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Not Without Mozart

Unlike many, I can not write and listen music at the same time. Even if only a small background music? you ask. If there is a background sound and I manage to write is that my ears do not listen to music. Right now, my need for music is too big for me to truly trust the writing. You see, Mercedes Sosa fire burns in my ears now, and just before the effect was volcanic eruption of Mozart - Always unfailingly the sublime Piano Concerto No. 9 says "Jeunehomme." One question: do you get there sometimes being so sensitive to music that the experience borders on the terrible, unbearable? What a strange feeling than to be so penetrated by the sounds! It borders on perversion, but what a sublime perversion!

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The time given to me Jean-Francois Beauchemin

How could I delay too long to talk about good books read in the last few months? I start by choosing one at random (since there are several that I have to comment), I chose The time I gave Jean-Francois Beauchemin.

I was in my second book read by this author. A few years ago, The manufacture of the blade greatly affected me and many of my customers at the bookstore where I worked thought the same. The with my time given I found the personal style of the author, a style that suggests nothing but the player joined by her gentleness and quiet glow. Until two-thirds of the book around, I told myself prefer my previous reading of the author, until the final breath and take me by its depth. I excerpt here a few snippets:

(speaking of his mother)

"I realized many years later that she was trying to tell us, and that made her tremble because she was afraid to disappoint us, or to kill us in a form of magic, that love is a lonely thing. "

then there's this passage that speaks of writing and who joined me in particular:

" But the game was incredible for me my passage to the University ended one day, and I think due to work. I'd rate my chances: they were zero. I stowed in a drawer my two degrees in literary studies and began to learn my craft seriously. Ten years of writing left but true, a cheerful but stubborn toil passed. A pretty safe instinct guided me. But I remembered the instructions of my teachers who encouraged me to work from plans, compels me with the prospect of organizing a frame. I took my feet in these nets, these pitfalls handed me an old school background distracted but obedient. I decided to forget the end of it all: words in the end decided everything. I understand that writer is first a reader: read all these words and then stored in me every day since childhood appealed to others in fertilized soil. I loved their feel in the chest push, I correct that if necessary by a minimum of technical, by the action of an imagination always subject to my will. A dream domesticated result of this work. Lines that are still unclear, but more or less continuously, taking shape before me. I began to see the path of my life. "

Is not it beautiful? In fact, what about the book? Of love, family, a loving father, his relationship to music. But this background is not primarily responsible for the beauty of this novel. It's simply the way Jean-Francois Beauchemin to tell which is enchanting. Writers among us, it is probably the best master the subtle art of passing time and space which we pamper and love us. An intelligent and sensitive book which I shall return.

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The corpuscles of Krause

Separated in forty-seven short chapters, Krause's corpuscles is a novel whose main key is based mainly on meetings of Lucie, the heroine of 24 years, with various characters a village in the North Shore of Montreal, where she decided to settle after the death of his mother. Making use of slang by ellipsis, Sandra Gordon excels in vivid description of places and characters and readily accomplished at a rate effective narrative, deftly changing the "clips" at the movies. By the personal tone of the writing, we are convinced that by the time the heroine is none other than the author. It does not say exactly: it is a self-fiction, but one feels what the character size Lucie, filled with humanity and lucidity at point blank range and without affectation.

Immediately after completing The corpuscles of Krause , I still wonder how much thought should encourage this reading. Praise the courage, commitment, truth, desire to be reborn, this first novel by Sandra Gordon touches all these issues. The story builds slowly around a tragedy and how it is brought recalls some American authors to this end, we think more than happy to Hemingway Bukowski said, perhaps wrongly, back cover. Despite pessimism hovering, this novel nevertheless some solar thing and refers to Paul Auster to the theme of resurrection - the heroine who stands up after a hard race. In its way, The corpuscles of Krause explores the world of literature for reflection it provokes about loneliness and death. Despite its somewhat abrupt end, an interesting novel that I finished with the vague impression that everything had been said in these 47 chapters. My colleagues

The Rookie of the Month also commented on this novel. For their views, here is .

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Awesome Rufus Wainwright at the Theatre St. Denis

We were allowed to take photos, film clips of the concert then to put them on Youtube, "as the announcer, just before the beginning of the service. Note that the tour of Rufus coming to an end and there is concern to keep a few souvenirs in the virtual world of the Internet.

Rufus Wainwright's concert was divided into two parts, one devoted to songs from her latest album All Days Are Nights: Songs for Lulu (an album that I commented in this blog a few months ago which the article can be read here ), And the second in a bunch of "old" songs. The first part consisted of pieces whose original form and unbridled invariably recalls the music of some great masters of jazz and classical music - Rufus knows so well away from the basic structure of traditional song to walk paths where terms pop and even baroque pop no longer really belong. Let's talk here song, in the classical sense (Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers & Hammerstein) or rooms where the influence of opera and even the song is nice felt, who knows, perhaps these pieces would they liked to Hugo Wolf? We asked the audience not to applaud between songs (another reference to classical music), which was difficult at times because of the undisputed success of the singer's interpretations, interpretations which on several occasions, deserved to feverish applause. The parts that touched me most during this first part are: Real Love, A Dream and, of course, Zebulon, the latest , where the singer talks about the last moments of his mother shortly before his death ("all Montreal misses her "he says, between two tunes). The first part was accompanied by a very subtle staging, where the singer was wearing a sort of medieval coat of diva and where the visual, provided by a series of images projected discreetly served as a backdrop, the album cover Songs for lulu akin to those images. This setting has nothing in particular to the concert, we would be perfectly content with a good and simple set of lights.

