I listen to Chet Baker.
His voice replaces his trumpet
And he's there,
Present,
Breathing silently in my ears
Between "in the evening" and "when the day is through",
His mouth full of broken teeth and honey,
As sweet as he was beaten.
The voice is alive,
Close,
Still warm,
Suspended,
Unaware of death,
Existing only in its own sound space
And 02:46 minutes.
I put my hands on the earphones,
Push them deeper.
I capture the sound of the recording studio
Chet Baker is standing in.
I hear the color of the walls,
The instruments,
The souls,
The smoke,
The time of day,
The spring weather outside,
The lunch break approaching.
I want to go further,
Hear his thoughts,
Hear what he's wearing,
His side-swept hair.
I can't.
I slowly go back to realizing
I am listening
To the voice of a man
Who does not exist anymore.
I shake my head at that thought.
I am listening
To a man
Whose voice exists.
[Show French Version]
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