Of Montreal
False Priest

Apollinaire Rave. That's the name of the studio where this album was recorded. Two words that I get along with very well, placing me in distant space-time locations where, although I was always myself, I seemed like someone else. Let's start by adding another observation. I have a friend who is not very familiar with foreign languages and who, if asked, would answer "I'm of Montreal." If I told him "from," he would reply Erich. The one with two m's, a luminary in the psychiatry that gave my friend a good job, even if he doesn't know English.

Now I write directly on DeB's editor, unconcerned that my writing might get lost. Especially in this case, if the connection goes downhill, I wouldn't have a problem starting all over and picking up the threads of the discussion from another point: geographic, corporeal, spatial. I could start from a hair to praise Timbuktu, or I could start from Greenland to be overwhelmed in an inexorable cry.  I believe that when you write, you have to be convinced that you can. And I'm convinced that Kevin Barnes, the coordinating mind behind Of Montreal, always thinks that anything is possible when writing albums for this kind of collective.

I adore Of Montreal. I am like a nerd, glued to the screen with their videos, intoxicated by sexual fantasies with their music. Often, I find myself detaching from them when the sun peeks between the two mountains outside my window, erect like a nice pair of breasts. The side effects of theirs on me are measurable in at least a good half hour of elementary visions but with full customer satisfaction: as a good erotic boor, I transfer the rushes unleashed by the music onto the surroundings, so two mountains become boobs, and that sun, I eagerly bounce on that enormous expanse of femininity.

Speaking of boobs, they are pop. Very pop. I really think that if chart music, the kind from Top Of The Pops, were like this, then I would listen to it. Maybe I wouldn't be a die-hard fan but I would go looking for Barnes to tell him that he does good for music. Why? Because for a long time, there have been no shamans so enlightened and lively, musical herbalists experienced in spices from everywhere and hallucinogenic plants. Because when Barnes sees the sheet music, he greets it, sits down, and talks to it. He explains that he has no clear idea of the starting point and the destination. But he tells it that when it's ready to start the engine, everything will suddenly be very clear and confused. When Barnes sees the sheet music, he becomes a polymorphic artist and fundamentally follows two lines: the straight one by Le Corbusier and the polymorphic one by Picasso, managing to have them meet, album by album, in the halls of the same museum, very different from each other: that of cave paintings, that of ancient Egypt, or that of the Renaissance. Blowing into the air that magical powder that gives every composition a cubical psychedelic aspect that manages to keep substantial minimalisms cohesive with formal baroque styles, sharply focusing on physical effects, like that of light refraction, which in his music become conceptual. And then, Barnes is a maestro who can really animate many instruments.

In this album, they really went for it, but they stayed close, as an era of artistic reference, since I've metaphorically opened this path all of a sudden. This is their Warhol album. Of Montreal reaches their 10th appointment with the recording studio and brings inside a very seventies vibe. The other night, I was taking a client to the station. Once he got into my car, I discovered that inside it, this album was on air—I've got a stereo that knows me well and decides on its own now. The guy, after two minutes, goes, "Who is this, Prince?"

No, Naples, it's not Prince, but we're close. R&B, funk, and disco enter with unusual liveliness within the album. And Of Montreal enters the studio with a pair of remarkable cheeks more than usual, those of Solange Knowles (Beyoncé's sister). The album unfolds among chart-topping tracks in succession that all sound good, some even great. Amid this succession of novelties for my ears, there are always, however, counterpoints that don't let you forget who you're really listening to. Distortions of various kinds, sudden craziness, constructions on scales that tilt to one side or zigzag. In short, it may also be danceable, but this music has the label of a truly exquisite brand: Of Montreal. There's also Janelle Monae, just to not miss the anti-divas. 

Among psychotic falsettos and drunkenly hysterical passages, the groove and funk expressed by the album turn out to be both very -delec. For once, our guys forget their psychotic sobriety. The really spectacular thing is the production. You can tell they're serious by the richness of the sounds put in place, even the minimal ones, and by the high fidelity with which every note is amplified. This indicates that there was nothing to cover up and, indeed, there was a strong desire to engage in a game that could turn out to be dangerous but from which our guys and Barnes emerged absolutely victorious. Really well done.

Before focusing on the newly born eleventh album, I'll close this review, which might be all disconnected, but there's a reason. I just wanted the text to have the form of one of their slightly older songs. If I didn't succeed, it's because the thought of the one who gave me this album distracted me from the intent. There's a lot of sentimental value in all of this mixed with my unhealthy desire to always make a lot of noise.