On an equal footing. Enter tiny beats, barely noticeable. For now. Seb Brun’s Horns announce themselves with a sham sweetness. Tiny beats, indeed but far from seeing things in small. Spectators around. Some are trying to see, some are trying to know and are navigating in the device. Others get impatient, discreetly. Curio cabinet, small electronic orphéon, squeaking and scratching patterns in the air. Then enter the musicians, taking advantage of the darkness to take their seats. To regain control over this poor small orchestra, to raise always a bit more the stakes, to widen the links and fast roads.
Horns. The brass, certainly, but also the horns, hitting the torpor of the cities in hot summers. And it works. The community appears easily, surreptitiously. Assembled by the sound system which, now, encircles people twice, first a barrier of the amps and then further away the diffusion speakers. Two modular electronic benches facing each other. Two percussive and blowing traffic spads facing each other, too. And this gang of four is reunited in this long upward phase, full of micro-events, hairy paradoxes and contradictory dynamics. And the showmasters feast their voyeurs with an organic Meccano under strong sound processing. A palanqued of happy stories, tragic trajectories and even western duels for balled cowboys was born. Bang bang.