Bertrand Cantat

Piece of shit. Not a great artist, not a poet, not the last of the romantics. I often wonder who would have remained to defend him or to paint him as a fallen angel if he had a body like David Thomas and the face of Arto Lindsay. He, the rebellious libertarian, the anarchist with the frowning little mouth, prey to the bourgeois and boring feeling of jealousy: and because of this also a brutal murderer. Evil is banal, Cantat a ridiculous and violent caricature.