BISSAP DU 20ÈME

The city stirs with a quiet engine roar and a tube beat, as if someone is gently combing old wounds to the rhythm. The vocals are a half-whisper, half-wail: life is being sought far from beaches and strangers' smiles, and in the words, that very bitter irony about "being banned" and surviving against all odds slips thru. Nostalgia for the "Wiko" era smells of cheap gasoline and the sweet rigidity of memories. The applause and music around, like spotlights, give the whole performance a cabaret feel for weary warriors. The motorcycle, dark streets, and repetitive phrases create the feeling that the scene is both a home and an arena, a place where the verdict is passed on simple words: to speak is to exist.