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About Montpellier

Sometimes I wonder—late night, sippin’ whiskey—what’s it like, y’know? Bein’ an escort, dodgin’ creeps, fakin’ smiles. Gotta be tough as nails. Prolly lonely too—makes me sad, thinkin’ they’re out there, no backup. “You’re on your own now,” I hear Bigelow whisperin’ in my head. But then—bam!—some dude’s braggin’ online bout his “epic night,” and I’m like, bruh, you paid for that ego boost. Cracks me up—escorts are the real MVPs, playin’ these fools like fiddles.

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First off, I’m a music editor, right? So, I’m all about those sweet sounds. But today? Ugh. I had a meeting at this café on Avenue des Frères Lumière. You know, the one with the weirdly good croissants? Yeah, that one. I’m there, laptop open, ready to vibe. But my client? Late. Like, fashionably late but also just plain annoying. I’m sitting there, sipping my coffee, and I’m like, “C’mon, dude, I got beats to edit!”

Lemon's with special guest Empty Atlas and Fevercast