Buckle your helmet and switch off the head-lamp: “Défoncé” throws you into a hazy, night-time ride across Brussels. Romeo Elvis pedals through dim backstreets, skirting chic avenues and rough concrete playgrounds, all while battling insomnia, unpaid wages, and the nagging buzz of frustration. The pulsing chant “dé-dé-dé-défoncé” captures how he feels—stoned, overloaded, and emotionally flat-tired—yet the city lights and boozy crowds keep pulling him onward.
The bike trip is really a mind trip. Each downhill rush sparks hope, every uphill grind revives his anger and doubts: Why can’t I sleep? Why can’t I escape my own head? As he zigzags between wealth and poverty, friends chasing thrills, and cops who look away, the song paints a gritty portrait of urban restlessness and young-adult drift. Pedaling becomes a metaphor for pushing through life’s traffic: you might be lost, but you keep moving, trying to outpace the sharks in the water and the devil on your shoulder, one spinning wheel at a time.