Laurent is standing shirtless, veins on his neck raised, muscles taut in his throat, sweat pouring off him, the red five pointed star tattooed on his right breast filmed with a light sheen. His entire body is motion. He is coiled. He jumps and his legs scissor the air like so many other guitar gods on so many other stages at gigs throughout time. His eyes are so active it’s incredible. He punctuates songs with characters, typing out the last lines and sending the carriage back with a flourish, sweeping the last chord away in another. He is the last great clown. He is Arlecchino reborn in cut-offs and sneakers.
By contrast, Benoà®t leans into his instruments, communing with his saxophone or his bass, eyes closed, intent on the harmonies, on the passion, summoning from within him the next blow, the next keened note that will break your heart.
Zebulon turns 24 today. The baby of the band, he is the young earnest anarchist, and he wears the classic uniform of the intellectual: little horn-rimmed glasses, a peaked cap, violin tucked under his chin. Tonight, he smiles. He and Laurent, as usual, banter without words, entirely in the battle between pick and bow.
The music swells at times in such perfect harmony and counterpoint that you get lost in the threads of it. It’s as if you could follow one path and end up tangled in the fairies’ circus, looking out at the world from the other side and nothing will ever be the same again.
I want this to last forever. I hang around at the end, talking, thanking effusively. I want them to stay. I want to go with them. I want them to fall in love with me so I can run away to the life on the road that is their circus. It can never be.