about this album
“The double-bass has the backing and the sensuality of a danced bolero (Sébastien Boisseau); the drums are as humid and languid as a summer evening (Christophe Lavergne); the saxophone as unctuous as a caress (saxophone in C, alto, tenor by Alban Darche, in whose playing the phrases of Steve Coleman are no more than a marvellously assimilated fleeting memory). The sound synthesiser (sic) is on the heels of the saxophone like a shadow (Arnaud Roulin, the semi-permanent guest of the trio), suddenly wailing with warped meowing like an old analogue tape-recorder. Something dated, crumbling, with a mocking distance that can be read right from the opening title. Arnaud Roulin can do the worst, and he can also bring out the best from it, with a mixture of tenderness, cynicism, impertinence and irony that breaks down all resistance. Listening to the tracks one after the other, one discovers improbable material behind the most stereotyped sonorities. They increase the strangeness of a music that plays on fuzziness, and defies all attempts at labelling, in a constant cat-and-mouse chase between notation and improvisation. Between the disembodied material of ‘music as furniture’ and a musicality of timbres, melodies and rhythms that imprints its fascination in an insidious and irresistible manner. The formal daring moves forward, masked by a false nonchalance, in order to delight more. One returns to it intensely perplexed, insatiably curious, and finally won over. The fifteenth listening is the good one. The sixteenth is better still.”
Franck Bergerot