Dramarama
Cinéma Vérité

Listening to it makes me feel that everything is a bit scruffy, a bit showy, a bit charming, a bit ragged, a bit rude, a bit... How much street youth, how much detached melancholy, how much eternal joy.

Dejà vu before they arrive, immediate memories before they settle into the past, our ghost singing before our flesh. The feeling of living in concrete rarefaction in a psychic on the Road far from mystical clichés.

From time to time, from those pop rock new wave airs, those guitar solos sweep away tempting sadness, and the sky is crystalline, and aboard your slightly dented convertible, the breeze tousling your hair makes you feel that you are the circus, you are the trapeze and the trapeze artist at the same time, and there is no net.

There is so much solitude that makes incredible company, accompanying you towards disappearances like the sun, in the evening, on the horizon. You feel it in the aftertaste that evolved western air, that this time is not uncompromising in demanding your suffering, but invites you to enter, as only those rogue angels attempt, into a zone where pain is conscious so that it can transform into that invisible which we need, helping us to consider suffering more "light", making us understand our subjective regrets. "Everyone is as happy or unhappy as they are convinced to be."

And so the whole setup turns out to be mature and dangerous, full of a millenary playfulness that parades in its shabbiness. As the notes flow, we realize within us a refined pleasure that passes from stabs of mystification of exuberance not to cry over the spilled milk of eternal returns.

We are born alone, we die alone, but how beautiful it is when we are together with friends.