I interpret the story as a band of musicians (Tourist Lemc, Flip Kowlier and such) meeting up with other musicians and feeling a deep connection through their stories, backgrounds and music. They enjoy each other's company by making music together under a bridge and by talking about many things. They ask what real music still is, they reflect upon their own mistakes and life, upon what they loved and disliked, and ultimately the love they share for what they have now until the next day arrives and the police comes to chase them away. In the end the main character (Tourist lemc) asks himself if it was all a dream and decides that it matters not as they now have new stories to share and pass on as true "troubadours" of "the city." Tourist Lemc feat. Flip Kowlier - De Troubadours This is a story about life, the practice in art is
an hommage to those artists that don't know yet what the current situation is that's how we were sat under a bridge, together around a fire the troubadours were singing a song about some kind of adventure Even though we had just arrived, we could join them as if we were one of them I showed my respect, hand on my heart, head down, because I know when respect should be shown with emphasis a companionship like this, (unique) is something you won't ever experience again (never again) They were men from around here but at the same time from everywhere else When they asked me "Who are you then?" I said "I'm the tourist, what about you?" I brought Kowlier and my entire equippe here with me maybe you know about us? We're the squad of the city!" he looked up with a smile, felt the similarity just as ambitious, just as busy and endlessly occupied as this one here is, an understanding without words, started to play a song and that's how we found each other in words and melody We can go, we can stand, crossing fields, crossing roads even through marrow and through bone under skin, under stone we're drifters roaming around throughout the night, with tales and stories, around a campfire and in halls Extinguish the spots, turn off the speakers close everything and fast more fire, hear me! The musicians are back Ballades, hymnes, street songs, naturally Banjo, backsack Another one stood there with his flute We sang loud, sang a lot and sang some more A laugh a teardrop, everytime sincere Melancholy about the quarters where we lived as children It was on the Seefhoek and that's when this one jumped in with stories about "the city" older than the macadam (road), about the beautiful eyes of a woman that once made us lose our hearts, from the misery in our homeland till Afrika from the political malaise till the headaches of the voters It's all so relevant but it doesn't matter where we end up in the end, man, do we love our country From Voorspan till Kiel south, mmh richer now with many new and beautiful memories, it's actually all about never stopping making these kind of souvenirs We can go, we can stand, crossing fields, crossing roads even through marrow and through bone under skin, under stone we're drifters roaming around throughout the night, with tales and stories, around a campfire and in halls Pure of emotion song of freedom not of the liberal but of the beasts in the jungle here under the bridge simplicity an eye for nature physics he asked me simply "Where can we still find the soul of the things does the fire of the smith still exist? I've never seen a conveyer belt in a factory gleam of pride sense, meaning, search for a lot but find very little sigh He looked me in the eye and nodded We troubadours are made to sing to compose and to make memories here As long as the mad don't come to turn us away tomorrow the police-guy turned red A strange thirst for revenge Did we just wake up from a dream, or did it really happen after all? I say to my colleagues "it doesn't matter, we have a story and the rest will come by itself." We can go, we can stand, crossing fields, crossing roads even through marrow and through bone under skin, under stone we're drifters roaming around throughout the night, with tales and stories, around a campfire and in halls
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