{"id":3612377,"uri":"https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612377/?format=json","airdate":"2026-02-02T19:43:43-08:00","show":65825,"show_uri":"https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=json","image_uri":"","thumbnail_uri":"","song":"La Couleur du Temps","track_id":null,"recording_id":null,"artist":"Manu Chao","artist_ids":["7570a0dd-5a67-401b-b19a-261eee01a284"],"album":"La Couleur du Temps","release_id":null,"release_group_id":null,"labels":[],"label_ids":[],"release_date":"2025-12-10","rotation_status":null,"is_local":false,"is_request":false,"is_live":false,"comment":"“La Couleur du Temps” feels like a travel journal entry written at speed—warm, restless, and emotionally worn at the edges. Manu Chao has always been a master of motion: songs that sound like they’re passing through neighborhoods, radios, languages, and political realities without stopping to ask permission. Here, that gift shows up as a compact piece of melodic storytelling that carries nostalgia and urgency in the same pocket. The title suggests memory—time having a color, a taste, a residue—and the track leans into that idea with an atmosphere that feels both intimate and worldly. It isn’t built for maximal production; it’s built for immediacy, like something recorded to preserve a feeling before it evaporates. “La Couleur du Temps” also sits inside the larger arc of Manu Chao’s late-career return: music still committed to the marginalized, still drawn to borderless rhythms, still suspicious of power, but delivered with the tenderness of someone who has seen a lot and kept walking anyway. The song’s hook is understated but sticky, and the emotional tone is reflective rather than explosive. It’s a reminder that protest can be quiet without being weak, and that time doesn’t erase—time stains.\u2028Listen: https://manuchao.bandcamp.com/track/la-couleur-du-temps","location":1,"location_name":"Default","play_type":"trackplay"}