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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Listed: Insomnia Brass Band

Photo by Frank Schindelbeck

The Insomnia Brass Band — made up of trombonist Anke Lucks, baritone saxophonist Almut Schlichting and drummer Christian Marien — was founded in spring 2017 and spent the next several pre-pandemic years on the road at jazz clubs and festivals. Their recorded debut, Late Night Kitchen, out near the end of 2020, was raucous, irresistible and bursting from its seams; it is hard to believe that it required only three musicians. In her review, Jennifer Kelly wrote, “Insomnia Brass Band sounds like a cubist painting of an oompah band, noses jutting off in every direction, cerebral and off-beat, yet somehow capturing an eccentric, unexpected groove.” The band’s sax player, Almut Schlichting, contributed this listed.

Bloor (now Bloar) — “Bast” from Drolleries (Astral Spirits)

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This record invariably calms me down, it is so wild and screaming and so clear and concise at the same time. Right now, it seems like a dream — One dark Berlin winter night in 2019, I rode my bike down the hill to a small place full of friends and musicians, listening to wonderful sets of improvised and composed music spun around Ken Vandermark’s New Marker band, and talking and drinking beer in between... and their drummer Phil Sudderberg recommended his Brooklyn friends, Sam Weinberg’s band Bloor (now Bloar). We hope these situations will soon be real again. Meanwhile, Dusted is not the worst digital place to spend a dark winter night in 2021.

Miles Okazaki — “Misterioso” from Work (Complete, Volumes 1-6)

Work (Complete, Volumes 1-6) by Miles Okazaki

To me, this is Monkish in a double sense of the word — Okazaki shines through Thelonious Monk’s work in a deep and thorough way; but he also seems to be a medieval Monk himself — severe, concentrated, meditative, playing the solo guitar, a clear sound, in transparent magnetic rhythmic layers, in the early morning abbey garden...

Elza Soares — “Luz Vermelha” from A mulher do fim do mundo

The Woman At The End Of The World (A Mulher Do Fim Do Mundo) by Elza Soares

Who else wants to sound like Elza Soares when they are old? No matter if singer or instrumentalist? Moreover, the band and arrangements are amazing, the detailed care with which the sound is built... I love listening to this on headphones while taking a midnight walk across empty streets.

Sons of Kemet — “In The Castle Of My Skin” from Lest We Forget What We Came Here To Do (Naim Jazz)

Lest We Forget What We Came Here To Do by Sons Of Kemet

Grooves in cycles and cycles in grooves, the music is sparse and focused and fascinating, driven by the tenor saxophone of Shabaka Hutchings, who in turn is carried through the song by the tuba and the two drummers. I listened to this album a lot before our Insomnia Brass Band studio session in January 2020. Like most of the tracks chosen here, it resonates with my growing wish to fall into an intense rhythmic trance, repetitions welcome, no matter if listening or playing myself...

Frank Rosaly’s ¡Todos de Pie! — “Cantares de la Sierra (Yaguaré)”

Frank Rosaly's ¡Todos de Pie! by Frank Rosaly's ¡Todos de Pie!

Discovered thanks to Rigobert Dittmann’s great little magazine Bad Alchemy — Drummer Frank Rosaly and vocalist Jaap Blonk go back and forth between abstract landscapes and the carnival with a fat band, combining underwater-like weirdness and a Puerto Rican All Star attitude!

Tom Waits — “Clap Hands” from Rain Dogs (Island Records)

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Tom Waits and this record are very old friends of mine, fueling the addiction to tell bizarre stories in songs, each song carelessly-carefully arranged to become a dark few-minute-fairytale...

Charles Brackeen — Rhythm X (Strata East)

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An old recording, a new discovery — my current online jazz history class is New-York-based trumpet player Thomas Heberer’s Facebook stream, where he is sharing his giant record collection little by little under the simple heading “from the ongoing series of recordings that I love.” Adding to my thousand projects for next week — listen to every record Ed Blackwell and Charlie Haden made together; finally find out more about Don Cherry; and get to know Charles Brackeen at all...

