„The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn’t sleep …“ (Joni Mitchell, Carey)
Open window, african heat. The strong and fluttering voice of a black woman down on the street sounds like from a black market. A recovering man in the mid-fifties, lying on bed in a first-floor-flat, listening to the voice below, is immediatly reminded of a song that has been one of his all time summer songs – that smells like teen spirit. When he heard it first in nine-teen-seventysix, he felt like beeing baptized, further on belonging to an exotic world, freed from white man’s cage, being an exotic nature himself: shifting and shivering.