Rome
Nos Chants Perdus

Fifth album in five years of activity: any artist today would have serious problems keeping up with such a pace, yet Jerome Reuter perseveres, and he does it brilliantly, delivering yet another successful hit in his career. Perhaps delivering his masterpiece.

Rome grows, delicately carving its emotional material with increasingly refined tools to offer us what is its most intimate and personal work. A phrase that could truthfully be repeated with every release, when compared to the previous: the path of breaking away from the apocalyptic folk stylings continues undeterred, but this time it cannot even be called a reckless escape into the plagiarism of classic singer-songwriter greats. Thus, the ghost of Douglas Pearce, albeit always lingering in "Flowers from Exile," is finally exorcised and banished to the cellar, locked in a chest with a double-lock. Even Leonard Cohen, a crucial reference point to understand Rome's art, has been given a resounding (affectionate, reverential) pat on the back, with the suggestion to kindly head elsewhere: Rome's "lost songs" are the most personal and defined work to have come from Reuter's pen over the years, making it increasingly inappropriate to compare his music to that of other authors.

More than anything else, "Nos Chants Perdus" is the triumph of Patrick Damiani, a keen and discerning producer, multi-instrumentalist, and arranger, now a cornerstone of the Rome sound, on whom Reuter seems unable to do without: Damiani imparts a charming, smoky, and nocturnal atmosphere to the new album, wanting to bring the project closer to the noir-cabaret of our own Spiritual Front, now leaders of a movement of young apocalyptic folkies intent on opening new paths to a genre that today, more than ever, seems to stagnate, thanks to the bombastic deeds of its historical custodians, and to those miserable of a vast array of advocates of the most hideous stylistic immobility. Certainly, the leap that the Romans managed within the space of an EP (the split with Ordo Rosarius Equilibrio) and an album (the superlative "Armageddon Gigolo"), Rome accomplishes within the course of an EP and five full albums, as if the Luxembourg artist lacked the daring to free himself from the teachings of the indispensable Pearce, or simply the time and calm to meditate on the possible path to take: an album a year indeed leaves little room for reflection, but even this aspect is entirely consistent with the attitude of a solitary and untiring artist who intends to unleash his emotions, not caring too much about the meaning his products may hold for a music scene. It's hardly worth complaining, after all, about a man who knows how to put himself into each of his creations.

The same "Flowers from Exile," which seemed to be the final exploration of the band's artistic potential, in my opinion, revealed here and there some points of weakness: with "Nos Chants Perdus," these lapses in tension and creativity that characterized the otherwise excellent predecessor are also addressed; indeed, it starts again from there, and "Nos Chants Perdus" does nothing but follow the same path, a path made of poignant and intimate ballads (at times even pressing) that definitively turn their backs on industrial samples, electronics, and even the last "romantic-wave" regurgitations which had characterized the apocalyptic folk of the Artist from the start. And if "Flowers from Exile" was the album of light (a work washed by the waves of the Mediterranean and warmed by the scorching Spanish sun), "Nos Chants Perdus" is the album of darkness: the darkness of a warm, enveloping night that wants to instill no fear nor anguish, but rather keep the most hidden secrets of the soul, ultimately serving as a sheltered and safe place to frankly look in the mirror and converse with oneself.

Reuter has now become a sort of Hemingwayan hero, a hero without a homeland, a man devoted to the cause, no matter where, no matter with whom, no matter against whom. Reuter's dedication to his cause is touching, and as in Hemingway's literature, it is in critical situations (war, for example) that the character and deepest nature of the man emerge. Reuter fights his war with the conviction, passion, and despair that distinguish him in every action, fully aware that everything is precarious and fleeting.

In its contained duration (the typical forty minutes), the album strings together a series of jewels that present us with a Reuter in splendid form, and as always happens in Rome, except for the atmospheric introduction, the work loves to showcase its most formidable weapon at the start: "Les Deracines" (note: despite the French titles, the tracks are sung in English) demonstrates in all its splendor Reuter's singer-songwriter maturity, his achieved mastery in playing the game finally outside the schemes of the more typical apocalyptic ballad. Poignant in its progression, the song reveals a Reuter finally capable of standing on his own (strong) legs, a beautiful song, vaguely pop so catchy, with a chorus of a vaguely (or said vaguely!) Beatles-like cadence: a song that shines not only for Reuter's wonderful interpretation (the resigned, weary, heavy, and exhausted tenor singing is spine-tingling) but also for a melodic talent now unique and unmistakable. "Nos Chants Perdus" is Reuter's "Murder Ballads," which, mind you, invents nothing but knows how to carve out a place of great respect in today's singer-songwriter panorama, on par with a Will Oldham or a Matt Elliott.

The formula continues to rely on the essential voice/acoustic guitar duo, a framework softened by Damiani's reassuring arrangements (his bass is soft, his cello velvety, his percussion caressing), adept at orchestrating the sparse interventions of other musicians and impeccable at shaping warm and reverberated sounds. Guiding the listener, a layout divided into five chapters, where only occasionally (as per script) Reuter leaves the field to brief ambient interludes, often adorned with heartfelt narrating voices.

And if the atmosphere is not lacking, certainly it is the substance of the album, the individual tracks, that determines its value. How can we not mention the splendid "L'Assasin," a dark and crushing march of violated and fragmented interiority, sustained by Reuter's tormented singing and an intense crescendo of strings? How can we not mention the triptych (of sublime Cave-like intensity!) composed of "Les Iles Noires," "Un Adieu a la Folie," and "La Rose et la Noche"? The first imposing and apocalyptic (undoubtedly the most typically Rome track), the second dark and deep as the night, the third animated by a vigorous accordion with a strong gypsy aftertaste: because, as we said, Reuter is now a hero without a homeland, and right at the album's conclusion, his path seems to soften, heading toward sunnier, more open, and colorful shores of the soul, contaminated by even exotic instruments, berimbau, bells, ethnic percussion, Spanish-flavored guitars (the heavy legacy of an album like "Flowers from Exile").

Reuter's soul is as grand as the entire world, strong with all its beauties, troubled by all its afflictions. Perhaps it is precisely restlessness that is the engine of this extraordinary prolificacy, as if Our Man could not stay still, immobile, but was compelled, by his nature, into a perpetual tension, appeasable only by the dire confrontation with oneself, with the next bloody battle, with the next beautiful album.

For whom the bell tolls? The bell tolls for thee.