Son père était trompettiste professionnel. Et au fil des prises de vue qu' il a réalisé, il a partagé des instants magiques avec Sébastien Tellier, les Daft Punks, les Justice...

Toujours curieux, se lançant des défis et surtout extrêmement créatif, il s' est pris de passion pour la création musicale et le Djiing, il y a seulement quelques mois ... 

Quand on écoute ses premiers "tests", nous ne pouvons pas rester sans voix car il perçoit tout de suite ce qui peut plaire et surtout faire danser!

Les trois productions déjà réalisées sont très teintées dance-floor à grand renfort de son électro groovy et d' une voix très présente (qui plus est... c' est la sienne... bah oui parce qu' en plus il chante super bien!).

A découvrir sur son myspace!

Ça faisait un certain temps que je n'avais pas fait l'exercice alors sans plus tarder voici 2 petits covers pour les, pas nécessairement intelligent, mais assurément divertissant, Reprises des Lundis.

Tout d'abord l'half-x-moldy-peaches Adam Green et un acolyte de New York que je ne connais point : Ben Kweller qui reprenne la chanson thème du film Cocktail composé/interprété (à l'époque) par les intuables Beach Boys: Kokono.

Adam Green & Adam Kweller - Kokomo (Beach Boys)
[audio=http://basementbeatz.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/kokomo.mp3]

Miracle Fortress et la track Digital Love ou la bombe nucléaire dance.disco.pop qu’a balancé le géant Daft Punk sur tout ce qui pouvait cracher du son à l'époque.  On était en 2001.

Miracle Fortress - Digital Love (Daft Punk Cover)
[audio=http://basementbeatz.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/digital_love.mp3]

Daft Punk - Digital Love

Did you ever get that feeling like you missed the only boat that ever sailed your way? 

Events in recent times have re-enforced my faith in the Higher Being – that imaginary, imperceptible supremacy we so take for granted. And being agnostic doesn’t help. 

For an indeterminable quantum of time, I slaved for ignoramus fools who successfully brainwashed me into believing my levels of ineptitude. My carcass in the meanwhile has become a semblance of what used to be. 

A chance meeting with someone who was my embodiment of serendipity left little doubt as to the corrosion of this bio-temple called anatomy. 

Time has only ravaged my elixir and it worsens everyday. My appearance isn’t the talk of the town – I’m bushed at being upstaged by women who haven’t half my personality or IQ. And incredibly, this feeling of decrepit esteem continues to mock every fiber and mote of my being. 

Incredulously dull colleagues and peers are now being heralded as the new-wave-strategists who will help steer the canoe of erudition and progress. I mayn’t be the smartest bulb this side of Suez – but I’ve weathered one too many storms to know which way the wind blows and how I must mitigate extenuating circumstances. Captains of our alleged Titanic have only misleadingly positive attitude and un-dithering stupidity as core competencies – and these they exhibit unabashedly. 

The idiot we used to call our manager was no better than the glorified Garcia of a corporate boob bent on busting her way up the ladder. And pool-boy ensured dividends for the most undeserving of candidates in this suspected gene-pool of endowment. Our cradle of creativity is essentially a bunch of egregious dotterels and deficit yuppies who wouldn’t know their elbow from their arse if their life depended on it. 

And I continue to endure this affront of intelligence for reasons that aren’t even. 

Inertia is all about the moment and the console that one derives from it. My comfort zone is really the size of Gibraltar – I seem to wade right into it wherever I go. And I don’t travel to many places. 

The bureau is a revulsion of everything I secretly abhor. The current change of guard brings me hope which dwindles ever-so-often given that there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip. 

Being surrounded by unhinged body mass determined on displaying their sophomoric wisdom must cast a dubious shadow on one’s character – or the lack of it. The cultivation of the idiot is a corporate pursuit and at the office, we seem to excel at this with alacrity and verve. 

The existing laconic brevity of prose and verse is reflective of the instability of mental activity my cranium indulges in for the moment. I’m on an intellectual vacation to hell – nothing I write seems to appeal to my depraved senses and I’m stumped for neither cause nor affect. I’m in purgatory and my penitent self seeks purification for my venial sins; but the lack of temporal punishment truly commendable of my peccadillo denies me the remittance and so I continue to endure. 

I’m depleting faster than my non-existent bank balance and it makes me emotional to discover the end of corporate exploit that bordered on concupiscent obsession. But most of all, it’s the race against time that’s sapping me of merriment. 

Too late in life have I recognized the boats that floated my way, were in my face, remained for a while until…at long last, they frustratingly drifted away. People, lovers, relationships, promises, agendas – nothing really came out of the intellectual sparring to justify my lack of contribute. 

It’s a sordid life trapped in pages of Manga madness interspersed with dreadful verse.