Tourist Lemc feat. flip kowlier - De troubadours - Eng translations

---

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 were able to join them like 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
rich now with many new and beautiful memories,
it's actually all about never stopping with 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 (factory) gleam of pride
sense, meaning, search for a lot but find very little
sigh"

He looked into my eyes 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