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Vincent is a dear friend. Listening to this work of his is like going into the desert and opening the music box given to you by the woman of your life, knowing that you've lost her forever.
So, with the certainty of absence, one day I found him as he was making love with Winnie The Pooh.
“Vincent,” I said to him, “you are with Winnie only to try to fill an unfillable void, you know you don't love him, you'd only hurt each other.” Then he cried. I reminded him that crises give birth to masterpieces. He understood.
When he let me listen for the first time to “I Wrote This Song For The Girl Paris Hilton,” I thought it had a strange limping gait, but with the dignity of someone trying to walk firmly on his legs. He must have felt very nostalgic. It's full of intimate sounds, almost a confession. Then “When” started, he would have wanted to fall asleep forever. A small, round lullaby like a pearl, just the right size to fit into an ear. He told me he dreamed of having a beautiful white dog. Along with “Was” a ghost appeared, very small, it was a moth friend of his, she wasn't there anymore either. There was only that little electric piano invoking her.
“Honey Bunny” is what was and now is no more, a possible past, indelible memories. “Laura” is the name he gave to his memories. Perhaps there still exists a place in this world where he can meet her.
“Cracks” is a soundscape, a very specific place in our memory. Every crack leads to what we are no longer. In “Apple Girl” the few notes of the piano say more than Vincent can, it's a conversation begun and never finished. The desert returns and you find yourself alone going, “Yes I’m Lonely” towards who knows where.
But the important thing is having a photograph of her.
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