Konono No1 — “Kin 78 One” from Kinshasa 1978 (Crammed Discs)

Kinshasa 1978 by Konono N°1

Another track featuring masters of cycles and grooves, grooves and cycles, the music very vivid and animated through minimal but infinite variations – apparently one of the first recordings of “Congotronics,” presented by the wonderful label Crammed Discs.

Danyèl Waro — “Plantèr” from Gafourn (Piros)

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Since the first Corona lockdown in March 2020, I have been doing improvised late night dance sessions in my kitchen— and the music of Danyèl Waro, Maloya from far away La Réunion, is among my favorite dance partners, as well as the London band Melt Yourself Down, and the old acquaintances Celia Cruz and the Beastie Boys...

Nils Wogram Root 70 — “Hot Summer Blues” from Listen To Your Woman (nWog Records)

Listen to Your Woman by Nils Wogram Root 70

A great band. A great band, has been for years, playing brilliantly and radiating warmth and companionship on this record... according to the liner notes, they had been on the road just before recording this album on a Berlin winter night in 2010, doing what we are all dreaming of right now — travelling and playing and travelling and playing and travelling and playing and really being together again!

#dusted magazine #listed #insomnia brass band #Almut Schlichting #bloor #bloar #miles okazaki #elza soares #sons of kemet #frank rosaly #jaap blonk #tom waits #charles brackeen #konono no1 #danyèl waro #nils wogram root 70

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andranikolayi · 7 years

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Sonic Protest 2016 Part II

for The Attic Magazine

April in Paris

Parisian weather had always been capricious, to say the least, but during the festival week it seemed like someone was pushing the rain and sunshine buttons at random.

April in the city sure didn't have the romantic nostalgia of the Van Duke song, rather bursts of joy followed by frustrated fits. However, the fury of the elements didn't seem to intimidate the crowd, that still showed up for the events in healthy numbers.

Although the chestnuts were not yet in blossom, the feeling of spring renewal was in the air: people had an added gait to their step and sometimes even smiled. There was a certain joy reflected in the blooming trees and side road daffodils, with the promise of picnics in Buttes Chaumont and wine along the Seine.

During the moody afternoon of the second day, I enjoyed a brief moment of sunbathing in the unlikely small park by Chatelet between an interview with Erik Minkinnen in the 6th arrondisement and the sound check at Saint Merry.

Centered by four large speakers, Joachim Montessuis was struggling to get acoustics of the church to succumb to his massive drones. The entire building was resonating with his earthy drones. The sound was so powerful that a couple of strangers walking by the church stopped by to inquire about what was going on inside, intrigued by the sonic out pour.

The metal heads from Aluk Todolo were walking around the sun-drenched church, taking advantage of its impressive decor by posing for what looked like subversive band photos.

However, the long-awaited AMM reunion was all everyone could talk about; how they haven't performed together in almost 20 years, how this would be their first show in France as a trio, how strained or not their relationship really was...

Gwen, the PR person, was telling me how hard it was for her to find a photo of the three of them together for the event. No wonder they looked so young and handsome- the picture was taken in 1974!

Soon, Eddie Prevost and Keith Rowe appeared, accompanied by his wife. They came to check out the venue before the sound check. They seemed to have lost John Tilbury, again.

When he finally showed up, he seemed to take more pleasure in chatting up the young lady in charge of programming at Saint Merry than hang out with his band mates.

After their setup, I tried to urge them to pose for a group photo; while Eddie and Keith quickly complied, John was nowhere to be found. He then showed up eating a piece of cake. In the end Eddie managed to bring everyone back together and for 30 seconds he managed to keep the group together. It was almost show time.

The Magic Hour

The crowd started taking their seats, quietly. The church looked less crowded than the previous night. However historical the AMM reunion might have been, it didn't seem to produce the same amount of hype as William Basinski's presence. While the free improv and jazz crowds can be very devoted, this type of music doesn't really cater to the young and hip demographic as much.

It was almost 8.30; the last rays of sunshine were still pouring in through the stained glass. Two large, golden panels were hanging from the ceiling behind the improvised stage in the choir's nook.

The panels were catching some of the light of the setting sun, bathing the church in a beautiful yellow glow.

Photographers call that time of day the magic hour, when the light naturally has this beautiful, warm tinting. Terrence Malik even shot an entire movie using only this kind of lighting and called it Days of Heaven. There certainly is a special sort of sentiment associated with this time.

