser 20/05/02 18:34 It shouldn't be there

lilou 20/05/02 18:35 well yeah
everything is going wrong
i am tired

Fraser 20/05/02 18:35 :-(

lilou 20/05/02 18:38 no more pic hosting
they put advertising on the pix now

i haven't posted anything for ages because i want
to make that thorough research about parties

and then i don't even have time to do that
because work is taking too much time

and then even working wise i am behind

and now everybody's gone

and i am still here

and i have finished nothing

and i am starving

and i gotta go to ballet in 10mn

Fraser 20/05/02 18:39 Poor thing...

lilou 20/05/02 18:40 yeah

i want chocolate now

shit really, how did i find the time to post all
this stuff on blog presidentiel?

i think that is why work is overloading at the
moment, it is all backlog

Fraser 20/05/02 18:41 This is why I won't blog during work hours :-)

lilou 20/05/02 18:41 but i don't have a computer at home

Fraser 20/05/02 18:41 Ahhh.....

lilou 20/05/02 18:42 i did do that, stay in til 9.30 pm, but that is
like ...

well, when do u find the time to live?

Fraser 20/05/02 18:42 I don't

lilou 20/05/02 18:42 well



lilou 20/05/02 18:43 i want a blogging job

that sounds obscene

but i do

lilou 20/05/02 18:43 then i can blog
very well
all day

Fraser 20/05/02 18:43 There aren't many :-)

lilou 20/05/02 18:43 journalists?

Fraser 20/05/02 18:44 Some. The Guardian has one, the Wall St Journal,
a few others.

lilou 20/05/02 18:45 buggers


i am off, eating jo's chocolate

Fraser 20/05/02 18:46 Nice

posted by lsdb | 3:28 AM

Thursday, May 16, 2002  


ah oui, l'heure est venue de se mettre à nu.
ou presque. ça ne me dérange absolument pas d'inonder le Net avec mes inanités, mais ça me dérange de m'assoir dans un fauteuil en cuir crème et de m'entendre dire "alors. maintenant parlons de toi". en plus maintenant je ne suis *même pas* assise dans un fauteuil en cuir, mais sur une sale chaise de bureau en acrylique violet.
j'espère donc que vous me pardonnerez de vous avoir épargné les "j'aime le son du bois qui craque dans la cheminée" kindastuff dans ma section "about". en anglais, bientôt en français.
ah! et aussi quelque chose d'autre: je vais aussi écrire en anglais. parfois. le fait étant que là ça ne se voit pas, mais je vis en anglais les 3/4 du temps, et que donc a priori c'est une moitié (1/2) de moi-même, sauf que comme je suis venue de ce pays plutôt tard, on va dire que ça représente un 1/3 de moi. (autant pour les maths).
il y a des gens qui font ça très bien la schizophrénie linguistique: en hollande , au canada ...
vous verrez, on s'habitue.

quant au fait de devenir exhibitionniste...
il y a des gens qui sont des pros. tous les jours mettent cartes sur table, avec élégance. je pense qu'ils sont fous. je pense que si je devais parler de moi, j'inventerais un personnage. comme ziggy stardust. ou même bowie, car après tout, son nom c'est david jones. est-il devenu bowie? lisez Hamlet pour le savoir.
récemment j'ai découvert Torrez. un fou. qui écrit bien. et qui récemment a commencé à avoir une vie plus palpitante hors écran.
l'élue de son coeur a été intégrée au petit jeu du blog, a commencé à répondre aux commentaires des fans qui lui reprochaient d'avoir changé "leur" torres. elle était "la copine", mais jouait à "la copine". les fous. après avoir posté un petit poème, le torres s'en est allé. vers la vie hors blog. ah oui! fantastique fin! je suis pour moi, pour ma copine, pas pour vous, les fans en pleurs.
et ben non, il est de retour le salaud accro! aucun sens de la sortie théâtrale...

