For whom you play, for yourselves, for the departed who live within you, for all the dilettantes who listen to you, for the young and the old, for the joyful and the sad, the melancholic of all stripes, for the innumerable, unnamed crowd that flits about on the earthly ball, these are the words of Baudelaire before he evoked the itinerant musicians, “one of the two played one of his compositions, and the other improvised beside him a variation, an accompaniment, an underscore”. I really like this underside, which goes slowly, or not, because it sometimes goes roughly, these fragments of sonic fabric, this geological petticoat, this more or less unpredictable aside that is the very essence of life.

"This record is anything but providence, and yet it still bears something resembling it, not what it cannot foresee or prepare for, but what it does provide and makes us less helpless. With great surges and shatters, is it the beginning of a brighter tomorrow, and if so, how? The question and the answer can only be suggested, and I always remember that everything is moving at an unbelievable speed." - Bernard Chambaz