Out of nowhere, like a late flowering of abnormal autumn, here comes a fourth album. We did not see the thing germinate, since the artist did it, the title says it, “all alone like a big one”. Émile wrote everything, composed everything, played everything, with champion Ghislain-Luc Lavigne as the only console witness. Extreme freedom nonetheless, like the opening song (Success sucks) expresses it in the form of a dangerous ras-le-bol: evoking Dedé Fortin says it all. There is also a question of distance and escape in Farof “weaning […] in the desert” without Google (Questions), the need to lower one’s own sound in arrange myselfthe desire to reconcile the guitar with the tree before (Sequoia). The songs, based on just-dressed scratching, turn out to be effective almost in spite of themselves: Émile’s talent unfolds without frenzy, spacing out the tunes to let them resonate better. It is the album of the song truant, the most optional and, therefore, perhaps the most important.
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