I like to listen to Vincent Berger Rond (or Bergeron as nothing matters but sound) in the morning, but then with VBR it’s always morning. In this case morning is a cold, creeping dawn in black and white on a desolate island where nothing grows anymore but life within the kerosene lamps still quakes softly in the stone cottage and outside the mist is rising, always rising. There are small morning sounds. There is the process of waking up to something that’s never new, and the acceptance and joy of knowing this. Notre ambiguïté moléculaire is the orchestra warming up, but they never stop. The conductor has been fired and dismissed and the players continue to play and just riff off each other. The music flares and dissipates to ash unpredictably. Somehow Vincent Bergeron is this symphony (strings, strange percussion, a wind) somewhere in Quebec. His voice mumbles undistracted by time. There is no translation offered even to him. If you went to visit him, he wouldn’t speak, so you would find yourself alone with your thoughts. A visit you would never forget becoming an experience you owe to him, yet he never opened himself to you. The best sort of love. There aren’t many things I think you need but there is this tape. (Locahu, locahu.bandcamp.com) Kristel Jax