Bo Diddley
The Black Gladiator

“Never judge a book by its cover”

So sang Elias Mc Daniel, also known as Bo Diddley, in the '50s. And we can't help but agree with one of the masters of rock 'n' roll, because many, in a 1970 where Diddley was now a faded memory, an ever-present founding father yet not quite “up-to-date”, might have turned their noses up at the cover of this album. Even wanting to overlook the canary yellow chromatic shot, it's Bo's attire that leaves some reasonable doubt: no rectangular guitar (created by him and becoming an eternal symbol of his Bo Diddley Beat, similar to the rumba) and studded style worn on bare skin. A mix of protopunk and sadomasochism bordering on the ridiculous.

Dismissing this return of the godfather as uninteresting would be, now as then, a fatal mistake, because, although not quintessential like his first 4 records, it is primarily an album with a panic-inducing groove, a perfect union between his r'n'r sound and the nascent funk. Sometimes, and contrary to what is read, one must follow their emotions. Of course, here the sound is rich and less skeletal, there are torrid organs, soul background singers, and all those things that for a '50s purist are a red flag. But, unmistakable under the layer of instruments, there is a pulsing groove that would make a granite statue shake its ass, an indomitable black soul eager to show the young sprouts what makes Bo Diddley who he is.

More or less all of this is encapsulated in the amazing “Elephant Man” that opens the album, chisel-cut riff, Hammond to the fore, and a voice never so strong and powerful. And what about the funk sway of “Black Soul”, with an organ so hot it's at risk of scalding. A similar fate to the mystical “If The Bible's Right”, in which our gospel is supported by background singers who, more than a mass, bring to mind something much naughtier.

Constant presence then of keys and female voices, but don't think that our hero abandons his trusty six-string, given the blues stomp of “Power House” or the canonical one of “Hot Buttered Blues”. Not to mention the paradigmatic “Funky Fly” almost at the end, a shameless statement of intent and perhaps emblematic track of the album. And he is even forgiven for the final “I Don't Like You” in which our artist, perhaps too hyped, engages in an improbable operatic singing that feels like nails on a chalkboard, only to redeem himself with a lascivious man/woman call and response over an organ base and typical Diddley sound.

Bo will no longer produce music of his own, living off artistic royalties, proud of having been an essential figure in the evolution of 20th-century music (black and otherwise).