[engl] Long before Trump was president, he was a real estate tycoon. The Reagan years were good to him. His locks of hair floating through Manhattan skyscrapers: Power, money, women…World markets opened up and the greedy would get even more voracious. The World is the soundtrack to this golden era of success. The whole World or nothing. The motto here is: More (« Big Money » and « Make It Big »). But sometimes you need to soften that iron fist and talk about love (« The Big One » and « Secrets de Femme ») or taking over the family business (« Hand It Over »), expanding (« On Sight ») sharing (« What Friends? »). And of course leisure («Aquaworld »). The business world had their own newspapers and channels and now they have their music: electric and synthetic textures, sharp perfect primes, very ambitious money making melodies that work better, faster, stronger. Continuously raising the bar when all the others fail. After their self titled debut album released in 2015, « Nights » is a sleepless album, briefcase in hand, living on the edge where one can win or lose everything in a split second. The World is too big for music, their influences are more easily found in movies, whether it’s the cynics Oliver Stone or DePalma, the candid John Hughes and John Landis or the eccentrics John Carpenter and Cronenberg. The World is a strange feeling, a powerful and naive enthusiasm overtaking everything even the future of mankind. Going down with style.

[engl] TOKYO KARANKORON could be the best band coming out of Japan right now. To be quite honest, their blend of pop, rock, new wave, prog and everything in between is driving us crazy.

[engl] For those about to rock, the Metz-based quartet TWIN PRICKS (featuring former DEAD FOR A MINUTE and HYACINTH members) unleashes an indie rock bomb as well as a love declaration to the music made in Washington DC during the 80’s and 90’s. ?Stick together. Like glue. They met in high school, when they were young pricks. Eventhough they’re older now, they still are. Pricks. That’s what define them. Two talented wankers not giving a shit about what people think of them or their music. That’s what it ever was, that’s what it’ll always be. Their personal take on pop and indie music doesn’t need to be branded. It is as DC-esque (ie RITES OF SPRING meets RETISONIC) as it is midwestern emoish (the Caulfield scene with a GET UP KIDS twist). And it feels like they’re ready to push the boundaries of their very own defined universe, now expanding and exploring new territories, going from a wild afro beat to an icy r’n’b melody, all at the same time.

[engl] While some are still milking the garage rock for all its cool like it will never dry out, the sleaziest alley cats are gone drinking somewhere else. Sitting on a cinderblock in the darkness of a cave in the suburbs, drinking out of a warm beer, they’d rather witness the convulsions of a degenerating French song. Crafted with some second-hand gear and crumbs of poetry, this lament from the slums has Noir Boy George as its flag bearer, and Jessica93 as companion of misfortune. You will hear it filling the air of tiny and barely sound-proofed venues, to the greatest and perverse delight of all those that the prevailing festivism has made wary, and not quite convinced that we live in the best of times. When you’ve learnt music by fiddling with cheap kids’ instruments from the shopping mall, you end up with a tinkered tune that doesn’t rely on virtuosity, but hijacks anything it gets its hands on, and offers you the result in the shape of a wrecked toy imbued of magic. Nicolas Belvalette, known as Usé, doesn’t really play the guitar, and that is barely a guitar anyway. He hits on it, strikes the same chord ad nauseam, sticks a zinc cymbal on the neck, plays six instruments all at once. With Headwar, that includes three members equally versed in the mysteries of rhythm and multitasking, he atomizes the labels of “noise”, “rock” and “techno” that help us taming noise. He brings us back to the core foundations of sound, those primitive pulsations pre-existing language or melody, when the beating of our heart was all there was to our sound universe, at the bottom of our amniotic condition. For a while Nico managed a concert venue in Amiens, l’Accueil Froid : when the place closed down, he ran in some local election under the label of a fanciful party, le Parti Sans Cible, and got 2,17% of the votes. Right after that, the readers of local newspaper Courrier Picard elected him their personality of the year. L’Accueil Froid reopened, somewhere else. Just another line in a life that already resembles a novel. With a delicate health, subject to the most surreal accidents (during a festival, he got ran over by a car while he was sleeping in his tent), Nico never seemed to have a career plan, and spends half of his life on the road. He juggles with numerous projects (Headwear, Les Morts Vont Bien, Roberto Succo, Yvette Corner But, Sultan Solitude, and many others), he ekes out in this musical interzone that is the great tribe of the DIY, where the release of a cassette or a bandcamp EP are family events. “Usé”, his solo project since 2011, releases today an album on Born Bad, Chien de la casse. On the cover, a dusty van stands in the half-light of an abandoned barn, with a pack of dogs hastily gathered : nothing here is made-up. Yet, the colors are warm, the mood is relaxed. No pity party here. We almost envy the guy at the centre of the picture, who is lucky enough to spend his days indulging in the child-like pleasure of hitting anything the hardest you can, in a pristine environment solely surrounded by animals. Usé’s music is like that free party that we’ve looked for in this pitch-dark night, in the heart of the forest, led by the thumping noise coming from the ground : wild and aggressive, yet welcoming and touching in its bareness. You surrender to the mighty power of the trance, embrace the regressive pleasure of the drums wreaking havoc, the flimsy jingles, the texts rhythmic as a Dada poem. The heck with tomorrow, when the day will rise, because right now everything shivers with a frenzy that feels like life itself, and you won’t find this anywhere else. There are seven tracks on Chien de la casse, duly introduced by the spiteful grunts of a pissed-off mongrel, most likely a Cerberus guarding the trailer of a meth dealer in Indiana. Over the course of six tracks, Usé sounds as though he is writing an ode to break-ins in garbage dumps with the sole purpose of banging on rusty cans until they burst. Only “Sous mes draps” echoes like a sad nursery rhyme, but leaves the realm of social realism to wander on the foggy heights of a fairground horror flick. “C’est si lisse” concludes the album with a fire alarm and some human barking, in an atmosphere of a black mass saturated with backward tapes : the dream ends up in chaos, it’s almost day. Actual violence begins. I’ll see you next week at the squat.

