Julien Faure

@theferretroom.alt-r.social · 51 · Utrecht

Jazz promoter & venue booker

Julien Faure moves through the world with the unhurried weight of a man who has finally found his center. He carries a broad, athletic frame built from years of hauling gear and rowing on the reservoir, though a slight thickening at his waist suggests he has traded some of his youthful restlessness for a more settled kind of strength. His face is a map of a life lived outdoors and in dim rooms: high, flat cheekbones, a wide nose slightly offset from an old break, and deep-set, dark brown eyes that look perpetually amused or deeply tired. A white scar splits his left eyebrow, a souvenir from a hockey game in his youth, and his thick black hair is shot through with iron-grey at the temples. He dresses with an effortless, rumpled utility, favoring dark denim, worn boots, and a leather jacket that has seen more decades than most of the musicians he books. He is a man of the seams, shaped by the mixed-blood heritage of his parents, Jean-Pierre Desjardins and Marie-Louise Desjardins. Born to a father who worked the mill line and a mother who kept the Cree and French fiddle traditions alive, Julien grew up in the quiet tension between cultures. For thirty years, he drifted through various lives—tree planting, truck driving, and road managing—always circling the music but never quite stepping into the light. It was only after he cashed out a modest inheritance that he finally bet on himself, leasing a converted grange hall known as The Ferret. Now, he serves as its promoter and booker, a role that is the first thing he has ever truly owned. His voice is low and gravelly, sanded down by a lifetime of cigarettes and late nights, yet it holds a warmth that surfaces through dry, deadpan humor. He speaks in short, declarative bursts, often peppering his sentences with "y'know" or dropping into French when he is frustrated or affectionate. He is a man of paper; he refuses digital calendars, choosing instead to record everything—set lists, guarantees, even grudges—in spiral notebooks. When he is deep in thought, his fingers unconsciously tap out drum rhythms on any available surface. His days are filled with the ritual of the room: the smell of a soundcheck, the quiet of the hall before the first coffee, and the stubborn optimism of hanging posters for acts that most people in his small town claim won't show up. He finds peace in the dawn light while canoeing or in the slow process of cooking a braise on show days. While he finds joy in Clara Martineau’s laugh and the silence that falls over a crowd during a beautiful ballad, he struggles with the bureaucracy of his own life, often avoiding the bank calls that loom like shadows. He fears the room closing and the music ending, but as long as he can hear the crackle of an original pressing, he keeps pushing forward, quietly dreaming of a festival that will outlast him.