Brigitte Fontaine
Comme A' La Radio

LA RECENSIONE

ce sera tout à fait comme à la radio
ce ne sera rien, rien que de la musique
ce ne sera rien, rien que des mots, des mots
des mots, comme à la radio

With this which is the most classic of verneinung, or denials, the album begins. Nothing but music, nothing but words. And as with Magritte's "this is not a pipe" we see a pipe truer than reality, suddenly, our ears, titillated by the sibylline musicwords of Brigitte Fontaine, hear and listen. Music and words: not blended ingredients of a song to be listened to carelessly, but a true sound dramaturgy. Music and words whose friction sparks. And if the double bass and reeds of the Art Ensemble of Chicago have never been so groovy and singable (except perhaps in the beginning of Les stances a Sophie sung by Fontella Bass) it is indeed true that the lunar chanteuse voice of Brigitte Fontaine has to perform acrobatic feats to walk on such a bumpy carpet.

Ca ne dérangera pas,
Ca n'empêchera pas de jouer aux cartes,
Ca n'empêchera pas de dormir sur l'autoroute
Ca n'empêchera pas de parler d'argent
Ce sera tout à fait comme à la radio

It seems like a challenge: try to make this music into ambient muzak. Try not to think about it. Drink it like a non-alcoholic beverage. Try to neutralize it and not let yourselves be disturbed by it if you can!

Ce ne sera rien, juste pour faire un bruit,
Le silence est atroce.
Quelque chose est atroce aussi,
Entre les deux, c'est la radio.

Background noise, exorcism of the atrocious silence of a meaningless world. Try to make this album a ringtone. Try to sync your texts to the syncopated rhythm of this music listened to on headphones while going to work on a circular bus crammed with aggressive solitudes.

Tout juste un peu de bruit, pour combler le silence,
Tout juste un peu de bruit, et rien de plus,
Tout juste un peu de bruit, n'ayez pas peur,
ce sera tout à fait comme à la radio.

Do not be afraid, this hybrid and surreal music, Brigitte's words that shuttle between the theater of the absurd (and her beginnings on stage were in the shoes of Ionesco’s bald singer) and existentialism, will not be able to disturb you in any way... because you are deaf to silence and doubt...

A cette minute, des milliers de chats se feront écrasés sur les routes,
A cette minute, un médecin alcoolique jurera au dessus du corps d'une jeune fille, et il dira "elle ne va pas me claquer entre les doigts, la garce",
A cette minute, 5 vieilles dans un jardin public entameront la question de savoir s'il est moins 20, ou moins 5,
A cette minute, des milliers et des milliers de gens penseront que la vie est horrible, et ils pleureront,
A cette minute, deux policiers entreront dans une ambulance, et ils jetteront dans la rivière un jeune homme, blessé à la tête,
A cette minute, une vieille dame ivre morte gémira seule, au dernier étage, sous son lit, et ne pourra plus bouger,
A cette minute, un espagnol sera bien content d'avoir trouvé du travail.

Not world music as standardization and homogenization of heterogeneous cues transformed into a single, reassuring, synthetic sound. Not ambient music as the retreat of music, as surrender to its role as furniture. Intense perception, instead, of the simultaneous and heterogeneous coexistence of a thousand existences. Music as an intensification of the perception of durations in their flow. Not an escape into the squared time of the little song, but rowing against it, resisting time, clinging to duration and feeling alive among the living. Music to struggle with, music to clash with. Music that is tactile and corporeal. Turn up the volume on the stereo and feel how the bass beats against your sternum as if it were a drum & bass record in a modern club ritual.

Il fait froid dans le monde,
Il fait froid.
Il fait froid, il fait froid.
Il fait froid, ça commence à se savoir.
Ca commence à se savoir. Et il y a des incendies qui s'allument dans certains endroits, parce qu'il fait trop froid.
Traducteurs, traduisez.

Translate translators: and the voice absents itself, leaving space for the ambiguous and insinuating, penetrating and untranslatable sense that is so proper to music.

And this music burns, like a small fire ready to spread around the house, warming or burning you depending on whether you take care of it or flee it by closing the door and seeking solace in the adjacent room. And how Areski Belkacem's counterpoint must have burned in the ears of a France still bleeding from an Algerian wound reluctant to heal (the war ended in '62 and we are in '71), how it must have burned to the sound of oud, bouzuki, percussion and mixed suggestions. I imagine this music sneaking out of a window and sparking fires on balconies where windows are immediately barred.

On sait ce que c'est, que la radio, la radio.
Il ne peut rien s'y passer. Rien ne peut avoir d'importance.
Ce n'est rien, ce n'était rien. Juste pour faire du bruit. Juste de la musique. Juste des mots, des mots, des mots.

The sound maelstrom of Roscoe Mitchell and Lester Bowie becomes quiet... doleful and absorbed Brigitte seems finally to believe her own words. She senses that no matter how she can find stinging sounds, perturbing words, it won’t be difficult to drown them in the noise of the daily grind, marginalize and exile them to the suburbs, find eyelids for ears and sound furnishings more suitable for cocktails and vernissages.

This little bacchanal ends. The rest of the album strips the songs, bares them. The sound dramaturgy becomes more rarefied. Godot is awaited, perhaps weapons are sharpened for a new battle in this carbonara guerrilla; perhaps, more likely, the mourning is being worked through.