From the truckstop of broken hearts of Benoit Arcand: (Translated by the samureye of Ben Hedley)

A brown creature emerges from the ditch, barely glimpsed, nearly squashed, already far in the rear-view mirror. Les Revenants could scarcely be more than a cloud of inpenetrable dust in the afternoon sun. These Bêtes lumineuses live on the back-country gravel paths that the scintillating songs dare not take, and blaze into the elemental crucible of rock between the legend of John Henry’s hammer by Johnny Cash and the lost highway of Hank the first, which, more often than not, leads to the 61. They slam down on their guitars with the power of digging a mine to extract crazy nuggets of gold, measured on saloon counters or in corsets. At that price you’ll never come out more ruffled by the ride, scratched by the branches, or with lungs full of the white dust that arouses mythical trips.