en parlant de vraie vie, il fait beau ici .
en vivant ici, j'ai aussi appris à comprendre pourquoi les anglais sont ces gros rougeauds sur la plage. c'est pour la même raison que george harrison a écrit "it feels like years since it's been clear, here comes the sun dududududuh"
le soleil... seuls les anglais pouvaient qualifier le temps de "glorieux".comme si le soleil avait gagné contre la pluie au K.O.

i'm out of here.

posted by lsdb | 5:01 AM

Tuesday, May 14, 2002  


le corporate blog est né.
Macromedia lance l'opération marketing qui tue: utiliser le format blog pour lancer les nouveaux produits, assurer un support technique etc...
le coup de maître? double!
1) dépasser la section "communauté" sur macromedia, qui ne marche pas vraiment, en créant des blogs sur des hébergeurs comme Blogger ou Radio.
2) demander aux chefs de produits et support technique, mais aussi à tous les développeurs utilisant les logiciels macromedia en général, de créer des blogs. la liberté est totale... il suffit de discuter des différents aspects du produit, rapporter les bugs, offrir des suggestions, etc...
"je ne voudrais que vous pensiez que ceci est une sorte d'opération marketing. notre motivation, c'est d'apporter aux gens l'info dont ils ont besoin".

le marketing comme discipline est si enclin à créer des étiquettes pour tout nouveau phénomène, qu'il a déjà un nom pour cette pratique révolutionnaire: le marketing viral.
si vous ne savez pas ce que c'est, ça se résume en quelques mots très simples: faire faire à une bande d'inconscients le boulot pour lequel on refuse de créer un poste ou une rémunération.

suis-je victime? oui. consciente, pas consentante.

posted by lsdb | 9:20 AM

Saturday, May 11, 2002  

peut-être aurez-vous entendu parler d'une explosion là-bas dans un pays lointain, dont on n'aurait jamais parlé si les victimes n'avaient été françaises.
mercredi on annonçait effectivement un attentat terroriste à karachi au pakistan, faisant 14 victimes, dont 11 ingénieurs français travaillant à la direction des constructions navales (DCN).

la presse française évoque pudiquement le fait que le bus piégé appartenait à la marine pakistanaise, et enchaîne rapidement sur la piste fédératrice d'al-qaida.
en grande-bretagne, le style est plus direct. c'est sûr, aucun intérêt de défense nationale en jeu: la DCN (Direction des Constructions Navales), ce n'est pas une companie de croisières de luxe, c'est le département de la défense nationale française qui exporte ses joujoux de guerre (à jouer dans le bain, pour les chars et les armes légères, c'est un autre département).
les employés ne faisaient donc pas de la pêche au thon, mais participaient à la construction du dernier Agosta 90B, le troisième sous-marin à être commandé par le pakistan à la france.

la france qui vend avec entrain ses agostas au pakistan, et ses 6 sous-marins Scorpène à l'inde , deux pays notoirement en conflit depuis 1947 dans la province du kashmir.
alors que l'union européenne met l'embargo sur la vente d'armes à un pays comme le zimbabwe, à cause de la multiplication des violations des droits de l'homme dans le pays, la france vend ses sous-marins au pakistan, où le récent referendum plébiscitant l'unique candidat, le Géneral Musharaff démontre une fois de plus que les droits élémentaires fondateurs de la démocratie y sont bafoués.

enfin, la france, qui vend au pakistan non seulement des sous-marins, mais également des missiles SM 39 et des Mirages d'occas', verse en toute bonne conscience des pots de vins au amis du Général, afin de gagner les marchés.
l'ami en question, l'amiral Mansur, a été depuis extradé des Etats-Unis, jugé et condamné par le pakistan pour corruption. il ne semblerait pas que d'action similaire ait été prise en france contre Matra, Aerospaciale ou la DCN.

alors, à quoi veux-je en venir?
que les morts de karachi sont justifiés?
non. le gouvernement français était parfaitement conscient des risques du projet, ayant même exigé de employés des mesures de sécurité draconiennes, incluant changements réguliers d'itinéraires et d'hôtels. je suppose qu'il est toujours plus facile de risquer la vie de ses employés que la sienne propre. d'un autre côté, une personne travaillant sur ce chantier, ayant un QI supérieur à celui de homer simpson, devait connaître les risques du métier.

