France Sauvage
Ou Les Observer, Savoir Les Reconnaitre
Vocalized electronics and intellectual kicks. Cervicals are shaking, neurons are chatting. Hello and thank you experimental France. The Americans envy us for having them. Decadent improvisations and raw virtuosity since 2006. 1803 concerts to their credit. 732,715 kilometers of road covered. A buttock forever and ever in the underground charts. Another one shamelessly coveting the MTV Music Award 2037. That's all, yeah. France Sauvage was banned from playing even before starting in the basement of this pizzeria in Rennes in 2010. France Sauvage, like all bands that last, has gone through periods, phases, aesthetic obsessions, ups, downs. Pure and hard experimentation, controlled empiricism, laboratory chemistry, the hammer, the anvil and humor are part of the group's trademark. But that would be to forget the essential of their musical genome, namely the rhythm, the pulse, the swag. The more by the less, the collage-poetry. 2023: goodbye squats, hello TV sets. Glory within reach. This won't make them rehearse any more though. Don't push it. The unique show, the singular event. Exclusively for you and live. Surprising flashes and controlled skids. The variable instrumentarium in controlled autonomy. Static electricity and human flesh. On their album 'Où Les Observer, Savoir Les Reconnaître,' there is always the Pennywise clown not far away, the cellar on fire, the crawling succubi, the leather that heats up, the whip that schläges, but all this bursts out of a pop writing, swaying and generous, which has been polished for years in a tube factory. It's that ladle of hot chocolate on a scoop of vanilla ice cream that makes this record totally addictive. You won't always know where they're going with it, but they'll eventually get you there with panache.