Here I am listening full blast this penultimate installment of Jean Leloup pending her last cake dated published earlier this year in a general indifference as I myself missed. A drunken night in the company of a character sharing his time between Montreal and Marseille incidentally I learned the happy news. So fifteen years that I discovered this crazy artist, indomitable maniac (which, like Prince, released a record under his real name suggesting that he killed Jean Leloup ... to finally revive) in favor of a stay of several months in the province of Quebec, and after much forsaken, I plunges me for several months with relish, in memory of a friend of the poet Quebec met on a beach in Cyclades. But I digress. It's fun to see these mines - French - condescending at the mention of his name (inevitably evoking his Quebecois accent that in our lands tired, we find singing as long as it is spoken) in the direction of a crowd of little music lovers: for in her man or buffoon air, it depends (Frank Zappa is still affected by the same rapid prejudice based on the form and not the substance of his music), sleeps a genuine song-writer the likes of Bertrand Cantat or Elliot Smith (because it's never as good as when he is alone with his guitar too). And we enjoy his words from another continent, sometimes moody (if not The Great Blue Heron takes a few tears, then you're screwed), sometimes jovial (in the image of this amazing and Lucie crazy that I adore this part completely battery a mastery) of the song and chiseled rhythmic arpeggios. No, John The Wolf is not dead, this album (his best?) Is there to demonstrate and humanity still needs this artist who, far from the image of his threadbare anachronistic tube 1990 n ' is inhabited by musical considerations. Long life to you comrade!
