And so it seemed appropriate to ask De Wilde: "What's a nice guy like you doing in a métier like this?"
He replied with a very American have-a-nice-day croon: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
The time had been late. De Wilde did not decide to take jazz seriously until the age of 23 (he's 34 now). It had gone down like this. His father was an official in the French Embassy in Washington, Laurent was born there. The family went back and forth. He has two passports. Educated in France, he was too busy climbing the educational system's elite ladder to worry about what would come next. In the Grandes Ecoles, education becomes a sort of end in itself. He used to go on vacation with a Greek dictionary in his backpack.
He had little time for the piano throughout high and prep schools. The entrance exam for the Ecole Normale is tough. Once accepted, however, he found he could "coast. Once you're in, you're cool. You're paid. They pay you to go to school. Isn't that hip? I could play music all day long."
The school sends students abroad for a year and when he asked to go to New York they said "Why not?" Working in the consulate's cultural service by day, jazz was "thrown in my face" at night. He returned to graduate but straight life in Paris turned him off. He switched majors, you might say, as well as cities.
Back in New York, after two years on scholarship at Long Island University, he learned the repertoire in a big-time sink-or-swim situation as part of Ted Curson's rhythm section for the well frequented after-hour jam sessions in the Blue Note. He learned how to relate to in-crowd jazzmen like Greg Osby, Ralph Moore, Ira Coleman and Billy Hart. And, with Patricia, a French woman he met in New York who would soon become his wife, he learned about life in Hell's Kitchen.
They found a huge loft where he could make music all night. But it turned out that the gas bill had not been paid for 15 years and Con Ed said come up with $21,000 or the heat will be cut. It was mid-January. In Paris they cannot legally throw you out to freeze in the winter but there are no such niceties in New York. He felt like he was negotiating a Third World country's debt. They reached an agreement. But then the fire department found violations and the elevator broke down. And Patricia was pregnant.
A lucky break. A producer who was trying to close a French television deal with an American company spoke no English and said he'd "pay anything" for an interpretor. The consulate hooked him up with the normalien in New York, who helped him put his variety show together. He became its musical director and was happy to be raising a child in Paris rather than Manhattan.
Another lucky break. Although he had decided to follow a different lifestyle, he missed intellectual pusuits like literature and philosophy which had attracted him to the Ecole Normal Supérieure in the first place. So when he met a French editor in New York who said to him "why don't you write a book about Thelonious Monk.?" De Wilde replied: "Right-on, Daddy-o."
He wrote it in Paris "in bursts" (in French, for Gallimard). He tried to write "well. Better than journalism." He knows about journalism. His interviews with major names appear regularly in Jazz Magazine. Monk, he says, is like "a farmer in cattle land. Herds of cattle stampede around his little garden mooing and kicking up a lot of dust, but he just goes on cultivating his tomatoes. He's a wonderful example of obstinacy. The lesson is be obstinate in your search for excellence."
De Wilde can identify with obstinance. He obtained a deferral from the French military draft by "staring at my shoes for three days" during the test period: "It's hard to do. You try it. My best friend from the third grade happened to be in the same group as me. We hadn't seen each other since. He kept looking at me. But I was supposed to be crazy, right? So I just kept staring at my shoes and I wouldn't talk to him."
That's one definition of how to separate the normaliens from the hipsters. That said, culturally speaking, De Wilde has been anything but obstinate. He's your classic Mid-Atlantic man. Vacillating back and forth. Even though he is the first artist to be signed by Sony France's new jazz production operation and his album "The Back Burner" has just been released, he feels himself losing his musical edge in Paris and is once more searching for a key to New York.
Being a Mid-Atlantic man can be schizophrenic. He speaks in a remarkably aleatoric Franglais: "In America, the bottom line is 'make it work.' The nice thing about France is that there is no bottom line. Or rather the bottom line is making sense not money. We have great brains in France, but we don't make things work. We don't care if it works or not. If it looks nice on paper or in theory then it already works.
"But in the States it's 'don't talk about it, do it. And fast.' In music it's 'don't talk about it, play it.' That sort of thing doesn't exist in France. I get exasperated when French musicians come late to a rehearsal and they didn't bring the flute or whatever they were supposed to bring. You know the way it goes: 'Come on, I have this great wine you should check out."'