[engl] It’s always kind of the same: the guy gets on stage – provided that there is one – looking like a lanky jackal, with a sweater or two on, and without notice he starts hitting on a jumble of cymbals stacked on tattered guitars, wedged between two ancient synths. After a few minutes, he ends up shirtless and everything disappears, crumbled and pulverized: the show, the music, the people around you, the stage – if there was one – and you find yourself in a hand-to-hand combat: the struggle of Man against the machine, the New Age of Metal, the big final crash. What matters then is not what this guy is doing, but the faith he’s putting in it. And what he puts in it is nothing less than his whole life, messily arranged in a large pile of hypnogenic patterns, primitive words, barking, anti-theft alarms, control losses, infernal nights. Then everyone’s free to pull the string that suits them in this huge panic – punk, indus, soundtrack to a urban crime film of the year 3000: as if being so harsh, fierce, and vital was not enough, Usé’s music also leaves you the choice – an incredible luxury at a time when anything’s spoon-shed to the point of having storytelling and opinions delivered turnkey, 100% validated and ready to consume. In fact, the music of Nicolas Belvalette (the man behind Usé, who can also be seen in Headwar, Les Morts Vont Bien, Sultan Solitude, Roberto Succo and about 125 other simultaneous projects) could have contented itself with live performance, where it seems to be reaching its full potential. In view of such firepower, what more could we expect from a record, other than an inevitable disappointment? Well, in fact it’s just the opposite: his first album Chien d’la casse had proven it, and Selflic definitely confirms it. Martial pianos, mongoloid harpsichords, rural techno, social horror: this new record contains all it takes to writhe, sweat, shudder, pant, stagger, pick yourself up, crawl, howl, faint, get up and pick yourself up again – in short, to have fun. We’ll spare you the truisms about “stepping out of his comfort zone”, about the “darkened atmosphere” or a “chiaroscuro self-portrait”: Selflic is a perfect digest of what Usé was, is, and will probably be for a long time: a terrific machine to crush time and bullshit, to invoke the essential precepts of fire and fury. And that’s all you need to know. The rest is just noise.

[engl] Pazi kuce (Beware of the Puppy) is an album by one of Macedonia's leading underground recording artists, Vasko Atanasoski of the Bernays Propaganda fame (to name just one of his bands). He is a perfect embodiment of punk rock ethos within the context of Macedonian or even Balkan music scenes. Pazi ku?e doesn't sound like punk-rock, but it's punk-rock of the highest order. And no compromises had to be made in doing it. You, in fact, are compromised.

[engl] "Voyage", to Pierre Vassiliu, was not only the title of an album of his, but also a philosophy of life. Travels were not for vacation or rest. They were synonyms of meetings, new music and sometimes, simply, life. These experiences around the world nourished his work, and his career allowed him to set foot on every continent. But his most beautiful travels took place in recording studios. "My parents showed up on a beach, with a camper. They landed there and we stayed for years." Sitting by a lake in Sète, Lena Vassiliu recounts how her parents Pierre and Laura chose an empty spot in the Casamance region to enjoy a few years loving each other under the sun. The legitimate child of this trip, she was conceived in Senegal. At the time, her mother said: "I want to give birth standing on my feet, holding a tree, in the sacred wood where only women can enter!" Today her mother adds: "Pierre was reluctant, so we ended up in a private hospital in Dakar." Laura Vassiliu still lives in the same apartment in Sète. Folon's original drawing for the artwork of the ‘Voyage’ LP is framed in the living room, making Pierre’s ghost more present. Laura remembers well the beautiful moments, and travels were a part of them. "Not only the moments were beautiful. On trips, he was more beautiful as well." Pierre felt good turning his back on France – which was probably already ugly –, turning his back on the fickle, mercantile record industry, as well as on an entourage that recognized his mustache but not his talent. A traveler out of obligation in his youth (Algeria and its war), he became a traveler by taste and acquired an interest in people, an essential for anyone willing to travel the Globe. He also traveled out of necessity. When smiles faded, a boat, a plane, and bye bye idiots. And he brought all those trips back into his songs. "Anytime we traveled anywhere, music attracted us. Pierre sensed the rhythm of the country we were in and he found a song." Laura Vassiliu

