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Or how Perpignan turned into 1979

Last night, dear readers, we did something wonderfully reckless: we drove all the way to Perpignan for a concert by a band called CoverTramp. Yes, the name does exactly what it says on the tin — they cover Supertramp.

And let me tell you, they don’t just cover Supertramp…they slip into the songs like a perfectly tailored vintage suit.

From the very first notes, it felt like someone had opened a wormhole straight back to the late 1970s. Three hours — yes, three magnificent hours — of memories, Wurlitzer magic, soaring falsettos, and those unmistakable sax lines that make you want to both dance and reflect on the meaning of life.

You know how some tribute bands simply play the songs?

CoverTramp inhabit them.

They deliver the full Supertramp experience without the air miles, the stadium queues, or the questionable 70s trousers.

And here’s the part that warmed my Occitan heart even more than the venue’s heating: they’re French. A proper French band keeping the legends of the 70s alive, polished, and belted out with gusto.

It’s rather comforting to know that while the world races ahead with AI, quantum bits, and other dizzying modernities, somewhere in France a group of musicians is making sure The Logical Song still hits you right in the nostalgia.

The drive down to Perpignan — which, let’s be honest, can sometimes feel like a quest — paid off handsomely.

We came home to our friend’s house with full hearts, ringing ears, and that unmistakable post-concert glow that says:

Yes, the 70s truly were something… and luckily, they’re not quite over yet.

Supertramp forever.

And for now: vive CoverTramp.

(More about Supertramp below)

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Une soirée avec CoverTramp

Ou comment Perpignan s’est transformée en 1979

Hier soir, chers lecteurs, nous avons fait quelque chose de merveilleusement téméraire : nous avons pris la route jusqu’à Perpignan pour assister au concert d’un groupe nommé CoverTramp.

Oui, vous l’avez deviné : ils reprennent Supertramp. Et laissez-moi vous dire qu’ils ne se contentent pas de les reprendre… ils enfilent les chansons comme un costume vintage parfaitement ajusté.

Dès les premières notes, on aurait juré qu’un portail temporel venait de s’ouvrir vers la fin des années 70. Trois heures — oui, trois heures magnifiques — de souvenirs, de magie Wurlitzer, de falsettos planants et de solos de saxophone qui vous donnent envie à la fois de danser et de réfléchir au sens de la vie.

Vous savez, certains groupes hommage se contentent de jouer les morceaux.

CoverTramp, eux, les habitent.

Ils offrent la pleine expérience Supertramp, sans les aéroports, sans les stades bondés, et sans les pantalons douteux de l’époque.

Et voici ce qui a réchauffé mon petit cœur occitan plus encore que le chauffage de la salle : ce sont des Français. Un véritable groupe français qui maintient vivantes les étoiles des années 70, les polit, les fait briller et les projette avec une énergie réjouissante. C’est plutôt rassurant de savoir que, pendant que le monde s’emballe avec l’IA, les qubits et autres modernités vertigineuses, quelque part en France des musiciens veillent à ce que The Logical Song vous frappe toujours en plein dans la nostalgie.

Le trajet jusqu’à Perpignan — qui, soyons honnêtes, ressemble parfois à une expédition — a largement valu la peine.

Nous sommes rentrés avec le cœur plein, les oreilles qui bourdonnent et cette petite lueur post-concert qui murmure :

Oui, les années 70 étaient vraiment quelque chose… et heureusement, elles ne sont pas tout à fait terminées.

Supertramp pour toujours.

Et pour l’heure : vive CoverTramp.

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Supertramp

The band that put Wurlitzer on the map

(and in our hearts)

Long before streaming playlists and algorithm-approved earworms, there was a curious British band who managed to make progressive rock both philosophical and hummable — a rare feat, rather like finding a croissant in London that doesn’t taste like regret. Their name? Supertramp.

Born in London in 1969, Supertramp spent the 70s doing what all great bands do:

questioning society, selling millions of records, and making the saxophone sexy again.

At the heart of the group were two musical opposites united by genius and perhaps mild creative exasperation:

• Rick Davies, the grounded bluesy realist, whose voice suggested he’d seen things (probably accountants).

• Roger Hodgson, the dreamy falsetto philosopher who sounded as if he wrote songs while floating three metres above the studio floor.

Between them, they forged a sound built on Wurlitzer pianos, joyously wandering saxophones, and lyrics that made you ponder life’s great mysteries — like why school was awful, why logic was overrated, and whether taking the long way home was actually an early form of mindfulness.

Then came 1979 and Breakfast in America, an album so wildly successful it basically became a religion.

The Logical Song, Goodbye Stranger, Take the Long Way Home — tunes so catchy you could whistle them into a void and still echo back with perfect harmony.

Of course, as with all long marriages, the creative tension eventually snapped. Hodgson floated off to a solo career; Davies stayed and kept the Supertramp train rolling. Fans still debate which era is “better,” but honestly, when the music is this good, who cares? Just turn up the Wurlitzer and pour yourself something nostalgic.

Decades later, Supertramp remains one of those rare bands who can make you think deeply and dance awkwardly at exactly the same time. For that alone, they deserve a statue — ideally one you can climb, sax solo included.

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