Wednesday, March 29, 2017


Islam Musical Contemplatif


This double album is probably essential for the career of Lionel Belmondo, performing here with his brother Stéphane and an ad hoc group of musicians that associates the regular musicians Lionel Belmondo uses, plus his brother and some coming along with and for Yusef Lateef, a jazzman from the USA recently deceased, whose life and career span from Tennessee where he was born to Massachusetts where he died. He represents a jazz of his own that has impacted Lionel Belmondo’s work tremendously, and yet. . .

As soon as the first notes of this recording we have a tone we had not found yet in Belmondo’s music so far in our discovery. A light, florid, rich, deep, joyous and even blissfully ecstatic music that sweats and radiates some happiness, joy and not the morbid mortiferous contemplation we found so often in Lionel Belmondo’s music. But due to the dates, is this mortiferous and morbid style a later style, a style due to something Lionel Belmondo has lost? For sure this here recording is full of light and sunny rays of pleasure.

Without entering all the tracks one after the other, I would prefer giving you some impressions rather than a scholastic manual. The presentation booklet that comes along with the CDs is good enough for that and signed by Vincent Bessières who is a journalist at Jazzman, a French magazine on the subject of jazz and jazz performance. Founded in October 1992, it was merged with Jazz Magazine in September 2009 in response to the worldwide economic downturn and the general loss of revenue among music magazines. It was advertised as "the magazine for all jazz." Jazzman began as a free supplement in Le monde de la musique. It published its first independent number in March 1995. It is not clear whether the separation was a divorce or a way to expand the jazz publication by making it autonomous. The booklet is in both French and English. I have chosen to favor English.

Bessières says somewhere the musicians have chosen the blues as their style. I am not sure because for me the blues requires a voice, a singer, words to express the blues itself and the music is generally not jazzy and it is certainly most of the time particularly sad, suffering, crying and weeping, howling at times with despair. Here the music is at most hesitating between having a continuous melodic line or just impressionistic touches like in the second track: “Si tout ceci n’est qu’un pauvre rêve” (If all this is nothing but a pitiful dream). The title by Lili Boulanger originally here arranged by Lionel Belmondo has been made luminous in its hesitation, the search of some elevation but no doubt ever, it will come from contemplating the inside dimension of this music that is never erratic but only curiously stumbling and touching around to look for a door, an uplifting golden path in the forest of some urban maddening crowd that does not madden you at all.

This recording owes a lot to Christophe Dal Sasso who gave two tracks on the first CD. He could be qualified as sad but it does not succeed and I will then consider that his half smile of half happiness is in fact the detachment of a contemplative man in front of this world. What could make his music sad makes it in fact restful and peaceful. We just let ourselves slip slowly into this music and we enjoy the rest we find there, the abandon and nonchalance that are seeping from the notes and the instruments. Are we lying on a deckchair or chaise lounge on some beach or gently rolling ship on an oily sea without any wind, apart from a light breeze that cannot even fill our sails? Just let’s look at the gulls, at the sun, at the dust dancing in the sunlight, let’s draw the curtains of our mental bedroom and let us recline in the velvety featherbed. Is there any regret at times not to be part of the game, part of that outside world of pure excellence and enjoyment without any exhilaration?

