A modern jazz reflection recorded in a mobile studio in Houlgate — Wandering in Jazz Club pays homage to the timeless spirit of Paris, where giants like Chet Baker once played, lived, and recorded. This piece blends cool‑jazz intimacy with cinematic warmth, capturing the quiet pulse of a city that never stopped swinging. -- Wandering In Jazz Club (English lyrics) -- He’s called Superflux, friend of Paris afternoons, jazz evenings, lost nights, black dawns too soon. He brings that old‑time ache, like it’s brand‑new, a nostalgia borrowed from an earlier view. His credo is “Before” — the ache that stays, and every phrase he plays starts on yesterday. -- On a scorching day, the outskirts fall asleep, empty place, thin shade, and promises to keep. We climb Montmartre steps, let the warm air pass, sit at Place du Tertre… staring through the glass. -- Wandering in a jazz club, where time forgets its name, Wandering in a jazz club, every echo feels the same. A little room upstairs, a doorway made of sound, we’re wandering… and the Before comes ’round. -- Starts before time… then lands on the down. -- The trendy bars are shuttered, the others barely breathe, more dying flies than laughter, no mercy up the sleeve. A waiter on the stoop, hard eyes, a practiced stare, “We ain’t got a penny…” — “I’ll come back for tap‑water, I swear.” Then from the hotel corner, a trickle in the heat: not lobby, not a record — live musicians in the street. Suits and colored shadows, a bossa slipping by, not discreet, not bourgeois — just a copper‑bright sky. Brass rings, drums talk back, piano chords run slow, and the bass keeps hammering that little rhythmic glow. Wandering in a jazz club, where time forgets its name, Wandering in a jazz club, every echo feels the same. A little room upstairs, a doorway made of sound, we’re wandering… and the Before comes ’round. -- A cat on the low brick wall, peeking past the ledge, one impossible leap — to the balcony’s edge. So we dance on the wall, we balance on the zinc, the gutter turns to staircase… and we don’t even think. And we’re there — they’re shining — melody takes flight, a lazy dixie heartbeat, then the fingers ignite: doubles, triples, syncopations, offbeats in the air, counterpoint and daylight in a room that can’t breathe… but is fair. -- “doo‑ba, doo‑ba‑doo…” The air gets heavy, heavier — the rumble in the floor, a break between the sets, then something sweet and forbidden in the door. His eyes flash, then drift away, glassy on the line, crimson vapors in the room, time thick like wine. No glances, no confessions — just the count-in, clean, and all at once the band returns: the second set begins. -- Wandering in a jazz club, where time forgets its name, Wandering in a jazz club, every echo feels the same. The night goes bare outside, the square turns cold and loud, we’re wandering… under a blues‑flagged cloud. -- Third act after second set, the moon is copper‑bright, dark glasses on the faces, stars stitched into night. Worth all the breakfasts in the world… still it’s four a.m., and the Before keeps talking, soft and slow again. -- The owner never charges — he feeds on what they play, morning pulls the curtains, green and worn away. They’ll drift back to their shadows, wherever shadows go, but Superflux and his band will return tomorrow: clean, impeccable, smiling — playing “Picture of Heath” over and over… over and over…more