Concerto pour guitare classique et piano jazz

Description

Without fear of the height when the time comes (everyone eventually gets there), we are born and then we disappear, Michael Lonsdale would say. Exactly like... but do we know what music is? Lit by the mobile ray of its unfolding, which is that of our attention (the listener sits still, moving only slightly, the eye becoming increasingly vague and slowly skewed), a diaphanousness of a cathedral that we neither see nor touch, but which miraculously holds together like the air. An organized yet impalpable scaffolding animated by a click of resurrectine à la Raymond Roussel, and off we go again, Simone, for a new birth in the course of our recognition. For this, from one echo to another, is never listened to for the first time. Something profoundly anti-Parmenidean, through which non-being is and being is not, with the mystery of a composition that exists and remains and yet, in the intermittences of its non-execution, does not take place, strictly speaking. But we have whispered enough about it, since that other better-saying with its scattered fire of jewels. And swirling like firefly fairies in an engraving by Arthur Rackham, it remains there, an imperishable sign deep down, like a big chrome thumb of Caesar that has turned into a gaseous nymphet. So what about this record (with swings we would put everything "à la guitarra" and roll on little Bolling, in a quadruple scratching prettiness, automatic drum machine between Aranjuez and Django...), whose dispensable charm passes like a little pleasure train at the bottom of a Monet? Precisely this, understandable by those who can, in this fatigue among the few who still care. And it is our remaining life that may be worth the effort for other resonances (homophony perfectly deserving the Legion of Honor of Scrabble). (Gilles-Daniel Percet)