Softened, Vander? That’s saying a lot. Soothed, better word. The splendid cover photo shows us where the irreducible ex-bassist for life of Les Colocs spends his happy days: L’Anse-Pleureuse. It’s in Haute-Gaspésie, “the little place in your head / That smells of freedom / The one that heals your soul” and that he sings with his gravelly voice. Banjo, guitar and lap steel, the bivouac is never sad: “A little star war / A little collateral damage / A colorectal exam” and other rhymes in al. Vander still complains about bad singers, but he excuses them “because life is hell / we sing for love.” Calmed down, no. Less grumpy, yes. Vander doesn’t age peacefully, that would be a shame, but not badly either, which is good. It is with himself that he is most implacable: in the aptly named In my head, sacred program, all its paradoxes are there. On the mill. But not without a salutary observation: “We learn to be silent. » And to taste the beautiful silence at L’Anse.
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