(Credits: Netflix)

There is music. And then there is music that bleeds. That is the kind The Eddy on Netflix offers. A sound so lived-in it feels like a bruise you keep pressing just to remember how it happened. The Eddy is set in a part of Paris that most people do not see. It is not the dreamy postcard version with cafés and croissants. Instead, it shows you the quieter, rougher corners of the city. And in this space, every note of music feels heavy, like it is carrying something unspoken.

At the heart of it is a small jazz club called The Eddy, owned by Elliot Udo, played with quiet brilliance by André Holland. He used to be a celebrated jazz musician in New York. Now he hides behind paperwork, tension in his shoulders, and a band that is just holding on. He is grieving a version of himself he no longer knows how to return to. The club is barely surviving. His business partner is caught in shady dealings. His teenage daughter suddenly arrives from the US. And the music, well, the music is the only thing keeping it all from falling apart.

What makes The Eddy different from any other musical series is that the music is not decoration. It is not just inserted between scenes for dramatic effect. It is the scene. Most of the performances are captured live, with real musicians playing original compositions that were written for the show. The actors are not miming or lip-syncing. They are breathing through their instruments. The camera lingers in rehearsal rooms, in late-night jam sessions, and in half-empty clubs where emotions speak in melody before they do in words.

Each episode shifts focus. One centres on the drummer. Another singer. Another of Elliot’s daughters. It is not a show in a hurry to explain itself. There is a rhythm to how the story unfolds, sometimes slow, sometimes loud, often off-beat, just like jazz. The characters are messy and deeply human. They lie, they freeze up, and they try to love but get it wrong. And all of it happens with the music either behind them or pouring straight through them.

Paris itself becomes a character in the show. Not the dreamy Paris of cinema, but a raw, diverse, lived-in city full of sound, cigarette smoke, unresolved tensions, and streetlights that flicker just a little too much. The show moves through the city like it’s improvising, catching snatches of conversation, glances exchanged across rooms, and quick bursts of panic and tenderness. It feels real, not curated.

And then there is Julie. Elliot’s daughter, played by Amandla Stenberg, arrives like a force of disruption. She is angry, grieving, and unfiltered. Their father-daughter relationship is one of the most emotionally charged parts of the show. You feel the weight of things they do not know how to say to each other, and the way music sometimes becomes their only bridge.

The Eddy is not flawless. It is not meant to be. Some episodes feel heavier than others. Sometimes the plot takes a backseat. But in doing that, it becomes something rare, like an experience. It is about survival in every form. Financial. Emotional. Musical. It is about holding onto art when everything else is slipping. And it is about people who mess up and show up anyway.

If you are looking for something loud and clean, this is not your show. But if you want something textured, aching, and alive with rhythm, The Eddy is your next must-watch. It does not beg for your attention. It just plays. And if you are patient, it plays right through you.