Mama Bea Tekielski
Faudrait rallumer la lumiere dans ce foutu compartiment

It's nice to rummage through old dreams, especially when a nearly forgotten secret resurfaces, like a handful of songs that kept you company for a season and then got buried under the enormous, heavy shelves of rock masterpieces.

Well, a few days ago, I stumbled upon a dusty relic from the late seventies, a TDK cassette, recorded for me by my friend Orsetto, featuring fabulous tracks by the likes of Stooges, Doors, Tim Buckley, Traffic, Pearls before swine, Faust, Devo, Talking heads, Contortions.

Among those illustrious names, Orsetto had also included an exotic and absolutely unknown one, Mama Bea Tekielski, adding two of her songs, “Le fils du roi” and “Le mots.”

Now, if you're wondering what that Cinderella was doing (and still does) among all those high poppies, I’ll tell you that she held (and still holds) her ground magnificently. And my response is based on today’s impressions, not just those from back then, as I re-listened to the cassette and was quite moved.

Following that emotion, rather excited, and further challenging the dust, I unearthed another old relic, the album “Faudrait rallumer la lumiere dans ce foutou compartiment,” a beautiful title that has always made me think of a special type of poetry, the kind written with wild abandon, opening the spigots without caring for style.

I unearthed it, I re-listened.

And I rediscovered: a raw, hoarse, powerful voice capable, when needed, of incredible virtuosity; rock ballads that are inspired and haunting, characterized by expressive urgency and an almost punk-like wild energy; a warm, tight sound, punctuated by a rhythm, at times frenzied, that takes no prisoners.

But also sweet nocturnal lullabies and intense and fragile arias.

And even a fifteen-minute track divided between essential obsessiveness, frantic rhythm, and hysterical singing. You know how many progressive disasters have been concocted over long durations, right? Well, here there is only intensity. I don't know, imagine a Marianne Faithfull singing like Tim Buckley in “Starsailor.”

However, I prefer Mama Bea on the short distance. And, moreover, marathons were only truly known in Kraut lands and the Grand Duchy of Canterbury.

Orsetto and I adored this album and would occasionally revisit the few French phrases we managed to understand. Things like: the night that asks you how it’s going... leaving words in the heart that no one can understand... the weight of fear like a cement sheet on the body stiffened in the dark... the action that doesn’t ask for permission... absence that is like a strange kind of anger at your fingertips...

And then that “what are you doing with your life?” repeated obsessively at the end of “La vie.”

“Faudrait rallumer...” is a sanguine, crackling, passionate work that moves between songwriting, experimentation, poetry, and all the renewal demands of late '70s rock. Plus, it has the virtue of great originality. This album doesn’t resemble any other.

Ah Mama Bea, Mama Bea, I don’t know much about you, except that you had the habit of presenting on stage with large rag dolls, that you are the daughter of an Italian florist and a Polish violinist, details that, I don’t know why, put me in a good mood.

To have more florists and violinists...

Ah, I know you like Leo Ferré... and that you were a wren with red hair... a wren who played guitar like a machine gun, as that critic said...

And, anyway, sometimes it’s nice not to know too much.