We do not remember who gave us his contact in a confusing night of absinthe vapors and stale tobacco, in a dark and seedy winery. We communicated by adwords in Parisian morning newspapers . In the end, we managed to meet in a gloomy, wet night on a bridge over the Seine. He told me to ·stay under a lamppost while he watched me carefully, his face hidden in the dark winter. He gave me a postal package and faded into the mist.

Inside the envelope, Lucien Dorsainville has introduced a concise telegram and a handful of songs on a USB stick. It says (translated from the French):

"Lucien Dorsainville plays syncopated rhythms that are distilled·through long mélopées. His involvement with the music reflects his intention of evading and evoking with few words"

We can not say more because we neither know, nor will know, more. At least, nothing beyond what he communicates through his music.

Lucien Dorsainville