Les Joyaux de la Princesse
Aux Volontaires Croix de Sang

Rarely has there been such an imbalance between notoriety and importance in terms of music historiography. Historical significance is indeed not an attribute lacking in Les Joyaux de la Princesse, a cult name passed down more by word of mouth than anything else: Erik Konofal, who founded the project in 1986, is to be considered the inventor of industrial music in its martial/ambient interpretation. Known more than anything else for his illustrious collaborations ("Ostenbraun," from 1989, with Death in June, and "Absinthe – La Folie Verte," from 2001, with Blood Axis), Konofal does not enjoy great fame even within the confines of the genre: this is especially due to the difficulty in obtaining his material, always a privilege for few audacious individuals capable of acquiring works in ultra-limited editions, published and distributed through unconventional channels, at exorbitant prices to boot. A niche market, stubbornly desired and achieved by Konofal, who evidently does not wish for his art to have a wide dissemination.

His mark on the dark-industrial scene remains profound, in a genre that paradoxically sees greater visibility for those who later decided to enter the challenging path opened many years earlier by the French artist (the same Blood Axis, the deplorable Der Blutharsch, just to name the most well-known ones). Konofal's work is thus also seminal (let's say he stands to this sub-genre of the industrial area as Brian Williams – Lustmord – does to dark/ambient), but of his vast discography, nothing remains but the creak of outdated cassettes or the screech of needles on vinyl destined to perish under the weight of unrelenting time. It is difficult to say whether "Aux Volontaires Croix de Sang" is on par with the rest of Les Joyaux de la Princesse's production, given that we have no way to listen to and delve into it; what is certain is that this 2007 work is one of the few instances where we mere mortals are allowed to enjoy it: "Aux Volontaires Croix de Sang," contrary to much else released under the moniker Les Joyaux de la Princesse, can be found, and thus listened to, and we will certainly not be disappointed. In it, Konofal's invention (an evocative mix of electronics, classical music, voices, samples, and period tape reproductions – speaking of a period spanning between the First and Second World War – all rigorously in French, given that French history is the focus of the entire artistic saga of Les Joyaux de la Princesse) reaches formal perfection: it is difficult to do better than the master, who after more than twenty years of honorable service, can, on the one hand, rely on a solid foundation of experience, and on the other, retains the honesty not to succumb to the temptations and comforts of pure and sterile mannerism.

Accustomed to the sonic ugliness of many in the genre, the impact with the Princess is nothing short of astonishing: polished sounds, fluidity, elegance. It seems an oxymoron, considering the type of music we are talking about, but it is not: Konofal's art of assembly undoubtedly relies on juxtapositions and overlays of dissonant elements (the celestial ascent of a church organ and the harsh harangue of a thundering voice over a tumultuous crowd, for example), yet the ear is never wounded by the images Konofal pieces together.

Formally "Aux Volontaires..." is perfect, and this is apparent from the introductory track, the "Sur la Tombe d'un Camarade" which, with its long, sprawling organ notes, invokes the name of Klaus Schulze, not a random name, we might add: like the art of the German composer, Konofal's puts technology at the service of transcendence, recreating places and situations buried under the dust of forgetfulness, if not collective removal, with a descriptive touch, but never descending into pure didacticism. The artist's eye, albeit detached, confers depth to the images, gives life to memories, engages the listener in the evoked events. And the invocation called upon to open the album is nothing more than an operation that opens a passage in time, intervenes upon the motion of the clock hand, slows it down, until it suspends it for a moment, after which it resumes its course, but in reverse, first slowly, then with increasing speed, until it stabilizes in the year 1919, the starting point for the development of the narrated events.

"Aux Volontaires..." therefore begins with the mood worthy of a requiem, starts from death and proceeds within it: the gloomy tolls of the death bell in "Champs des Martyrs" mark desolate cemetery landscapes, on which the artist's eye rests for just a moment, before plunging into a dreamlike spiral in which events, people, the echo of their forgotten voices, merge into a narrative that becomes elegy even before being an apology. It is the dimension of the dream, and within it we are led, through images, sounds, testimonies, pieces that assemble a mosaic with violently dramatic hues.

Majestic, tragic, monumental: these are the adjectives that inevitably come to mind during the listening experience. A listening that is certainly not easy and can weary even those accustomed to such soundscapes. The duration of the work, in itself, is not short (sixty-two minutes, and that’s not few), but this is the price that must be paid for the consistency and rigor with which this sort of dream documentary is constructed: "Aux Volontaires Croix de Sang" is composed of fifteen tracks, some very short, others more complex, that flow from one to another seamlessly, partaking in the same sensory experience, so much so that it could be considered a single composition. But what a composition!, an emotional rollercoaster that evolves with harmony and grace, only episodically cracked by the roar of History and the organized chaos of machines (never too intrusive in their noise-making mission), a slow and faded drift towards Eternity, at the martial pace of drums, at the sacred levitation of the omnipresent organ scores: useless and counterproductive to search for bursts of vitality, the excess that galvanizes, the solution that grabs attention. The discourse follows the narrative thread on which the concept is based (the recovery of the memory of the Croix de Sang, a French nationalist movement that arose between the two wars), and the strictly musical framework is essentially subservient to it. It is therefore impossible to appreciate the contours of a musical corpus of this type without fully immersing oneself in the recreated atmosphere.

Nevertheless, moments of extreme pathos are not lacking, and in this regard, it is useful to mention the central doublet constituted by the seventh and eighth tracks: "Des Cris dans le Tempete" reconverts menacing organ phrases by grafting them onto a background of noises and tumultuous operatic choirs; "Pour la Patrie (Croix de Feu ed Combattants Volontaires)" offers us the most intense moment of the record, served on the plate of an impetuous crescendo in which true electronics (and excuse me for mentioning an artist as distant as Fennesz) finally peeks into a work characterized mainly by a modus operandi in which the musician is engaged in constructing scenarios through simple addition of elements.

"Hymne des Croix de Sang (1934)" is once again stasis: from here, the journey dissolves into a more purely ambient dimension, made of silences, minimal keyboard lines, and the usual backgrounds of voices and recordings, a flow interrupted only by "Aux Volontaires Croix e Sang," the only track I allow myself to skip without regrets, since I never liked popular French songs (though a necessary episode to complete the process of contextualization useful for the enjoyment of the concept – the usual rigor). So, once again stasis, until the needle's screech flowing over the cracked surface of an old record anticipates the desolate notes of a piano: it is the touching voice of the late French tenor Charles Panzéra that has the honor and the burden of placing the final seal on a work that has shown no substantial weaknesses and that precisely in the finale proves to have yet important resources to spend, reserving us its most precious jewel, the moving "Cimetiere (Chante par Charles Panzéra)."

After, silence once more; the eyes open wide, the clock hands are suddenly back in place, abruptly we are returned to the present day: was it all just a dream then?