A nomad in France and elsewhere, a dandy of the highways and byways, Antonin carries his poetically gaunt figure along the beaches of Cap-Ferret, where he is originally from, his long Cossack hair and his profile of a night owl with a sharp sweetness. Born "sea-drunk", he grew up in a wooden hut on the sand in the middle of the pines, and his only masters are time, the ocean and the six strings of his acoustic guitar. His music is like him: sun-drenched, free as air, necessary as water. Heady pop ritornellos, ballads to sing in chorus and dance barefoot, island saudades. Somewhere between Nino Ferrer and Nino Rota, Air and Moustaki, with Antonin's casual and chameleon-like ability to pass himself off as an Italian or an Israeli when the wine or the atmosphere encourages him to do so.