Un Blonde shows are always unpredictable, but perhaps even more so when Jean-Sébastien Audet is playing solo. In his small patch of stage, Audet moves from his guitar to his organ to reel-to-reel tape, piecing everything together as he goes. He's fashioned the capo on the guitar himself, and has somehow stuck a harmonica onto a microphone, though he mutters "this contraption is useless" as he puts it aside.
Between songs, he punches out a couple of dancehall air horns from his keyboard rig. Not as part of a song, but either as a palate cleanser or a punch line (it gets as many laughs as it does cheers).
He assembles his music in real time, and you can see him thinking — taking off the guitar, hesitating, and then putting it back on. The songs last only as long as they have to, Audet's voice injecting soul over white noise, or the sounds of birds chirping from the tape rig, or feedback emanating from his guitar as he swings his hips. Though it may not have been appreciated by everyone in the room, those who were paying attention never looked away.
Between songs, he punches out a couple of dancehall air horns from his keyboard rig. Not as part of a song, but either as a palate cleanser or a punch line (it gets as many laughs as it does cheers).
He assembles his music in real time, and you can see him thinking — taking off the guitar, hesitating, and then putting it back on. The songs last only as long as they have to, Audet's voice injecting soul over white noise, or the sounds of birds chirping from the tape rig, or feedback emanating from his guitar as he swings his hips. Though it may not have been appreciated by everyone in the room, those who were paying attention never looked away.
