[Translated via Google. Read the original here.]
“Note from the one who writes
Kramies, do not be surprised at how I write or where my writings go, since the time, you know my vagaries and other meanders. My crazy head often goes on paths lost but has the gift of falling back on its paws (a salute to your cat), everything may seem fogged, but you know me, I do not know how to write the cold and the opaque materials, but if writing the invisible and the emotion of their lights, this criticism is not one, it is a journey in the hollow of your disc, others will weave more formal criticisms, applied, me, while listening to you I do not know how to fly.
I use ink, I always use ink and paper with Kramies, as if I had to prepare a ritual, I never do it directly on the screen, no, I preserve the poetry of calligraphy, the scale of a page and even the sound of the pen on the sheet, I allow myself erasures, I allow myself the margins. A ritual, an intimate ritual between my words and me where the songs of the singer-singer play to upset the text, to animate the thought, something impossible on a keyboard (may be still a Pleyel), but flourishing, empirical, on the notebooks. I use ink, since it is dream material, to emerge multitudes of images, often I sleep my soul in a landscape that he paints, somewhere where he takes me, a wind flush with Irish soil, a golden ship of colonial empire, a wedding banquet, a journey of looks. I use the ink drawn from the veins, the most intimate of me, beyond flesh and bone, travel without time or earth, closed eyes and open visions. Kramies is an upside-down Charon, which takes you to the shore of births, which brings you back to life in all its truth, imagination and purity, the jubilation that was thought to be omitted, the thrill that it was thought smooth, eyes wide when they discover a passion. I use ink on several small blocks of notes, and everyone brings his magic on this magician, it is sometimes messy, the dream is it ordered?
I was listening to his record, when I fell asleep, awake, I was kidnapped years of me, pen in hand, one day in Paris, I was 36, I think, still fresh Fine Arts, I was taken hostage by an illumination, beauty. There are not always clear reasons for these errors produced by his ethereal music, I will logically find myself in a plain of the green Erin to name Celtic deities, both ocean and rock, whose shiny and pale beauty Irish people who were happy, although dark, would have made me fall in love with them, but in these melodies there is art without law, sensuousness without norms and rules, the free lightness of the mind, its malleability to flow from aKramies “” Reviewed at color has a sound, a flavor has a name, there is this magic of unreal, of dreamlike that only lands when it touches the bank of the heart, there is confinement in us, in our experiences, which progressively divide the surpluses and reach the matter of pleasure, like a fountain of youth in our emotions, a return to the moment when, without knowing it, we were dazzled. Strangely, I went somewhere else, almost the opposite, without knowing at the beginning why, but I also remember having sometimes had the image of the “Castle of the Pyrenees” of Magritte while listening to Simon And Garfunkel, this world is too much large to provide only one image per hymn.
“Of all the places i’ve been & Everything the end”
Room Italy, Denon Wing, first floor, room 711, (also named Room of the Mona Lisa) In August 2006, it is here that you just deposited me at the first chords, at the precise moment of the marvelous, at the dawn of your disk. There is a shaggy crowd chaotically aligned whose varying heights describe mountain ranges on the red ocher wall, the Japanese touch despite their traditions and phobias the bodies of Europeans, it is a mass of cameras and cameras. first laptops, the flashes make storms on the small surrounding frames. It is a golem of back, frozen of the look on the smile of the Gioconda, in a silence almost violent, inconvenient, who waltzes slowly, caught in a traffic jam of sheep, the blinkers fixed at the corners of the frame of the Mona which seems to each cliché more minute, this is the cruel reality, this pardonable stupidity to have eyes in this space for the cold enigma of commissures, I can probably put on this image thousands of songs of washed varieties , or even the white noise, a feedback. Kramies is elsewhere. I turn my back, in front of the work of Leonardo, is placed the immense and imposing “Wedding of Cana” of Veronese, shimmering, splashing, but that nobody looks, disdain of the Mona Lisa, stupidity of the world, me, I have just drowned in it, between the guests at the wedding, without being welcome or repudiated, just brought me Kramies. My soul is frozen on this hand that arises behind the shoulder of the flute player, in the shadow of the luthiers, in the middle of everything, in the shadow of the light of Christ, hand that breaks the whiteness of the tablecloth , who really has a body, which widens like a sun, that’s it, the moment Kramies, this little detail in the shadow that defines the world, these little strokes of brushes that alone, divert the