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Rating: The dark fury cannot be confined to a small space. That desert sand, that hypnotic tempest cannot be understood through a medium, a postcard, a simulacrum. You have to enter it, surrender to it, dissolve in its coils. On stage, there are seven musicians, and each plays his own hypnosis, explodes, expanding space and time. It takes an auditorium, it takes the flesh of those men, their repeated gestures and the insidious mists of the sounds they spread, to give meaning to a record like this.
Because you can't die in the whirlpools of the desert while driving and listening to Spotify; you can't face the storm while staying cool, lying on your home couch. The Fury must completely take you, sweep you away, annihilate you. A work that gives everything, like this one, asks for everything in return. I never really loved it, listening to it through a medium, but I was sure I would savor it differently seeing it played live.
A rhythmic album, a rhythmic concert. But not a tribal caption; rather, the skewed cadence that starts halfway through Saucerful of Secrets, a hard, limping rhythm often multiplied by two, between the drums and the percussion that duet. Around, a poisonous wind of synthesizers, a hypnosis that unfolds in wide spaces, in loops repeated over and over. It is the breath of a giant; you can't ask it to be brief. When Incani then hints at singing, you wonder if there is still space. His is a lament, wedged between the gusts.
I traveled, seated in my chair at the Auditorium. I greeted the Gulf of Guinea, the last throes of a dream of peace, but soon the torment, the captivity, the sun beating down on us. Agadez, soldiers, the whirl of fears. The night, a sparkle of the sky. The desert that never ends (a Passion of Christ in Gabriel style), the burdensome path, yet that vault of stars appears at night and takes me with it, kidnaps me. The weight of the steps, the bite of hunger. And yet in this misery, I perceive a strange beauty around me, as if the cosmos were caressing us.
The electronic follies project me into the metaphysical wonder of Klaus Schulze: a gap opens. The world of prostration, the Babel of men - speaking an incomprehensible cry - touches that magnificence up there, which seemed unreachable. A metamorphosis, perhaps a death by drowning. After the burdensome earthly itinerary, there is transcendence. (We are around the track Piel).
Now the music no longer has the taste of sand, it is transfigured. We are sailing towards a promised land, or is it a Catabasis instead? Impossible to say, the signals are contradictory. Paradise and hell now alternate, some lengthy parts demand patience. Eventually, it arrives, there it is. We are immersed in a river of flames (Hajar), the guy next to me is almost gasping, he can't take it anymore. The crescendo seems never to end, it is unsustainable and intoxicating, like a heavenly ascent that brings with it pain. Ecstasy and suffering now scream together in our veins, the anguish of the end strangles us.
Then the dissolution. The perfection of peace, the absence of desires, good and evil are intertwined.
The band exits to receive the applause. The audience cheers, everyone stands up. Perhaps some have recovered from their torpor, they remind me of the accountant's colleagues at the end of the battleship Kotiomkin.
The mother's eye! The stroller with the baby!
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