You heard him first on WIZZZ Vol. 2 with the explosive “Maintenant je suis un voyou (Now I’m a hoodlum).” Here he is again, with his full EP never released before. But, let’s go back in time… In early 1967, Bruno was attending medical school in Paris. Driving back to the university with a friend, Bruno sang along nonchalantly with the songs on the radio. His friend was surprised to discover his lovely voice and encouraged him to audition for a group composed of friends from the university who were looking for a singer. Bruno was not selected for the group, but became friends with one of its members, Emmanuel Pairault. Emmanuel had been studying economics, but decided to enter the music conservatory instead, to learn the drums and the use of the illustrious “ondes Martenot,” a primitive electronic musical instrument. He composed a few solo numbers, remarkable for their use of that instrument. Looking for someone to write lyrics to go with his instrumental tracks, he asked Bruno to try a few. Bruno and Emmanuel thereby put together a small repertoire, with no ambition other than to have fun. Although the details are now forgotten, they worked hard to bring their song to the attention of Nicole Croisille (a singer and actress), who suggested sending the demo to her friend Norbert Saada, who headed a label called La Compagnie.

This unprecedented use of the ondes Martenot in a pop song attracted Saada, who offered to make a record. Emmanuel quickly assembled a small team to make the recording. The sessions took place at Dominique Blanc Francart’s studio on rue de la Gaîté in Paris, with Bernard Lubat on percussion, François Rabath on stand-up bass, Jimenez and Jean-Pierre Dariscuren playing guitar, Emmanuel Pairault and Sylvain Gaudelette on the ondes Martenot, not to mention Bruno on vocals. Four tracks were recorded for the EP: “Maintenant je suis un voyou,” “Eve,” “Hallucinations” and “Galaxie.” With the sessions completed, Bruno left for his obligatory military service and thus lost control over things. Saada pressed a promotional 45 in an attempt to find a licensing deal in Canada, to no avail. A real collector’s item, this 45 includes “Maintenant je suis un voyou” and “Galaxie.” Back from his military service, Bruno learned that Saada had gone out of business and sold his catalog, putting an end to any hope of issuing the EP (1969). “Eve” has never before appeared on a record.

In 1963, David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia won seven Oscars. Launching its actors to stardom, including Peter O’Toole and Omar Sharif who played Prince Ali Ibn Kharish at the age of thirty. The latter incarnated the West’s vision of ??the Middle East which was simultaneously elusive, refined and elegant. His fiery stare, impeccable mustache and immaculate haircut had something to do with it: the Egyptian actor was a sex symbol of an era passionate for James Bond and OSS117 spy adventures. In the Jordinian desert, he fascinated an audience that was in search of an escape and the thousand and one nights. This appetite for a colorful and fantasized exoticism, was also prominent in France’s music of the sixties. The country that welcomed Omar Sharif’s first feature films outside of Egypt (Goha, La Châtelaine du Liban) produced a delirious amount of music of Latin or Middle Eastern inspiration, grouped behind the genre named “typical” . This “typical” production is enough to scare away the most motivated and adventurous of listeners: overabundant and often blurry versions, anonymous performers (often accompanied by the same arrangers) and only a few noteworthy songs. Venturing into the moving waters of orchestral music undoubtedly causes disappointment, but here and there, springing up in the middle of a vast ocean, one can find a few cha-cha-cha pearls played in a Cuban or Middle Eastern style.

The French equivalent of Exotica records (Les Baxter, Yma Sumac, Martin Denny etc.) for North Americans who were fantasizing about Hawaiian Tikis and the Pacific Islands, the oriental cha-cha-cha fueled dreams of the Middle East and Northern Africa. To rum-based cocktails sipped in a Polynesian setting, the French were to prefer couscous and mint tea. Carrying them across the Mediterranean to nearby Maghreb and even further on to the more mysterious Anatolia. Orientica in short. The context is somewhat paradoxical: decolonization, especially of the Maghreb was not an exactly smooth process. After Morocco and Tunisia in 1956, Algeria acquired its independence in 1962, leaving a gaping wound, still partly open, on both sides of the Mediterranean. Pied-noirs returning to the regions of Paris and Provence with a mixed culture (dishes, humor, etc.). The Cuban missile crisis took place that same year, a paroxysmal moment in the Cold War. Europe was split between two camps. “When will the Russians throw nuclear warheads at us”? But there was also reason to rejoice and be optimistic: the economic growth and baby boom. Reconstruction was in full swing. French families were dreaming of tourism and airplanes. A method of transportation that was still reserved for the elite was developing rapidly. The French sky had been opened to competition. Caravels, the first mass produced civilian twin-jet planes had entered the airspace. The French were discovering Italy, Spain by car and starting to dream of far more distant regions. Records thus offered the average person an easy escape with an extra few puns in there and a little ole-ole, making the product all the more attractive. On Saturdays, young adults took part in ballroom dance parties (dancing the cha-cha-cha, bolero, foxtrot, tango), although physical distances were chaste the spirits were more mischievous than they appeared. Sundays were then spent at the airport, listening to the Boeings chanter là-haut (Boeings singing in sky). The Loukoum – Cha Cha au Harem compilation offers a tender vision of pre-sexual revolution Gaullian France. Including all the stereotypes on exotic countries; culinary specialties (couscous, Turkish coffee, baklava, etc.), sensual oriental dances, exaggerated accents, bewitching chants performed on minor Hungarian scales by European instruments accompanied by percussion of an unknown origin. Aside from being a simple postcard, this music embodied a form of innocence and naiveté, both touching elements to access in these cynical and judgmental times. Catchy and tastefully arranged, the genre’s best tunes contain a delightfully old-fashioned charm. Bob Azzam, an Egyptian singer of Lebanese origin, made it popular in 1960 with Mustapha and Fais-moi du Couscous, Chérie (Make me Couscous, Darling). The musician who started his career in Italy in the late fifties really came to fame in France thanks to these two songs. About twenty LPs were to follow, not all as successful, maybe due to his sometime lack of mastery in terms of quality and productivity. Léo Clarens the French-born Caliph of Francophone oriental Cha-Cha-Cha is omnipresent in this compilation, under his various stage names. Born Louis Tiramani Coulpier in Marseille in 1923, the clarinetist formed his first orchestra at the start of the Second World War. Stranded during part of the war in Algiers, he ended up being promoted to conductor of the 2nd Armored Division! When Paris was liberated, he went to the capital looking for work. There, he recorded his first records (covers of American standards) for the Philips label in the 1950s thanks to the famous Jacques Canetti, one of the greatest French artistic directors of the 20th century. Apart from his recordings under various pseudonyms (Kemal Rachid, the Kili-Cats), the Marseille musician became a popular arranger, in particular for Michel Sardou. He also assisted Paul Mauriat for many years. Later on working with Laurent Voulzy and Jean Jacques Goldman in the seventies and eighties. Léo Clarens was not the only one to give in to oriental cha-cha-cha. A number of musicians threw themselves to the task, most often with mediocre results, but with a few nice surprises such as Benny Bennet or Los Cangaceiros. Benny Bennett is an American musician of Venezuelan origin who lives in France. He recorded many albums and 45 rpms mainly for Vogue in the late fifties and early sixties. A jazz drummer, he discovered Cuban music through his first wife Cathalina. From then on, he recorded mambos, calypsos, boleros and cha-cha-cha including their oriental variations with the excellent Couscous and Ismaëlia. Los Cangaceiros were a Paris based band led by Yvan Morice. They released four albums in the early sixties some of which were also published in the United States, as well as a dozen 45 rpms. Under his real name, Yvan Heldman became a prolific lyricist for films such as Le Vicomte Règle Ses Comptes (1967). We can thank him for the classic Dick Rivers Le Vicomte song. The omnipresence of percussion and drums on Oriental Express gives us some indication of Roger Morris’ favorite instrument: the drums. However, literature and the internet are stingy with details on his career. At most, one can find out that the musician published half a dozen EPs, mainly for the Homère label, as well as two albums, one typical of the early sixties (Surprise Party 2) and a second, Library at L’Illustration Musicale. Raymond Lefèvre’s career was much better documented! Present on this compilation thanks to his reinterpretation of the Lawrence of Arabia theme written by the great Maurice Jarre (father of Jean Michel) in a Bolero style,he was a soundtrack regular. Composing over 700 arrangements, he was especially well known for his participation in Dalida’s Bambino and for the Gendarme of St Tropez soundtrack. On that note, it’s time to sit back and relax in your lawn chair, smoke a hookah (to keep the clichés going) and discover Loukoum – Cha Cha au Harem!

Ever since the late 1950s bossa-nova revolution, Brazil’s influence on French music has been undeniable. Pierre Barouh, Georges Moustaki and a vast array of lesser known artists, all made the Musica Popular Brasileira (MPB) an axis of promotion at the service of a cool and metaphysical, modern and mixed Brazilian lifestyle. Some were seduced by the poetic languors of the bossa, some were looking for fun, and others just loved the American hybridization of jazz-bossa, jazz-samba. What is bossa nova? One of its creators, Joao Gilberto said: "Its style, cadence, everything is samba. At the very start, we didn't call it bossa nova, we sang a little samba made up of a single note - Samba de uma nota so .... The discussion around the origins of bossa nova is therefore useless”. It is nevertheless useful to remember that these magnificent Brazilian songs, which the guitarist describes as samba, were shifted and balanced around improbable chords. "I like things that lean, the in-betweens that limp with grace," said Pierre Barrouh, quoting Jean Cocteau. With emotion, arrangements for violin and supple guitar licks, bossa nova rapidly changed. A transformation that can be heard in the Tchic, tchic, French Bossa Nova 1963-1974 compilation, the result of a cultural reappropriation, which traveled through the United States and supplemented itself in France.