Writing words and making music — solitary vs. communal endeavor, verbal vs. abstract communication — leads to another sort of schizophrenia: "In journalism you have to hit the subject on the head. There are all these pages in the paper and every square inch has to be interesting. The competition to attract the reader's attention at all costs is incredible. With jazz, the form has time to unravel. You can sneak up on it. Any jazzman who tries to attract attention at all costs is lost to the cause. But each occupation involves another way to get there. Maybe that's a definition of art in general. Another way to get there."
Move On
Laurent de Wilde Lyrics
Jump to: Overall Meaning ↴ Line by Line Meaning ↴
If I go on my way without you
Whoa where would I go
If I go on my way without you
Whoa where would I go
I'm having flashbacks
Let me relax my dome
Parkside is gonna miss you black foreva'
Ties will never sever
You died tryin' to live better
Did what you had to do and now you deceased
I hope you livin' in peace don't even stress that beef
Go 'head and sleep count your blessings return to the essence
every time I see your fam word is bon I feel your presence
it's all over bearing witness like jehovah
ain't nothing strange unless you watch your range like a rover
Follow me son, what's done is done, forgot it
God bless his soul while his body's underground rotting
We won't forget you let a brother try to dis you
I swear to god he better have a blade and plus a pistol
Forever miss you got babies that want to kiss you
Shining like crystal, and at your wake I pass your ma a tissue
[Chorus: x2]
He was only thirteen when he burst his splean
The shot was fatal
He died right there upon the kitchen table blaow
It happened all alone in his house
Not a creature was stirrin', not a roach or a mouse
And I was just with him, playin' Sega
And buggin' on the horn with some honeys like a couple of playas
And now he's gone
I'm speakin' on my man K-Shawn
Forever on my mind mentally as I kick my song
He used to talk about the box in the closet
Where his pops kept a glock and all the safety deposits
Now he stressed, fiendin' just to hold some heat
I guess it came from all the stories that he heard in the street
I can't explain it, it's ill how we used to feel
I used to tell him stop playin' with that chrome-piece steel
He never listened, and now my man is missin' in action
I blame it on the fools in the street that's always blastin'
[Chorus: x2]
Aye yo my dreams are filled with terror
Shots gettin'' nearer
Paralyzed and right in front of my eyes it's gettin' clearer
A tragedy resulted from a brother's bad scratch
Tried to rob a deli but the gat he had was raggy
Bullets sprayed, ricocheted and automatically
Hit a bystander, young girl named Amanda
The slugs in her back by this cat buggin' no crap
Another rug rat, somebody tell me where the love's at
Was only seven already on her way to heaven
She reached her day and now she won't see her wedding
Some might say that this was destined or something
But her parents only had one child and now they left with nothing
Book all that flix and when they daughter was six
Before they moved from the bricks and got caught up in the mix
They thought things would get better now they stressed forever
They last vision was image of a blood-soaked sweater
[Chorus: x4]
The lyrics of Laurent de Wilde's "Move On" deal with the pain and consequences of violence and loss. The chorus repeats the question "If I go on my way without you, whoa where would I go?" which speaks to the fear of being lost without those we love. The verses tell specific stories of loss and reflect on the grief and anger that follow. The first verse is about the death of a friend, who died trying to better his life. The second verse is about a thirteen-year-old boy who dies while playing with a gun. The third verse is about a young girl who is killed by a stray bullet during a robbery. Each verse is a tragedy that is hard to process, but the singer insists that he cannot forget the people he has lost.
The lyrics of "Move On" are a powerful reflection on the human cost of violence. The repeated chorus suggests that the fear of losing those we love is universal. The stories in the verses are deeply specific and personal, but they also reveal a broader pattern of suffering that is caused by senseless violence. The song does not offer easy answers, but it insists on the importance of remembering those who have been lost and on the need to continue moving forward, even in the face of devastating loss.
