The apartment was a surprise, posed right at the top of as if abandoned there, encircled by the ruins of charred buildings. It was comfy, roomy, divided into spaces that were decorated to the nines: on one side an old armoir, a blackboard against a brick wall, on another a kitchy lounge surrounded by plants, as well as a hammock and a pinball machine. Soumia, the landlady, had invited a ton of people, who were seated on the balcony, legs hanging over thee space below, above us.
Mina was displaying a strange mix of nervousness and confindence ; she did not hide the fact that she was moved but knew what she had to do. She had been given the responsibility to kick off the evening. She sang acapella, and complemented her voice with other voices, sampling herself, and gradually her song increased in scope. A familiar sound, which made way for smiles whenever Guillaume hit the his guitar too hard. She finished with what you won’t see, a cover of Caetano Veloso sung for the happy member of the audience seated between herself and the drummer.
Then Arlt took to the stage. They had asked for space, because they tend to move. Eloïse floated slowly in the room with objects in her hands, a dress, a hammer, as if they reminded her of gravity. She closed her eyes often and sang high for something above, far away; or else, for herself, wise and mysterious. And behind, Sing Sing, who whispered into the his beard Eloïse’s parts, who stuck his voice on her’s, and made his guitar dance, spin, made her angry. It was music that was giddy, ancient and modern. “Pistolet” was full of energy and “Je voudrais être mariée” , featured a guitar that conveys the kind of anger that welled up behind the sad resignation of Eloïse’s lament.
Belin took care of the end of the night. Intoxicating, wisdom mixed with irony, distanced, relentlessly rocking between slowness and sudden exhilaration, pushed forward by an incredible drummer. Belin pretended to not be completely there, but they touched us nonetheless.