There might be a desire behind this music by Christophe Dal Sasso and his use of percussions to make rolling balls dance from right to left and then open some window to some plaintive but aerial and sky like azure flute that could be some Indian musician in the morning challenging the percussions, the drums, the whole of nature and summoning the deepest and most secret animal spirits of our world, those we never listen to and we always want to meet but without the courage to say, OK yes, let the wolves come dancing with me, let the frogs croak with me, let some other deer or bears come celebrate life with me. That’s when a more metallic sound and a humming voice appear, if it is a voice, and deeper, more somber sounds come up, rise, swell in the sky on a canapé of metal percussion, cymbals and their metallic sweeping, bells, we are confronted to the birth a world, of a mythology, of a future because any birth means a future that will drop on the side what is not important for that future like the shouts and yells of crowds. The piano brings in the responsibility of life and government. And a saxophone or clarinet or whatever brass instrument comes and amplifies that social forest of responsible enjoyment of what is to come and we call for. The bass can then temporize with that future. And something lurks out of the wings and inflates itself into some existence You are, new-born god, the master of this world and we are your servants, your believers, your powerful intercessors to life and we become the echo of your peace of divine mind and that makes us divine too. Oh! Friend of mine that moved away, that is trekking along some new territory, your voice is still reverberating in my mind and that voice is like a divine message telling me what to think. It is the few isolated notes of a bird’s call and song. And then it can become the recollection of the pleasure of loving you and the pleasure of still loving you though you are blazing some trails in some new forest and a trumpet tells me you are strong, manly, powerful and sure of yourself like some calamus growing in Walt Whitman’s pond in his contemplation of the masculine heart of the conquerors of wild territories. That music is an ode to joy and bliss and orgasmic climax, all contemplative in the mind of the beholder. To contemplate is to have. Just enjoy that contemplation that is your possession, that rich possession that makes you another person and yet the same. That’s how a friend and his love can transform your mind even in his absence because he is always there in your brain. Can’t you feel him squirming when you speak of him?

If you find Christophe Dal Sasso slightly liquorish and satiating, maybe too much, too hypnotic, just take a rest with Lionel Belmondo and his saxophone. No problem; you can go drunk on that heady music that titillates in you the dark humors that have to come out to become sunny and happy. He is the pleasure bringer, the hawker in the street that tries to hawkishly sell you the shiny trinkets you do not need and yet that will be so useful for you to dance all night as if you were happily in some luxurious and lustful reception in some palace imagined by Lestat de Lioncourt somewhere in Auvergne. Don’t let your fingers be taken up by these strings. Resist the envy and the desire to be nice with the hawker who is a predator like his name says and he will draw all he can out of you to let you go on your wooly legs totally empty of all your blood. You will sit on a public bench and you will admire your new acquisition of empty air.

And that’s when across the street on the second CD Yusef Lateef comes and transform our urban stroll into a rainforest chase for unknown species. Chattanooga, Tennessee, is the destination. Is it Chattanooga today or the Chattanooga of the times of slavery? Is it the past or the future? To ask the question is sure to never get an answer. Just enjoy the trip.

I guess Southern Comfort is next on that road to the south but definitely with an urban background from the north.

But it is a day to wake some vast ideal from morning to dusk. Iqbal dominates the whole suite and it brings together so many things, in 2005 and even more today. The great and mythic by now Sir Muhammad Iqbal, widely known as Allama Iqbal, was a poet, philosopher, and politician, as well as an academic, barrister and scholar in British India who is widely regarded as having inspired the Pakistan Movement. Born: November 9, 1877, Sialkot, Pakistan. DiedApril 21, 1938, Lahore, Pakistan. There is in this music something that goes beyond the slowness and nonchalance of the south. There is something that enters the Muslim mind of Yusef Lateef, a Muslim mind that comes from his reference to Pakistan, an aspiration to develop, an aspiration to thrive but also a tremendous fear that behind the green canopy of the trees there may be a very aggressive and violent sky and yet let the canopy of leaves and birds in their nest lock itself up onto the shady happiness of here inside this temple and let our words open our hearts to the divine beyond this closed up cell of nature. That divine grandeur is not outside this cell; it is not outside our own minds. It is inside our minds and we have to cultivate that call, that language, our prayers, our demands, our request from God who does not have any obligation and would even consider this request as some kind of undue begging. Do we have the right to beg from God for small little advantages and presents;

We should be the ones offering and not the ones being granted any offering. And by the ones offering I feel in that music how we are supposed to let ourselves be taken and we are becoming the offering itself this music makes to the giant monsters of life. We are the offering on the altar, on the pyre assembled for the sacrifice, we are the ones open, entirely open and receptive to the blade of the knife that makes us the redeeming sacrifice music brings up to the world to salvage this humanity. This jazz is an expiating sacrifice to save the world from its evilness, its monstrosity, its hawkish carrion eating raptors that are soaring and circling high in the sky over us, their preys. But strangely enough Yusef Lateef tries to convince us there is nothing to be afraid of and we can just sit back and lie low and enjoy the orgasmic communion with nature and with the duration of things and the cosmos, of the whole universe. That music is so pacifying, so smoothly caressing that we may forget the world outside is not that nice after all. And Allama Iqbal becomes an Iqbal sports champion, or an Iqmal child overworked and exploited by some wild capitalism in underdeveloped countries like Pakistan. There are so many Iqbal in this world.

