It’s a little cobblestone street, flowery, hidden in the back of the 20th arrondissement. A quiet street where nothing happens, where few people pass by, where houses are hidden behind thick rose bushes, where you can only imagine some elegant 50 somethings having tea through their window. The peacefulness of this street is as appreciated as it is unexpected, a sudden haven, lost in the uproar of this prominent neighborhood, more than just vibrant.
Kurt Vile, his group and ours, we come from this uproar. We arrived in this calm street, where everything seems to go unnoticed, whether it be a white collar or four long haired guys. Before we had come across 100 intrigued passersby, hoards of over-excited children, some listless teenagers, crossed over crowded squares, strode along busy streets, and then suddenly we were alone, with him.
He is here, with his briefcase, his tie, and his nice clean shirt. It’s not one o’clock, this isn’t the place for those things. We were surprised to see him resting there, just as he was to see four guitarists murmuring a ballad. It was as if he were nibbling on the excess of softness, as if he was taking a breather before having to return to the streets, the offices, the traffic that awaited him. He sees the camera, he turns away, but he waits just a moment. Kurt sings “Baby’s Arms”, as if he was musically prolonging a precious moment, stolen, as if this musical bit inserted itself in the enchanted parentheses of a business man. The man left and we imagine he walked off listening to the guitars growing fainter with distance, wasted away at the return to his dull life.
Translated by Amanda Burris
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