Colleen
The Golden Morning Breaks

Sometimes, in a year filled with musical releases, some small musical gem slips past the ears of most, a little delight that chance may reveal amidst the noise of everyday life and its objects—a perpetual carillon sound emanating from the hands of a gentle young Frenchwoman just stepping into the world of music.

Cécile Schott, known as Colleen, is the author of this delicate embroidery.

"The Golden Morning Breaks," is the name of the lullaby that enchants with its gentle demeanor for just over 45 minutes, the name of baroque castles, the call of ancient Provençal forests, the stillness of glacial stalagmites that time shrouds in obsolescence.

And the sound of a carillon that traces the progress of existence.

Thus, between sounds of strings and guitar chords, the memory drowns in the "Summer Water" of some time ago, in a small torment that already anticipates the deeply melancholic tones of the album: "Floating In The Clearest Night" shortly thereafter projects soul and limbs into an even more distant time, into a night that speaks of ancient deeds and small dramas. It lets us be charmed, but with a tinge of melancholy, through the guitars of "Sweet Rolling."

"The Happy Sea" laughs with a pearly smile, the same sea as "Summer Water," a sea suspended between fairy tale and memory, crystallized through acoustic and artificial sounds, bittersweet, vespertine. Water bubbles float above it, breaking the stillness, ending the fragile tale of an ancient troubadour.

"Mining In The Rain" brings us back to the sound of the carillon of "The Heart Harmonicon," and in it, once again, memory is tormented.

Morning rises after visiting midday and evening: it returns to us a light semblance of ataraxia in the title track, but soon after it founders in the long suite of "Everything Lay Still," where in the enchantment of a rain of crystalline notes, everything rests in poignant stillness, in a captivated repose where everything seems to lie unwillingly, without the strength to raise a cry of protest.

And then that sound of the carillon, marking the progress of existence.

We wish it would not slow down.

It does not listen to us.