Stéfanie Tremblay, who recounts in Music his apprenticeship in the intoxication of guitars and the violence of the world, in the heart of the boiling punk scene of a small town.
Posted at 3:00 p.m.
” [D]e my darkroom / I don’t run away / archive / take care / curator of color / collect our dandruff / tear the DNA out of our hair”, writes the visual artist in his first title at La Peuplade, a chronicle of youth as drooling as it is melancholy, full of the raw candor of a box of photos one would find under a bed. Several images taken at the turn of the millennium by the poet, in Jonquière, punctuate this book, which looks like a luxury fanzine.
If she explores the rituals that helped her learn who she is (first sex, drugs, long evenings watching beardless guys playing their instruments badly in bungalow basements), the “tambourine princess” nevertheless speaks of it with the distance of the years, allowing him to perceive the beauties and the sad shackles of an adolescence spent frequenting boredom.
While celebrating the mosh pits“a space where [elle] breeze at once [ses] glasses and anxiety”, the “BS of tail flies” (!) thus remembers with dull anger the role of amazed spectator to which the girls were confined in this microcosm which nevertheless promised everyone to be able to yell what has to say.
Her voice, Stéfanie Tremblay lives in her completely today, in this moving scrapbook crossed from start to finish by the hope that adult life remains as intense as the pounding of a Wampa song. The rumor was false: punks did indeed have a future.
Music
Stephanie Tremblay
The People
120 pages