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Rating:
In some cases, an author manages to truly communicate something, a rarefaction, an urgency... an absence that shines through all the notes he composes. Our beloved Breton in this album chronologically pre-Amélie gets under the skin in late afternoons of days out of time, made of old toys discovered in the cellar, of broken bicycles, of sand in your shoes, of the moment you fall asleep on the metro and remember old, unimportant thoughts that still make you cry.
The imperfect loves of "La Parade" with its female voice that whispers to us, and we can almost smell her breath; the nocturnal interlude of "L'Echec", which is truly a waking up in the middle of the night and talking softly to the loved one, even if she isn't there, speaking in a soft voice, just for a little, not to disturb; the rhythm of "Bagatelle" and the humor of "La Lettre D'Explication": everything is always filled with a slow sadness and happiness at the same time, a joy tied to a lack that perhaps sublimates on those beaches where this music originates, in the north of France, in the region known as Finistère, at the end of the world. But Yann, the Corto Maltese of music, is like that, he is free to improvise with his melancholy, sailing from port to port, from the chanson "Le Jours Tristes", which shines even when stopping at simple songwriting, to the solo violin of "Qu'en reste-t-il" that concludes by assaulting the sky smiling and running. The center of the album is the title track, a dark piano piece and in some solutions even angry, where, thanks to a skillful but never abused use of the sustaining pedal, the notes of glances beyond that sea always stand out.
Out of time, a perpetual last day of summer.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
03 Bagatelle (04:41)
Tiens, une petite voix me glisse quatre vérités
Qui passent la rampe et gravissent l'escalier
Les jambes tirent et les yeux ont tourné
Va savoir, où la bouche est tombée
Comme museau levé j'écoute, la voix je la suis
Top là! échangeons des nuits pour des nuits
Du coup l'aube en sort toute retournée-
Le bourreau a du mal à trancher.
Et aussitôt, quelqu'un manque et de rien, le jour est chargé
Et tout peut se charger d'absence,
Rien qui sache mieux qu'elle s'absenter.
Bagatelle que m'as-tu promis? Où m'as-tu mené?
Les petites vagues se sont vite emportées
Et morflant, sous cape, comme habitué
On a vite sa table, ses entrées
Des retours de flamme s'annoncent
Leur trains sont attendus
Ma pancarte est inutile, ils m'ont reconnu
Dans l'hélice où mes doigts sont passés
Je m'avance histoire de bien capter
Car rien à faire quelqu'un manque et de rien
Le jour est chargé
Et tout peut se charger d'absence
Rien qui sache mieux qu'elle s'absenter
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