The second part was devoted to songs from previous albums by Rufus Wainwright. A medley that began with Beauty Mark, a piece composed for his mother and from her first album, followed by songs from his first two albums, whose performance we confirmed again that Rufus is a musician of excellent caliber. Indeed, it takes a real athlete to play piano and sing like he does, simultaneously, while keeping just a voice and a proper breath. I could write at length about the second part so it touched me, but I'll just say that where Rufus "had me literally was when he sang the beautiful Dinner at Eight - drawn the album Want One - an elegy to his father ("it's pretty hard at first but it ends with love" he said in French with a perfect diction). This song, one of my favorite singer and probably one of those like me the most profound since I listen to pop, made me feel emotions strong enough to put me after the concert, in a particular existential loneliness, I return to these moments later. The rest, then went on with Rufus Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk, that plunged the crowd in a beautiful delusion ambient. Then a few minutes later, the Montreal singer left the stage. He gave three reminders: Poses dock where our soft liquid eyes, the melancholy Going To A Town and a piece of the McGarrigle sisters, where the songwriter Montreal, referring to his mother , could not hold back her tears. In writing all this now, "revisits the fiery emotion of the evening. It was one of the most beautiful services I've seen Rufus since I regularly attend his concerts.

we know well, art can change lives, transform, make us a better person. These transformations are not without sometimes we stir deep inside. Leaving the Theatre St-Denis, I told the friend who accompanied me that I could not go home immediately, I needed to relax and drink a little silence, a question to ponder this . So I went to take a bite alone, before I go to a neighborhood bar. Think of the fate that awaits us, cogitate on that verge on real heartbreak, fear suddenly some absolution, healing absolute thinking about music, what she calls the musician, what it promises. Why write? was the first question of the hour. Why music? second. Undoubtedly, there was for me during this concert, yet another revelation of the art of sound, a muffled voice telling me to relax, not thinking too much and especially not to worry, because the Music knows my impatience, understands, embraces. The music will not go away. Alas, that last sentence has nothing to reassure me. So when the music can she expect?

I could finish this post without mentioning the singer Teddy Thompson , which provided the first part of the concert Rufus. The songs of this songwriter, who are a mix of folk-country melodies simple and often predictable, have not reversed, but this singer's voice was enchanting in every way. Nice surprise, he even joined Rufus duets for two!

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December

Every year, December gives me wings. Month as white is just beginning and already I feel I will soar higher than in previous years. It took me wait until all November has passed back to my notebooks in my little night music, I had inadvertently neglected and in spite of myself. Because, yes, I must say November was hard. Everyone says that this month is one of the most difficult and most of those who do not say think, their faces expressing the winds. Once or twice in the past two weeks, I came across people who told me spinning perfect happiness. Astonished, the more disarmed by their assertion, it could not do otherwise than to bury myself deeper into depression.

What did I do then to come back to me and music? I am overwhelmed with light. If I ogled the halogen bulbs cast a blow eye headlights with fabulous, closely watched (yes, almost) the ceiling and, when possible, I walked by setting sun as if it were to disappear. Finally, under the recommendation of a friend, I swallowed the vitamin B12, one tablet per day. All this was interspersed with readings of letters (emails) sent to my friends and a book fair which proved my faith, although conditioner - thank you Max for his peeps expert with many awards literary present. And then one night a week, there was the university. I went there sometimes soaked to the toes, man bike that I am not from my closet to make sure the proper waterproof hiking peaceful. Still, the school desk was the place to adjust to a harmonious addition. Crossing the great doors of UQAM, I felt drawn in by new joys, those worthy of the greatest songs, those who tell us to ourselves, because it is on these to school I was permitted to forget all my trouble legally.

I would therefore like to officially welcome December ! This is one month, larger than life, where snow has mission, among other things, to break the intrusive gray rain and clouds. Earlier, the library's book traveler located in the Cote-des-Neiges, Bruno, bookseller and now friend, asked me if I liked the Christmas time period. I replied with a no, not almost a reckless, given the fact that my answer came from my experience over Christmas as a bookstore and record store - where I had to negotiate with clients who lost their civility substantially and their moral sense - as hard and fast memories of my childhood spent near the tree and the largest Snowman Street, which was mine. The response most closely related to my heart right now would be a Yes. Yes, I love that period when we prepare to celebrate Christmas. I like it, mainly through the snow.

I change the subject here and talk a little music. There are more than a year since I'm not mounted on a stage. Is the song I miss? Sure, but for now I have neither the space nor time enough to devote myself. Fortunately, the partys family give me the opportunity to "escape" my six strings, caressing the piano and sing some of my "all time favorite" including this very personal piece called Snow is frivolous, piece that was composed during the summer of 2001 and I sang all my concerts since its inception. I will let you listen here, in a performance delivered in public, dating from March 2008.

Snow has this secret to the heart in one breath naive joy as the years he has

mercilessly ripped off. (Antonine Maillet)