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Florent Marchet

It’s probably not often that the secretary hears music from the street, a melody; it’s unlikely that even laughter travels to her through the enormous windows of these bourgeois offices. When Florent Marchet and his band left the stuffy atmosphere of the taxidermist, singing la Charrette under the setting sun, the moment presented the perfect opportunity for the secretary to play the giggling schoolgirl, to swoon from above, poke her head out, call her colleague over, and then to hide, sneak a glance, giggle, and disappear. Florent was ready to perform a serenade, to sing for them in the silent street. But it wasn’t to be. Too bad.

Too bad, because Florent Marchet was on point. He’d warmed up amongst polar bears, tigers and trepanated monkey heads. First, a ‘Benjamin’ true to form, and then this ‘La Charrette’, where Florent understood that he had the right to have some fun with it, to give in to his dancing feet, to get out onto the street. Go, go, we’ll follow.

He’s charming, he’s affecting, Florent. He called his jacquard sweater ‘the Benjamin sweater’, and had brought it along especially for the occasion. He had a silk tie for the moments where the Benjamin sweater was laid aside. Once he was done playing with the bears, we left to find him a fireplace, resembling the one on his album cover. It was a small, low-ceilinged apartment, a Parisian apartment that looked like a ski lodge from another century: open kitchen, pinewood bar, a collection of GEO magazines and old Guinness Book of Records on the shelves. There was also an old carpet: Florent sat on it, alone, and played one of his more beautiful songs, L’Eau de Rose, there, just next to the fire. We were peaceful. We should have had hot chocolate, we could have laughed at old jokes.