by Fabrice Bourgelle


Tonight, in Hamburg, the elite of a well-reputed record label will fill a small section of an immense World War II bunker, and watch a show. The thing is impregnable (the bunker, not necessarily the show,) and has been kept, I’m told, not for nostalgia, nor for any higher reason, only because it would be impossibly costly, to destroy.

I’m to stand on a war-floor tonight and tell poems. Perhaps sing esoterically about vague matters of the heart. I’m to amuse the bosses and a few punters before their new star takes their hearts to the heights, flanked as she will be by a view of the city, through windows, two or three yards deep, set in bolt grey, and thick.

The subject in the war house tonight, will be “mmmm… art”

We’re spending each day, for hours on end, on the autobahn, between venues. I’ve been using that time, to work on the computer, preparing the pressing and release of my LP, ‘Copernicus.’ Artwork, press release, digital distribution, pressing quotes. Certainly, it passes the time.

Today, however, it happens, I took a day to read all I could, about Syria. A quick overview of its political history since World War I, my nation’s part in that, some general context, and it’s situation today.

Fittingly, perhaps, the subject, today, in the beer-bristling, guitar-touting tour-bus of the artists, was “conflict.”