The last Jazz session of the month of August follows…

We [the staff] never thought that we’d make it this far.

It’s 19 hundred hours
over the Waves at
La Seine…
Jazz Hour, follows.

Hey, wadda’ya know, The Sirens skipped town… y las muy condenadas, como d’habitud no invitaron las muy canijas. En fin, la tropa de las colas de pez se lanzaron a un lugar que se llama Nantes; casí esquina con Pornic, o Pornichet—o algo así.

The few cats that we [the staff] know from that region, around Nantes, are like the few people that we met from Alabama —es decir— they always tell every new acquaintance that they are from LA… which the French call Louisiana.


Anygüey, it appears that the French are back from vacation because over at Nantes, the protests are in FULL SWING, and no, “little darling” it’s not the Gypsy Swing, oh—no-no-no—no—NO!… let’s just say that it’s the same assholes that practice social upheavels as a Sport with the chant of Sol–sol—sol—SOLIDARITE, o algo así… MUSICA NUDA—indeed, Siren, indeed.

So, Nantes, the few gents that we’ve mingled with for some reason they all told us [the staff] that they were from Brittany, and yes, from a kick–ass town with a Raider’s and Pirate’s documented log like St. Malo. Not to rag on Nantes, but… if God had forsaken me and made a Place like Alabama (any spot on that map) i would probably say that I Hailed from Louisiana, —most definitely— New Orleans.


Al parecer, los rijosos del Sol–sol—sol—SOLIDARITE, o algo así, ya fueron desalojados, apaciguados, o simplemente se retiraron a hacer su Revolución Empaquetada a otro sector del Festival Rendez–vous de l’Erdre à Nantes… o algo así. Anygüey, BLUES MUSIC en esa escena va a seguir con “Hear me Holler N Moan”… or something along that GAME.

TimeStamp: 20h00 in Central Europe Time.

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