"This old companionship of Jean-Marc Foussat and Marc Dufourd dates back to the heroic days of Axolotl, when young musicians were looking for a way to surpass - by the hard shoulder - both jazz and rock that they loved but that, decently, they could no longer practice. At the beginning of the '80s, free jazz was already historic, the English, the Germans had already invented a way then called "European" or "radical" of improvising freely and the pioneers, already, had become unattainable. It was necessary to look elsewhere. Certainly, musique concrete had opened immense fields of sound, the Bruts had given right of citizenship to wild energies, and Fluxus still animated the minds of its ironic active presence. Between the impossible syntheses and the improbable conciliations, multiple forms of collage appeared as a viable solution, borrowing from everything without identifying with anything, betting on the mix, the heterogeneous, the impure, handling an impressive variety ofmaterials at the risk of cynicism. In order not to succumb to the latter, it was necessary to have a good dose of unconsciousness, naivety or, simply, love and good faith. Only these terribly dated virtues allow one to turn around without blushing and to find intact, lively and fresh, the current that carried this ultimately desperate enterprise of finding a "room of one's own" in these avenues of intimidating palaces and these rotting canals. A long sequence subdivided into eight sections gives us the state of the place and things, in 1982. Hectic feedback, rustling trails of electric guitar seeming to come from the bottom of a tin can; a limping polyrhythm, a synthetic and stylized groove extended by a zoom out opening in the lulling movement of a simple five-note melody, the field where strings and cries are outlined in the background, in the distance; solitary beaches where, left to themselves, the rhythmic chain unfolds a little bewildered, feedback without response; slides,superpositions, crossings; a disturbed walking bass, an acoustic guitar; even the boiling echo or the fantasized memory of a pop Pierre Henri from the past decade; of everything to make a world, but a world abandoned, the ebb of a dream at the moment of awakening: we are indeed at the dawn of these 80s, from their outer fringe. Then thirty seconds of a harsh cut: a blank. Placed, but neither indicated nor titled: a hole. A one-way mirror: no reflection, only the stupor of suddenly finding oneself on the brink of this unspeakable, unable to touch it. So, the retreat. A teenager's bedroom on a rainy Sunday afternoon, a few brushed-off chords, a lazy folk sketch that almost takes on the accents of a charango, indifferent to the gentle sounds that accompany them, a bit like a siren song, the murmur of the street, streaked, then buzzing. Or the early morning, tired of a night of excess. Discreet chimes won't disturb the gentle regression distilled by the lazy pluck of a string of noteswhile watching the clouds pass by. An electronic wave will have no effect on this languid playing edged with Jew's harp, fleshed out with the croaking of artificial frogs. A section that forms a statement on the passing of time. Recorded 31 years later, this second part is imbued with nostalgia, a form of time past, the time that passes without truly passing. The titles of these two pieces speak to their mirror-image relationship*: Graines de Lumiere and Grain de Lumieres. From the multiple seeds tossed about to the infinitesimal unity to which they are reduced, yet pregnant with virtual plurality, it is the movement from waiting to opening that played out in this troubling white hole."-Philippe Alen, Jazz In