Day 42: Dafake live!

La tristesse de la fermeture. Or, going six trillion stops on the Metro, from one end of the city to the other, only to see this:

In the immortal words of Charles de Gaulle: Fuck

Guys, but you don't even understand. I have a deep, almost erotic love of breakfast. Sex with multiple partners, hot stone massage, literature, painting, music: what are these really but vapor, mist and fog, mere illusory whispers of the perfect glimmering ideal that is Breakfast? Is there, could there ever be anything better than sitting outside in the morning sun, listening to the call of a few early rising birds peeping over a washing drone of distant cars, alternating slowly between a hot and bitter cup of coffee and a buttery, sugary croissant? Obviously not. And worst of all, this is the bakery that my good buddy Miguel worked at, the guy I met at the picnic who came all the way from Mexico to learn the art of bread making. Even if I'm able to find another acceptable bakery somewhere nearby (oh look, there's one), unless I come back to Paris I will never know if he was able to pull it off.

The track, she is long, like my despair

It's finally starting to hit me just how little time I've got left here in Paris. Tomorrow will be my last full day, then it's off to Berlin on an overnight train. I'm filled with a host a emotions. One of those emotions is perfectly clear to me: a lingering fever from my London borne illness. The rest, however, refuse to congeal, flowing and sloshing in my brain like a failed aspic. Do I feel regret for places not visited? Happiness for the people I met and the moments I experienced? Yes, probably, but I don't think I'll be able to see it until I take a few giant steps back, maybe all the way back to the states. In any case, enough of this sentimental garbage: it's time to go back to Glazart to see my good friend Dafake Panda.

Who the fuck is Dafake Panda, you ask? He is none other than the nice young man I met on Soundcloud, a composer of what he describes as Dadaïst IDM and charming little tunes like this one:



It was too dark to document last time but basically Glazart is in the middle of nowhere, sandwiched between Aubervilliers and a wide swatch of highways and forgotten city. In looking for a good tree to climb I found some abandoned train tracks that might give you a pretty good idea of the level of desolation we're talking about here.

Holy fuck seriously that's the saddest tomato I've ever seen.

Far, far from the only example of Space Invader's influence in Paris

 Here's a little taste of what Dafake sounds like live:

Glazart turns itself into a beach, apparently

The crowd goes wild, sparse.

Dafake!!!

Eventually the concert peters and I wander home to nurse my fever. Oh Paris, you will be missed. Tu me manques--or maybe je te manque? I find that turn of phrase really hard to keep straight.