A musical revolution that has remained significant, bossa nova was born in Rio. From 1956 to 1961, Brazil lived through its golden years. In five years, the country had invented its modernist style. Elected president in 1956, Juscelino Kubitschek de Oliveira, an elegant man with a broad forehead, brandished a promising slogan: "Fifty years of progress in five years". He quickly got to work. Not worried about increasing debt, he launched the project for a new federal capital, Brasilia, designed by the communist architect Oscar Niemeyer. Volkswagen opened state-of-the-art factories and created the “fusquinha”, the Beetle. In Rio, the Vespa made its first appearance. The Arpoador Surf Club crew run into the “girl” from Ipanema, Helô Pinheiro - the tanned garota ("chick"), between a flower and mermaid, who at 17 walked by the Veloso bar, where the fiery author and composer, Tom Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes, were getting drunk on whiskey. From then on, bossa symbolized cool. In 1958, Joao Gilberto recorded Chega de Saudade, which the directors of Philips denied, calling it "music for fagots". The marketing director, who believed in it, secretly pressed 3000 78-inch vinyls and distributed them at schools around Rio, creating a tidal wave. American jazzmen then took over. In particular, trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie and guitarist Charlie Byrd. In November 1962, the Brazilian Ministry of Foreign Affairs funded a "Bossa-Nova" concert at Carnegie Hall in New York, inviting the genre’s pioneers. Unprepared, the show soon turned to disaster. But the troupe was invited to the White House by Jackie Kennedy. The first lady loved "the new beat" and in particular Maria Ninguem, a song by Carlos Lyra, later covered by Brigitte Bardot. In Brazil, the 1964 military coup quickly ended this euphoria. The destructive atmosphere that ensued pushed many Brazilian musicians to leave, if not to exile. Thus, Tom Jobim, Sergio Mendes and Joao Gilberto arrived to the United States. In New York, Joao Gilberto met saxophonist Stan Getz. At the time, he was married to the Bahianese Astrud Weinert Gilberto, who had a German father. She had never sung before, but she knew how to speak English. Getz therefore asked her to replace her husband on The Girl From Ipanema. The Getz/Gilberto record with Tom Jobim on piano, was released in March 1964. Phil Ramone, the "pope of pop" was in charge of sound. Bossa nova arrived in Paris through the classic “guitar-voice” channel (Pierre Barouh, Baden Powell, Moustaki…) But France loved jazz and Paris had already welcomed its American contributors. All these good people were to pass through Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The cabaret l'Escale became the Mecca of Latin American sound where one could find Pierre Barrouh and his friends, such as the Camara Trio, samba-jazz aces, whose only record was published by the Saravah label. With a band strangely called Les Masques (a band that included Nicole Croisille and Pierre Vassiliu, among others), the Camara Trio recorded an interesting Brazilian Sound, including the track Il faut tenir which is present on this tasty compilation of rarities. Other enlightened musicians can also be found on the compilation, such as Jean-Pierre Sabar (songwriter for Hardy, Auffray, Leforestier ...) and the French pop rock organist Balthazar. In 1975, Sabar recorded Aurinkoinen Musiikkimatka on a Finnish label, which featured the crazy Vai, Vai, included on this record. We are now following the footsteps of Brazilian electronic musicians such as Sergio Mendes, Eumir Deodato or Marcos Valle who created funk and disco sounds on their keyboards and synthesizers. A style that influenced Véronique Sanson when she wrote Jusqu’à la Tombée de la nuit in 1969 for Isabelle de Funès, the niece of Louis and a great friend of Michel Berger - Sanson did end up singing this track on her 1992 Sans Regret record. The pinnacle of exoticism and travel, Sylvia Fels’ Corto Maltese includes bongos, sea mist and ocean sounds. The title was taken from Jacky Chalard’s concept album written in 1974, Je suis vivant, mais j’ai peur (I am alive, but I am scared), based on Gilbert Deflez’s science fiction novel. However, bossa nova extended the scope of popularity. "In the 1970s, I was a fan of Sergio Mendes, Getz / Gilberto. I fell in love with this music that I knew because I had been an orchestral singer, " explained Isabelle Aubret, who in 1971 delivered a composite record of covers by the very funky Jorge Ben, Orfeu Negro, Tom Jobim, Vinicius de Morais and Jean Ferrat. "I recorded this album for Meys Records in Paris, far from Brazil, with wonderful musicians, François Raubert, Roland Vincent, Alain Goraguer...". The latter wrote the arrangements for Casa Forte, a very percussive title borrowed from Edu Lobo, one of the initiators of the bossa who spent time in California. "Jazz and bossa came together and produced very rhythmic music. I love singing, it allows me to dream, to have fun, to feel a high on stage, and these songs brought me joy, made me swing, my singing felt like a dance.” The world tours of French singers and their desire for the tropics, often brought them to Rio with its hills, forests, caipirinhas and tanned bodies. There are surprises though, like this Iemenja (Iemenja is the goddess of the sea in the Afro-Brazilian candomblé religion). Not unlike the composer and musician Jean-Pierre Lang, based in Sao Paulo, Claire Chevalier taught Brazil to Brazil. In 1970, the singer and painter published a 45-inch vinyl, Mon mari et mes amants (My husband and my lovers), under the improbable pseudonym of Clarinha (little Claire). She was then living in Rio, with her husband, Joël Leibovitz, who founded a band called Azimuth, and who owned a record label specialized in "sambas enredos" songs for samba school parades. For its B side, she asked Pierre Perret to come up with lyrics for a song composed by Carlos Imperial: "Oh goddess of the sea, o goddess Iemenja, I bring a white rose to adorn your long hair ..." . "Perret came to see us, and we had fun, remembers Joël Leibovitz. We wrote Lemenja for fun, we recorded it at the Havaí studio, behind the Central do Brasil [ the central station]. Erlon Chaves, the arranger who worked with Elis Regina, joined us" adding his share of Afro-Brazilian percussions and funky brass to the mix. There is a common misunderstanding in Franco-Brazilian history: that bossa, admittedly hedonistic, is perceived as funny, even though the poets who wrote the texts are often philosophizing on the human condition. Its French interpreters pull it towards a carnival inspired universe, far removed from its fundamental essence. Thus, Jean Constantin covered the famous Samba da minha terra, an ode to the art of samba written by the classic Bahian composer Dorival Caymmi, renaming it with the enticing title of Pas tant de tchi tchi pompon: "On your pier there is no tchi tchi / when you arch your back, you know everything is alright ”(lyrics by Gérard Calvi). This expedited bossa aims for the absurd, but retains a certain elegance. Indeed, Jean Constantin was not an idiot, the rather large man had a huge mustache and liked fantasy, (Les pantoufles à papa, Le pacha, inspired by cha-cha-cha-cha, salsa and jazz) but he was also the lyricist of Mon manège à moi interpreted by Edith Piaf, the composer of Mon Truc en plume by Zizi Jeanmaire and the soundtrack of François Truffaut’s 400 Blows. Le Poulpe, published in 1970, from which this bossa is extract, was arranged by Jean-Claude Vannier, an accomplice of Serge Gainsbourg’s Melody Nelson. In short: "There is enough of samba / By looking at the parasol / Because my poor cabeza / Is going to die in the sun". Even the American actress Marpessa Down, who was at the heart of the bossa nova revolution with her role as Euridyce in Marcel Camus’ film Orfeu Negro, winner of the 1959 Cannes Palme d'or, fed the clichée with Je voudrais parler au petit cuica - "Tell me how you manage to always make people want to dance / It's true, I must admit that I cannot resist your magic" - in consequence, once can hear the cuica, a little drum inherited from the Bantu. But bossa nova had many angles. Societal, of course, pushing actresses who were symbols of women's liberation like Brigitte Bardot, Jeanne Moreau, or Sophia Loren to engage in the exercise of accelerated bossa. In February of 1963, Sophia Loren made a record in French in Rome, Je ne t'aime plus, featuring the song De jour en jour, a bossa written by two Italians, Armando Trovajoli and Tino Fornai, which was released a little later by Barclay. Bossa accompanied the 1960s, a decade of moral liberation. Ann Sorel, who interpreted La Poupée des favellas, caused a sensation with L’amour à plusieurs, a provocative song written by Frédéric Bottom and Jean-Claude Vannier. As for the actress Andrea Parisy, she displayed her bourgeois cheekiness in Marcel Carné's Les Tricheurs before interpreting Les mains qui font du bien. And Magalie Noël, the friend of Boris Vian, who sung Johnny fais-moi mal, was hired to sing Une énorme Samba, composed by Alain Goraguer (arranger to Gainsbourg, Bobby Lapointe and Jean Ferrat) with lyrics by Frédéric Botton. But in the end, of what wood is bossa nova made of? The answer is given by Christianne Legrand, daughter of Raymond the conductor, and sister to Michel the composer: "With me, with jà" - jà means "immediately" in Portuguese. In 1972, the singer, an expert in vocal jazz and a member of the Double Six, published Le Brésil de Christianne Legrand. Two songs included on the Tchic Tchic compilation that demonstrate how bossa, jazz, funk, rock, etc. work like a swiss army knife: the music is used to denounce broken systems, or miracles, HLM et ciné roman, Cent mille poissons dans ton filet, two songs from the O Cafona soundtrack, a successful telenovela broadcast, at the time in black and white, on TV Globo. The first was adapted in French by the fighter and friend of the Legrand tribe, Agnès Varda. The second is content with a play on words, jostling them into a summer fun.

In 20 or 30 years, we’ll talk about Guillaume Marietta the same way we talk about Arthur Russell or Robert Johnson today – people ignored by their contemporaries and rediscovered later in prestigious anthologies or picaresque documentaries. Future being rather incertain these days, it would maybe be better if you didn’t lose any time and enjoy Marietta right away. Sure, it won’t be easy to map Marietta’s journey – one of the key players of the GrandeTriple Alliance De l’Est, an anarchic scene which exploded between Metz and Strasbourg in the early 2000s, fronting bands such as A.H. Kraken, Plastobe?ton and The Feeling Of Love. In 2015 he released his first solo album, Basement Dreams Are The Bedroom Cream, an amazing collection of 4-track twisted lullabies who got him comparisons with Syd Barrett and John Frusciante. Then comes his second LP and suddenly you lose the track – footprints have been covered – no more of that sweet demo sounding folky weirdness : La Passage?re is recorded in Los Angeles with Chris Cohen and it’s a lush and mesmerizing record, like Berlin with windows wide open or a sun-drenched The Idiot. A record that gives Marietta’s music new layers of depth and complexity – even if he loses part of his audience in the process.

Following this would be tough – and hazardous No studio sessions in LA, no 4-track demos, Prazepam St. has been recorded with cracked computer music software. Richer and fuller than the two previous records, this new LP is also, paradoxically, unbashed and easier to grasp. “I wanted to have fun,” says Marietta. Build a dark and bright world with my little hands and raw material, like David Lynch when he did Eraserhead “- one of the main keys to the album. It is also, more involuntarily a synthesis – there’s the raw side of the first album, that more flamboyant and ambitious of the second, but also small pieces of AH Kraken, Feeling Of Love and even Funk Police. Marietta went back to some of his teenage years fovorite records – Sonic Youth, Beck, Nirvana, the Beastie Boys, but also Jim O’Rourke or David Pajo – “Pajo” is a nod to te guitarist from Slint whose solo project Papa M is a mainstay on Guillaume’s record collection. Prazepam St. is also a dark and twisted record, as its title shows – a reference to an anxiolitic used for severe depression. “I have often tried to speak in my lyrics of the way the human mind works, of our contradictions, of our inner darkness, explains Marietta. And this time I wanted to bring the lexical field of drugs into my texts. Our body and mind are shaped by these substances that we use and abuse and I wanted to play with that. It’s a chemical album. » Proof made with « Dmpa », a molecule used as a chemical castrator on American sex offenders, transformed here into a battered folk song crushed by samples, rhythm machines and breaks from outer space. Or « Aluminum”, a solid and shiny but highly harmful element, like the incandescent ride full of rumbling synths, which opens the album – not an innocent choice: “Aluminum fairly well reflects our ability to accept all the things that we are presented with as being necessary for our daily life, concludes Marietta. Despite the experience, we always do the opposite of what is good for us. ” Like ignoring Marietta records, for exemple. Awaiting for 20 or 30 years to praise them. But you know what? He’s here. Right now. Enjoy.

