Aksak Maboul were sort of an "odd man out" among the original RIO bands, caught somewhere in between the more humorous faction (Etron Fou Leloublan) and the darker, more serious groups (Univers Zero). The excellent first track of Un Peu de l'Âme des Bandits, "A Modern Lesson," is a perfect midpoint: groovy, catchy, spiky, witty, and un-self-consciously modernistic. In the first half, a beautifully ugly, muddy-sounding groove is established as an underpinning for Catherine Jauniaux's hysterical gibberish vocals (somewhere in between Kukl-era Björk and Yoko Ono) and Marc Hollander's writhing saxophone flourishes. In the second half, the chamber element comes to the fore: Fred Frith's bowed strings, Michel Berckmans' reeds and Hollander's keyboards play short fragments that fit together to produce long, elaborately convoluted, jumpy lines that somehow can stick in your head for days. And somewhere underneath the playful experimentation and subtle wit is an elegant charm that strikes me as extremely French. This was the first Aksak Maboul piece I heard, and it made a big impression.
Unfortunately, after that it's downhill for the rest of side one. This is not to say that any of the album is bad -- in fact, it's pretty enjoyable -- but the next four songs lack what it takes to be truly great. "Palmiers en Pots" is a bit of out-of-tune Polish lounge music and a tango created out of scraps of existing tangos: interesting and fun, but hardly mind-blowing. Frith's "Gestige Nacht" starts out as a nice driving piece with syncopated saxes and clunking drums, but it seems to lose steam a bit, and the avant-jazz sax solo in the middle seems kind of pointless. "I Viaggi Formano la Gioventú," Aksak Maboul's arrangement of a Turkish folk song, just goes on a bit too long, although it does contain some absolutely delicious synthesizers. And "Inoculating Rabies," while it deserves some credit for being the only piece of music ever recorded that can accurately be referred to as "angry bassoon punk," is just too shrill to listen to without getting a migraine.
Ah, but then there's "Cinema"! This could be one of the best album sides in the history of rock music. If you can call it rock music, that is -- at times it sounds more like contemporary chamber music than anything else. Whatever you call it, it's certainly a great moment for RIO. In a way, it epitomizes everything great about the movement, from its meticulous construction to its passages of freewheeling improvisation to its experimentation with tone color. The sound is very similar to Henry Cow's Western Culture, but less gloomy and somewhat less single-minded. There are dissonant woodwind passages, atonal psychedelic rock-outs, and snatches of Middle Eastern music. In one very strange and very beautiful passage, a piano quietly repeats the same French-sounding, slightly angular motif while a man, presumably Marc Hollander, occasionally gasps in wonder. Another section consists mostly of primitive synthesizer whistles, accompanied by scraps of tuned percussion and sul ponticello violin scrapes. The piece ends with a section subtitled "Radio Sofia," which seems to be an attempt to imitate a Bulgarian talk show. But what really makes "Cinema" great is not the variety of material used, but how deliciously /right/ it feels. There is an incredible economy of material here, so that nearly everything in the piece is somehow related to something else. Motifs are manipulated and recombined in ways that keep the listener in a constant state of half-recognition. The piece is simply brilliant, and more than makes up for the shortcomings of the first side of the album. Simply put, anyone with any interest in RIO or 20th century classical music has to hear this
Un Peu de l'Ame des Bandits
The musical references to Fripp and Eno are out in the open here. Titles like "In the Wake of King Fripp" and "Omar Diop Blondin" (which is dedicated in the liner notes to Fripp and Eno) make it clear that Pinhas at least was a huge admirer of Fripp's work. That compliment was later paid back when Pinhas found out that Fripp had become an admirer of Heldon. There are other musical references here, such as "Moebius" which, perhaps not coincidentally, is strikingly similar to the German group Cluster (one of whose members is named Moebius). And "Aphanisis", which has a lot in common with the solo works of ex-Genesis guitarist Anthony Phillips, or even "Michel Ettori", which reminds this reviewer of the acoustic guitar work of early Pink Floyd (think "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast" or "Granchester Meadows").
Oddly enough, I recently read an interview with Richard Pinhas from the early 1990s wherein he states that this album does not withstand the test of time. I cannot disagree with him more. Its musical references aside, Allez Teia, for me represents Heldon's first great work. It is less aggressive in mood than many later Heldon releases and avoids the blistering sequencer-driven romps they later became known for but it is a cohesive, concise and never overstated work (unlike Heldon III, It's Always Rock 'N' Roll, which followed close on the heals of this album's 1975 release). Allez Teia effectively generates a unified listening experience complete with thoughtful and evocative sound worlds, brooding landscapes and gentle musical niches (plus it includes some smashingly lush 'n' juicy mellotron strings!).
Whether you're a fan of Heldon, Robert Fripp, Brian Eno, or any mid-1970s electronic music, this CD is bound to please. There are tracks here that will stay with you the rest of your life
(manand)
