The Boy with the Toffee Apples ... and then, What?
The Boy with the Toffee Apples ... and then, What?
By Mundi Ruptor
In Artworks
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Days when young lads in Mina, North Lebanon, went to a record shop, Maroun’s… a place
which soon became a refuge from the events in the eighties without: from the battles that tore through Tripoli, Abou Samra and Mina: communists, Islamists, Syrian army… and more… a place where music from so many bands made life worth living… a place where a boy who sold toffee apples stopped, listened, sold and sometimes gave his apples… a place left inside those battles… and remaining in each struggle within. As those boys, now older, come back to Mina, they know that none of this has gone: hopes, tears, laughs, shared beers still imprint the streets, the islands across, especially the furthest one, Fanar, where the pining for girls has become the dream of a woman who can still hold the drops of rain in her gown… and the dream is more real than anything which is now round them… and the music goes on, goes on, saving souls, hiding tears… the aftermath of a war which has never learnt to end.
About Mundi Ruptor
The songs of Mundi Ruptor - this Franco-Lebanese duo driven by creative tension - explore the unexpected, awaken buried memories, and reveal the often-forgotten corners of the unconscious. Between shadow and light, they strike with a startling balance between violence and tenderness, creating a living tension that keeps this singular universe in harmony. With Mundi Ruptor, each track becomes an invitation to travel, to feel, to get lost - and perhaps to find oneself again.
There is melancholy, but also violence - an explosion of feelings. The characters of Mundi Ruptor could be seen as anti-Houellebecq figures: unlike those in Extension du domaine de la lutte, who have lost all meaning because they have indulged too much - too much sex, too much descent into the abyss of pleasure and contemporary nihilism - they are melancholic beings, indelibly marked by the Lebanese Orient, yet reluctant to be touched. They shun excessive pleasure, are misunderstood - often entirely - by their surroundings, intelligent, difficult to grasp. They are like modern-day Goethes transposed into the 21st century.
They are also beautiful, struck by flashes of brilliance, sometimes finding themselves again. They understand death more deeply than any other being. Everything moves them - yet everything can also collapse into indifference, to the depths of their melancholy: a melancholy that is often urban, that of a city hermit, the melancholy of contradictions.their melancholy