A tax haven and dream destination for wealthy travelers, the Republic of Mauritius is a multi-ethnic country that is currently experiencing full economic and social ascension. Banking, textile, tech, tourism industries… in this fast-paced melting pot, business is strong. But not too far from the heavenly beaches and luxurious hotels are quasi-shantytowns, reminding us that a large part of the population, often Creole (of Afro-Malagasy origin) are still excluded from the "economic miracle of Mauritius." These Creoles are mostly descendants of slaves who were deported in mass in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries from Madagascar and the East African coast for the cultivation of spices and coffee and later sugar cane. On the margins of these hellish plantations was secretly created a music called tchiega, chéga or tsiega, a distant cousin of the blues. The music from Mauritius in the 70s found on this compilation naturally evolved from this original sega. Created at the crossroads of Afro-Malagasy, Western and Indian cultures, pop, soul and funk arrangements, syncopated ternary polyrhythms, saturated guitars, psychedelic organs and Creole vocals, this musical phenomenon is as incredible as a tropical flower in bloom. The Mascarene Archipelago, located in the South Western part of the Indian Ocean includes the islands of Reunion, Mauritius and Rodrigues.

Unsullied of human settlement up until 500 years ago, these islands are home to a unique flora and fauna, including the famous dodo, emblem of Mauritius, giant tortoises and the flying fox, a large bat that thrives mostly on raw fruits. Dutch, French and English settlers started trading slaves in Mauritius leading to French King Louis XIV’s terrible ‘code noir’ which was finally abolished in 1835. Followed by the era of commitment, often described as disguised slavery during which hundreds of thousands of contract workers immigrated from India and South-East Asia to provide much needed labor in the plantation system for the widespread cultivation of sugar cane. Although the origins of sega remain quite unknown, we do know that it contains vocal and percussive practices that originated from Madagascar, Mozambique and East Africa. A social escape and a space for improvisation, satire and verbal jousting, it transcended everyday life and made room for the expression of conflicts and the transgression of taboos. Inseparable from dance, sega is thus exposed as part of a pair: bodies brush against each other, stare at each other, get excited but never touch each other. The main instrument of sega is the ravanne, a large tambourine-like drum made of a large wooden frame and goat skin. It is accompanied by the maravanne, a rectangular rattle filled with seeds, and also often by a triangle, a bottle, a machete or any metal object that can be hit with a stick. The practice of sega also exists in a ritual and mystical form, forgotten in Mauritius, but still present in Reunion where it creates impressive trances during the "servis malgas”, cults dedicated to ancestors. Songs of sailors, romances from ancient France, Breton folk traditions, and of course the many rhythmic and melodic contributions from India have certainly influenced sega. The fashionable European ballroom dances (quadrille, scottish, waltz, polka, mazurka) were introduced by the bourgeois circles, then appropriated by the Creole populations who used the repertoires and instruments (violins, mandolins, pianos) to create a first fusion of the genre called "sega salon". Jean Alphonse Ravatton also called "Ti Frère" (little brother) is considered to be the "missing link" between the original sega and modernity. Born in Quartier Militaire (Military Quarter) in 1900, he learns sega from his father, a singer and organizer of "bobèche balls" lit by oil lamps and "rann zariko balls" where a bean hidden in a cake determines who will organize the next party. A fabulous improviser, "Ti Frère" sung about impossible loves, marital quarrels, social misery, alcoholism and violence with his hoarse voice. He was the inspiration for future generations of segatiers. His song "Tamassa", pressed on a 78-inch vinyl in rudimentary conditions by the Damoo pressing plant, a pioneer of phonographic production in Mauritius, was his first local recording. Fanfan the sega storyteller, "Captain" Michel Legris, the Cassambo family or the fisherman and healer Nelzir Ventre de Poudre d'Or (golden powder belly) are all singular figures of the “typical” sega who preserved the Afro-Malagasy cultural heritage and influenced modern sega. Now celebrated as an emblem of Mauritius, sega long remained disdained and banned in its early days by the colonial administration who feared revolts and slave gatherings. The high society then despised this music of "dark tcholos", calling it grotesque, rowdy and repetitive, while the Catholic missionaries denounced the sega dance, considering it to be licentious and depraved. It is only from the 50s onward that the style came out of the shadows. The Mauritian soldiers who fought alongside the English in the Second World War brought along guitars, banjos and accordions. The first orchestral ensembles such as the Typhoon Band, the Police Orchestra or the Pepitos took over fairs and movie theaters. A generation of popular singers emerged with Roger Augustin, Jacques Cantin, France Jemon, Francis Salomon and the famous Serge Lebrasse, who had much to do with the democratization of sega thanks to the enormous success of his first song "Madame Eugene" in 1959. The single was produced by John Venpin on "Dragons", a small label that put a mark on the 60s and 70s with its continuous production of 45-inch vinyls, following in the footsteps of Michel Foo Fat’s ‘Neptune’ and Henri Ah Koon’s ‘Do Re Mi’, other pressing houses run by Chinese merchants. The emerging tourism industry approached sega as an added value and a guarantee of authenticity. The orchestras started playing their segas in hotels among all kinds of other musical varieties and international hits. This was also around the time of the creation of Mauritian TV and sega programs such as the "Star Show" presented by the excellent keyboard player Gerard Cimiotti, who launched many singers’ careers. Cimiotti is part of a handful of genius arrangers who, over the course of two decades, propelled sega. The most prolific and surprising of them is undoubtedly Marclaine Antoine, a talented self-taught guitarist and multi-instrumentalist, producer and arranger who composed hundreds of singles for a number of singers: "They would come see me with a song composed of two or three chords on the ravanne" he remembers "I would offer arrangements that we would record with my orchestra, often just voice, bass, rhythm guitar and drums because we only had a 4-track recorder at the time. I would then go to Reunion to re-record the tracks with percussion, chorus, guitar solos, keyboards etc... The records were then pressed in Madagascar at De Comarmond". In 1959, Raoul De Comarmond and his son Jean-François had set up the first 78-inch pressing plant in the Indian Ocean in wild conditions. In addition to funding many labels and pressing most of the singles from Reunion, Mauritius, and Madagascar in the 60s , they went on to produce nearly 5000 references over 20 years. The singer Claudio Veeraragoo, after debuting in the styles of variety and bollywood, became the first Indian-born segatier but also one of the pioneers of rock sounds and saturated guitars in Mauritius. A fan of Santana, Jimmy Hendrix and the Shadows, he recorded the incredible "Qui Fine Arrivé" in 1971, a sorrowful love song melded with a canvas of sharp riffs played by James Furcy. The band was called "les Copains" before becoming "Satanik" or the "Satanik Group". Claudio made a strong impact with his segas inspired by Bollywood and Qawwali, then with his hit "Ambalaba" covered by Le Forestier, which made him internationally known as one of the biggest stars in Mauritius. In his famous session from 1971, Harold Berty, another singer of Indian origin, recorded his first 45" from which came the song "Django", an ode to the famous pistolero from the eponymous western spaghetti. "Mo'nn tir sa kou revolver ek mo labouss" he recalls: the effect of the pistol and the whistling bullet is simulated by his own voice. Another iconic figure, the segatier from Rose-Hill, Jean-Claude Gaspard son of Roger Augustin started out playing guitar for the Yankees, Serge Lebrasse’s orchestra, before becoming one of the most famous singers from the Indian Ocean with a local and international career that spanned over 40 years. A prolific composer and a talented chronicler of everyday life, he is known for his humorous two-sided sega. Puns, irony and sexual allusions are all an integral part of the style. A specialist of this aspect, the singer Coulouce (Jean Pierre Mohabeer) was censored by the Mauritian radio before sinking into alcoholism and dying, like many artists of his generation, in misery and indifference. A few months after the independence of 1968, a gang war began in Port Louis, drifting into violent racial riots. Followed by the birth of the MMM (Mouvement Militant Mauricien) which, inspired by Frantz Fanon and May 68, offered to replace race struggle by class struggle. This marks the beginning of the years of embers, 10 years of strikes, police repression, student revolts and states of emergency. This was a decade of profound cultural change revealing the turbulent multiethnic Mauritian identity. The emblematic movement of the "santeé engazé", which mixed Indian music, sega and progressive militancy, appeared with Siven Chinien, Grup Latanier and the Soley Ruz band which brought together Bam Cuttayen, Rosemay Nelson, Micheline Virahsawmy, Nitish and Ram Joganah, Lélou Menwar and Eric Nelson. The latter, a solo guitarist and arranger, set up the "Features Of Life" which, in the mid 70's, gave birth to a new sound. Fuzzy distorted guitars and funky beats invite each other to play over the unbridled ternary beats created by fabulous drummer Raoul Lacariate, brother of singers Micheline Virahsawmy and Rosemay Nelson, a cursed genius who tragically vanished way to early. The band accompanied a new wave of singers, including the atypical Joseph Roland Fatime aka Ti L’Afrique, a hyperbolic and hyperactive character, a fan of blues and James Brown who launched an explosive raw, and funky style of sega. Originally from Plaine Verte, an Arab neighborhood of Port Louis and born in a family of kawwal singers, he became a segatier, political activist, masseur in hotels, host at Club Med, and even a pastor and sports coach! During the 70's, his bad boy reputation preceded him. Now a repentant, he leads peaceful days in the suburbs of Port Louis. In his wake is Joss Henri, who played guitar in the Caméléons alongside Alain Peters, Daniel Delord ambassador of Seychellois music in Mauritius and the excellent Georges Gabriel. Eric Nelson's brother, John Kenneth, stands out as one of the island's most original voices, with his energetic and abrasive style. His song Missieé Coutou, unsuccessfully covered by French singer Carlos, was a hit in the Indian Ocean. Although less known, his first single reissued on this comp is equally brilliant. With the arrival of cassette tapes, the 80s marked the death of vinyl: many record companies went bankrupt when faced by cassette copies that flooded the market. The role of arrangers who directed bands and supervised recordings disappeared. Speaker systems and DJs replaced the bands that provided entertainment for balls and weddings, confining them to hotels and official ceremonies. Sega underwent a stylistic and melodic impoverishment, accentuated with the advent of computers and the standardization of productions. The style of seggae, a mix of reggae and sega emerged with Joseph Reginald Topize aka Kaya, whose death in jail in troubling circumstances in February 1999 caused historic riots and several deaths. The percussionist and singer Stéphano Honoré, better known as Lélou Ménwar, started out alongside Marclaine Antoine one of the major creators of seggae, then went on to develop his own style, the sagaï, influenced by sega typik, maloya from Reunion, blues and funk. To this day, he remains one of the most surprising artists of the 90s and 2000s. One of the few who has managed to transform the sega saga into an ever more personal and original direction.

PILOOSKI Cédric Marszewski aka Pilooski started as a sound designer for Radio France. Later, he joined the journalists Guillaume Sorge & Clovis Goux of the D*I*R*T*Y collective. Together, they released the compilations Dirty edits and Dirty space Disco for the Tigersushi label and “Beggin”, a remix that has been used in many commercials around the world. Cédric produces Tristesse Contemporaine, Hypnolove, Perez, Discodeine, he has worked with Jarvis Cocker (Pulp), Baxter Dury, Matias Aguayo and Kevin Parker (Tame Impala). He has published numerous remixes under the name Pilooski for Bryan Ferry, LCD Soundsystem, Tame Impala, Jarvis Cocker, Nina Simone, Alain Chamfort, Mark E. Smith Von Sudenfed, also Metronomy, Yelle or Joakim, Who Made Who (with Discodeine). Cédric is Musical Artistic Director for brands such as Hermès , Christophe Lemaire, Lanvin, Bonpoint. He collaborates with advertising agencies: Saatchi & Saatchi, Publicis, BETC, Young & Rubicam, Sid Lee for worldwide advertising campaigns (Lipton, Mastercard, Clarins, Adidas, Orange, Hermès parfum, Lacoste, Balenciaga). He composed the music for Joyce A’s feature film. Nawashati’s feature film “Blind Sun”; collaborated with Les Films du trésor (“Populaire”, Régis Roinsard), Europa Corp (“Arthur et les minimoys”, Luc Besson).

