Sibylle Baier
Colour Green

THE REVIEW

And here is another long-forgotten album, wonderfully matured in its space of solitude. Sibylle Baier is a singer-songwriter, poet, and German actress, and the songs on this album, recorded at home between 1970 and 1973, had to wait until 2006 to see the light of day. Only thirty years later, her son Robby decided to dust off those maternal pearls and put together a remarkable little gem of singer-songwriting that the record label Orange Twin quickly published, thus scoring a winning move. The album was quickly discovered by enthusiastic folk enthusiasts, reviews in magazines and on the web abounded, critics praised it, and probably, as absurd as it may seem, the person directly involved might not even care that much.

The intimacy of the album's 14 tracks is undeniably adorable, and the accompaniment is as sparse as it is fascinating. The voice moves spontaneously cradled by the six strings in an impeccable manner, and one is left in awe listening to the perfection of these little pieces of private life. Sibylle Baier does not record them for any specific reason, and becoming a music star doesn’t interest her in the slightest. These songs are the splendid result of an uncontrollable necessity, and her soft and hypnotic voice becomes the means to release through sound the impressions, feelings, and ghosts of a sensitive and receptive mind. Just listen to "Forget About" to be impressed by the perfect essentiality of the composition and the beauty of the voice, which, dancing delicately, transports us to another planet. The opening track "Tonight" has all the charm of domestic intimacy, while "I Lost Something In The Hills" is probably the most introspective song on the album, immersing us in a text rich with autobiographical and psychological hints that, without being explicit, allow us to portray in our minds the delicate figure of the author.

Intimacy and healthy melancholy are the ingredients that make "Colour Green" a rare and precious album that allows us to savor, with a hint of indiscretion, the hushed confessions of a splendidly fragile mind.