Second fruitful full-length album from the composer Alban Blaising aka Feul Follet, mailing from Nancy all his french force throughout a sui generis record truly picturing the author’s purest talent. A project that it’s accompanied by a haunting 20-page comic that covers the copious eleven tracks.
But let’s make a point very clear: the equivalent of Will-o’-the-wisp is not the meek classmate nodding off his head, this chapter is difficult to fathom it out, it spreads maniacally in grooves, delighted fragments. Alban is a spider producing silk from his spinneret glands located at the tip of his abdomen. Each produces a thread for a special purpose. Now apply the same logic to his songs and you’d get a glimpse of its qualities.
The walk inside the mastermind’s labyrinth begins with the title track, where the lanky sound is permeated by an irregular flow, until it gushes in a pastel rock adorned with nostalgic upbringing and infused electronic textures. The nature photographer blends his love for the animal kingdom, skin-prickling movies, sensational genres like shoegaze and dream pop wisely squeezed into a highly coherent album that, at the same time, defies the boundaries of the genres mentioned.
La stèle collides with Cold Cave-like climate, drooping from electronic-driven lines of thoughts. The shoegaze input takes care of the trouble waters of unpredictability. The chords are meticulously embellished with turnarounds and melodic moonsaults. The message between the line is creatively delivering off-putting music seemingly uncomplicated, masqueraded by a vigorous talent.
The project is pitted through a story of a boy discovering a mysterious tombstone while playing in an ancient forest, which eventually sets a series of peculiar events in motion, punctually corresponding with the respective songs. Animals disappearing into nothing, hunters who can no longer kill, hikers hearing spectral voices etcetera etcetera.
The narrative mindset is the absolute A+: Interlude is so filmic, , vividly graphic in its storytelling, the struggle is filtered through synth mastery, whereas Les chasseurs’ volatile lyrics pave the way to sphinxlike tunnels of sonic effects. It swallows as a whale all the theatrical push as we were listening to Carach Angren or an anime theme. The more we listen to it, the deeper we enter inside the pulp of the story, which is echoed by feelings of innocence, paranoia and beauty, counterbalanced by an ahead-of-the-beat within playful mutations spinning around the endless metamorphoses of the piece itself (L’enfant).
La forêt oubliée ( Blackjack Illuminist Record) is a record that calls the shot, it needs no saving graces, cascade of synth gemstones In which You definitely have to pan through its length by hand given. For instance, Le photographe is shrouded in remote audiovisual epoch, revitalizing a wandering structure which is punk per se, but much more when contextualized. Its powerful beauty resides in the sequence of the story, listening it outside of the chronicled tale would loosen its strength.
The album moves along like a mixtape brilliantly generated on the footprints of of The Cure, My Bloody Valentine, The Smiths, its unconstrained dna is molding poetry: it elicits plenty of catharsis, inflected in a subdermally unique monologue of shadows and eclipses. Inside this cauldron, La disparition triumphs in its buoyant mysticism, echoing through memories of the most investigational Mogwai, the puzzling synth leads aren’t adamntly afraid of being predatory and utterly undomesticated.
Their realm is harmonized by genealogical-sounding helps out. The rhythmic bassline is pumped by inscrutable vocals amalgamated in blood-curdling background but love-infusing creativity .
And at the end of it, it’s not the forest to be forgotten anymore but us, lost and disoriented in this over-stimulating world. And we couldn’t be more grateful than this.