He is currently working on an art installation with Jarvis Cocker & Sophie Calle. A sensory tale in which music, a story, images and olfactory impressions are mixed together and disappear. Tolouse Low Trax: The ethics of Tolouse Low Trax alias Detlef Weinrich stands out in his multiple releases on labels such as Idle Press, Infiné, Karaoke Kalk, Kunstkopf, Neubau, Themes For Great Cities, Antinote or Cómeme. The German producer is no newcomer to the scene: still an active member of Kreidler and Toresch, he is the man behind the famous Düsseldorf Salon des Amateurs. His productions as Tolouse Low Trax explore Afro-baroque elegance through dark arpeggios leading to a slow and hypnotic liberation. Abschaum: Since 2010, the French trio of Abschaum, led by Chris Poincelot, has been navigating wilderness terrain. As if to better release the subtle tension of their music: a definitely krautrock heritage mixed, intrigued, blended with the influences of a raging Alan Vega. Because this heritage, its context, its aesthetics are not insignificant. Hypnotic, synthetic loops, saturated riffs and black voice, Abschaum, “vermin” in German, has cradled his ears to the sounds of Spacemen 3, Ash Ra Tempel and Can. Orestt : Boss of the label Evrlst.inc and of the famous record store of the same name in Nice, Orestt is also a rare and emeritus producer. A handful of EPs have been released under his name, notably on I’m A Cliché, Cosmo Vitelli’s label. We find him here for his first “remix” in the same vein as his productions: synthetic, dark and hypnotic.

Confession, fiction, and observation. This is how the trajectory drawn by Julien Gasc seems to evolve from one album to the next. While Cerf, Biche et Faon took the form of a diary and Kiss Me, You Fool! that of a collection of stories, L'Appel de la Forêt concludes this trilogy in a tender and spontaneous dialogue, broaching the present with clairvoyance through melodies with bright glimmers. More adventurous than its predecessors, which respectively took root in the south of France and in London, this third chapter offers a kaleidoscopic vision, multiplying geographies and temporalities to ingrain itself in the moment all the better. Through a collection of dances of diverse origins, Julien places himself at the heart of the everyday – embracing it, sublimating it, and calling for a transfiguration to escape its imminent disaster. His voice circulate through this fragmented horizon; it is raw and immediate, sometimes so stark that it disappears, making way for its interlocutor, like an invitation to occupy the space shaped by his ritornello. Emancipated from his dandy’s costume, the rare moments where he puts it on again are to more effectively elude it. The address is deliberately frank and above all benevolent. Beyond an amorous chant d’amour, it is an ode to freedom and to the full awareness of our human condition that unfolds before us.

An invitation, devoid of cynicism, to take off of our ‘social animal’ mask and decolonise the world around us – to stop wanting to possess at all costs and let those we love be free. This album is a roadside companion, with no dogma or precepts, and a simple motto: Stay joyful.

"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

I’m going to say “I” because I think I can’t write about my music other than in the first person. I’ve been playing drums since I was fifteen years old and I’ve always had bands since. Even if I always contribute artistically, to different degrees, my latitude of action, from a creative point of view, has always been limited by the fact that I am a drummer. Like many people, I learned to play very approximately the guitar and keyboard, and I spent years going over obsessions and recurring patterns, in my room and in my head, without doing any of that, and knowing that even though I was and still am extremely involved in my past and present bands (Skategang, La Secte du Futur, Marietta to a lesser extent, and ), the music we were making was only partially representative of me. I’ve always listened to a lot of reggae, dancehall, music from Ghana, Nigeria, Congo, and overall music that is based more on repetition and intention than composition, and that’s something I could never really develop in there. In 2015 my brother and friend Benjamin Dupont, the human behind Bryan’s Magic Tears, moved into my flat share / Noah’s Ark at 35 rue Clignancourt, in the 18th arrondissement, and it was him who unlocked everything by showing me how to record music by myself ; and one September morning, lying on my back, I saw the light.

It’s really a new world that’s opened up to me, I started recording at a pretty intensive pace, just letting myself be carried away by what I’ve had in my head and fingers for years; I’ve accumulated a lot of material, including a lot of unfinished pieces, and I’ve tried – I’m still trying – to understand for myself what my point really is and to learn how to systematize and channel my obsessions to make it something personal. Recording a lot, without any constraints of format, group or expectations, by letting myself be totally carried away by what was coming out in the moment, it allowed me to give myself a certain insight into myself; I am not one of the people who compose music by having an idea of where they want to go, but by repeating the exercise, something coherent ends up taking shape. I would say that it oscillates, for the music, between synthetic krautrock, dancehall lo-fi, Manchester sound recorded with toys, rock à la Velvet and Memphis rap for children; and between Les Négresses Vertes and Julien Gracq for the texts. I still write the basis of my lyrics without music, and I attach a lot of importance to it; French has become obvious because I want to say something true and I would not be able to do it otherwise – even if the text of “The Fur” is in English, but it was to seduce a girl (it didn’t work), and it won’t happen again. This is my friend Paula from J.C. Satan and Succhiamo, who sings on “Mariposa” and “Venera 16”, because I had no idea what to do about it; I sent her the songs and she sang on her phone, it was great so we recorded it. This first album is a kind of best-of from 2015 to 2018, the songs that held up best, the ones I had lyrics on, the best finished drafts, basically. I owe its existence to my friends at the Megattera micro-label who, after hearing my songs at home at night, decided to release them confidentially on tape first; without them, they would still be on my hard drive. Under the spell, Born Bad Records then entrusted Olivier Demeaux de Cheveu/ Heimat with the mission of mixing the “best” tracks to give them the lustre they deserve and make these few crazy and scattered tracks a full-fledged album. I asked Adam Karakos, from Villejuif Underground, Guillaume Rottier, from Rendez-Vous, Nikolaj Boursniev, from Quetzal Snakes, and Milia Colombani, who plays in half the bands in Paris, to play live with me. Pleasure Principle is located somewhere within a triangle formed by Francis Bebey, Add (n) To X and Ludwig Von 88; it is a solitary race to the outside, an ode to the forward flight, a way to escape in the peaceful expectation of the great liberating flash. I often find myself dancing like a monkey who forgets the world when I record at night in my room, and I hope to provoke the same reaction in people. Paul Speedy Ramon

During the 1990s, wherever you lived in France, you could see certain groups between 5 and 10 times a year - sometimes even without really wanting to. Guys who played so much, all the time, everywhere, that it was impossible to spend more than three months without being at one of their concerts. Right down to the depths of the Var or Jura, they pushed tons of kids to start their own band or fanzine, to access something different. It was more than just music. It was a spirit, an idea. A way of looking at the world. Rules are no longer the same. Music no longer has the same weight, the bands we come across between 5 and 10 times a year - sometimes even without really wanting to - are rarely the right ones, and the kids from the far reaches of the Var or the Jura have something else to do than formig bands or fanzines. But the spirit and the idea are still there. And in the last 10 years, in France, no group has played them better than Frustration. Like all these groups, Frustration we have seen them 5, 10, 100 times - sometimes without really wanting to. And because we're not quite the same either - more informed, more busy, more jaded, less easily impressionable - we always said to ourselves that we've gone around it, that their whole comedy is getting old.

But with each new concert, each new record, we go back to the roots. Because the fire is still burning, because the passion is still intact, because they are not trying to pass for what they are not. Because somewhere in the heart of the Var or Jura, some kids still need to see the world differently. However, we were not expecting a record like So Cold Streams. At this stage of the championship, Frustration could have been satisfied with releasing a record that was essentially identical to the previous one, intense, abrasive, honest but without risk, and could have continued to fill the rooms without anyone having to complain about it by slowly moving towards an exit as dignified as it was inevitable. But from the first bars of "Insane", an insane electro-punk pounding that you'd think you'd just come out of a 1988 EBM EP, you realize that the scenario isn't going to go as planned. Instead of setting up a comfortable routine, Frustration recorded his fifth album as if it were the first, like a band formed 6 months ago that would have nothing to lose and a serious desire to fight it. If the post-punk cavalry is still present (martial drums, elastic bass, hit-and-run guitars), So Cold Streams surprises with its energy, the virulence of certain lyrics and the many risk-taking, "Brume", a nightmare with industrial sounds screamed in French, to the very pop "Lil' White Sister" which looks surprisingly at the Smiths and Echo & The Bunnymen, as well as the sinuous and melancholic "Slave Markets" on which the band invited Jason Williamson, the singer of Sleaford Mods - a band that played a lot in Frustration's new youth. "Sleaford Mods is a band that, musically and humanly, gave us a real boost," explains Fabrice Gilbert (vocals). It gave us a real sense of freedom, it allowed me to really say everything I wanted to say in my words, to talk about extremely intimate subjects as well as much more general things, whether it be political or social. So Cold Streams is, paradoxically perhaps, our most disillusioned, energetic and free record. This observation is perfectly summarized by the cover of the disc, signed like all the others by the painter Baldo, and which represents a machine tarring a road through a field of wheat. A painting made more than 15 years ago and which was originally intended to be the cover of Full Of Sorrow, Frustration's first album. For such a renaissance, the best choice could not be better. Especially since the image alone contains the whole disc: space, strength, light, rage and disgust too. The desire to destroy everything. To make a clean slate. To propose something different. A little more than music. A spirit, an idea. A way of looking at the world.

Careful, "Let’s not get angry" suggests Spartaco Sax, the famed song accompanying French daily paper FRANCE-SOIR’s campaign against road violence: music isn’t that serious, often times really not. In any case, it is with this not so serious ear that one should listen to this selection of chachacha, mambo and other genres to twist and madison to, as music-lovers pinch their noses and block their ears. And yet, these breezy and light songs under their false airs of effortlessness draw out an astonishing analysis of late 1950s France with its partying baby boomers. Put on your dancing shoes, everyone on the dancefloor, let’s go baby. The record starts out with an esoteric organ, a guitar straight out of a western, a vibey rhythm section, a speeding saxophone, a glamorous voice, a curious keyboard, a slightly panicky tempo... "Please Mr Hitchock!" calls out a voice from the unknown, on an arrangement that’s about to lose control. The tone is set. Eins Zwei Drei, cries out Spartaco Andreoli, creator of the Chachacha for tunas, lyrics that are absurd accompanying music that isn’t so much so. And this is just the beginning. I can already see those making fun of it, and yes, I admit it does sound a bit comically-tragic, but more often than not, a persistent riff or melody will get stuck in your head, a chorus that you’ll start unintentionally humming, your foot that starts beating unbeknownst to you.

