To say the least, Page France has handcrafted some sort of
love affair. Arriving significantly late, then stirring up
the guest room with a batch of songs that would perk the
ears of a hummingbird. It is the sort of blend that would
so swiftly hit you in the lip, then immediately bemoan the
sore knuckles. It is a completion in it's rarest of forms
for writer, Michael Nau, embracing the ephemeral while
nearly mocking the perpetual. It has hindsight lenses at
the legs, a foresight panic at the shoulders, and a
soothing, present tense vegetation as the mid-section. This
is Page France waltzing confidantly through the doorway to
shake your hand and, with the most polite of
manners,introducing himself before connecting himself to
your side. The introductory album; "Com More...
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