But if we come down from this vision we come to some may fest on the village green, with pipes and some dancing elves. The world is so beautiful when we look at it with the eyes of someone who has satisfied his divine duties and has thus rebuilt his ability to just take the world the way it comes and enjoy it in pleasure and bliss along the dancing crowds. Don’t wonder who this Brother John is. He certainly is not Saint John and his Apocalypse; there is nothing apocalyptic in this music, nothing menacing, just multifarious and multi-voice hymns and canticles dedicated to the peace of mind you reach when you concentrate your mind on the divine. This music is so Muslim in all possible ways. There is no contradiction that is not reduced like a broken bone that heals all by itself with the bandage of belief, faith and submission to the truth of on-high, of beyond all the dangers that are not of life but of some other world that has to be forgotten and nullified.

There is nothing bluesy in this music, nothing sad, mortiferous and morbid. Why on earth has Lionel Belmondo later on developed his morbid and death-loving style? There probably is no answer to that question. But his productions of 2011 and 2012 are in complete contradiction with this radiating bright luminous maybe slightly unempathetic style. Happiness is at the bottom of the flowery meadow like in The Sound of Music. It is well known, provided the world is the microcosm of Switzerland untouched and unconcerned by the violence outside its borders. I must say I miss the drama and the tragedy of so much jazz that pushes its roots and branches into the compost of centuries of inhumane and barbaric history of slavery and exploitation. That’s maybe this contemplation of monstrosities from under the crystal dome of protected relaxation that is so common in Bordeaux and its region, in the Landes forest and on the lakes there that explains the coming together of two jazzmen who are so different.

The world is beautiful and life is marvelous. Let’s enjoy them both till we are drunk with an overdose of sugar and alcohol.


Tuesday, March 28, 2017


Disappointing BBC production on a mythic character


It has all to do with Conan Doyle though it is antipodean to that poor Sir Conan. We are in the modern world and Sherlock’s minds works like a texting machine that receives myriads of texts from all over the world and from all periods of time, past, present and future. He can thus read in his mental texting smart phone anything that has happened, is happening and will happen forever and ever. It is absolutely hilarious at times but texts are easy to jump from one deep – wine or root beer? – cellar to the top of a tower – London’s Monument I guess – in less than 140 characters. Sherlock in other words is the super Tweeting Twitterer and he should be recommended to President Trump: that might give his American counterpart some inspiration to be more dramatic and not melodramatic and a lot funnier with his tweets.

This fourth series that comes to the final problem of Sherlock’s life that explains how everything he is and he does is the result of his superiority over his brother Mycroft who is well introduced in government circles but is an infamous coverer-up. But it is revealed there was a third child in the family, a daughter and that’s the final problem because she was so much more superior to her two brothers that she could not be tolerated free in normal mediocre society. In five minutes she was able to reprogram anyone that approached her and touched her.

The daughter is the dominant evil-doer in this fourth series and she even pulls the strings of Moriarty. And yet Sherlock can bring the survivors, his friend Dr. Watson, his brother Mycroft, his sister Eurus, Dr. Watson’s son and Mrs. Hudson, not to mention the Holmes parents, together with his violin and his music that communicates with the Stradivarius of his sister Eurus. Peace and quiet in Brexit and the world is at peace too and can go on with its humdrum silliness.

I don’t think this series is that brilliant. The special effects are simple and I will not take you for ignorant film-watchers by enumerating the models and allusions. You will capture them just like me and even probably more than I because I am not that learned and that would be quotations and I don’t need these crutches. But they are too many and in the last episode one is even quoted: “Lost” mind you. I am sure the BBC could have done better than insert texts messages on the screen. It looks too much like a trip in the underground or the tube at peak hours when everyone is texting and reading texts around you and you don’t even have to look at the smart phones to see the messages jumping out and dancing in front of your eyes. People are so little modest and shy, bashful and timid about their texts and their tweets. Look at Trump how he makes it a great carnival parade.


