Mr. Oizo
Lambs Anger

"You are animals/You will all die/Stop reproducing immediately"

Acid delirium in stem cell electronic sauce.

There are records that, no matter how strange, surprise and make you fall in love immediately. And then there are things born from a mad mind, that make you assume a facial expression akin to my nickname. Among the latter, such Quentin Dupieux doesn't hesitate to take his place. Triumphing ten years ago with a track like "Flat Beat," an electronic bomb that loops the same notes endlessly without tiring, with the invention of the puppet Flat Eric, success, fame of a crazy, funny, delirious artist. And then nothing. 

Some films, some melancholic tears. That's all. 

A cry from beyond the grave in 2005. "Moustache": the turning point. Total rejection for the listener, total rejection for the dancefloor, he realizes the unthinkable: analog rhythms, grotesque deliriums, nocturnal fanfares, endless loops, anal beats. Unlistenable and brilliant at the same time, an album to confront rather than live, able to corrode 18 tracks in 45 minutes.
"Lambs Anger", fortunately, follows its path and starts with a macabre bomb-track: "Positif", pinnacle and synthesis of the anti-dancefloor, which leads inevitably to shock. But there's also an electro-symphonic delirium like "Blind Concerto," where strings do not exist, they are spurts, vomits of experimental electronics chasing each other tirelessly, disheartening and breaking the listener.

And so it goes, with very short spine-chilling bursts (the title-track), deliberately useless ("Lars Von Sen"), and then almost vintage jazzy turns ("Cut Dick"), hand grenades without any logic that inevitably rip you apart ("Erreur Jean"), and then there are half rubbish tracks ("Gay Dentists"), that make you want to mow down the first fool dancing with a machine gun, but then you suddenly find yourself humming it. 

What about the un-danceable dance of "Pourriture 7," which hits hard and transforms like a chrysalis into Daft Punk under the influence of LSD? Or "Z," which sounds rotten in its endless loop and first surprises, then drags you along? And then, around the corner, something like "Bruce Willis Is Dead," an unresolved, inhuman experimental house that first makes you hate it and then endears itself to you.  

They are loops, pixels, white voices, black noises. Just that. But how beautiful it is to de-commercialize a commercial genre like house, and disintegrate it, tear it to pieces until exhaustion. Leaving only madness, fearless, insane madness. 

Mr. Oizo, who has recently also made an equally delirious film ("Rubber," a story about a tire that makes people explode) screws with a laptop anyone who pays him the slightest attention. And "Lambs Anger" with its unfolding of 17 tracks in 43 minutes, turns out to be a stroke of genius balanced between the sublime and the irritating, which certainly does not leave one indifferent and if there is one thing this crazy Frenchman is very good at, it's definitely driving listeners away with punches, only to welcome them back with ephemeral caresses. And how much I now desire to blow up a dance floor to dance, crazily, in a field on fire.