The classical guitar slept in its old case.
The one which has followed me in all my solitary travels.
You see outside but you look inside.
Lunatic music, at random.
Home music, pensive and meditative.
A reflection on life.
A moment in a life when what is fundamental questions our relationship with music.
A nervous arrival at the studio.
I could have recorded all this at home with the dripping faucet and the fridge.
Calm, magic of the alcove.
And now, the territory of the guitar reveals itself, the fingers tracingTheir paths along the strings.
The guitar speaks to you, unravels its notes like the reflections of a companion as it walks, in its infinite variations.
Thought takes flight and leaves the space.
It pretends to be an orchestra, throwing its notes upon the lakes.
This chord which slips between the fingers like a habit.
Someone comes into the room for a moment.
She speaks to you of Spain, of elsewhere.
In the puddle, the world looks backwards.
The heart hurts.
And these fingernails which scratch the strings.
The motifs interlace,
In the water of the microphones.
That’s it, it’s begun to sing.
It’s speaking to you.
-- Andre Duchesne, April 1999
Un après-midi à Paris
N’écoute pas tout ce qu’on te dit 2m21s4 Hum! ça sent la guitare 4m32s5 Doigts droits, doigts doux 3m38s6 Vendredi soir en Andalousie 2m37s7 L’horloge 32s8 Écoute ta guitare quand elle te parle (à René) 10m50s9 Une souris dans la chambre 1103 5m15s10 Jennifer 5m04s11 Les sept points cardinaux (à Fred) 2m34s12 Conversation sur un piano 2m56s13 Valse crue 3m03s14 Réflexions 2m35splaying time 57m10s
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