He zigzags and staggers along the harbor of La Ciotat, skirting the ridiculous, the pose, and anachronism—a reeling cosmic tramp, head elsewhere, drifting toward fantasized Sixties, Jim Morrison in his sights, black leather pants and matching shoes, fitted just right, casually fastened, an old case from which a battered Moleskine sticks out, inside which one imagines, hastily scribbled in a nervous hand, a few flashes of adolescence… What is ripe is fit only for rot; I make the case for adolescence; I will never recant, that sort of thing…

The calanques? His Big Sur.
La Ciotat? His Laurel Canyon.
The Mediterranean? His Pacific Ocean.

At the top of his lungs, he sings the dark side of the moon and later asks his girlfriend where she spent the night before—a song from another age, an eternal song, old folk once passed down by Lead Belly and later by our friend Kurt Cobain, Morrison’s cousin: tragic destinies, live fast and die young, all that jazz…

Hair blowing in the wind, trembling voice, eyes closed—the west is the best… We know it all by heart.

Another one whose life was saved by rock’n’roll. You’re not serious when you’re seventeen.
You just hope never to find him again with short hair and a predatory grin… résumé attached and LinkedIn profile…

And then there’s our friend Lou Reed and his Velvet Underground—1969 recordings at the Matrix, San Francisco, California, a club owned by a member of Jefferson Airplane. You want fantasized Sixties? There you go.

The music that changes your life isn’t the kind you play in the background; it’s the kind you play full blast, because there’s room for nothing else. That’s what the Velvet Underground’s music is like. Period.

Il zigzague et chancelle sur le port de La Ciotat, frôlant le ridicule, la pose et l’anachronisme, clochard céleste titubant, la tête ailleurs, vers des sixties fantasmées, Jim Morrison en ligne de mire, pantalon de cuir noir et chaussures idoines, à sa taille, négligemment attaché, un vieil étui d’où dépasse un Moleskine élimé, à l’intérieur duquel on imagine, griffonné à la hâte et d’un trait nerveux, quelques fulgurances de l’adolescence… Ce qui est mûr est bon pour la pourriture, je fais l’apologie de l’adolescence, jamais je ne me dédirai, ce genre…
Les calanques ? Son Big Sur.
La Ciotat ? Son Laurel Canyon.
La Méditerranée ? Son Pacific Ocean.

À tue-tête, il chante le côté obscur de la lune et, plus tard, demande à sa copine où elle a passé la nuit dernière, chanson d’un autre âge, chanson éternelle, vieux folk transmis en son temps par Lead Belly puis par l’ami Kurt Cobain, cousin de Morrison, destins tragiques, vivre vite et mourir jeune, tout le tralala…

Les cheveux au vent, la voix chevrotante, les yeux fermés, the west is the best… On connaît tout ça.

Encore un dont la vie a été sauvée par le rock’n’roll. On n’est pas sérieux quand on a 17 ans.
On espère ne jamais le retrouver cheveux courts et sourire carnassier… CV fourni et profil LinkedIn…

Et l’ami Lou Reed et son Velvet Underground, enregistrements de 1969 au Matrix, San Francisco, Californie, club d’un membre du Jefferson Airplane. Tu en veux, des sixties fantasmées ? En voilà !

Jenny said when she was just five years old

There was nothing happening at all

Every time she puts on a radio

There was a nothin’ goin’ down at all, not at all

Then one fine mornin’ she puts on a New York station

You know, she couldn’t believe what she heard at all

She started shakin’ to that fine fine music

You know her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll

La musique qui change la vie, c’est pas celle que tu écoutes en fond sonore, c’est celle que tu écoutes à fond car il n’y a de place que pour elle. Celle du Velvet Underground est comme ça. Un point c’est tout.