Cocorosie
Noah's Ark

THE REVIEW

There was a time, not too long ago, when my grandfather, tested by the war as I have already recounted elsewhere, was forced to sustain himself with a specimen of the feline race.
For years he was addressed by his friends and neighbors with rather suspicious "meow, meow" that made him shiver and rethink about that mushy rabbit served to him years ago when the sky was plagued by airplanes laden with bombs and on the ground the most you could dream of was a nice polenta.

Well, those ambiguous "meow, meow" I found them again, and the madeleine effect is quite unsettling, in the brand-new Cocorosie CD... a sweet counterpoint to the ingrown toenail that evolves piece by piece in the ecstasies of an out-of-tune piano coupled with a hearing-impaired pony.
There is no need for the contribution of the joyous Gayetudine of His Excellency "Antonio and the Giovanni" to lift the effect of diabetes mellitus... the testicle suppurates on the second track and the pineal gland wonders: "But is that Marisa Laurito singing?".
And again, the madeleine takes me back to the Elysian fields of "Small Fans", a show I always longed to participate in... I never made it.
And perhaps this is why I can't bring myself to like Cocorosie: I am angry.

Let's talk about the toys: how many, too many; but such nice little toys. And the gospel. ahhhh, I can't resist; when I hear gospel I get the urge to try with the neighbor: a poor overweight woman but extremely nice, surely you would imagine her with a little flower tucked above her ear and the shrill little voice as she approaches singing "Armageddon"... practically a fury from the asylum with a lobotomized girl endlessly repeating a nursery rhyme for idiots... while in the background the incredibly unusual instruments of these two goddesses of migraine obsession crackle.

Here, the most fitting example for this music: you lying on your side, focused on a point on the ceiling to get over the damned headache... the feeling of nausea, the pain... my god it must pass, it must pass, and below, like a tribal dance of heated cherubs you have Bianca Cassidy, or whatever the heck her name is, scratching her vocal cords and squeezing her very limited intelligence to shatter the last glimmer of hope.
Hang the "moment" on the hook, the ingenious Cassidy sisters have arrived and they will shake the mucus onto your forehead; they will penetrate your ear canals and test your biblical endurance... Job, reading his book might help you. Really.
Obsession, that’s the right term. Background noises; murmuring; if this is making music then tomorrow I'll also lock myself in my phantasmagoric cabinet, in my jacuzzi, mouth smeared against the faucet murmuring incomprehensible words while my cat, saved thank goodness, taps the rhythm, randomly, with his paws on the sink.

In one word: what a bore guys! What a bore. Pure malodorous uterine discharge passed off as innovation, because now it’s enough to slap on a disc all the bizarre ideas that come to mind to make critics say: "Wow. Seminal. Exceptional. Poetic". But what a bore no? Can't we say it? Well, this album is a real pain in the backside, plain and simple. Only "Brazilian Love Song" is spared with its flair for TV interval music... the ones with the sheep and the name of the city, do you remember them?
I do not recommend it, like gonorrhea. My debatable opinion.