Monday, March 27, 2017


Copyright, Fair Use and Freedom of Expression go together

The 18-page synthetic presentation of both the Kindle 210 pages of personal notes, reviews, discussion and presentation of the documents available in free open access at on one hand, and the said 550-page volume of documents on on the other hand.

It contains the two introductions and the two Tables of Content of the two volumes and some illustrations on the very subject of Copyright, Fair Use and the Freedom of Expression.

Editions La Dondaine
8 rue de la Chaussée

© Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved

Cover Illustration
© Annunzio Coulardeau & Jacques Coulardeau
The moral right of the authors has been asserted
All rights reserved

Product Details

File Size: 1606 KB
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Publisher: Editions La Dondaine; 1 edition (March 13, 2017)
Publication Date: March 13, 2017
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services LLC
Language: English
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Word Wise: Enabled
Lending: Not Enabled
Enhanced Typesetting: Not Enabled

US$5.00 - €4.68 - £4.19

This volume only contains the author’s commentaries and personal opinions and presentations of the various documents. The documents themselves are mostly available on the Internet but you can access them all in one open access volume at


Feudal Academia Payback


A book that is obviously based on some personal technical knowledge you can only get from inside a profession, and in this case the triple knowledge you can only know in very few professional fields, that of embalming the dead for burial or for the dissecting “bench” of some laboratory in a university, and of course in a plain simple post-mortem police morgue where the body is opened up for autopsy. This expertise is autobiographical for the author who was a professional in one of these three fields.

That’s where I am embarrassed by the first person of the “dissector’s chapters” in which the main female character tells us what she does or did. Most chapters are in third person, hence an omniscient and omnipotent author or storyteller takes over then. I would have preferred the whole book to be in third person which would have not required to shift from one vision to another in these first person chapters. Or everything in first person, which would have required to shift from one storyteller to many storytellers. We of course cannot evade that duality that makes the storyteller in third person the same as the storyteller in first person, hence it is autobiographical and that is embarrassing again since it is the description of a perfect crime, a perfect murder. Is the author confessing? I hope not. Then the first person is irritatingly cumbersome.

But let’s enter this academic medical novel, I mean this novel dealing with a medical school on a university campus, here one in New Orleans. It is a novel so I will consider the said campus is not a real one. It would otherwise become a pamphlet. And I hope it is not.

The book is yet a strong denunciation of many shortc!omings that are common place in many academic institutions, a lot more than you may ever think or know. Academia is a ruthless, exploitative, cruel and extremely vain petri dish in which the human material is either the germs (top hierarchy among the faculty) or the culture medium bases (the lower hierarchy among the faculty and of course the students, graduate or not). In the book you can see how far such inhumanity can go between researchers at the top, teachers under the former ones, graduate students who are just slaves and plain students (undergraduates) who are nothing but chattel or guinea pigs. Rare are the exceptions among the faculty or in the student body. And body is the proper word: to be used, abused and exploited in any way you may think proper or fit, as they used to say about a death penalty in the middle ages by drawing, hanging, and quartering. The methods used were only the inspiration of the executioner or the audience.

It shows well though research requires a lot of work but it shows also how some at the top of the hierarchy are no longer doing much because they use their underling research workers to do their own research (they only put their names on the papers or books, at times with the names of their slaves, and at times without the names of their slaves. The same goes on with graduate students who in fact do a lot of the research of their research directors who will systematically use the results or attempts of their graduate students not to improve them for the benefit of the graduate students but only to enrich their own personal research declared as such and as theirs only.

Anatomy is gross in all possible ways. Gross by the smell, gross by the exploitation of dead donated bodies by uncaring professors or students. The book is graphical about it though it tries to remain only gross and avoid the level of offensive repellence. Page after page it becomes mortiferous and morbid. I would advise the sensitive minds among the readers to skip some paragraphs and pages. It is obvious all readers have not killed a pig tied up head down on a vertical ladder, slaughtered a sheep, strangled a few kittens or bled a chicken (by cutting its tongue with scissors) or a rabbit (by out-rooting one eye) to death. Imagine those numerous passages when the main female character has been dissecting in class or embalming dead bodies and without any mention of her washing her hands or getting out of her scrubs takes her sandwich out and starts eating. Gross I said. Really gross. Not to speak of the money made on the side by selling donated bodies to some body speculators who can do what they want with them.

