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Adorno was suspicious of jazz as a “commodity” of everyday consumption, and basically he was right. We must be wary of what we want to make us swallow. We must be wary of what runs, speech and rumor. One must be wary of the flons-flons. In 1927, jazz was more or less what it already is, Louis Armstrong asks in “Potato Head Blues,” a series of “breaks” (cuts), without accompaniment, and these historical breaks conjure up a swing that does its for nothing more than an extraordinary musical cut of time. Time and tempo. Which, from there, becomes manifestly inner. In short, a break. And a gift from the gods! That’s it. Jazz is a gift. As Jacques Derrida said, it is an unexpected, unexpected gift (unpredicatble gift). In a word, a party, which justifies “festival”,

The surprise is there, but it is not certain. If we go anyway, it’s not just because festival festival rates allow it. We go because it is one of the chances of happiness that we have left. To consume is not a happiness, to discover is already better, to risk to take what happens and that one did not wait, that makes leap! This is the risk of Art if you want, this great little known culture.

The newspaper you are going to read shows you tracks, it draws probabilities, it identifies the field of expected pleasures, but it does not guarantee anything. And deep down it’s so much better.

Good meetings …


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