Mama Bea Tekielski
Faudrait rallumer la lumière dans ce foutu compartiment

I wonder if on this site you can write a review of a review.

And - a fortiori, as they say - I wonder if you can do it if you don't remember a single word of that review.

The newspaper was a newspaper that I believe - and hope - no longer exists. The year, a magical year. The Year, almost written with a capital Y, just to annoy Flo. And in that stupid, yet so important newspaper to me, a review comes out at some point. Strange. Crazy, maybe. Who knows by whom. The record of a woman. Half Polish, half Italian. Who lives and sings in France. The title is Faudrait rallumer la lumière dans ce foutu compartiment. You should turn on the light in this damned compartment. A strange title, a strange girl. A strange record, who knows where on earth he found it, that guy, who writes in that newspaper, they usually review Genesis, or make rankings, who plays guitar better: Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page?

And - from that review - a little note. In the pocket. But since I'm lazy, also the distortion, in every possible way, of that title. Also thanks to my knowledge of French, which stops at Je suis Catherine Deneuve (very useful in conversations). A record that you look for every time you go to a store. And you never find it. That you don't hear on the radio, and back then soundcloud or youtube didn't exist. Not even the internet, to be honest. Fortunately for the aforementioned soundcloud and youtube one might say. But that record can't be found. So much so that, by constantly distorting it, by constantly looking for it and not finding it, you forget it. Or perhaps it would be better to say you think you forgot it.

Then, now that there is the internet, by chance, one day it comes back to your mind. And in the google search window, you write that strange title in the way you remember. But google forgives you. And finds it for you.

Now. I know, someone thinks of the stereotype of someone who lives in the past. Who only listens to music from those days. Who regrets. Who instead acknowledges there is also music now, that's valuable, that's beautiful. Or Algol, who some time ago wrote that I have an innate talent for writing about nothing.

Yes.

I don't even know if on this site you can write a review of a review. Especially if you don't even remember a word of that review. Because doing it, such a review, would really mean talking about nothing. Talking about something that has no dimensions, no mass. And not even time. It would mean talking about an emotion. Which, after all, is a bit like talking about music. At least to me. No dimensions, no mass, no time. Just emotion. Mine, opening those pages. To reconnect a thread. To wonder what on earth could have been written in that review, to remember it, after so many years. Something without dimensions, without mass, without time. And without words, even, to say it. Something like that.