This title of the first album can be understood in two ways. Is it her stale airs that Birdie Veilleux wants to spread, unbreathable revenge? Or is it a manual of unhappiness for people whose happiness cannot last? Fist raised, hand outstretched? The music is very soft, acoustic, pleasant. Even Violence rocks: “My dear violence / Please get out of my head / You’re not welcome at my party.” Failed suicide, song to talk about it. “Don’t give me those eyes / It tells me too much about me,” Birdie whispers in I’m afraid when someone loves mebarely protected by his picking acoustic. What if he shut up? In the middle, clearing, here is Intermission, marvel of strings and winds. Of hope? The next room, Air Guitar, is almost joyful, a walk in Limoilou: pure pop in the rain for a heart “that has pneumonia”. The tenderness of the timbre in I love you denounces the statement. “It can’t end like this. ” Indeed. It ends badly and well. For Birdie and for us.
To watch on video