“C’est bon ça dis donc !” (This is pretty good), suggest the Los Goragueros, at the start of their Mambo Miam Miam (Yum Yum). A smooth sax, a double bass that sways and shattering percussions, this song anonymously written by Alain Goraguer (there is often an "os" (bone), added to the band name for a little authenticity, i.e Los Chiquitos and Los Albinos) is actually quite tasty. This arranger and pianist who went on to write the indispensable Planète Sauvage (Wild Planet) is not the only one to have advanced half-masked in these tropical times. Just as Michel Legrand devoted himself to rock music, for better or worst. Tropical music and France go way back. Indeed, this tropism for exotic music, not without the mannerisms that go with it, has been around. Just think of the period between both world wars, when the Paris of the roaring twenties fluttered to the sound of Latin-American orchestras. The influential Brazilian musician Pixinguinha came through in 1922, the charismatic Cuban singer Rita Montaner triumphed a few years later at the famed Palace and the brilliant clarinettist Stellio from Martinique had everyone dancing through the night to the beguine (a dance style from Martinique)... Seedy cabarets and fishy clubs mixing up different peoples and music until the early hours. From Montparnasse to Montmartre, dancing clubs bloomed throughout the capital while the World Exhibition sold a rather uncertain idea of the other tropics: a discounted and fantasized exotic dream of island life. It’s in bars like Jimmy's, by La Coupole, or the Melody's nestled in the heights of Pigalle, where Don Marino Barreto’s (Cuban pianist and singer who emigrated to Paris in the 1920s) orchestra made the heyday of a surreal and carefree Paris. Parisian Ray Ventura and his band Les Collégiens, quite the breeding ground for funny songs, at times almost delirious, were always a big part of the party. And after the Second World War, it started all over again. Rico's Creole Band was one of the great Creole orchestras to sway all of Paris, the Blomet Ball brought together the Afro-Caribbean communities, L'Escale became an essential dancing ground for lovers of Latin music, the pianist Eddie Warner was one of these pillars, accompanied by his "rhythms", a "witty orchestra with 85% of French musicians, only the percussionists were South American". Another jazzman, Henri Rossotti, also navigated in the warm waters of these gentle tropical shores. They covered sambas and mambos, adapting Benny Moré and Pérez Prado. Hot, like the hard-hitting Benny Bennett and his orchestra of Latin American music, which ended up being the training grounds of many apprentice improvisers. On the menu: calypso, merengue... and of course chachacha. Shortly after, the Los Machucambos, a South American band created in the Latin Quarter performed music between guajira and flamenco and its song Pepito marked the start of the trio’s success. At the time, Latin-style combos were all the rage in France such as the chachacha which was officially invented in the early 1950s by Enrique Jorrin, soon followed by the pachanga, becoming a staple of black-and-white films. In the long run, this music has become a sort of French standard, adapted by many: Boris Vian oftentimes, Bourvil, Bob Azzam, Gainsbourg, Carlos (jokingly), Louis Chedid, Vanessa Paradis… Taking it a little far, you could even detect the beginnings of the french touch. This Chachacha affair is emblematic of the atypical history of popular music, that of back-alleys, far from the paths and furrows of glory. Music, raised from the grave and dusted off by the Born Bad record label. In terms of latin music, these records that were patiently found in flea markets are becoming a rarity, even if most are worth three euros and six cents: this low cost hobby is underestimated by licensed collectors, who run like lunatics towards triple-zero rarities. Chachacha Transistor, predicted the unlikely Jacky Ary, known for his less digestible Mange des tomates (Eat tomatoes). With the approach of the 1960s, typical music styles were found all over the country, from the northern plains to the southern sea. Never failing to cheer up dances, nor to whet the appetite of a burgeoning industry, which often seized it by opportunism, not without a tinge of cynicism. After all, one must sell records to the desolate youth, at all costs and any price. These 7-inch vinyl records were therefore recorded at Barclay, Vogue and co. Low-consumption products intended to supply the shelves of budding suburban supermarkets. The idea was to convert a North-American trend in the studio, by summoning old geezers (Paul Mauriat under the pseudonym of Eduardo Ruo, at the top of the list...) who would play young and interpret these rhythms with a distorted vision. All for just one season and all this before summer hits were a thing. It was already the same idea though, but in more of a D.I.Y fashion. A quick fix, just enough time for the producers to get some juicy revenue, the same ones who recruited teams to perform these "inferior" works. Most were flops, but a few made it big such as Jean Yanne answering to Henri Salvador for Allo Brigitte, a classic of the “comic-musical” genre. It’s author Norma Maine went on to write quite a few of these quirky songs. Most had improbable dialogue, as well as senseless adaptations such as the Marchand de melons (The Melon Merchant) distorting Herbie Hancock’s Watermelon Man, a result of automatic writing in order to come up with ridiculous lyrics. What can be said about Tarte à la nana (Girl Pie), and how about Ça c’est du poulet ? (This is Chicken?) Or the terrible Soukou Soukou, on the limit of bad taste, words of a colonist… When it comes to reappropriating foreign know-how, the results can turn out strange like a surreal shock of cultures. Improbable mixes, like chacha bebop, latino tempo and scat jazz... It all definitely swings and is sometimes even quite impressive. Because magical loose moments are to be found in these records made to order, records that were just trying to recreate a successful pre-existing North American formula. They recorded them on the line, in the original spirit, or inconspicuously modified them, not only for fun, but also for the pleasure of adding on a chorus which would take the song a little further, or a well adjusted rhyme that would denote a touch of derision, a French tradition that was to be repeated in rock as in punk, and even bossa nova. The key often being explosive arrangements, occasionally beautiful choruses, radiant mishaps, confusing mistakes, not necessarily off-topic, all in all some sweet musical trips that always have an effect on the dancefloor when it’s time to boogie. Try it out, you'll see, it works every time, if you don’t abuse of it. Moderation is recommended for this music that should be served either at cocktail hour or after midnight...

1958, in the middle of the liberation war. While the rattle of machine guns could be heard in the maquis, in the city, the population listened at low volume to Algerian patriotic songs broadcast by the powerful Egyptian radio: "The Voice of the Arabs". These artists all belonged to a troupe created by the self-proclaimed management of the National Liberation Front (FLN), based in Tunis and claiming to gather a "representative" sample of the Algerian musical movement of the time, among which Ahmed Wahby (who sang Wahran Wahran, a song popularized by Khaled) and Wafia from Oran, Farid Aly the Kabyle, and H'sissen, the champion of Algiers’ Chaâbi. The same year, singer Ben Achour was killed in conditions that have never been elucidated. Algiers, by a summer evening in 1960. Cafe terraces were crowded and glasses of anisette kept coming with metronomic regularity, despite the alarming music of police sirens heard at intervals and the silhouettes of soldiers marching in the streets. The mood was good, united by a tune escaping from everywhere: balconies, where laundry was finishing drying, windows wide open from apartments or restaurants serving the famous Algiers shrimps along with copious rosé wine. Couples spontaneously joined the party upon hearing "Ya Mustafa", punctuated by improvised choirs screaming "Chérie je t’aime, chérie je t’adore".

