Paris, the Death of Mireille Knoll & Sarah Halimi
slow jazz, slow saxophon virtuoso, afropiano, The song opens with hypnotic Japanese percussion and smooth bass, setting a slow jazz waltz in 3/4. A slow saxophone solo weaves through art pop textures and sharp tango bandoneon accents, while 70s swaggering guitar riffs and venomous slap bass add retro grit. The groove pulses with tribal afrobeat, industrial synth glitches, and gritty FX swirling beneath explosive vocal breaks from a raw, psychedelic Nigerian female lead. The arrangement surprises with bizarre transitions, dynamic afropiano runs, and charismatic interplay—melodies remain highly rhythmic and percussion-driven throughout.
Paris, the Death of Mireille Knoll & Sarah Halimi
slow jazz, slow saxophon virtuoso, afropiano, The song opens with hypnotic Japanese percussion and smooth bass, setting a slow jazz waltz in 3/4. A slow saxophone solo weaves through art pop textures and sharp tango bandoneon accents, while 70s swaggering guitar riffs and venomous slap bass add retro grit. The groove pulses with tribal afrobeat, industrial synth glitches, and gritty FX swirling beneath explosive vocal breaks from a raw, psychedelic Nigerian female lead. The arrangement surprises with bizarre transitions, dynamic afropiano runs, and charismatic interplay—melodies remain highly rhythmic and percussion-driven throughout.
Lyrics
I stepped out, just for a walk, yeah?
Stopped in my tracks though the light flashed green, bruv.
Green, yeah? Or is it?
That glow’s shakin’ in the cold mist, flickerin’ like a candle flame, fam.
Tryna get my heart used to the silence.
Ain’t that hard, you know?
Everything that’s gone down,
I just piece it together, wipe it clean, and move on.
You heard? Someone shanked an’ burned his 85-year-old neighbor, Mireille Knoll,
Holocaust survivor, yeah....Paris, her flat.
Guess why, bruv.
Sarah Halimi...beaten raw, thrown out her window, 2017, same ends.
Guess why, yeah.
If the fam hadn’t made it here to London...
Would they be lyin’ now, bruv?
Beaten, broken, tossed outta a Paris flat?
Or stabbed, burned alive in some apartment block, innit?
Would they be there now, yeah,
Lyin’ on the street, just another name on the wind?
Or trapped in flames, locked in some place that’s supposed ta be home?
I stepped out again, just walkin’.
Stopped again, though the light flashed green.
Green, yeah? Or is it?
The glow’s weak, lost in the fog.
Proper cold out ‘ere, icy puddles crackin’ beneath my kicks.
I’m countin’ cracks in the ice, bruv.
Tryna guess where it’ll give way next, innit?