The whole thing hung on a single rhythm, a voice, the incongruity of the equipment. Two keyboards, held single-handedly, because the guys had to carry them while playing, and then put them on the ground. An amazing drummer, deprived of his drums, who ended in a desert backyard, hitting cheerfully on yellow and green trash cans. Above all, a voice: Ezra’s, young and strong. It impressed us first when we were above the railroads at Gare du Nord, then in a little café, back to the roots.
They started playing Walcott as we’ve never heard it: this song, which usually relies on a piano riff, here rested upon a delicate guitar arpeggio. They walked, then we enter the Delis’. Wainscot panelling on the walls, very kind owners who agreed to lower the sound of the radio, synthetizers on tables, next to beers, customers, some were indifferent, some joined the chorus on Blake’s got a new face.
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