The male professors are often – or is it only at times – improper with many things particularly with women, be they colleagues, graduate students or plain students. Strangely enough, female professors are never improper with their male colleagues, male graduate students or plain male students. And there is no mention of any crossing of the gender line in any other direction than heterosexual. That makes the book slightly one-sided, but it is common to see that this is the dominant vision still on university campuses. If you speak of improper conducts, you imply male offenders and female victims. That is totally fake both in reality and extension. A great number of female offenders and male victims exist both in different-sex and same-sex configurations. But it is quite revulsive to see here how a male professor is disgustingly repugnant. The explanation that his wife is a terroristic spouse in private and in public is no explanation at all. One unhappy individual in marriage looks for a solution and not perverse alleviation in one eye from an outsider in the palace of one eye from the offending spouse I do not have the courage to confront for the eye of mine she has ripped out of my skull.

Grades of course are manipulated in all directions. They call that with the decent euphemism of curbing; It can be general for everyone in percentage. It can be absurd for everyone in the same flat number of points given to all, or motivated by the hostility of liking of a professor for a student. I have been confronted to all possibilities, plus the order in a department not to flunk anyone, or the demand from some parents for me to curb the grades of their son or daughter. That’s why in an English test for a Fulbright scholarship I got 103%. I was over the highest grade ever given in that test. It was curbed and after me it probably was curbed up instead of down. Curbing is extremely questionable. It hides the reality of a situation. I remember a “school inspector” on a day of national test grading starting the session by telling us he wanted to increase the curbing by two points. We, the graders, refused flatly since those under passing level could go on an oral salvaging test down to 25% under this passing grade. The inspector wanted us to go down to 45% under the passing grade.

All that makes this book a real manifesto against academic practices and common obviously unrecognized rules and customs. And it does not speak of hazing, which is a serious shortcoming. Nevertheless, the book is fascinating but keep a pail next to you for the vomiting you might have to perform when reaching some pages.

Enjoy Uncle Sam’s exhibitionism.


Saturday, March 25, 2017


Crime in the upper classes


These crime stories are interesting because they are quaint like hell, or heaven if you prefer. The crimes are situated after the second world war around 1948. They all happen in some areas that involve the upper classes of England, the aristocracy and nobility. Many sirs, lords and ladies. The main policeman is of course from Scotland Yard and he is a chief inspector very well introduced in the higher spheres of the government and in these very aristocratic upper classes, which gives him the privilege, and mind you that is a privilege that no one could have, to question and even slightly shake up and around these noble and/or rich people to get the truth out of them who consider their private business has nothing to do with Scotland Yard.

It is quaint by the language. It is quaint by the way they dress and behave. It is quaint by the way they address other people or even the way they get angry. Everything in them is quaint in some families that go back to before the Norman Conquest, if that may mean something. It is quaint because of the old rotary dial telephone and of course no portable or cell phones, not even, or is it of course not any, smart phones. It is quaint by the old cars of that old period with their front doors opening backward. Quaint because of The Times that has no pictures on the front page, if any even inside. This quaint atmosphere makes you nostalgic of a time you have vaguely known in the past, at least fifty-five years ago, even before the Beatles. You should see the old 78 rpm vinyl records and their record players, the old turn tables that you have to wind up with a side-hand-crank and the enormous sound horn that looked like a giant morning glory or ipomoea bloom shedding music in the air.

They even make tea the old way: warm up the teapot with some hot water, then one spoonful per cup plus one extra spoonful for the pot and hot water poured onto it and don’t forget the cozy on the teapot for five minutes. It is true there are so many servants that you can only see Troy doing that, troy a famous painter who is supposedly in love with Chief Inspector Alleyn.

The series is very well built by a BBC that already knew – and apparently they still know – how to create suspense and really keep the identity of the culprit for the very last minute. It is real art to prevent the audience from guessing too early, or even at all. That enables the series to be nicely social and critical of the rather blind lack of empathy and sympathy, not to mention compassion, among these aristocrats who only think of their reputation, their money, their prestige, their fame even, and who are ready to run over and of course kill those who maybe in their way, and those are always from the very same social class. The rich kill the rich and in this series no poor kill no poor. There might be now and then one exception to this ruthless truth. There is also some criticism of some practices in this society that try by all means to control simple people and keep them under control in all possible ways, particularly the cultivation of superstitions, religious or not, to achieve that point.

