Zukanican
Horse Republic

Nothing special. I'm sitting in front of the computer, early afternoon sunlight after lunch. I like when the light floods the whole room, I just keep the window shade slightly lowered, just to not overdo the beauty. I glance at the latest CD I bought, on a friend's recommendation. On the cover, there's a flower, seemingly colored with pastels. At first fleeting glance, it seemed like the cover of Tago Mago by Can, I don't know, mysteries of the mind. I decide to listen to it, after all, I was told it was a nice breath of music, with a bit of everything inside: free-jazz, free-funk, free-something else. I take it and open it. I insert the CD into the player. Let's see if today's creativity hasn't completely disappeared. Hope. Deep breath. And other pre-first-listen rituals. Then, with decision, I press play...

The music starts, blowing the first whispers: I immediately hear percussion and lazy, indistinct sounds, echoing from inside a cave; then a bass, slyly, comes from afar, moving with a pulse. A few seconds in and I'm already trying to remember the artists mentioned here and there as sources of Zukanican; what can you do, it's the professional deformation of the album listener... I was told about Sun Ra, Bablicon, Funkadelic, Ozric Tentacles, Gong. And I had replied, astonished, with exclamations forbidden by certain Western religious beliefs, so varied was the musical cauldron that seemed to unfold before me. But I tell myself that those claims must be taken with a grain of salt, because I have to listen to the album first, then we'll see. So I continue to listen, and absorb like a sponge. The first track has splendid percussion changes, and spits out gusts of brass. Trumpets, saxophones, and the whole shebang. Because after all, it's a free-jazz group, right? But there's something else, too. At times, I recall “The Isle of Everywhere” by Gong, only here the hypnotic bass follows a different tempo. For now, I appreciate it. But it's still too early to draw conclusions, right?

Then suddenly, a reflection catches my attention. I look out the window. I spot a person hanging from the balcony across the street. I smile, it's the usual. It's Mr. P., who, like every day, is performing his building acrobat act. Mr. P. is a good guy, almost seventy years old, lean physique, white hair, a subscriber to Corriere della Sera, but with a few screws loose. Not that it matters... And so, almost like an afternoon ritual, he first climbs over his balcony, and then he climbs up the building. And the wife, now with little concern, attempts to retrieve him. Meanwhile, we enjoy a half-hour daily show. Now Mr. P. has reached the windowsill of his bedroom, next to the balcony. I follow the scene with the percussion in the background. The trumpet freely phrases with the other instruments, it feels like hearing a mix of exotic funk and “Bitches Brew” by the old Miglia Davide. Then, in unison, a rapid move by the retiree and the music, they seem like one. Pom. Pom. Pom. Then, slowly, the drums fade, there's a moment of calm. Even Mr. P. halts, hanging onto the wall of the reddish building. The music is bouncy, the drums play with an impudent and edgy sax. The sun shines on the acrobat, motionless like a lizard waiting for an insect... The wife's mouth moves, shouting, and the trumpet on the record follows her. Actor and dubber, not bad at all. Then I get distracted for a moment, because an enveloping rhythm has set in, building up in an increasingly intense mix of drums and basses. More and more, until an ethereal burst of synth brings calm again. I can't deny it, music to appreciate, engaging and rhythmic. I really like it. Perfect soundtrack for this afternoon, static, bright, sly, vitaminic.

Now I'm hypnotized. Missing scene. Pause. Missing scene. Trammmm. A drum roll, I wake up with a start. End of the dream, I'm conscious again. So, back to reality, let's see how the capture of the animal progresses. Mmmhh... It seems bad because Mr. P. has reached the fourth-floor balcony, and the wife can't even spot him. He's camouflaged behind some plants. I glimpse the bewildered and amused eyes of the retiree, like those of a pet hiding. Only slightly hinted movements, like an old professional. The film's soundtrack continues with little Indian-style flutes, and the percussion sounds like those rhythmic and distant ones from the jungle. Only now do I realize that the album is filled with the most varied of sounds and images, each more beautiful than the last. I try to take stock of the situation: so, I'd say Sun Ra playing with Mowgli amidst the vines; funky and psychedelic confusion mixing with Eric Dolphy's brass, but underwater; colorful rituals of old tribes, mixed with electric and rogue synths. Even the track “Ringa Ronga” starts and evolves between trance-fusion and trance-electro, just like the Ozric Tentacles; not to mention the splendid “Where are the Casualties”, which echoes the Art Ensemble of Chicago in electronic salsa. We are almost at the end. “Vague and Nebulous” seems almost to swim in cosmic atmospheres, with a Davis-like trumpet in the style of “Ascenseur pour l'échafaud”, but played wearing a green astronaut suit. A masterpiece piece. The album closes in a gentlemanly manner, strolling in slippers in the atmospheres of “Flying Teapot” by Gong and “Waka Jawaka” by Zappa.

Meanwhile, the scene in front has ended; Mr. P., smiling, returns to his balcony like an explorer returning from a journey: dirty, tired, but full of stories to tell. The wife hints at a scolding but then gives up. The elderly man drops into his old armchair on the balcony, satisfied. Now there's silence in my room. The sun is moving over the reddish building; once again, the time is changing. And a light breeze makes the plant next to the old armchair sway, a little to the left, and a little to the right. Pause...