When the march of a single soul becomes the flow of thousands. "The March of Embers" is an instrumental crescendo dedicated to all the voices they try to silence, to all the women rising for their future. A joyful ode to resilience, a sonic bridge between our consciousness and their fight. For all the sparks of life in the midst of chaos.

The_March_of_Embers

Born in the late 70's, I spent my formative years on an island in the Indian Ocean, a melting pot where social and cultural hybridity wasn't just a concept, but the very rhythm of daily life. It was there, in this landscape of contrasts—between the stability of volcanoes and the infinite movement of the ocean—that the foundations of my sonic universe were laid.

From a young age, my first musical education was atmospheric and expansive. Raised on the sonic odysseys of Pink Floyd and the majestic organs of Procol Harum, I developed a deep affinity for the keyboard sounds of the 60s and 70s. This quest for texture found a powerful echo in the monumental synth pads of Jean-Michel Jarre, particularly on an album like Revolutions (1988), which taught me how sound alone can tell a story and build a world. My musical journey began with classical piano, helping me develop a harmonic ear before I turned to the bass, discovering the power of rhythmic foundation.

But an island is also a place of isolation, fertile ground for the fury of adolescence. My discovery of certain music then was brutal and redeeming: the theatrical rock of Alice Cooper, the cathartic heaviness of Obituary, and above all, the shockwave from Seattle. Nirvana's album Nevermind, released in 1991, wasn't just an influence; it became the soundtrack to my high school years, a flash of raw lucidity. It was during this period, as a passionate self-learner, that I picked up the guitar and drums, seeking to replicate and claim that visceral energy for myself.

From this great divide—between the progressive frescoes of my childhood and the raw-nerved dissonance of my adolescence—a central question was born for me: how do opposites coexist? It was in post-rock that I found my ideal refuge. This inherently hybrid genre doesn't force me to choose between the path of sound design, the ethereal keyboard pads in the vein of Pink Floyd, and the raw energy of punk rock. On the contrary, it offers a canvas where these extremes can meet, dialogue, and fuse. This is where hybridity ("métissage") finds its full musical meaning for me, becoming the cornerstone of my approach.

Passionate about the richness and resilience of the human spirit, I place this fusion of opposites at the heart of my music. This is where my project's name, Point of Basalt, reveals its deep meaning. Hybridity, like identity, rests on a fragile, almost unstable equilibrium. The greatest lesson, for me, comes from volcanoes: in the midst of the liquid, chaotic, and unpredictable element, they create platforms of stability. From molten fury, basalt is born—a new, solid, and fertile land that has shaped life for millennia.

My music, Point of Basalt, is that new land. It's a post-rock and ambient exploration where ethereal, reverb-drenched guitars represent the liquid element of memory and emotion. Synth pads lay down an infinite horizon. But from this drift, solid structures always emerge in my work: a propulsive bassline, a relentless crescendo, or a martial rhythm that anchors the chaos. Each track I create is a journey toward that "Point of Basalt": a moment of clarity and peace found not in spite of the whirlwind, but thanks to it. It is the sound map of my mosaic soul, where noise and silence no longer oppose. 
Clarity from chaos...