The song, as played by Sétif-born Alberto Staïffi, was a phenomenal success, to the point that even FLN fighters adopted it unanimously. Hence an unfortunate misunderstanding that would trick colonial authorities into believing Mustafa was an ode to the glory of Fellaghas. In 1961, Cheikh Raymond Leyris, a Jewish grand master of ma’luf (one of Algeria’s three Andalusian waves) who was Enrico Macias’ professor, was killed in Constantine, making him the first victim of a terrorist wave that would catch up with Algeria at the dawn of the 1990s by attacking anything that thought, wrote or sang. Mohamed Mazouni, born January 4, 1940 in Blida – “The City of Roses" both known for its beautiful ‘Blueberry Square’ (saht ettout) in the middle of which a majestic bandstand took center stage, and its brothels – had just turned twenty. He was rather handsome and his memory dragged around a lot of catchy refrains by Rabah Driassa and Abderrahmane Aziz, also natives of Blida, or by 'asri (modern music) masters Bentir or Lamari. He would make good use of all these influences and many others stemming from the Algerian heritage. The young Mohamed was certainly aware of his vocal limits, as he used to underline them: "I had a small voice, I came to terms with it!". But it didn’t lack charm nor authenticity, and it was to improve with age. He began his singing career in those years, chosing bedoui as a style (a Saharan genre popularized among others by the great Khelifi Ahmed). July 1962. The last French soldiers were preparing their pack. A jubilant crowd was proclaiming its joy of an independent Algeria. Remembering the impact of popular music to galvanize the "working classes", the new authorities in office rewarded the former members of the FLN troupe by appointing them at the head of national orchestras. In widespread euphoria, the government encouraged odes to the recovered independence, and refrains to the glory of "restored dignity" sprung from everywhere. Abderrahmane Aziz, a star of 'asri (Algiers’ yé-yé) was a favorite with Mabrouk Alik ("Congratulations, Mohamed / Algeria came back to you"); Blaoui Houari, a precursor of Raï music, praised the courage of Zabana the hero; Kamel Hamadi recalled in Kabyle the experience of Amirouche the chahid (martyr), and even the venerable Remitti had her own song for the Children of Algeria. All this under the benevolent eye (and ear) of the regime led by Ahmed Ben Bella, the herald of the single party and vigilant guardian of the "Arab-Islamic values" established as a code of conduct. Singers were praised the Egyptian model, as well as Andalusian art intended for a nascent petty bourgeoisie and decreed a "national classic"; some did not hesitate to sell out. These Khobzists – an Algerian humorous term mocking those who put “putting-food-on-the-table” reasons forward to justify their allegiance to the system – were to monopolize all programs and stages, while on the fringes, popular music settled for animating wedding or circumcision celebrations. Its absence in the media further strengthened its regionalization: each genre (chaâbi, chaouï, Kabyle, Oranian...) stayed confined within its local boundaries, and its "national representatives" were those whose tunes didn’t bother anyone. The first criticisms would emanate from France, where many Algerian artists went to tackle other styles. During the Kabyle-expression time slot on Radio Paris, Slimane Azem – once accused of "collaboration" – sang, evoking animals, the first political lines denouncing the dictatorship and preconceived thinking prevailing in his country. The reaction was swift: under pressure from the Algerian government, the Kabyle minute was cancelled. Even in Algeria, Ahmed Baghdadi aka Saber, an idol for fans of Raï music (still called "Oranian folklore"), was imprisoned for denouncing the bureaucracy of El Khedma (work). For his part, Mazouni was to be noticed through a very committed song: Rebtouh Fel Mechnak (“They tied him to the guillotine”). But above all, the general public discovered him through a performance at the Ibn Khaldoun Theater (formerly Pierre Bordes Theater, in the heart of Algiers), broadcast by the Algerian Radio Broadcasting, later renamed ENTV. This would enable him to integrate the Algerian National Theater’s artistic troupe. Then, to pay tribute to independence, he sang “Farewell France, Hello Algeria”. June 19, 1965: Boumediene's coup only made matters worse. Algeria adopted a Soviet-style profile where everything was planned, even music. Associations devoted to Arab-Andalusian music proliferated and some sycophantic music movement emerged, in charge of spreading the message about "fundamental options". Not so far from the real-fake lyricism epitomized by Djamel Amrani, the poet who evoked a “woman as beautiful as a self-managed farm". The power glorified itself through cultural weeks abroad or official events, summoning troubadours rallied to its cause. On the other hand, popular music kept surviving through wedding, banquets and 45s recorded for private companies, undergoing censorship and increased surveillance from the military. As for Mazouni, he followed his path, recording a few popular tunes, but he also was in the mood for traveling beyond the Mediterranean: "In 1969 I left Algeria to settle in France. I wanted to get a change of air, to discover new artistic worlds". He, then, had no idea that he was about to become an idolized star within the immigrant community. France. During the 1950s and 1960s, when parents were hugging the walls, almost apologizing for existing, a few Maghrebi artists assumed Western names to hide their origins. This was the case of Laïd Hamani, an Algerian from Kabylia, better known as Victor Leed, a rocker from the Golf Drouot’s heyday, or of Moroccan Berber Abdelghafour Mociane, the self-proclaimed “Vigon”, a hack of a r&b voice. Others, far more numerous, made careers in the shadow of cafes run by their compatriots, performing on makeshift stages: a few chairs around a table with two or three microphones on it, with terrible feedback occasionally interfering. Their names were Ahmed Wahby or Dahmane El Harrachi. Between the Bastille, Nation, Saint-Michel, Belleville and Barbès districts, an exclusively communitarian, generally male audience previously informed by a few words written on a slate, came to applaud the announced singers. It happened on Friday and Saturday nights, plus on extra Sunday afternoons. In a nostalgia-clouded atmosphere heated by draft beers, customers – from this isolated population, a part of the French people nevertheless – hung on the words of these musicians who resembled them so much. Like many of them, they worked hard all week, impatiently waiting for the weekend to get intoxicated with some tunes from the village. Sometimes, they spent Saturday afternoons at movie theaters such as the Delta or the Louxor, with extra mini-concerts during intermissions, dreaming, eyes open, to the sound of Abdel Halim Hafez’ voice whispering melancholic songs or Indian laments made in Bombay on full screen. And the radio or records were also there for people to be touched to the rhythm of Oum Kalsoum’s songs, and scopitones as well to watch one’s favorite star’s videos again and again. Dumbfounded, Mohamed received this atmosphere of culture of exile and much more in the face. Fully immersed in it, he soaked up the songs of Dahmane El Harrachi (the creator of Ya Rayah), Slimane Azem, Akli Yahiaten or Cheikh El Hasnaoui, but also those from the crazy years of twist and rock’n’roll as embodied by Johnny Hallyday, Les Chaussettes Noires or Les Chats Sauvages, not to mention Elvis Presley and the triumphant beginnings of Anglo-Saxon pop music. Between 1970 and 1990, he had a series of hits such bearing such titles as “Miniskirt”, “Darling Lady”, “20 years in France”, “Faded Blue”, Clichy, Daag Dagui, “Comrade”, “Tell me it’s not true” or “I’m the Chaoui”, some kind of unifying anthem for all regions of Algeria, as he explained: "I sang for people who, like me, experienced exile. I was and have always remained very attached to my country, Algeria. To me, it’s not about people from Constantine, Oran or Algiers, it’s just about Algerians. I sing in classical or dialectal Arabic as much as in French and Kabyle”. Mazouni, a dandy shattered by his century and always all spruced up who barely performed on stage, had greatly benefited from the impact of scopitones, the ancestors of music videos – those image and sound machines inevitably found in many bars held by immigrants. His strength lay in Arabic lyrics all his compatriots could understand, and catchy melodies accompanied by violin, goblet drum, qanun, tar (a small tambourine with jingles), lute, and sometimes electric guitar on yé-yé compositions. Like a politician, Mazouni drew on all themes knowing that he would nail it each time. This earned him the nickname "Polaroid singer" – let’s add "kaleidoscope" to it. Both a conformist (his lectures on infidelity or mixed-race marriage) and disturbing singer (his lyrics about the agitation upon seeing a mini-skirt or being on the make in high school…), Mohamed Mazouni crossed the 1960s and 1970s with his dark humor and unifying mix of local styles. Besides his trivial topics, he also denounced racism and the appalling condition of immigrant workers. However, his way of telling of high school girls, cars and pleasure places earned him the favors of France’s young migrant zazous. But by casting his net too wide, he made a mistake in 1991, during the interactive Gulf War, supporting Saddam Hussein’s position through his provocative title Zadam Ya Saddam (“Go Saddam”). He was banned from residing in France for five years, only returning in 2013 for a concert at the Arab World Institute where he appeared dressed as the Bedouin of his beginnings. At the end of the 1990s, the very wide distribution of Michèle Collery and Anaïs Prosaïc's documentary on Arabic and Berber scopitones (first on Canal+, then in many theaters with debates following about singing exile), highlighted Mazouni’s important role, giving new impetus to his career. Rachid Taha, who covered Ecoute-moi camarade, Zebda’s Mouss and Hakim with Adieu la France, Bonjour l’Algérie, as well as the Orchestre National de Barbès who played Tu n’es plus comme avant (Les roses), also contributed to the recognition of Mazouni by a new generation. Living in Algeria, Mohamed Mazouni did not stop singing and even had a few local hits, always driven by a “wide targeting” ambition. This compilation, the first one dedicated to him, includes all of his never-reissued “hits” with, as a bonus, unobtainable songs such as L’amour Maâk, Bleu Délavé or Daag Dagui.

France at the crossroads of the 70s: the Chevance collection revolutionizes music for children. Mixing forward-thinking folk and avant-garde jazz, driven by a strong literary spirit, its exceptional catalog was created under the direction of producer Philippe Gavardin, in the tradition of the Saravah label or iconoclastic publisher Harlin Quist. Anti-fables, songs from mysterious countries, wild bestiaries... It brought together a band of classically inspired free musicians, propelling its singers into orbit by exploiting all the fantastical potential of texts by Jean Tardieu, Robert Desnos, Jacqueline Held and many others. More strictly instrumental, its younger sibling, the Sonoriage collection completed the company, dedicating itself to the acousmatic exploration of children's familiar environments. In the land of Presidents Giscard and Mitterand, thermal clothing and elbow pads, Sautet films and Sunday roasts, the carpeting of a nursery is strewn with a handful of 7-inches. There, exotic birds and courteous elephants guarding a castle built with cakes form a Front for the Liberation of the Imaginary: colourful, systematically framed illustrations standing out against the cream background of gatefold sleeves… doorways to a maze of sounds at the crossroads between the neatest form of chanson and the most prospective jazz.

Founded in the course of the 1970s by Philippe Gavardin, the small collection named Chevance is above all the story of buddies who were out and about between the twilight of the Trente Glorieuses and the disenchantment that followed the socialists’ rise to power, gravitating around this mentor known for his kindness and curiosity. Originally a linguist, Gavardin was one of these open-minded intellectuals, with one foot in the Contrescarpe cabarets and the other in step with the avant-garde, combining his apparently classical tastes with a keen interest in the novelties of his time. It is notably with Jean-Louis Méchali—a drummer from the free jazz scene who became Gavardin’s team-mate and arranged a good deal of the releases—that he forged the identity of this series of recordings for the younger generations: musically janus-faced, definitely literary, impregnated with a surrealism that echoed the decade’s psychedelic and libertarian experiments. The label developed a real editorial policy disregarding commercial constraints. Each record took a clear direction: modern fables, bestiaries, musical tales, cookbooks… Words were the backbone and every release was both carefully designed and perfectly manufactured. Several teams were built up in the course of meetings which were more like congenial brainstormings. In the chanson category, Anne and Gilles, a duet regularly performing in the left bank area, alternated with the Swiss actress Cristine Combe who had recently settled in Paris and wanted to sing Kurt Weill. As for the folk projects, Imbert and Moreau, who were more in the hippie vein, took turns with the canonical pioneer Steve Waring, whose famous Grenouilles were then turning round and round in José Arthur’s Pop Club. The musicians included many a jazzman from some of the most adventurous factions of the French scene: Méchali’s fellow travellers involved in the Cohelmec Ensemble; The Marvelous Band, a gang from Lyon that had also co-founded the “Association à la Recherche d’un Folklore Imaginaire” (Association in Search of an Imaginary Folklore); and various mavericks like multi-instrumentalist Teddy Lasry, or the intriguing, so often credited Jacques Cassard, whose track seems to have been completely lost today. Initially distributed by the label Le Chant du Monde, Chevance was definitely included in the catalogue of this venerable parent company when Gavardin started directing it. Thus, it joined a selection of traditional music and work songs also including chanson, poetry and recordings that just can’t be categorised. While bookshops for kids knew a historic boom in France, the collection eventually enjoyed the monopoly of the prizes awarded by “Loisirs Jeunes” or the Charles Cros Academy, a key factor to reach school and library networks. If the collection gives a striking change from mass-produced music for kids, its spirit is nevertheless akin to other singular attempts that were made at the time. Mixing songwriting and avant-garde jazz, Chevance seems to be, first of all, Saravah’s younger sibling. Founded by Pierre Barouh, Saravah showed the same balance between moderation and radicalism, with oddities like those of Brigitte Fontaine, Alfred Panou, Barney Willen and so many other musicians feeding the creative frenzy that characterised the French jazz scene.1 As the Cohelmec Ensemble bridged the two worlds, the teams got to know one another and often worked in the same studios. As for the literary dimension, it is right in the lineage of the American iconoclastic publisher Harlin Quist, whose activity in France left its mark on the genre. Similar selections, a common taste for playful uses of language, and the same distancing from both conventional and outcome-based education… A universe excluding the mundane to make room for cosmogonic visions in which, at the turn of each page, everyday life is relentlessly assaulted by the incongruous. The parallelism with Chevance goes even beyond questions of editorial, graphical or typographical choices: the two worked with the same team of illustrators, which included Henri Galeron, Nicole Claveloux and Patrick Couratin. While Chevance had strong literary roots, Le Chant du Monde developed, in the middle of the 1980s, another collection in a more abstract, rigorously instrumental line, far from textual concerns. Initiated by Anne H. Bustarret, a critic, a major activist in the field of creation for kids and a friend of Gavardin’s, Sonoriage openly campaigned for ”an active initiation to the listening and reading of today’s music based on the attention to every day sonic environments.” Inspired by the many situations she experienced in workshops and the hundreds of hours she spent stirring the imagination of children with a bunch of keys hanging at the end of a string, Bustarret carefully presented each record, systematically adding an illustrated, notebook-like insert to guide the kids’ listening. Bernard Baschet—the sound sculptor who invented, along with his brother François, the “crystal” bearing their name, and worked with Pierre Schaeffer on the typology of sound objects for the Treatise on Musical Objects—was an old friend of Anne Bustarret’s. She therefore naturally turned to him for the Musiques de table project, before he oriented her towards Jean-François Gaël. A cornerstone of the amazingly hybrid band Sonorhc, a student of acousmatics and a first-class arranger who had worked for many of the decade’s singers, Gaël was a crystal lover who followed Baschet around his interventions, including in schools. When Gaël set to work, Bustarret called the composer Alain Savouret, asking him to select excerpts from his tape-recorded Sonate Baroque, so as to compile another volume entitled Musiques en Bande. Renaud Gagneux, who was in charge of the Louvre’s carillon, had just been ringing his bells for Musiques sur la place when she contacted the outsider naturalist Knud Viktor about a project which, unfortunately, was never carried out. As a rather up-to-date though not-so-commercially-successful collection, Sonoriage constitutes a kind of ideal illustration of François Delalande’s theories.2 This very serious member of the GRM also worked as a research supervisor at the National Audiovisual Institute. His theories emphasised the unexpected parallelism between the methods of the most respectable practitioners of concrete music and the way the youngest children explore their sonic environment. Necessarily incomplete and subjective, this very partial overview deliberately draws attention to the most peculiar tracks. Unfortunately, some equally valuable works could not be included: Jean-Louis Méchali and François Ruy-Vidal’s Petit Poucet (a monolithic musical tale that cannot be sized down), Colette Magny’s rough and raucous lullabies, B-sides from the Antifables series, La Promenade de Picasso, a record that had to be destroyed and therefore seems definitely lost… May the most curious listeners feel like putting these fragments back in their broader context so as to (re)discover the vast inheritance this uncommon project bequeathed us.