Real to the dream, the transition to beautiful and loving dimensions, this is the beautiful reality, the one that has no definition. Kramies is the hypnotic detail, which attracts to us the impalpable happiness of infinite possibilities, the super power of all power. Kramies, it’s these five fingers apart from everything, without proper space or time, an almost unconscious detail that spells the world, that catches your eye and all that lives behind, a micro world where the possibilities are effect dominoes, soft borders, malleable like a childish legend, and all that surrounds each of these phalanxes is a universe as useless as it is unbelievable. At Kramies, I gave him the name of mage, troubadour, names of rivers and ether, I defined it as the intimate part of dreams and as the universality of dreams, I give him from now on the state solid of beauty, the gaseous state of art. It does not matter which sixty or so characters in the scene (though I’ll let the luthiers and this flutist to at least connect my fickle ideas about it), and most importantly, no matter the Mona Lisa, imports this crowd that unknowingly , adulating something else, is already part of his only presence of the songs of our singer, since each of those who will listen to this record will have a scene to tell, a story lived in another way, in the aura of Kramies, imports this hand, the unforgettable world where lives Kramies. It is the other side of the Mona Lisa, the hidden face of the idol, this grand, boundless Biblical painting as it feeds on dreams, it is the magnitude of a masterpiece as much as the detail of five fingers, in other words, the other universe, that of hidden, intimate poetry, inside us. The interior is a comfort zone that we color according to the need, nothing to us, this secret garden, this vital space of one, where we allow birth and non-existence by need of being well, the search for happiness, even if outside the clashes, here, inside, we pretend, but we smile (better than Mona Lisa, this said), we painted the walls as we like them, often transparent from within and opaque from the outside, it was furnished with our cradles and unmade beds, family tables, and a record player where our singer soothes our doubts of infinite possibilities, erasing the why with why not, here psalms, here hymns, here love letters. With each disc, it defies a little more the gravities and the matters, it offers impalpables armors and castles without fixed residences, natural medicines that one wants to believe, and too bad if it lies, one is well in, he distills alcohol from rattling and ropes to blind our realities, of course, but does not one need more and more unreal? Kramies is an invitation to shut your eyes, to give up weightlessness, to remove flesh and bones, to touch the very essence of us, this hand on the white tablecloth, the only importance that exists-resists, Kramies paints the soul, with a deep sound, with a volatile word, with a light yet powerful guitar, stunning our return to the true world, keeping us flying, above the wounds. Kramies is the detail of a rustle of leaves in the tree, there, close to this Irish castle where he has just found yet another breath on his guitar. He opens the doors of other universes, but remains impassive, the minute detail on his large canvas, a brown hand detached on the tablecloth of the wedding. Of course it will be necessary to speak about these songs, one to one, something that I leave to professionals better endowed than me, who will be to you to say that the slow rhythm is also rhythm of walk half-funereal, half bellicose, rhythm imposed by its guitars who bend their strings like a heartbeat, each time pushing a little more on the melody, that one feels the Irish patina for the cold in the depths, and then that it took a step further, side by Jason Lytle, to the pinnacle of dream-folk, or so many other labels for an artist who deserves them all and more, the clever use of keyboards in the background, fantastic and whimsical backgrounds, the voice technique of shaking sentences that reinforce the feeling of walking, me, I stayed on a detail, like this hand decades ago in Paris, a detail of weight, Kramies, simply, makes me believe in the divine, has the eternal youth, the dream on earth as in heaven, in my interior, art.
You see, Kramies, once again I wandered as one drifts, from Paris to Ireland, from a hand of a Veronese painting to a branch of an Irish castle, it’s so hard to stay real to your listening, it is so difficult to have your feet on the ground, we even take pleasure to return to our realities with your images, we feel invincible souls, I told you in private l love that propels your music, since love is pleasure, the step forward you make with each new sound gift, this diaphragmatic uprising that I discovered by discovering your sparks, and the happiness of freezing your soul with everything that moves. This hand of the “Marriage of Cana” had yet to do with you, but the magic is to know you everywhere, as a new emotion, without name yet, without legal definition, tell you that every little detail can lock up your magic, along with life, and this, my friend, is art.”