ce qui me fascine, ce ne sont pas les morts. c'est la présence française au pakistan, la vente d'armes soi-disant règlementée. il faut croire que la règlementation n'existe que pour donner l'avantage concurrentiel aux pays dits "civilisés", tandis qu'elle s'applique aux pays les plus pauvres, qui osent vouloir entrer sur le marché. un GATT des armes en quelques sortes.

je ne crache pas dans la soupe. ou si je le fais, je le fais deux fois plutôt qu'une: je veux dire par la que là petite histoire des agostas n'est pas une exclu française. récemment, le comique grinçant Mark Thomas a réalisé une enquête confondante, montrant comment lui en 8 jours avait réussi à devenir marchand d'armes, achetant des armes dont la licence est détenue par la grande-bretagne, et revendant à des pays dit "à hauts risques" ou sous embargo.

Mark, let me come with you! i can do it too!!

posted by lsdb | 10:37 AM

bon, aujourd'hui j'ai la gueule de bois.

dur retour à la réalité. contente en tout cas de ne pas avoir pris le train hier. rassurant de savoir qu'en l'espace de cinq ans, 841 blessés et 58 morts plus tard, le gouvernement britannique tergiverse toujours sur le financement du réseau ferroviaire national.

posted by lsdb | 10:14 AM

Thursday, May 09, 2002  

épuisant de faire des recherches qui tiennent debout. en ce moment, je farfouille internet pour apprendre à devenir marchande de canons. comme dans tistou les pouces verts. (oh! j'ai pas vu cette couverture de livre depuis si longtemps!!)

comme je visitai le site de la dame qui grimpe aux étoiles, je me suis dit que ça lui ferait plaisir de voir toutes mes recherches sur les canons d'inde et du pakistan.
pour ce week-end, promis.

en attendant, c'est mon anniversaire demain. avec un peu de chance, je vais finir avec un truc comme ça

see you!

posted by lsdb | 12:24 PM

Wednesday, May 08, 2002  

Et voilà!

bon, il faut m'excuser, je viens juste d'aménager, c'est un peu en désordre, mais je suis là, et c'est chez moi, mon chez moi.
alors, quoi de neuf sur le web??

beaucoup trop de choses! déjà deux jours sans weblog et je suis complètement déconnectée! il faut dire que la campagne anti-Le Pen m'a épuisée, mais une bonne fatigue, comme après la séance de piscine à l'école primaire (les verrues en moins).

ici je parlerai donc d'actu, de grande-bretagne bien sûr, mais aussi du reste de l'europe; de sujets incongrus glanés ici ou là, de la vue de mon balcon (bon d'accord, je n'ai pas de balcon), bref, un weblog quoi! un joueb©, un webabillard©, un blog-notes© ( déposés par monsieur Joueb, avec qui j'ai eu l'honneur de discuter comme suit: - "je déteste le mot "jouebs" baaaaaaah! - Ah bon ? Mais pourquoi ? Ca m'interesse, c'est mon invention" - oooooooooopss! good start in the community!!)

en parlant d'actu, voici une brève qui confirme la règle: tous les gens violents sont des artistes frustrés.
on connaît l'archétype, Hitler et l'académie des beaux-arts à Vienne. aujourd'hui, le jeune Luke John Helder vient de se faire arrêter pour avoir terrorisé l'illinois, l'iowa et le nebraska avec ses bombes artisanales déposées dans les boites à lettres. ses revendications n'avaient d'artistique que le flou : la mort c'est pas ce que vous croyez, si vous n'aviez pas peur de la mort, vous ne vous laisseriez pas faire par le gouvernement, etc...
bouddhiste frustré? non, musicien!
le site musical IUMA a littéralement explosé aujourd'hui sous le nombre de visites et de messages postés sur la page du groupe. toujours accessibles sous cache, les commentaires font rêver tous les professionnels du monde de la musique "ah! si j'avais découvert ce petit en premier!!"

posted by lsdb | 10:38 AM