In current times, how should mental disability be dealt with in an unrestrained, open-minded way? How can we take on this difference not as a barrier but as an opportunity? By directly confronting its creative force and abounding energy. And what better place for this than on a stage, where disability ceases to be a "negative" and becomes a "positive", finally revealing exceptionally strong human beings, without any blinders or artifices. From experimental group Les Harry's, to hip-hop collective Choolers Division, to the multifaceted projects of Atelier Méditerranée (now BRUT POP), many are the initiatives that have explored this channel in recent years, arousing the interest of an audience not always prepared for the intensity of such a world. One of the most memorable initiatives being at the Sur Les Rails mini-festival, created by Atelier Méditerranée in Paris in 2014. When a handful of lucky few got to discover the Wild Classical Music Ensemble: Linh Pahm, Johan Geenens, Wim Decoene and Sebastien Faidherbe, four mentally disabled persons, led by the Belgian musician and violin-maker Damien Magnette. That evening they delivered a brutal, wild and Promethean concert to a stunned audience. However one question remained unanswered: how to translate such a physical and visceral experience onto a record? And should it even be done? The group’s first album that was released in confidentiality on Sub Rosa, had gone under the radar and no one seemed to know how to approach it.

Yet, no less than six labels (including Born Bad and Humpty Dumpty) grappled to put out Tapping Is Clapping in 2015, a new LP full of fire and fury, a record of an "other" category, dispersing any skepticism and echoing this quote from Celine's Journey to the End of the Night: "The great fatigue of existence is perhaps, in sum, only the enormous difficulty one assumes in order to remain reasonable for twenty years, forty years, even longer; in order not to be simply, profoundly, oneself that is to say filthy, atrocious, absurd." And if in 2019 you still haven’t dared to let yourself be hammered by the Wild Classical Musical Ensemble’s steamroller, rest assured: the time to catch-up his here with Tout Va Bien Se Passer (Everything will be alright), the ensemble’s third record together and from far its most accessible yet. But careful, this isn’t a sort of lull, far from it - as evidenced by the exceptional "Bande De", a furious symphony of curses on which Fabrice, the singer of Frustration, stirs up an already stifling atmosphere. It’s rather a convergence, a rebalancing of flows, and more accessible material. Making your trip to this parallel dimension more colorful and hallucinated. Orchestrated by Damien Magnette’s original instruments (percussion bass, melodica from outer space, devious microphones, effect pedals transformed into a theremin), specifically designed for each member of the group. A trip full of dizzying earthquakes and triumphant storms, populated by jelly-like Talking Heads ("Trainstation") and damaged Devos ("Autofile"), where you will dance to lunar punk ("Carapace") and screaming robot-rock ("Ik Ben Blij"). Hang on to the brush, we’re removing the ladder. Do not worry. Everything will be alright. Lelo Jimmy Batista

bass player looking like the main character of a surf movie shot in Chernobyl. A guitar player who’ll take french rap or thaï music over the Stooges, anytime. A keyboard player invited at reharsal by mistake who got the job cause he felt asleep on his synth. An australian poet-singer lost in France with no papers, sleeping in a cabin in the backyard of the Villejuif house where the whole band lives, sets up shows and records the most vital, exciting and enthralling records heard in France for a long, long time. PRs & managers would kill for such a story - this one is 100 % accurate and happened just like any great story : by chance. Just like the music of the Villejuif Underground, the result of happy accidents and unholy alliances, something that was never meant to be but became an astonishing fandango of sorts. Think Fat White Family covering Oingo Boingo with Beat Happening’s gear. Think Beck’s One Foot In The Grave remixed by Daniel Johnston and Brian Wilson. Think Ausmuteants, the Spits, the Feeling Of Love or A Frames when they really nailed it. Actually, you shouldn’t think about any of this cause whatever you do, you’ll still be far from reality. Way too far. Especially now with the release of When Will The Flies In Deauville Drop?, their second album and the first one on Born Bad Records.

11 tracks in a bit less than 40 minutes. 11 clumsy love letters to heavy backpacks, haunted castles, sleepy parisian districts and tours in China - which happened by total chance, thanks to some girl found asleep on their couch on new years eve. 11 reasons to think there’s a way out of 2019 - already. Your stormy love story with the Villejuif Underground starts here. Be sure to enjoy it. To the max.

Remember those moth-eaten American bands on unreachable Midwest labels that, in the mid-1990s, would drop choruses that would make the Smashing Pumpkins green with envy, with the crummiest sound in the history of electricity? Maybe not. Well, Bryan's Magic Tears could have been one of them. This project launched four years ago by Benjamin Dupont (Dame Blanche), which features members and ex-members of La Secte Du Futur and Marietta, indeed has it all to occupy this niche, which, by the way, has quite fallen into disuse these days: toxic melodies, guitars oscillating between whiplashes and caresses, ghostly sonorities and a convoluted name referring to some obscure Parisian acid dealer. But wait: this is not about a vain stylistic exercise put together by some gifted kids who fantasize about a time they missed, nor a sad revivalist meeting of old farts who still haven’t gotten over turning 40. If listening to Bryan's Magic Tears brings the 90s to mind, it's not because of the sound – which, as it happens, is very close to that of their tour partners Le Villejuif Underground or Jessica93 – but because of a state of mind that was peculiar to the time and to this particular moment in adolescence, when the last illusions aroused by the fall of the Berlin Wall were slowly fading away, when the dark clouds of the first Gulf War were piling up; this carefree, jaded spleen perfectly depicted in Gregg Araki's films or in songs by Sebadoh, Beat Happening or Nirvana – or even in this famous line from Lou Reed's "Romeo Had Juliet": "It's hard to give a shit these days ".

A state of mind that remains pure, intact, limpid in Bryan's Magic Tears music, free from any posture or cynicism, at the service of insane titles – real hazy hits forged in some triumphant fire – which made their first album, released late 2016 on XVIII Records, one of the most beautiful records to come out of the French independent scene in the 2010-2020 season. And we find it again today, even more intense and precise on xxxx, a collection of insane hits – “Ghetto Blaster", "CEO", "Changes", the whole album could actually be mentioned. A record made for those clear and cool days of spring when everything suddenly looks brighter, clearer and more intense. A record that recalls what it feels like to miss the last train of the day and realize you are just short of what it would cost to buy a ticket for the next day. An obvious, indestructible, lunar, romantic, arrogant, phlegmatic, disillusioned record. In short, a record that makes you wish you were 18 again. How many bands could be talked about like that, these days? PRs & managers would kill for such a story - this one is 100 % accurate and happened just like any great story : by chance. Just like the music of the Villejuif Underground, the result of happy accidents and unholy alliances, something that was never meant to be but became an astonishing fandango of sorts. Think Fat White Family covering Oingo Boingo with Beat Happening’s gear. Think Beck’s One Foot In The Grave remixed by Daniel Johnston and Brian Wilson. Think Ausmuteants, the Spits, the Feeling Of Love or A Frames when they really nailed it. Actually, you shouldn’t think about any of this cause whatever you do, you’ll still be far from reality. Way too far. Especially now with the release of When Will The Flies In Deauville Drop?, their second album and the first one on Born Bad Records. 11 tracks in a bit less than 40 minutes. 11 clumsy love letters to heavy backpacks, haunted castles, sleepy parisian districts and tours in China - which happened by total chance, thanks to some girl found asleep on their couch on new years eve. 11 reasons to think there’s a way out of 2019 - already. Your stormy love story with the Villejuif Underground starts here. Be sure to enjoy it. To the max.

If Cannibale’s members brought their breakfast back up when talking about “Not easy to cook”, their listeners would be surprised. These fortysomethings being signed by Born Bad Records, the image of greaser-looking garage rockers would come to mind, but with bits of exotica stuck between the teeth, Nino Nardini & Roger Roger’s “Jungle Obsession” spilled on the table, and plastic-bottled tropical glam puked by some even more stupid incarnation than Wayne’s World’‘s Mike Myers. The stage is set, now you have to clean up everything. Why mention all this? Because there’s a world of difference between the beginning of Cannibale’s success story and this second album. It wouldn’t take much to feel as if Freddie Mercury showed up in a Renault 16 supersport to play marimba for old oafish rock fans. And actually, that’s about it: The Rocky Horror Picture Show meets Fela Kuti in rain boots. And though the amount of cows hasn’t increased in the Normandy hole these guys hail from, the number of their shows did. Between “No Mercy For Love” (their 2017 debut album), and the new one “Not easy to cook”, these Frogs – to quote the title of the opening track – did not switch from psyche cumbia to coarse-grained autotune, but rather roamed roads like doped cyclists: more than 100 dates in less than a year (including quite a few with Frustration and the Villejuif Underground), festivals such as Rock en Seine, and a eulogistic press review: “Indolent rhythms invoking Latin America and Africa.

” (Mowno) “Nomadic, willingly sunny garage rock.” (Libération) “Songs that provoke visions or hallucinations.” (France Inter) See, Johnny Hallyday himself did not get such media coverage! So what’s Cannibale’s secret? Being old and giving 19-year-old kids who just discovered marimba tutorials on YouTube a thrashing? Certainly, but it’s a little more than a band of old fogeys. “The band learned it all on the road in less than two years,” says Born Bad’s Jean-Baptiste Guillot. Songwriting-wise, they’ve known how to do for a long time. The members – survivors of various screwed-up musical projects – finally succeeded because nothing else than music mattered anymore. In that, the band’s deviant trajectory is not so different from Vox Low’s, another in-house signing. But the most surprising thing about “Not easy to cook” is the sultriness that emerges. It’s hard to sum it up other than by comparing these 10 songs with some pressure cooker in which bits of dancehall, London ska and Hawaiian dub would have cooked together. Here’s the small miracle achieved by this LP recorded by the band in its remote French village: sounding French, but Polynesian French. With “Not easy to cook”, frogs, birds, sounds from the jungle can be heard in a living room. Those already traumatized by Arthur Lyman’s vibraphone and Les Baxter‘s Lounge music should feel at home; novices will finally discover something other than Saturdays at the Whole Foods Market store.

