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Eloïse Decazes, she appears, she disappears; she condenses on the window panes and offers her flesh to bite. Her singing, that of a siren on a dried land, an exhausted prophetess, a bashful lover, a bust swing. Her voice, ageless, may be centuries old of age, or maybe a few minutes, endlessy resumed. Sing Sing plays the guitar like his pulse orders him to; battered, delicate and coarse, ever on the merry edge of total collapse. Here emerge distant echoes of old rural blues, folk music turned upside down, Black Africa and stripped Baroque. A broken jazz or bossa-nova chord can be heard here and there, and the odd pop harmonies riding a fucked-up spring achieve the beautiful confusion. His deep and ill-mannered singing sounds funny when bumping into the ethereal sopranos of aforementionned Eloïse. An amazement. A joy. Whatever. Their songs, mysterious, elliptic, and yet curiously incarnate, reluctantly evoke love, and solemnly invent almost comic catastrophes. All in a French verse as bony as it is colourful, repetitive and restless. translation Heloiise Esquie

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