Other The Inconsistent Jukebox
L'accordéoniste LUCIOLE LANGEVINE ft Rudi Bakken The Inconsistent Jukebox Production

A taster track from the forthcoming album of smoky Parisienne jazz club recordings, 'restored from the original 78s'. The amazing Luciole Langevine soundcloud.com/luciole-langevine and guest musicians from around the world. Une travail d'amour, a labour of love, for me - more a curator than a musician on these. Album release date to be confirmed, I started them in June 2015. There may be special vinyl editions. We'll let you know.
Luciole Langevine Voix • Alain Proust Guitare • Rudi Bakken Accordéon • Barry Snaith Supplémentaire guitare et supplémentaire accordéon • Produced by The Inconsistent Jukebox • Composed by Michel Emer

Here are the lyrics translated into English, although the French sounds so perfect. But if you're fluent in French you'll know all the words. But these aren't just lyrics, you can read an entire life in here:

The prostitute is beautiful. Over there on the corner she has a client
who fills her stockings up. When her job is done she goes on her way
looking for her little dream at a dancehall in the suburbs.
Her man is an artist. He's a strange little guy, an accordionist (who knows how to play the java.
She hears the java but she doesn't dance. She doesn't even look at the dancefloor. Her loving eyes follow the vigorous playing and the wiry, long fingers of the artist. It gets under her skin. From the bottom,. From the top. She has the urge to sing, it's physical. All of her being is tensed.
Her breath is held.
It's a work of art shaped by the music.

The prostitute is sad over there on the corner.
Her accordionist left to be a soldier. When he comes back from war they will have a house. She will be the cashier and he will be the boss. How beautiful life will be. They'll be true big-shots. And every night for her he'll play the java.

She hears the java that she hums softly. She looks again at her accordionist and her loving eyes follow the vigorous playing and the wiry, long fingers of the artist. It gets under her skin. From the bottom, from the top. She has the urge to cry, it's physical. All of her being is tensed.
Her breath is held. It's a work of art shaped by the music

The prostitute is alone over there on the corner.
The men don't want the girls who are sulking. And too bad if she dies - her man is never coming back. Farewell to all of those beautiful dreams. Her life is fucked.
Nevertheless, her tired legs take her to the dive where there's another artist who plays all night long....

She hears the java. She listens to the java... She closes her eyes...
Those wiry, vigorous fingers. It gets under her skin. From the bottom, from the top .She has the urge to yell out. It's physical.
And so, to forget, she begins to dance, to turn..
To the sound of the music...
STOP!
Stop the music...