The crowd waited patiently. There was still light out when the band finally took to the stage, welcomed by a pious yet vigorous set of applause. You could sense a special type of worshiping taking place, the church growing more quiet than a field on a snowy day.

I had a strange feeling of déjà vu watching Tilbury at the golden-framed piano; I then recalled seeing him perform at CAC Bretigny about three years ago, in a gallery space covered in the same space foil.

The three sure did take advantage of the self-imposed silence, starting their set as quietly as possible, as if testing the limits of the audience. John was clacking the small cover of the piano before touching the keys, while Eddie was gently caressing his drums and Keith barely turning on his guitar amp. This fragile web of sound and silence was soon interrupted by an unexpected yet familiar presence: someone was playing the melody from the Pink Panther outside the church, probably one of those street musicians you see around the Kandinsky fountain. The theme was hauntingly disturbing. While many may see it as an intrusion that ruined their set, I think it was more of a way to welcome the outside world into their session, like John Cage opening a window to the New York traffic noise. This familiar yet distorted melody brought an interesting contrast to the beginning of their almost silent set, emphasizing the kind of barely there sound they were challenging.

Slowly, the sound grew denser, becoming more organic by the minute. The golden panels were gently swaying, moved by an invisible breeze. The church was dark now, illuminated by a couple of yellow lights. Despite their dynamic in real life, their stage presence was flawless, weaving a complex form of abstract narrative together. You felt transported into a world of pure sound, where instruments became real natural elements, taking a life of their own. It was just like everything you ever heard done in the realm of free improvisation, but with a freshness that revealed their incredible skill and constant curiosity toward music. When done poorly, any extra minute of an improv concert can feel excruciating. In AMM's case, the 50-odd minutes flew by unnoticed.

The light reflected on the golden panels made it seem as if the magic hour was taking place inside the church; that or just the surprisingly warm feeling generated by this atonal, adventurous music.

A Large, Resonating Space

It was hard to come back to Earth after AMM's mesmerizing set. The evening a different turn after their powerfully gentle showcase of improv virtuosity.

The seating was quickly cleared out for Joachim Montessuis' set, as if his drones needed the physical space as well in order to roam freely. He started unleashing his noisy drones to a slightly more compact crowd, eager to take in the powerful sound.

With the aid of a guitar and electronics, he was slowly building a wall of noise. You could hear the influence of doom drone masters Sun O))) in his sound, especially in the way the music was trying to take over the entire space.

Huddled inside this cocoon, the audience entered a state of deep listening, getting more comfortable with the overpowering sound as it kept going around the church. He had chosen a very particular way of propagating his drones, inducing a sort of flowing wave pattern in favor of the more compact approach usually employed in this niche.

The entire church became a large, resonating box and, just as during sound check, it was almost more interesting to witness from outside than within. I was about a dozen teenagers knocking at the church door, trying to make their way inside, puzzled and excited by this sonic force. It sure made for a confusing and comical experience.

Unfortunately, not the same can be said about Aluk Todolo, the rockers everyone seemed excited to see. While their set promised the sort of confrontational approach inspired by Joachim's music, their more metal-oriented endeavor fell pretty flat.

Some blame this underachievement on the lack of a more frontal, confrontational space, claiming their set would have worked better in a tighter venue such as Les Instants, while others brought up tensions within the band. Either way, it looked more like much ado about nothing.

An Evening With the Prince of Darkness

The third night was fast approaching, featuring local legends Sister Iodine and new wave legend Martin Rev from Suicide. You could feel the crowd brimming with anticipation.

I arrived early, hoping to spend a little more time with the other members of Sister Iodine, after my lengthy discussion with Erik the day before.

The night's venue, La Parrole Errante, took the party back into the hip suburb of Montreuil, also known as the Williamsburg of Paris. The space is an enormous open hall with tall ceilings and no windows, painted black. It has the austerity and scale you would normally associate with techno parties. Surprisingly, it doesn't host raves but poetry nights.

The place is so big that even during a sold out night with the large main stage, the sound stage in the middle and label booths in the back, it still remains a third empty.

