Bells come ringing and buzzing and oh, that French! It reminds of first listenings to Einstuerzende Neubauten – unsure of what was being said but perhaps something profound…one never knows, so, keep shrugging those shoulders. Irrevocably humourous liner note photographs – salvation in the hovering black angel, the war ends, the fighting ceases and all eyes turn toward Heaven and the ascension. Oh, that scratchin’ is makin’ me itch, and the perception of M. Costes as a racist is attacked throughout.
“Misunderstanding” can be a negative but how many people in one’s lives really count, in terms of these people “understanding” you?
The microphone (mic ta race?) sways under the onslaught of M. Costes’ voice, overloaded perhaps like his shoulders with burdens and cares and troubles. Indeterminate voices swirl at his ankles – the voices of the accusers? North Africa calls in, making an appearance. It has been said that in the future, genetics will breed a race that’s so universally despised as to take the heat off every other hated race and group of people in the world. Perhaps this will be the race referred to speciously when one says, “I don’t care if you’re black, yellow, brown, white, green or purple.” Yes. The Green and Purple race is definitely next on the block. Well, maybe not the Green people – those would be Martians, and I understand they have incredible lawyers.
Death to Africa, death to France. It’s all death, anyway, it’s all sand, and the beats hit the beachhead at this point, the bangbang beachhead. It’s the foreboding of a drive to an unknown place, the discomfort of meeting something new, the alienation of the displaced native. The Middle Eastern vibration bellydances through the words and song, and is it really about understanding, or about control-domination? Just when it is so unclear, a laugh breaks through the muck and the mire and they do seem to be having fun throughout the recordings.
-David Cotner-
