Obsessive. Intricate. Introverted. Tripnotic rhythms and melodies that twist and turn over themselves. Guitar, strings, winds, bass, piano. Encre has a palette full of different colors and uses it to paint gloomy corridors illuminated by acidic neon lights, then fades them into a gurgling of bells and chimes, layered in a delirious crescendo.
A single piano note obsessively repeated awaits the entry of the strings, and together they weave an autistic carpet for a lament on the verge of the obscene, more akin to a stream of consciousness than musical lyrics. Excessively sinuous, slick, and oily like the unfolding music that accompanies it. The whole thing is so damn physical and carnal.
A vaguely cool jazz breath momentarily conceals the bridge projected towards Bristol. The strings always lurking, our companions in this labyrinth. By now, orientation is lost, and not even electronic embellishments help to find the thread of the plot. Around the corner, the usual fat sound of the cello, ready to chase with the violin in a deadly loop on the verge of paranoia. Pure labyrinthitis.
Yann T., like a more famous compatriot of his. Only this guy's last name is Tambour and he plays and programs his languors in a disorienting way, shuffling close memories (a certain something of trip hop) and distant ones (jazzy reminiscences) in a maelstrom of notes. A bastard mix, viscous sounds that cling to you like the muggy air of a pre-summer evening.
A healthy swim in sulfurous springs.
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