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The Bewitched Hands

The Bewitched Hands started that day by bringing us to the vines. Champagne oblige , and the grape harvest would be starting a few days later. The soil attached itself to the soles of our shoes, the light was beautiful, and the group’s energy palpable. We scattered the six of them, played hide-and-go-seek, and cursed the clouds, praying that t didn’t start raining.

The Bewitched Hands are surprising – for a French band. We’d been used to folky melancholy, nostalgic rockers, and noisemakers who move crowds. The Bewitched sing in English, lyrics with resonance, strong melodies and choruses which bring shivers and sometimes moisten the eyes. And then we packed up the instruments, tasted the grapes – as one would – spent fifteen minutes scraping the twelve centimeters of earth off our shoes, and set off for an abandoned car racing track not far from there, at the edge of a national park.

There we found old billboards with outdated colors, the dirty walls of a place littered with refuse and metal bars, and in the distance, golden fields, a fire-truck red tractor hard at work. We pushed through, set up, took our place as the audience. With JB, our headphones on, we watched, smiling like amazed children, mouthing ‘whoa!’ to each other while shivers rolled up and down our backs.

No, no, I’m okay, I’ve just got something in my eye, it must be dust.

The Bewitched Hands will play at Zénith on Nov. 8 with LCD Soundsystem.

Translated by Tara Dominguez