Rhapsodija Trio
Stare Mesto

I remember Moni Ovadia. And I remember that film, “Train de vie”...

I remember Prague under the snow, I remember the summer wine. I remember that I like the memory. Knowing that I have lived.

It can be a play of water and mirrors, the ubiquitous and insinuating melancholy, Philip Glass in the manner of Franz Kafka.

Or grace and naivety, flying donkeys, muffled enchantment, Marc Chagall in the manner of Marc Chagall.

And then the blues of the Hellenes, the gypsy blaze. Violins fired up at a thousand, ending up who knows how in a snow globe. And still, even if it's just a little orchestra, at track two you have to turn up the volume...

Music, in short. And you almost think that “it's true that we can't talk and that we always talk too much”

Poetry in motion, poetry often cheap, but who cares? It's all so beautiful...

You're in a little café and there are three guys, accordion, guitar, violin. And that so beautiful is returned to you as if they were showing you an old photo.

And even if there's no street, it's street music. Even if there's no dust, it's music full of dust.

Then you are drunk without having drunk, happy without being happy. And maybe it can be that you are still living.