The rhythm is rather low and of course the various accents are realistic enough to let us believe when we move out of London and go to Scotland, for example, though not strong enough to make comprehension as impossible as a roaring truck next to you.

It is thus interesting because it keeps you alert and it develops a critical approach of life that unluckily has a tendency to disappear in our news-overfed world that cultivates one-sided arguments in all of us and good old fight between sectarian if not bigot defenders more than advocates of only one-sided ideas with only two camps that start throwing mental stones as soon as they open their mouths. And that must be true since we have been able to see every day for now two months the President of an important nation accusing everyone of plotting against him, including his predecessor. And we would like our students and children to learn how to construct balanced discussion on any subject even the most inflammatory and fieriest ones, like travel bans.

Take a break from that bipolar political fundamentalism and let yourself glide into this quaint fluidity that will of course and luckily never come back.


Thursday, March 23, 2017


From Vietnam to Paris, via Romania, Sri Lanka and the USA


Jacques COULARDEAU, Ivan EVE & Serban V.C. ENACHE at Amazon & at (68)

From 2009 to 2015 Ivan was my student and then assistant. He played a role that is important for us who want to penetrate the mysteries of the cosmos, at times at the smaller scale of our own little self. He was the one who reacted at first at the chapters of my research I submitted to him for critical reading and such reactions are the sign of something that is not perfect, clear or complete.

Then he moved to bringing some remarks and some data to the research that was being done together and he finally jumped into the shotgun seat and brought his own research on whole chapters of the work. When we confronted our views it was sometimes tense, sometimes emotional, sometimes intense, but always fiery and courteous as if we were in some old tournament trying to conquer for both of us the golden fleece of the legend.

P.S. The illustrator of some of these books is Annunzio Coulardeau, my 37 year old son who lives in Toulouse. He is in music, art, computer technology and radio producing. He owes his name in homage to Gabrielle d’Annunzio. He prefers going under the name of Hallah Hallah (

Research Interests:

Tuesday, March 21, 2017


Ne rien narrer, simplement être témoin

Jacques Coulardeau et le Théâtre Parisien @ & (72)

Je suis monté sur un praticable devant un public en professionnel dès le début des années 70 pour l’association France-URSS et présenter une lecture de poèmes de Maïakovski dans l’exposition dédié à ce poète russe au Musée des Beaux Arts de Bordeaux. Je n’ai pas arrêté depuis et les scènes se sont succédées, les micros radios à partir de 1979, et tous les genres y sont passés. J’ai écrit pour le théâtre (Centre Dramatique National de Béthune et Théâtre Louis Richard de Roubaix) et j’ai bien sûr écrit et produit des heures et des heures de poésie, théâtre et autres formes littéraires pour la radio, pour des radios, Radio Quinquin, Radio Canal-Sambre, Radio Craponne, RCF et quelques autres encore, sans parler du travail de critique de spectacles vivants, de cinéma ou de littérature.

J’ai assisté à des centaines de pièces, d’opéras, de ballets, de festivals, de concerts et les ai couverts pour les radios mais aussi pour Liberté, quotidien de Lille, L’Éveil de la Haute-Loire du Puy en Velay, et de nombreuses publications universitaires ou volumes consacrés à Shakespeare et d’autres. Ma collaboration avec Maurice Abiteboul et sa revue Théâtres du Monde remonte à la fin du siècle dernier. Je dois dire que la liberté de style et de ton n’est pas toujours facile à conquérir.

La révolution informatique, la quatrième révolution industrielle comme certains veulent la nommer, ou encore la révolution de l’automation ou de la robotique ou de l’intelligence artificielle, selon les écoles des uns et des autres, rend aujourd’hui la pratique du théâtre en tant que spectateur, chercheur ou même reporter plus flexible puisqu’on a alors le « spectacle dans un fauteuil » si cher à Alfred de Musset.