Of all the Cyrils born in the city of Calvin at the dawn of the 80s, these two were bound to find each other. Two Cyrils like two dizygotic souls whose contingencies have brought their meeting forward. Cyril Cyril. A liberated hydra, born in this city of diplomats where Borges duplicated his rejuvenated ego in “The Other”. On the ruins of their worn out bands, they put together an innately cosmopolitan empire. Because these Cyrils have devoured miles, away from their Genovese haven. A muezzin without borders, Cyril Yeterian came to the disheveled world through Mama Rosin, a three-piece that stirred the ghosts of the rogue bayou, the clammy Mardi Gras of some electric Louisiana. Soon, the world fell in love with their flair. The BBC celebrated them, Jon Spencer produced them, records proliferated. And then in 2017, the honeymoon period passed. Cyril was alone. Well, not quite: music kept popping up around him. Inside his Bongo Joe record store, on the label of the same name, in the underground DJ sets he stirred up, Yeterian explored like crazy, in a binge of exiled grooves. Within the same space-time, Cyril Bondi hit the road. Diatribes, La Tène, Insub Meta Orchestra, the most adventurous projects of the Geneva scene all had a bone to pick with this percussionist in search of unheard beats.

He, as well, traveled, experienced the ascent, the euphoria of the peaks and then the fall. Plaistow, his mediumistic, hypnotic jazz band, heckled the saturated world of piano-bass-drums trios and won hearts through Europe and the East. Until the breaking point. So Bondi started looking for premises to drop his equipment. He found better: an accomplice for musical prospecting, another Cyril in tune with his rebellious instinct. Enough with leaning upon solid piers like a Colossus of Rhodes. This adventure required new baggage, a new language. Cyril and Cyril were in the same boat, and both took the plunge. A guitarist and an accordionist, Cyril Y. took on the banjo, adding effect pedals to it to turn it into a puny bouzouki, an epic ba?lama or a krar. Cyril B. cobbled some cannibal drum kit together, with massive jingle bells and tropical nut shells embedded in his marching bass drum. You should have seen these two, on a populous festival night, bringing a narrow club to fever pitch by summoning utopian Neguses. Playing new Berbers, provoking unlikely seismic soukous in a trance that has as much to do with the hippie giddiness as with Fraggle Rock. Indeed, for Cyril Cyril, music is a way of the world, a joyful decentration offering new keys to comprehend chaos. The point here has nothing to do with some globalized country excursion nor some gluten-free exoticism. Beneath the beach lie the paving stones. Politics always end up showing on the surface of these exhilarating chants, of these skeletal grooves. Apart from tracing back the family pathway of some belatedly-adopted Lebanese dialect, Cyril Yeterian chants rhapsodies in French, the merciless terms of which say it all about coming insurrections. Thus, “La ville”, a Doorsian declamation in which the epic eloquence of a Goncourt Prizewinner – Texaco by Patrick Chamoiseau – meets the Invisible Commitee’s poetic prophecies. Thus, “Ultra moderne solitude 2”, that has more to do with Alain Péters than Alain Souchon, with this question "Where are the souls / to take up arms with”. Nothing yet likely to make Certaines Ruines a wordy lampoon of hoaxers, of neo-post-everything killjoys. Since, let’s face it, “the leviathan is intimidating” (“Sous la mer c’est calme”), Cyril Cyril knows the superior power of suggestion, of temperance, of happy sobriety. A single word, a single cry can say a lot, as long as it is soulful. The sound of a duo reduced to its simplest expression – rhythm, a riff, a voice – can bear within itself an infinitely luxuriant musical organism – the double helix of DNA. Cyril Cyril, so real, so rich.

The West Indies – a sweet coastline subject to many clichés from another time. That postcard with coconut trees, a glass of rum to sip on, those so exotic madras dresses... Almost as many as in Compagnie Créole’s "doudouist" songs, that say a lot about the misunderstandings from both sides of the ocean. West Indians are still as stuck with this distorted outlook as in the good old days of the colonies. Because, underneath the veneer of moldy images, a completely different reality is woven. ‘They beat drums but were never number one’ – to misquote the chorus by a Martinique-born French singer. This is the subject of this collection – musicians drumming on percussion as a way of asserting their creolized identity. Songs that tell, in veiled terms, a different reality from what mainlanders were fed with. Special cases, with cries of joy and laments accompanied by cadences, as an invitation to trance, all immersed in the Caribbean melting pot of rhythm. “’Antilles’ Méchant Bateau”, a low-tempo number with a bolero feel, indeed a pure case of the blues, and a terrific saxophone solo. What else would you expect to set the tone for this selection, in which beguine regains its original colors, in the darkness of the gwo ka drums. This 45 by André Mahy, released under the Aux Ondes sublabel, was recorded in the 1960s at Célini’s, one of Guadeloupe’s two main houses.

Through its drum rolls and harrowing chant, it recalled how, long before the mid-1960s, the Antilles’ history was written in an ocean of teardrops – namely the Black Atlantic, as so rightly put by Martinician philosopher and poet Edouard Glissant in L’Archipel des Grands Chaos. These “cursed boats” – slavers – carried millions of Africans to the American continent for centuries. All this sinister story had begun with the landing of a fleet of caravels steered by Christopher Columbus in 1492. It was the first step towards a colonization that was about to decimate the indigenous peoples of this terra incognita and deport the vital spark from the cradle continent of humankind. A year later, on November 4th, 1493, the same Colombus christened Guadeloupe after the Royal Monastery of Santa María de Guadalupe in Extremadura. The cross – a booming symbol – was there to justify the ordeal of peoples to whom even humanness was denied. Soon, once the Caribbean tribes were eradicated, the French would massively import workforce from Ghana, Togo, Dahomey, Ivory Coast, Nigeria, Cameroon, Gabon, Congo or Angola, as recalled by the Marches dedicated to the various ethnicities of slaves in 2012, which faced the Memorial of the ka drum on the Grande-Terre island in Guadeloupe. Hundreds of thousands of them would have to survive the nightmare of plantations, comparable to the plantation system in the American South: chains, leg irons, shackles, fetters, garottes, iron collars and branks, dungeons or lynchings set the tempo of everyday life. The sugar aristocracy (the brown gold of the time) set a reign of terror on plantations. The masters had full powers, including life and death, over the slaves who worked from four in the morning to sunset… until April 27th, 1848 – date of the second and definitive abolition of slavery thanks to the struggle of Victor Schœlcher, an MP who was close to Lamartine (the first one had been pronounced in the wake of the French Revolution, but soon repressed in blood by Bonaparte...). However, the path would still be long to see the newly-born Republic’s motto applied: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity ... The "post-slavery" society would perpetuate real economic segregation – a distinction that would be reproduced from generation to generation... And even if, a century later, the law of 19th March 1946 granted the four old colonies the status of Overseas Departments, nothing changed in the course of history. This gap would then widen, differently but surely, as the Republic implemented an assimilation policy that would deny identities and make a clean break with the past. In this fool’s game, the ka became, in the 1960s, the voice of identity for Guadeloupeans who couldn’t resolve being purely and solely disintegrated. Made from salting or wine barrels from the colonial era – boats keep coming back in this ebb and flow movement – the "quarter", or "ka" once creolized, was a powerful symbol of resistance since the colonial era. Even if its practice was quickly proscribed by masters, considering it contained the seeds of revolt, this great drum (long known as a ‘bamboula’, which means ‘pagan festival’ in Haiti, and became a popular expression in De Gaulle's France) inexorably wormed its way into the local culture, until becoming the essential melting pot for the movement of ‘root music’ against mainland France’s deaf hear. Or its beating heart, following the seven specific rhythms of gwo ka. More than just a matter of rhythms, this drum carried a speech full of history and stories, a message of memories and hopes. The gwo ka bore the stigmata of a slave society, from which all its associated chants were inherited. A medium of the voiceless, this drum would act like an ointment on mistreated bodies, but also as a stimulant for rebellious souls. Under the drummer’s fingers, the ka drummed up the ancestors’ spirits. Just like words convey the memory of a people that was long demoted to the status of a simple item of personal property – according to article 44 of the 1685 Code Noir draught by Colbert to regulate the status of slaves – before being governed by a system of identification booklets allowing to monitor the movements and work of the workforce in a Guadeloupe admittedly liberated from slavery, but still looking like a "banana" regime. This trauma appears through a repertoire that reflects the pain of cane cutters and the euphoria of pay day, the oppression of racism and the recourse to the myth of a promised land. Songs burst with all the bestiary that populates the countryside and the many fish that feed stews, acid satires on the daily reality and apposite witticisms on international events, chronicles anchored in the local soil as well as biting plays on words. One may sing to keep vigil over a dead person, or launch into long, saucy tirades at a bibulous party. At the turn of the 1960s, while some bars were still for whites only, while speaking Creole was forbidden in schoolyards, while drum music was considered a "mizik vié neg" (“old negro music”), while the church saw a symbol of degeneration in it, the Maroon spirit – from the name of the slaves who fled plantations to live free in the woods – rose from its depths, in another form. In this decade and the one that followed, this movement, that gave its place back to percussion, accompanied more precise claims as English-speaking islands gained independence. By playing the ka (which was banned from official studios), one actually chose their side. From 1963, the freshly-instituted Bumidom (Office for Overseas Migration) organized a strong West-Indian emigration towards low-skilled jobs and a dull suburban life. In response, the Gong (group for Guadeloupe’s National Organization) called for Guadeloupe’s independence, and two years later, the Guadeloupean Front for Autonomy appeared. Those years were punctuated by strikes and repressions, culminating in May 1967 with a real massacre in the public square in Pointe-à-Pitre, the toll of which would not be disclosed until 2012. Many would denounce the bloodbath operated by the Bumidom among Guadeloupe’s lifeblood. Slogans flourished on walls, including the iconic: Jeune, ne quitte pas ton pays ("Young people, do not leave your country”). Part of the youth got the message, choosing to take the drum back in hand as a symbol of the emasculated identity of this "entirely apart" people, to quote Aimé Césaire, the father of Negritude. The ka became the soundtrack of this generation, who sped up the tempo with the 70s and definitely transplanted it to town, while the plantation economy – the original soil of the ka drum – was in crisis. From then on, the old tambouyés (drummers) finally went celebrated as they should be: Anzala, Carnot, Serge Dolor, Ti Seles, Robert Loyson, Arthème Boisban, Esnard Boisdur ... and especially Velo – born Marcel Lollia – who nevertheless died in misery, in the street, in 1984. “Champs de canne, champs de coton !” ("Cane fields, cotton fields!) Guy Konket roared, one of the great champions of the Guadeloupean cause, whose path followed on from this legacy, moving it onto the asphalt of Carénages, Pointe-à-Pitre’s hot district. The poet sure had a good turn of phrase, that hit the spot just like his mouth drum. No doubt, blues and ka fought the same battle – centuries of oppression, of negation, before finding the path to possible redemption. Between them, the same language – the language of the Creole spirits, flooded in the great ocean. This is what this selection is about, and its good, inborn sense of humor shouldn't hide the implicit commentaries. There, jazz instills an emancipating energy from established formats, giving these songs a musicality that rhymes with spirituality. From infernal cadences borrowing from the "latin" rhythms of neighboring islands, to beguines with percussion-spiced tempos, to more laid-back – nonetheless dark – ballads, this compilation takes us back to the early hours of a movement of rebirth synonymous with recognition. A rejuvenation in which all the musics from the Black Atlantic diaspora naturally intertwine. Like a wave of sounds, of sense and blood, reminding us that an original culture emerged from the holds of these ‘wicked boats’, the trace of which remains starkly persistent in 2018.

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.