Motorbass
Pansoul

Paris, year 1996. While Air dreams of lunar safaris and Daft Punk shape the first blips'n'clicks in search of glory, two guys produce an unrepeatable sonic alchemy. A mix of house filters (very deeeep), electronic blends, and dancefloor bullets. Pansoul. A unique creation because the two savvy guys, who go by the names Philippe Zdar and Etienne De Crecy, will become known for other productions (Cassius, Superdiscount, etc.) but will never again reach the levels of this first and only work signed Motorbass.

Since the so-called "French wave" will explode soon after, it's worth adding a few notes about the two pioneers. Philippe - an immigrant from the south - with a background as a drummer in a speed metal band (hence "Motorbass") attends the same school as Etienne. Both make the right friends; from Mc Solaar to James Lavelle passing through DJ Cam. Talent scouts as well as top-notch producers, the two founded the label Source Lab and launched, just for fun, Air and Dimitri From Paris. Meanwhile, lost in underground productions, clandestine parties, and nights lived in the clubs of the underbelly, in the midst of creative ecstasy and the buzz of a nascent sound, they realize "Pansoul?" A sound journey of restless charm and uncertain destination. Perhaps Chicago, landing in New York, and a mandatory visit to Detroit. Here are some fragments from the travel notebook of a castaway. "Fabulous" announces itself at the embarkation. Tension is in the air. Departures are shaken by diagonal glitches and crazy rhythms. Just enough time to say goodbye to friend "Ezio" with a track that seems endless. A rising synthetic rhythm, simple and memorable. A foot taps and taps again, impatient first and then disturbed by feminine voices. Anything but reassuring.
Portents multiply when "Flying Fingers" takes over. A load of hip-hop style scratches and beats more even than odd. We wonder, confused, how will it end? And here comes the first wound that leaves a mark. "Les Ondes" sounds like an abnormal movement of digital waves. Thick layers of restless loops generate one after another. Alarmed voices again. Nasty bites and sounds cut with a cutter. And so one would want to escape, seek a landing but this is a raft and everything changes color. Turns deep blue tending to black. Ocean in storm. We rely on "Neptune" the god of the sea. "Too late, too late," warns a siren. Useless to delude oneself. An obese riff of bass and drums slashes the horizon. Again scalpel-like keyboards and dolphin rhythms. Scared and lost, nothing else remains but? dance. "Baby wanna dance?" Again she duets with a dark sax phrase. Restrained and unstoppable rhythm. Suspended between fear and delirium. We dance. As if it were the last time, knowing already that nothing will sound the same again. Exhausted, we invoke a "Genius" to bring us back down to earth. The rhythm pushes on a dead-end rail and for once seems to beat in vain but it's only the prelude to the climax of this journey.

"Pariscyde," never was a name so appropriate. Straight kick intro but then everything happens. Hypnotic and tribal drums, grooves that expand, collide and implode again. A widespread sense of panic. A groan rises from the depths. Or maybe it's a lament? The cry advances, naked and solitary. Becomes the protagonist. Only it and murderous noises. Moments that seem eternal. Finally, it fades. Something irreparable has happened. In Paris. Like in a film. "La Haine" by Kassovitz. Year 1995. The finale no longer matters even if of "Bad vibes" like these we'd like more. "Off" instead. Motorbass will not give themselves anymore. The journey is complete. Outside. In Paris. In the deepest suburbs. And what they have seen must not have been pleasant. Because, having charted the course, the two guys in good company preferred to lose themselves in the thousand lights of the most "à la page" Parisian dancefloors.
What remains is "Pansoul," a sound document that appears as a dark omen. Dark, formidable, and relentless. Urban spleen translated into electronic form. A soundtrack, if you want, for dancing, of our metropolises. For solitary and nocturnal listening. At high volume. Imagining what is yet to happen.