On a ainsi le monde entier au bout de sa télécommande ou de son lecteur DVD du moins si les spectacles sont disponibles dans ce format. Et le dépaysement disparaît de nos cerveaux puisqu’on se fait de plus en plus à la diversité d’un monde qui est des plus infinis. On peut ainsi passer de Londres à New York, de Shanghai à Moscou, du Cap à Toronto, et bien d’autres endroits encore qui nous deviennent ainsi familiers.

Dans ce qui suit les trois premières parties portent sur le théâtre parisien, principalement des auteurs vivants ou du moins contemporains, puis une escapade dans la revue Théâtre du Monde d’Avignon et enfin une liste à peu près exhaustive de mes écrits qu’on dira de recherche, universitaire ou non, sur le théâtre. Beaucoup d’autres choses existent sous forme d’inédits que le monde d’aujourd’hui nous permet plus facilement de publier, distribuer et diffuser. Mes pièces de théâtre sont hélas dans des formats papiers aujourd’hui totalement hors de circulation et qu’il me faudrait scanner et re-publier.

Un projet comme un autre : 36 Sans épouvante et sans souliers, Verte Verte la Rainette, César et Constantin, Jean Meunier et tout le répertoire radio pour la plus grande partie inédit, sans parler de l’anglais (quatre pièces jouer au Festival de Bradford, 1994).

En ce moment je suis sur les 21 opéras, et œuvres vocales que je classe dans ce genre, de Benjamin Britten pour y étudier la figure de l’étranger. Un travail énorme dont les notes rédigées aujourd’hui comptent 77 624 mots. Je viens juste de terminer ce travail exploratoire. Il ne reste plus qu’à écrire un article de 10 000 mots. Une bagatelle en quelque sorte.

Je vous donne donc ici des écrits sur le théâtre relativement récents dont la plupart sont des critiques en général publiées sur quand en français et tous les Amazon quand en anglais. Je dois dire que j’écris infiniment plus en anglais qu’en français.


Research Interests:
Diversity, Tolerance, Ibsen, Voltaire, Henrik Ibsen, Contemporary French Drama, Marivaux, Classical French Tragedy,French Classical Comedy, French Vaudeville, Paris theatres, French playwrights, and Gay Paris

Monday, March 20, 2017


Pour briller en société, encore faut-il le vouloir!

Je me Trump ou bien j’ai tort !

Mais non, pas le moins du monde, ni pile ni face, ni aucun des côtés de la lune. Vous ne pouvez que vous Trumper et en même temps avoir totalement tort.
Vous devez comprendre que le FBI a une caméra dans chaque four à micro-ondes de la planète.
Et la CIA a des micros hyper sensibles dans chaque lampadaire qui grâce à EDF reçoivent l’Internet et captent vos téléphones.
Et je ne dirai rien de Putin qui a osé l’inosable, et il a engagé les meilleurs hackers de Microsoft pour prendre le contrôle du Sacré Cœur et de la Tour Eiffel. Il annonce Versailles la semaine prochaine.
Mais vous ne savez pas la meilleure ! L’ado pubère de Corée du Nord a réussi à implanter des micro-processeurs transmetteurs sur des souris et il vient d’en lâcher un millier Place de la Concorde. C’est la cacophonie garantie à Pyongyang.
Mais vous êtes encore en retard d’un train, et à grande vitesse en plus. Xi a fait encore mieux. Il a mis au point une machine lectrice des gammes Béta du cerveau humain. Chaque Chinois dans le monde qui a un téléphone est en fait un récepteur émetteur de toutes les gammes Béta de milliards de pauvres péquins.

Et je viens juste d’apprendre qu’il a proposé à Wikileaks de publier toutes les transcriptions, ce que Julian Paul Assange a immédiatement accepté . . . à condition que les Chinois acceptent de le libérer de l’Ambassade de l’Equateur et de lui offrir un refuge, avec ou sans étoile, mais avec vue sur la mer, dans le désert de Gobi. Xi a répondu qu’il allait y réfléchir.
Et Sony a breveté la machine à voter à distance pour truquer les élections françaises. On n’arrête jamais les Japonais.

Jean Epicier, Bobardiseur Presse, Maison Blanche

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