Line by Line Meaning
If I go on my way without you
I cannot afford to live without you
Whoa where would I go
Without you, I am lost, and I don't know where I would go
I'm having flashbacks
I am reliving past events in my mind
Let me relax my dome
Let me calm down
My whole joint's blown another soldier won't be coming home
Someone I know has died, and it is a tragedy
Parkside is gonna miss you black foreva'
You will never be forgotten, and your impact will be felt forever
Ties will never sever
Our bond will never be broken
You died tryin' to live better
You fought to improve your life, and tragically lost it in the process
Did what you had to do and now you deceased
You did what was necessary, and sadly you passed away
Go 'head and sleep count your blessings return to the essence
Rest in peace and remember all the good things in life
Every time I see your fam word is bon I feel your presence
Your family reminds me of you, and it feels like you are still with us
It's all over bearing witness like jehovah
The event has come to an end, and all we can do now is grieve
Ain't nothing strange unless you watch your range like a rover
Unexpected events happen all the time, but they can be avoided if you are careful
Follow me son, what's done is done, forgot it
There is nothing we can do to change what already happened, so we must move on and forget it
God bless his soul while his body's underground rotting
We hope that he is at peace while his physical body deteriorates in the earth
We won't forget you let a brother try to dis you
We will always remember you, and anyone who tries to insult your memory will face consequences
I swear to god he better have a blade and plus a pistol
Whoever tries to disrespect your name should expect a fierce response
Forever miss you got babies that want to kiss you
You will always be missed, and the children who loved you will miss giving you kisses
Shining like crystal, and at your wake I pass your ma a tissue
You were a bright presence in our lives, and at your funeral, I comfort your mother with a tissue
He was only thirteen when he burst his spleen
He was very young when he died
The shot was fatal
The bullet killed him
He died right there upon the kitchen table blaow
He died instantly on the kitchen table
It happened all alone in his house
He died by himself in his home
Not a creature was stirrin', not a roach or a mouse
The world was silent when he died, and there were no signs of life
And I was just with him, playin' Sega
I was with him shortly before he died
And buggin' on the horn with some honeys like a couple of playas
We were on the phone with some girls, acting like we were cool
And now he's gone
He has passed away
I'm speakin' on my man K-Shawn
I am talking about my friend who died
Forever on my mind mentally as I kick my song
I cannot stop thinking about him, even as I write this song
He used to talk about the box in the closet
He used to tell me about his father's gun in the closet
Where his pops kept a glock and all the safety deposits
His father kept a gun and other valuables in a safe
Now he stressed, fiendin' just to hold some heat
He is now anxious and eager to hold a gun
I guess it came from all the stories that he heard in the street
The violence he heard about in the neighborhood made him want to protect himself
I can't explain it, it's ill how we used to feel
I cannot put into words how intense our emotions were
I used to tell him stop playin' with that chrome-piece steel
I warned him to stop playing with guns
He never listened, and now my man is missin' in action
He ignored my advice, and now he has disappeared
I blame it on the fools in the street that's always blastin'
The people who shoot guns in the neighborhood are responsible for his fate
Aye yo my dreams are filled with terror
I have nightmares about violent events
Shots gettin' nearer
The sound of gunshots is getting closer
Paralyzed and right in front of my eyes it's gettin' clearer
I am frozen with fear as I watch the violence unfold before me
A tragedy resulted from a brother's bad scratch
An unfortunate event happened because of someone's foolish mistake
Tried to rob a deli but the gat he had was raggy
He attempted to rob a store, but his gun was in bad condition
Bullets sprayed, ricocheted and automatically
Bullets flew everywhere after they were fired
Hit a bystander, young girl named Amanda
An innocent bystander, a young girl named Amanda, was hit by the bullets
The slugs in her back by this cat buggin' no crap
She was hit in the back by someone who was reckless and careless
Another rug rat, somebody tell me where the love's at
Another child has been killed, and I wonder why there is so much hatred in the world
Was only seven already on her way to heaven
She was very young when she died
She reached her day and now she won't see her wedding
She was robbed of the opportunity to get married and live a full life
Some might say that this was destined or something
Some people might believe that fate was responsible for this tragedy
But her parents only had one child and now they left with nothing
Her parents have lost their only child, and it feels like they have nothing left
Book all that flix and when they daughter was six
They took pictures with her when she was six years old
Before they moved from the bricks and got caught up in the mix
Before they moved to a more dangerous neighborhood and were caught up in violence
They thought things would get better now they stressed forever
They hoped that things would improve, but now they are filled with anxiety and grief
They last vision was image of a blood-soaked sweater
The last thing they saw was their daughter's blood-stained clothing
[Chorus: x2]
Repeating the chorus
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Written by: CLARENCE DRAYTON, TAMY LESTER SMITH
Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
Alkora76
Beautiful piece of music*
MissAtlantique
beautiful wonderful video
MissAtlantique
@GFindumonde have you got the link to the original
GFindumonde
it's just the orginal song- speeder and higher. It's ridiculous to do that, you should be ashamed. Put the real song !