Parisian Romanticism

The sound of the Islands‘ “Don’t Call me Whitney, Bobby” echoes in the Parisian street and neither you nor I am there to hear it.

It was filmed in July, sometime in 2006.

Seeing the jovial quintet performing there, in the dead of night, in the abandoned street, is powerful. As blood still pumps through my veins, an overwhelming sense of desperation takes hold every time I watch it. They are a group of kids out there doing it, in the same way we used to do it, and the man filming it, he is doing it, in the same ways (hopefully) we used to do it. But, maybe, times like that are rare, maybe they are like the feeling of love in that they only exist “in spurts,” as my dad used to say. I guess you cannot go back and do more drugs or kiss all those girls again, so I suppose the responsible among us will face the crushing weight of the present with an optimism that borders on lunacy and a readiness that borders on ecstatic paranoia.

I hope it ruins the life you are now living.

Videos via La Blogotheque

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