All we hear is credit crunch, economy crash, subprime crisis. And, indeed, we also know that people suffer; and I’m not talking about these bankers and brokers. Some of us really have it short these days, and apparently the unemployment rates around the world have never been so high.

 Of all things macroeconomics, the most abstract value notion has always been the monetary power of federal and national banks to me. Interest rates, exchange rates, devaluation, you get it-BORING. Until you come across this kind of article, or this one.

   These gold reserves ain’t credit lines on a computer-they supposedly are real, well hidden and conserved in places like Fort Knox, Kentucky or 33 Liberty Street, New York or even under beautiful Swiss squares like this one in Zurich:

  What in the world could have been holding burglars from ever trying to stick one of these places up? I can probably imagine the army of a belligerent neighbor nation putting his hand on it-it happened many times before. But an international Robin Hood stick-up kid organization, from the City Of God to the Slumdog Millionaire children scheming on a Geneva heist, now that’s a credit crunch aftermath I’d really want to see happen.

     M.

PS: By the way, France supposedly has the 3rd or 4th gold reserve in the world!? Where is all this money hidden??

   Peeps,

 I just got back from the old country where I had to go with my entire family for funeral reasons.

 Traveling to Tunisia in those particular circumstances had me thinking a lot about my grand-parents migration journey, the reason why they left their relatively good situation in Tunis to come here in the Paris northern banlieue. Migration, and especially african immigration, is almost always depicted as a mass phenomenon, hiding the particular aspects of each and every family’s story. I keep on thinking that mine is golden documentary material-and I’m pretty sure it is the same for any given one.

   To tell a very long and detailed story bloggy-short, mine relies on one of those family mysteries that makes the french/northern african common History so tied up one into the other. In the early 1900’s, a 5 years old black kid from Djerba, southern Tunisia, landed in France in a white, french family from the center of Paris. Was he sent there to be protected from infantile mortality? Was he adopted? Was he ’sold’ to be some kind of servant? I never knew.

   Jump-cut to the early 1960’s. My grand-father works as personal driver for the Bey, the governor of the Tunis province. During one of his courses, he stops at this little bar where somebody heckles him: “What’s your name? Oh yeah? Funny, I know somebody with the same name in France, and he looks quite like you actually! He works for the mosque in Paris, you really should contact him!”

  That’s how my grand-father got in touch with his never-heard-before older brother, the little black tunisian kid having now turned into a well-integrated french citizen. He told him “there are opportunities here in Paris, you should come and settle here with the whole family”. And, after a few months of reflexions and administration headaches, on July 9th of 1964, my grand-parents, my mother and her 7 brothers and sisters (aka the ESSADI fam) moved to Gennevilliers, Hauts-de-Seine, France. And just one floor down from their apartment, in the very same building, a french workers family called the FAVERIS was kicking it, sixties proletarian style. Good neighbors, my father befriended one of my uncles, who then introduced him to my mother, and the rest is history, the history of me and my last name…

     Maman, I love you. Aunts, uncles, cousins, I love you all. Fabienne, I love you. Neil, I love you!

        In memory of my grand-parents, my father, and my aunt Dejla.

   Peeps,

 This being my favorite subject of conversation, please pardon my prolixity.

 I keep trying to understand the ‘causality’ between the music we listen to and the situation surrounding. Why is there some music I like in the summertime, some I prefer in the wintertime? What makes me want to listen to this particular record while driving a car? Or this other one in my headphones, riding the train? Is it the message, the mood? Is it the sound? What is shower music?

 Since I was a kid, hiding with a little radio under my bed sheets at night, listening to Dee Nasty on NOVA (circa 88), I’ve always been convinced that there was also some kind of connection between the music volume and the intensity of light. The darker my room, the softer the level to fulfill the feeling. Which is quite paradoxical of course, because it’s the exact opposite in a club situation: we usually want to dim the lights and blast the fuck up-especially if BoysNoize is deejaying.

 The quest for the perfect setting to complement your favorite music is like Trizzy’s new record: infinite+1. How many records didn’t I understand until I heard them in the right place, at the right moment? This one for example, which I’d like to suggest as a soundtrack for this cold and grey Paris friday: footprints by A Tribe Called Quest. Please let me know how it feels to you in London, in Sydney, in Tunis or in California.

    Mehdi.

Image composed by Arthur KING with pics and stickers of my own.

   AND IT SOUNDS LIKE THIS: waiting for you.

  So it’s Grammy day today here at Coolcats:

  First I’d like to congrat my couskis Justice for that remix award, and uncles Daft Punk for the pair.

  Plus, as much as I liked the Swagger Rap Pack performance and the Radiohead jump-off, allow me to share more, if you haven’t seen them everywhere yet:

-1) Did it really take 45 years to see my favorite bass player play with my favorite drummer?

-2) Being not an early hour Wayne fan, I must bow down to his tribute to the Katrina victims. Weezy simply runs this rap game at the moment, I can’t front:

-3)  And, last but not least : Paul Mac, Estelle, Robin Thicke, MIA, Radiohead on stage + Justice and Daft Punk winning = Europe holds it down, and I love it. (Please note that I didn’t include Coldplay in the list)

  You gotta respect the Yankees for knowing how to celebrate, show-business style.

      M.