When you’re an editor, cameraman and director all at the same time, you know what it means to create with a reduced team: this second album by Auguste (Sébastien Pomerleau in the city) is therefore a matter of a tandem, where all you need is Andre Papanicolaou, at the same time adviser, guide and ideally complementary musician, so that the music holds up. Add a drummer, if necessary. Not often. Basic folk-rock, it’s played like you breathe. The subject is similarly traced: it is essentially songs to hold on. Survive winter in Mid-Decemberand then embark on a New Year with just the right amount of hope, and then move forward, roll, roll, as long as the “old Chevrolet desert blues” has oil in its heart, to its destination. Whoever she is. It ends in force, on love dies at night. “Love is a muscle that gets tired,” notes Auguste. Sometimes you can only accompany death along the way. The songs remain. To leave.
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