Patrick Moraz
Story of I

This is not a serious page; let the intrepid and gentle reader know this immediately.

I already know how it’s going to end (and certainly writing the introduction last makes me quite sure of it, n'est-ce pas? - How much do I love saying that?): I strive to tell about the emotions and impressions evoked by an album, and inevitably I get lost in a sea of nonsense stemming from a not even too thinly veiled pretext. So be it, I wouldn't be myself; and this is meant to be my story - well, mine, his, or whatever.

 
This time, the foundation of everything is Yes, specifically one of their masterpieces from the seventies (if I remember correctly, they might add something), that wonderful work - with an equally masterful cover - which is "Relayer" from nineteen seventy-four. The new man is a mustached keyboardist who comes from the heart of chocolate in Europe, from the land that once was and still is, in addition to the home of Lindor, the Victorinox knives, cuckoo clocks, wrist and pocket watches, the Pope's Swiss Guards, the fantastic carnival fritters (carnival? Bad omen), the red competitors in "Jeux Sans Frontières," the hornets of Viganello (with pride, my birthplace), the twenty-six cantons, the countless banks, the Gipfel and bratwurst, the beautiful trams of Zurich (how not to remember that the 5 and 6 go to the zoo, and that the 8 had only one carriage), and the fantastic flake soap in intercity train bathrooms.

The year after the reported one, the good keyboardist ventures into the most famous of his solo works, simply titled "Story Of I", where I is him, because if it were me it would be "Story of him," but him (meaning me) wasn't born yet, let alone the Warsaw Pact; besides, Switzerland is neutral like Johnson & Johnson shampoo.

The cover, elegant, is based on the meaning of the letter "i," which stands for "I" (I... him!) and returns in its tilted symbolic representation as the initial letter of five of the fourteen tracks, in reality, a decidedly unified although heterogeneous musical line.
The list of credits in the booklet is indeed such, as it consists, in addition to Moraz himself, of 12 single entities and two unions of souls (the so-called "Percussionists or (?) Rio De Janeiro" - alas - and the Swiss "Children of Morat"?). I won't mention many names for the musicians, just a few will still be a dismal recourse to the famous random shooting. Business as usual, basically.

Played almost entirely on the shores of Lake Geneva in beautiful Geneva, this LP is notably characterized (not that it was necessary, neh?) by two recording sessions in the pleasant and gigantic Brazil, around mid-August.
"Impact" opens with a keyboard boom and continues with whips and shrill chords, unfortunately accompanied (torture from the beginning) by boring carnival-of-Rio-style percussion, a mood that continues in the initial choruses (almost warblings) of "Warmer Hands".
Moraz can't help it, it's stronger than him, he can't avoid this senseless joy. His work on the keys is still unmistakable, long trails of raw sound plow through the cheerful singing, at times shadows of acceleration. The brief "The Storm" is meant to be just that, and after the storm, it concludes with the classic calm - but damn, still carnival?

Of course, additionally, naming a track "Cachaca (Baiao)" doesn't particularly entice me to listen (I detest carnival, was that perhaps inferred?), but it's known, in Switzerland carnival is an institution, in some pleasant centers it even lasts a week. It's not as if Patrick wakes up one morning and decides he wants to dance the sirtaki or waltz passionately in three quarters with a farmer from Graubünden, for heaven's sake. He is Swiss, and as such - having settled on the Grütli - he must love carnival. At least, there's the cheerful bass of Jeff Berlin, there are percussion with hints of noise-making by, among others, the first side's drummer Alphonse Mouzon (on the second side, it's Andy Newmark), there's a cheerful finger-dancing on the keys, duck effect.

Paradoxically, the "Intermezzo" is quite enjoyable, piano and vocal polyphony at first, some rhythmic jolts, then the crossing into progressive territories dominated by the synthesizer extending even into the house; "Indoors" is also built from an unexpected instrument in this big context, even an electric guitar engaged in a joyful solo.

When the cheerful festival melodies of a Brazilian country town hiding its faults under confetti finally seem to dissipate, the LP accelerates, as does the instrumental singing of the keyboardist; and it's no big deal if besides virtuous tracks - "Descent" (a waterfall of a thousand clear keyboard facets) or "Impression (The Dream)", with pianistic grace - our protagonist alternates oxidizable nonsense, such as the tribal-shamanic singing of "Incantation (Procession)".

To put a faux-intellectual personal opinion, I could say that Keith Emerson's music follows virtuosic displays of rare taste, while, on the other hand, Rick Wakeman's contemporary solo works describe furious battles and long moments of calm with irresistible and grandiloquent pomposity. Moraz's music does not: the funny Swiss keyboardist always narrates in a whirling manner, supported by his restless fingers; however, it's a storytelling not epic or majestic like that of the blond guy who replaced him and who will replace him in Yes, but rather frantic, rapid, and at times confused, except for some moments of melodic breakthrough like in the beautiful "Best Years Of Our Lives" or in the delightful "Dancing Now". The latter track is built on the interweaving of two voices (one of which I would guess belongs to John McBurnie - vocalist of the work), an effective electric guitar, and a solid synthesizer; enjoyable track, although it has a recurrence of irritating sambodromo effect - courage, Patrick, it's your story: get rid of it!

Inevitable, when there are numerous tracks, to abandon any - albeit strong - desire for a single analysis of the tracks and, as I tried to do, while managing not to say anything at all about the LP, quickly go through the list, at least up to the last three tracks. Not that they are masterpieces, but they are the last three and they give a sense of professionalism to the timid review. Yeah.

"Like A Child In Disguise" is a more conventional track, the organ supports a rarefied rhythm while Ray Gomez's guitar emits a few choked jolts. Vocals - joyfully, moreover - attempt to be like the Bee Gees; they don't succeed, but you can't say something evil comes out of it: the choirs are not memorable, but in their own way, they are pleasant. "Rise And Fall" starts still at Copacabana, but then synthesized thunderbolts try to demolish the carnival; it would seem the end of the sadness... and instead, no: still nude women (with relative fallen emperors) sway with improbable voluptuous gestures on mostly unwatchable floats. Moraz is finally convinced, he tries again, hops on the crowd that no longer understands anything with a decidedly heavy tone and hurls monochord sonorous rays with strong impact. This time it's over, rise and fall of the carnival.

 
A little bit sad though, Patrick.

His lament, dark and forlorn, is a touching and visceral "Symphony In The Space"; a sonic confession now grave in the atonement of sins, now finally sharp and smiling when the conscience is finally pure.

Next year Patrick will try to start again: he wants to make amends and, little by little, reconstruct his carnival, in the name of tradition. He will celebrate for a few days in Bellinzona; Squire will lend him the costume, as he has many: it will just need to be shortened.