[engl] 2008. François Virot releases his first album - at least the first that is not a burnt CD-R. Presented with a yes-no question, both the public and the critics unanimously went for the first option. He was praised for the nervous urge and the staggering melodies of his lo-fi pop folk, and even got nicknamed a one-person Animal Collective. He found himself dragged out from the invisibility of Lyon’s squats and rushed hastily on stage. He was expected to give his opinion, but no one realised how unprepared he was. He had crafted his songs for himself, the hard way, without hindsight. For a hyperactive such has himself, versed into song-writing since he was a child, naivety was not a ploy, and DIY is not a fancy gadget. The honey of his first success had a bitter taste. « The first time they dimmed the lights at one of my concert, I didn’t understand what was going on. I came on stage, everyone cheered. I needed to change a string, so I said so, the crowd answered by applauding once again. I changed my string, I finished my beer, 10 minutes had passed, the lights were still on me. People found the scene delightful, they were laughing hysterically. For me, it was hell. There have been many moments such as this one where I felt at odds.” 2010. François Virot appeared in the credits of two of the most beautiful records of the year. The first one (Comfortable Problems from the trio the Clara Clara) put to shame every claimant to Deerhoof’s throne. He showcased his rowdy yet vacillating drumming skills, his acidly borderline chanting, wandering somewhere between happy hardcore and subtle power pop. The second one (Time & Death of Reveille duet) was as touching, addictive and imperfect as a collection of demos from The Evens. He would no longer walk into the lion’s den by himself. He would not sing his torments playing nervously on his acoustic guitar. No one was laughing anyway: applause sprung from shock, desire, respect. “I stopped making funny faces, talking to the crowd or make them sing along. I focused on the music and ignored everything around it. Still to this day, if no one shows up at a concert, I don’t care. What I want is to be satisfied with what I hear.” 2016. François Virot comes out of the woods again and plays the trick of the majestic double. After Clara Clara’s third album (Bugarach), a gem of shimmering pop, he’s back to sobriety for a second solo album that we had never ceased to wait eagerly for. A record that is as much a laid-back digest of his discography, an actualisation of his obsessions (colourful drums, catchy but devious melodies, referential tangle - Police vs. The Ex vs. Joe Dassin?), then a declaration of independence from the current indie pop laws. “Lately I couldn’t find any record without reverb effects, or a band that doesn’t use a chorus pedal or some recorded material live. It annoyed me. Music making should not be about composing the most beautiful thing there is. You need to catch a glimpse of what’s inside, hear an actual human being sing and play.” Marginal Spots is François Virot at his core, oblivious to the illusion of success, directly plugged on his heartbeats.

[engl] An amazing personal, power-pop record from Bristol, UK's Woahnows!

[engl] You Could be a Cop started out with two brothers rocking out in their parents basement in the suburbs of the third largest city in Norway, Trondheim. Morten had years behind him in different indie, punkrock and emobands as a drummer and producer, while brother Marius just had learned to play bass through the guitar game Rocksmith on Playstation. Morten then tried to take som online guitar lessons on YouTube, but failed miserably as he just had gotten a kid back home. In between baby crying and sleepless nights he still managed to write some songs on the guitar without even knowing one single chord. After some weekends in the basement they had four songs on tape, but no vocals. Luckily Morten had crossed paths with the UK singer songwriter Natalie Evans before. She put up a microphone in her bedroom in London and not soon after, they could call themselves a band with four songs on their hands. After some chatting around as many as ten labels all over the world agreed to join in on a release. And here it is! Four songs rooted in 90s emo - genuine, raw and heartfelt. What you hear is what you get - with limited resources from the start until the end, the band has proved that it is still possible to «do it yourself».

[engl] A dillusioned album for broken hearts, A heart full of sorrow is the work of Benjamin Daures, 24 years old, heir against his will of a tradition of loner, which from Ian Curtis, through Morissey, to Kurt Cobain, played everything they had on a record. their lives were saved (for a while, at least) by Rock'n Roll. Made in his surburbian bedroom while smoking joints, A heart full of sorrow is a first album, dreaming of other places (the Death Valley or the dry plain of Texas, you chose) as a way to escape the local boredom, the gloominess of Paris' outskirts. Draft ballads, thrown on a 8 track like break up letters to these stalling teenage years. Benjamin here plays all the instruments : A skullish drum machine, a shy guitare, and uncomfident vocals... While listening attentively, you understand that the fragileness is the force here, that's his style is forged in his akwardness that never sound like a pose. We're talking about sincerity, nakedness, a striking will of not hiding behind the primitive energy of Garage-Rock, to put back songwriting into angrily-played songs. Think here of missed Jay Reatard. We also know that Benjamin Daures is the leader of The CRETEENS, punk band who's had numerous 7" out on american labels, and that after two months of tour in the USA to support A heart full of sorrow (released there on Floridas dying) the past year, Yussuf Jerusalem almost imploded. But to learn more about Benjamin Daures, no need to go further, just listen to A heart full of sorrow and instantly become a follower of Yussuf Jerusalem