[Translated via Google. Read the original here.]

It is perhaps for the reading of the M train of Patty Smith that I really arrived to savor this man, not to happen to dissociate his sonorous work from a reading that hypnotized me, for this impression to move me to sound Of these ballads, for this alchemy of simple things that the muse used to say, and which the timid little man sang. It was necessary to listen to Joe in the solitude of a helmet and in the breadth of a world, and to discover that in the tiniest survival of eternity, in the mere twist of a rope was born the music of the Milky Way which Mark our sadness and joy. Patty describes coffee cups with a thousand tastes, millions of places, infinite faces, and Joe brings all these polaroids to the hollow of a sound, this incredible ability to irrigate the eyes and to form minimal earthquakes along the skins, yes , Joe accompanies the journey of this reading with an art so simple, that it seems to be born in us, in our epidermis of bad writers, poor musicians, bitter singers. Leave Patty’s reading and swim our bodies of swimmers in Joe’s music, this Denver sound that no longer has birthplaces as soon as it is born but that tames the quiet universe of our wise evenings. Joe is a small stream of wise air that interferes without brusqueness, heat just to make itself felt, force just to penetrate to the pleura, touch the heart, touch the heart. We have to hide Joe’s words in confined spaces, closed circles of our arms, as when listening to Cohen, without wanting to share it with anyone, something that is preserved by thinking that it is so fragile that only in our hearts He will be safe. You have to grab Joe’s sounds in small rooms, like when you listen to Dylan watching time, assuming that the gestures would break the crystal, and close your eyes, you must listen to it without seeing it, you must let it in without to see him. Joe sings the delicacy, there is in the weakness of this song a span that extends beyond the irises, a force which is called beauty, which inebriates the cheeks, and which makes ignite the torsos, sometimes The intonation of the voice is a hymn so small, so small, that it enters everywhere, invades without difficulty, and conquers at the speed of a cloud our desires for peace. Joe is a small piece of paradise hanging on our ears, a piece of Eden that has beaten wings to our temples, a Rara opinion, a delicate glass shard where it is imprisoned the sun in love with rain, a detail Wonderful of a magnificent whole, and the perfect music for majestic readings.

A Decouvrir Absolument