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Soirée rock à l’IFM vendredi 10 mars 2017 : conférences + du son et des images. Entrée libre sur inscription ([email protected]).

Au programme :

Au cours de la soirée, des illustrations musicales seront délivrées en "live" par Gilles Coronado (guitare solo). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KygmyrXbiik

19h à 19h45 Brice Partouche, créateur de la marque April 77 et expert pointu de musique rock, parlera des relations entre mode et rock (conversation avec Jeff Gaudinet, graphiste).

20h à 20h45 L'extraordinaire histoire de Roger Rossmeisl, « stradivarius » du rock, sera racontée par Luc Quelin, qui réalise en ce moment-même un film sur lui. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Rossmeisl A propos de Roger Rossmeisl : des Beatles aux Who, de Génésis à Clash, ses guitares et ses basses ont fait la légende du rock. Et pourtant ce créateur de génie est mort dans la misère et l‘anonymat… Allemand émigré aux US en 1953, il mériterait d’être aussi célèbre que Stradivarius. Berlin, Chicago, New York, l’après-guerre, l’Allemagne en ruines, New York, la passion de la lutherie, la révolution rock des 60’s…

21h à 21h45 Frank Zappa, par Gero von Randow, ancien correspondant de Die Zeit à Paris, passionné de rock et de Zappa en particulier.

22h à 22h45 Dominic Lamblin, producteur historique et ami des Rolling Stones, viendra parler de ses souvenirs personnels de Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Ron Wood, Charlie Watts et même Brian Jones. Dominic Lamblin a traversé en tant que producteur (notamment à la Warner) plusieurs décennies du rock et de pop auprès d'artistes comme Led Zeppelin, Donna Summer, Michel Berger, Véronique Sanson, Neil Young, Rod Stewart et surtout les Rolling Stones. Il vient de publier chez Larousse Satisfaction - Comment j'ai survécu 40 ans aux côtés des Rolling Stones (octobre 2016), un ouvrage co-écrit avec François Salaün. http://www.editions-larousse.fr/satisfaction-comment-jai-survecu-40-ans-aux-cotes-des-rolling-stones-9782035931344

Galvin did the same thing every morning. Rain or shine, in season or out, he woke up with the sun and ran around the lake. He prided himself on his discipline, on his ability to commit to something a stick with it. This was just one of the many ways he proved that discipline. 

If he was completely honest with himself, Ravenclaw getting knocked out of the running for a championship didn’t matter much to him. Sure, it sucked to lose, but it didn’t change anything for him in terms of practice or commitment to the game. He knew he’d played well, even if there was room for improvement, and just because their season was over didn’t mean that he was throwing in the towel for his own athletic development. Ignoring the part of himself that told him he was training for the pro leagues, he continued to wake up and push himself to train better, faster, harder. Old habits died hard, he told himself. 

So that Monday after the Slug Club dinner, right as the sun was coming up, he found himself alone by the Black Lake, chasing the shadows away and working up a sweat to get the day going. He had nearly finished his second lap when he saw a figure in the distance. Slowing down to a jog, he climbed the embankment up to where they were resting by the tree. “Normally, I’m the only one out here this early.” He spoke, resting his hands on his sides, trying to catch his breath. “What got you out of bed before the house elves?”

It wasn’t like him to purposefully ignore his friends. They’d offered to sneak him into the Slug Club meeting, to whip up Polyjuice Potion, or charm Slughorn, or something equally frowned upon, but James wasn’t in the mood for an event tonight. Even with the letter from his parents, he still felt uneasy about the whole thing. Even having told Sirius, and a few others, he felt this impossible weight on his shoulders. His father was improving, yes, but at a much slower rate than the medi-wizard liked, and his weekly letters from his mother, updating him on Fleamont’s condition, while still hopeful, contained an air of resignation in the pages. Short of traveling home himself, there was nothing he could do, and all it did was leave him feeling drained. 

Carrying this around made him want to hide away, avoid his friends and people he got on with, people who’d pick up on his mannerisms and foul mood, even if they didn’t know the source of it. So that left him strolling around the caste, dusk settling in, visible through the windows he walked past. He had the Map tucked securely in his robes if he found himself out past curfew, but with the Slug Club tonight, he doubted he’d run into much trouble. 

Upon turning a corner, however, he nearly did run into someone, quite literally, pulling up at the last second and shooting his hand out to steady both him and the stranger. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmured. “My fault on that one.” He tacked on, content to let them carry on with their day.

“It’s actually very interesting,” Florence said earnestly. “I mean, I didn’t know anything about Hufflepuff when I first arrived—well, except Marjorie Cornwall said they were a bit pointless, which obviously I don’t agree with, though I didn’t know anything about them at the time so was only mildly horrified that she’d call people pointless, not completely outraged, because it’s one thing to be rude and quite another to be wrong on top of it——but yes, I didn’t know anything about them when I arrived, and I actually thought the symbol’d been chosen because of Trufflehunter, or Badger from Wind in the Willows, though I worked out pretty quick that they weren’t nearly old enough.” 

Shifting slightly to look at the badger on the Hufflepuff hourglass, Florence launched back in. “But Robins told me—y’know, that prefect from last year? yeah, him—well he told me last year, in detention, that it’s because badgers will protect themselves and the things they care about, like family, even though they’re small. Mountain lions hesitate to attack them sometimes,” she said fervently, widening her eyes appropriately. “And so—Hufflepuff chose the badger,” she announced with a flourish, completely impervious to whether or not her audience wanted to know—and whether or not her audience had been a voluntary one. “Though, I’m fairly sure she’s Welsh, so she’d have really called it a Mochyn daear,” she said thoughtfully. “And I mean——earth pig, literally, which is pretty accurate, I think.” As her mind latched onto another image, she let out a peal of laughter. “Also, when I first saw Friar Tuck, and that he was a badger, I couldn’t help but think of of the Fat Friar,” Florence recounted with a laugh.