Comme Le Chanteur

Description

Michel Boutet may have been born from a river, he knows its disturbing tranquility, the sandy bottoms, the black shores. And this silence too, where the fatigue of the unfortunate falls. In his wet country of sad children, the old who guard the barriers silence their wars, the old women stand tall, the little ones do as the big ones, what they can. One watches over their daughters, one whispers when a woman passes by, one gets used to their half. One must live… Michel Boutet may have been born from a poem, he knows its enchantments, coming from the depths of ages and distant lands, but he doesn't care about their possible inflation.
He prefers to nestle a few words in his guitar to lull the low tide Sundays. In his wandering ballads, girls laugh with the stars, men leave for the Americas, those who stay go their way like tears without rhymes. Everyone knows well that to live is to pass… Michel Boutet may have been born from a laugh, a laugh of the rude, unquenchable, a laugh of complicit brothers and old bar buddies. A laugh to forget the lecherous priests, the melting glaciers, the mantillas and the missals, the tears of children, the posers, the stunted, and all the makers of filth. A laugh that overflows until the last breath, undefeated. Because if up there, besides, there was no one…