Mandrax Jelly Nightmares

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How many bands could be talked about like that, these days? Frogs Do not love me too much Machine gets old The Ugliest Rabbit of the Seventies Ghost Not easy to cook Sirens call Pendejo Au Revoir Frogs Outro. The stage is set, now you have to clean up everything. Why mention all this? Being old and giving year-old kids who just discovered marimba tutorials on YouTube a thrashing? The members — survivors of various screwed-up musical projects — finally succeeded because nothing else than music mattered anymore. Colosse De Rhodes Sous La Mer C'est Calme Samarcande Sayyara La Ville Le Vide Tamam El Bahr Ultra Moderne Solitude 2 Yaaa Yaaa Yaaa.

Two Cyrils like two dizygotic souls whose contingencies have brought their meeting forward. Cyril Cyril. On the ruins of their worn out bands, they put together an innately cosmopolitan empire. Because these Cyrils have devoured miles, away from their Genovese haven. A muezzin without borders, Cyril Yeterian came to the disheveled world through Mama Rosin, a three-piece that stirred the ghosts of the rogue bayou, the clammy Mardi Gras of some electric Louisiana. Soon, the world fell in love with their flair.

And then in , the honeymoon period passed. Cyril was alone. Well, not quite: music kept popping up around him.

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Inside his Bongo Joe record store, on the label of the same name, in the underground DJ sets he stirred up, Yeterian explored like crazy, in a binge of exiled grooves. Within the same space-time, Cyril Bondi hit the road. He, as well, traveled, experienced the ascent, the euphoria of the peaks and then the fall. Plaistow, his mediumistic, hypnotic jazz band, heckled the saturated world of piano-bass-drums trios and won hearts through Europe and the East.

Until the breaking point. So Bondi started looking for premises to drop his equipment. He found better: an accomplice for musical prospecting, another Cyril in tune with his rebellious instinct. Enough with leaning upon solid piers like a Colossus of Rhodes. This adventure required new baggage, a new language.

Cyril and Cyril were in the same boat, and both took the plunge. A guitarist and an accordionist, Cyril Y.

Cyril B. You should have seen these two, on a populous festival night, bringing a narrow club to fever pitch by summoning utopian Neguses. Playing new Berbers, provoking unlikely seismic soukous in a trance that has as much to do with the hippie giddiness as with Fraggle Rock. Indeed, for Cyril Cyril, music is a way of the world, a joyful decentration offering new keys to comprehend chaos. The point here has nothing to do with some globalized country excursion nor some gluten-free exoticism.

Beneath the beach lie the paving stones. Politics always end up showing on the surface of these exhilarating chants, of these skeletal grooves. Apart from tracing back the family pathway of some belatedly-adopted Lebanese dialect, Cyril Yeterian chants rhapsodies in French, the merciless terms of which say it all about coming insurrections. Nothing yet likely to make Certaines Ruines a wordy lampoon of hoaxers, of neo-post-everything killjoys.

A single word, a single cry can say a lot, as long as it is soulful. The sound of a duo reduced to its simplest expression — rhythm, a riff, a voice — can bear within itself an infinitely luxuriant musical organism — the double helix of DNA. Cyril Cyril, so real, so rich. That postcard with coconut trees, a glass of rum to sip on, those so exotic madras dresses West Indians are still as stuck with this distorted outlook as in the good old days of the colonies.


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Because, underneath the veneer of moldy images, a completely different reality is woven. This is the subject of this collection — musicians drumming on percussion as a way of asserting their creolized identity. Songs that tell, in veiled terms, a different reality from what mainlanders were fed with.


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Special cases, with cries of joy and laments accompanied by cadences, as an invitation to trance, all immersed in the Caribbean melting pot of rhythm. What else would you expect to set the tone for this selection, in which beguine regains its original colors, in the darkness of the gwo ka drums. All this sinister story had begun with the landing of a fleet of caravels steered by Christopher Columbus in It was the first step towards a colonization that was about to decimate the indigenous peoples of this terra incognita and deport the vital spark from the cradle continent of humankind.

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The cross — a booming symbol — was there to justify the ordeal of peoples to whom even humanness was denied. Soon, once the Caribbean tribes were eradicated, the French would massively import workforce from Ghana, Togo, Dahomey, Ivory Coast, Nigeria, Cameroon, Gabon, Congo or Angola, as recalled by the Marches dedicated to the various ethnicities of slaves in , which faced the Memorial of the ka drum on the Grande-Terre island in Guadeloupe. Hundreds of thousands of them would have to survive the nightmare of plantations, comparable to the plantation system in the American South: chains, leg irons, shackles, fetters, garottes, iron collars and branks, dungeons or lynchings set the tempo of everyday life.

