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This week. Different years. Same band. 30 years on stage. Brussels based. Jaune Toujours.
Some weeks smell like summer. Dust on festival roads. Accordion cases in the shade. A dog sleeping beside the musicians. A square that is empty in the afternoon and overflowing by night.

2000–2002 Belgian park festivals. Village kiosks. Open-air stages by the sea. A band learning that summer audiences arrive from every direction.
2006 France. Toulouse. Ichis. Saint-Vallier. Improvised stages. Ping-pong between soundchecks. A little girl dancing in front of the stage while a whole accordion marching band joins the concert. That tour felt less like a schedule and more like a travelling village.
2007 Hoorn. Châlons-en-Champagne. The calm before the crowd. Then the blur that happens when brass, rhythm and people start moving together.
2008 Canada. Vancouver Island. Fort MacLeod. Waterfalls. Workshops with musicians from elsewhere. Night concerts under huge skies. The road became a landscape lesson.
2016 Gentse Feesten. Rehearsals behind closed curtains. Guest musicians from DROM. Mec Yek voices joining the stage. And a Sint-Jacobs crowd that seemed to breathe with the band.
2025 Genk. Afro-Latino. New songs from Vertigo. A catwalk instead of a club floor. The same accordion energy carrying three decades of history into another summer night.

Different festivals. Different countries. Different generations in the crowd. Still arriving with instruments. Still leaving with stories.
Different places. Same week, stretched across time. We don’t archive the past. We carry it. Still playing. Still moving. Still open to the next room.

This week. Different years. Same band. 30 years on stage. Brussels based. Jaune Toujours.
Some weeks are about the road as much as the destination.

2002 Paris. Two nights at La Maroquinerie. Petrol stations. Courtyards. The city waiting just beyond the venue doors.
2008 Canada. A ferry to Vancouver Island. A campsite where someone had turned the roof of a van into the perfect evening living room. And another UK gig where even the rear-view mirror became a camera.
2011 Winnipeg Folk Festival. Golf carts between stages. Interviews under prairie skies. Thousands of festivalgoers sharing the same songs.
2016 Bodvalenke. Hungary. New friends. A village audience waiting patiently before the first note.
2017 Stuttgart. A concert for Freunde & Refugees. Music crossing borders in more ways than one.
2019 Diksmuide. 4AD. Low lights. Loud brass. A room full of people leaning into the music.
2020 Outdoor concerts during Covid. Gardens. Care homes. Church squares. Finding ways to keep playing, even while keeping our distance.
2025 Uccle. Summer again. New faces in the band. Old rituals still intact. Including, apparently, another game of chess backstage.

Different countries. Different audiences. Different summers. Still packing the van. Still finding the next stage.
Different places. Same week, stretched across time. We don’t archive the past. We carry it. Still playing. Still moving. Still open to the next room.

Touring has never only been about the shows.

It’s also about the people you travel with, the small traditions that appear out of nowhere, the landscapes that stay with you, and the moments that no one planned but everyone remembers. Looking back more than twenty years later, Norway still feels like one long story full of music, laughter and unexpected beauty.

Norway. This week in 2003. 

One journey. One unforgettable detour.

Three concerts became many more. A concert hall for the European Broadcasting Union. An acoustic set beside a camper van. A breakfast concert on a bridge. A parade and a jam with musicians from different corners of the world.

In between?

Camping sites. Ferries. Mountains. Glaciers. Birthdays. Toy Viking helmets. Chess games. Wildflowers picked on the roadside. Beer that was… memorable for reasons beyond the taste. And an inflatable pink rabbit that somehow became part of the adventure.