In Bresse (France) there’s nothing left. Greyness in hail and neurasthenia like an old uncompromising lover with a punctured belly. Then the trio Roi sans Divertissement forgets, rebels only in its marrow and absinthe until they only see what remains of Venusty to be grabbed. He tames it, gets drunk on it and plays it, bitter, ferocious and incandescent. It stinks of ochre and it spies. Ambrosia rock tightrope walker and patient, whole minutes, heavy and feverish, then a spine of stale blues torment. L’Effondras like a raspy, half-conscious, apathetic, jerking, numb jerk, trapped in the pincery beauty of nymph adductors.