The sugar aristocracy the brown gold of the time set a reign of terror on plantations. The "post-slavery" society would perpetuate real economic segregation — a distinction that would be reproduced from generation to generation And even if, a century later, the law of 19th March granted the four old colonies the status of Overseas Departments, nothing changed in the course of history. This gap would then widen, differently but surely, as the Republic implemented an assimilation policy that would deny identities and make a clean break with the past.

Made from salting or wine barrels from the colonial era — boats keep coming back in this ebb and flow movement — the "quarter", or "ka" once creolized, was a powerful symbol of resistance since the colonial era. Or its beating heart, following the seven specific rhythms of gwo ka. More than just a matter of rhythms, this drum carried a speech full of history and stories, a message of memories and hopes.

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The gwo ka bore the stigmata of a slave society, from which all its associated chants were inherited. A medium of the voiceless, this drum would act like an ointment on mistreated bodies, but also as a stimulant for rebellious souls. Just like words convey the memory of a people that was long demoted to the status of a simple item of personal property — according to article 44 of the Code Noir draught by Colbert to regulate the status of slaves — before being governed by a system of identification booklets allowing to monitor the movements and work of the workforce in a Guadeloupe admittedly liberated from slavery, but still looking like a "banana" regime.

This trauma appears through a repertoire that reflects the pain of cane cutters and the euphoria of pay day, the oppression of racism and the recourse to the myth of a promised land. Songs burst with all the bestiary that populates the countryside and the many fish that feed stews, acid satires on the daily reality and apposite witticisms on international events, chronicles anchored in the local soil as well as biting plays on words. One may sing to keep vigil over a dead person, or launch into long, saucy tirades at a bibulous party.

In this decade and the one that followed, this movement, that gave its place back to percussion, accompanied more precise claims as English-speaking islands gained independence. By playing the ka which was banned from official studios , one actually chose their side.

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From , the freshly-instituted Bumidom Office for Overseas Migration organized a strong West-Indian emigration towards low-skilled jobs and a dull suburban life. The ka became the soundtrack of this generation, who sped up the tempo with the 70s and definitely transplanted it to town, while the plantation economy — the original soil of the ka drum — was in crisis.

The poet sure had a good turn of phrase, that hit the spot just like his mouth drum. No doubt, blues and ka fought the same battle — centuries of oppression, of negation, before finding the path to possible redemption.

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Between them, the same language — the language of the Creole spirits, flooded in the great ocean. This is what this selection is about, and its good, inborn sense of humor shouldn't hide the implicit commentaries. There, jazz instills an emancipating energy from established formats, giving these songs a musicality that rhymes with spirituality. From infernal cadences borrowing from the "latin" rhythms of neighboring islands, to beguines with percussion-spiced tempos, to more laid-back — nonetheless dark — ballads, this compilation takes us back to the early hours of a movement of rebirth synonymous with recognition.

A rejuvenation in which all the musics from the Black Atlantic diaspora naturally intertwine. Dans sa corde Cardiaque Danser un slow avec un flic Elle seule Dans un coin En 3 secondes Insomnie le temps d'une nuit. After a few minutes, he ends up shirtless and everything disappears, crumbled and pulverized: the show, the music, the people around you, the stage — if there was one — and you find yourself in a hand-to-hand combat: the struggle of Man against the machine, the New Age of Metal, the big final crash.


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And what he puts in it is nothing less than his whole life, messily arranged in a large pile of hypnogenic patterns, primitive words, barking, anti-theft alarms, control losses, infernal nights. In view of such firepower, what more could we expect from a record, other than an inevitable disappointment? Martial pianos, mongoloid harpsichords, rural techno, social horror: this new record contains all it takes to writhe, sweat, shudder, pant, stagger, pick yourself up, crawl, howl, faint, get up and pick yourself up again — in short, to have fun.

The rest is just noise. Phil Barney - Funky Rap JM Black - Lipstick Shams Dinn - Hedi Bled Nous Philippe Chany - Cairo Connection Alec Mansion - Trop Triste Hamidou - Jawla Feli Ganawa - Yamna Ethnie - De Chagrin En Chagrin Fils du Sahel Boy Cuisinier Je suis un Salaud Ouaga affaires Mam ti fou Lucie Tond Yabramba Yamb ney capitale.

It is still one of the lesser known forms of popular music from West Africa.

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