The backstage is as industrial and democratic as the concert venue, with large tables for the bands and crew in a loft-like space. I was hoping to get a few shots of the band together, but the only one I managed to steal was during the pre-show recon session with the sound engineer. Trios have a strange dynamic: the members easily break into duos and solos. Just like in AMM's case, the guys seemed more preoccupied with their own thing – Nicolas with his girlfriend, Lionel with his Ricard and Erik busy scribbling lyrics for his set, papers that always get stolen by fans, he said.

If you will, Sister Iodine are like the Sonic Youth of France; came up over 20 years ago with an unique sound ahead of their time, had a huge influence on the local scene, did countless collaborations and solo projects and have very devoted, cult-like following. That is if Sonic Youth were a self-destructive, highly nihilistic trio with a penchant for the occult. However, the most remarkable thing about them is how down to earth and approachable they are in real life. If you saw them hanging out, you wouldn't be able to anticipate the sort of self-devouring fire they manage to conjure on stage. They're almost jolly drinking buddies.

Their set oscillates between deep, dark drones and desperate, consumed howls, all guided by a deeply ritualistic drumming.

There is something utterly cathartic happening on stage, a sort of contagious energy that envelops the crowd, as if possessed. Besides the regular head banging, I witnessed the most exuberant forms of dancing to dark music I could ever imagine. There was a lot of jumping and turning around in circles, but the most touching moment was this couple at the very back of the room trying out a sort of interpretative modern choreography. Actually, it was the girl showing the guy a set of slow, large moves, encouraging him to create his own special dance.

I spent the rest of the night following Erik, hoping to finally do the little band photo shoot I was promised. Only the members seemed to disperse even more after the show than before.

I wasn't very impressed with Somaticae's set, which felt like the compulsory moment of analogue techno they squeeze in every year, probably done by some Cergy alumni. I was telling Erik I don't agree with this gratuitous destruction to which he replied, visibly excited ''Oh, but this guy sounds really good! We're brothers into destruction!''. In this light, I decided to stay on and give it another chance, although my intuition felt about right when even my dark techno-loving friends concluded that he just ''had his moments'''.

The biggest disappointment of the evening was yet to come. The mostly younger crowd was still riled up from the previous set when Martin Rev came on stage. Dressed in a tight vinyl tank top and pants giving him a wet look, Martin started banging on his keyboard trying to create some form of agitation. He had that ''I couldn't care less'' attitude with his Oakley 100 C neon-green cyclist sunglasses and matching belt, yet you could obviously tell he was feeding off the crowd as much as he despised them. It was the old ''hate them and they'll love you trick''.

Musically, his overflowing set had the same douche-y bravado, performing over an hour of mishmash ranging from Latin, funk and jungle to bad 80s cheesiness. You felt like you were in front of a legend, for sure, but more someone who was just a carcass of their former glory like late, Las Vegas Elvis rather than a true master.

With his gut spilling out of his shiny suit and clearly stardom-stung attitude, the comparison didn't seem far-fetched.

With his ruffled hair, ill-fitting suit and hunchbacked pose, Erik Minkinnen was the true Prince of Darkness, hiding an all-consuming fire inside his humble figure.

Totems, Fetishes and Dance Lessons

While the weather still couldn't seem to make up its mind between rain or shine, Saturday quickly ushered in the last big concert night of the festival. The newly formed rainbow visible from the venue's yard was a beautiful omen for this celebratory evening.

We were promised a particularly festive night and I felt was more than ready to dance it all off.

My host Nicolas was equally excited for the evening, which he described to me briefly saying ''oh, Api Uiz is always good, Circle are this cult metal band which should be interesting, I saw Quintron before and he's amazing and Konono is well...Konono''.

I have to admit I was mostly looking forward to the big Konono finale, but I trusted Nicolas' taste enough to keep an open mind for the rest of the evening.

Api Uiz are another French veteran band doing this instrumental dance-rock with Celtic, punk and Latin influences. While the crowd seemed pretty into it, the constant energy plunge felt slightly too brutal for an opener. They had a fun vibe, but it would have probably worked better if it was 30 minutes shorter.

Circle made for a very entertaining show, taking a page from old rock'n'roll dress codes and sporting fetish gear, fishnet stockings and other glam rock paraphernalia. A friend of mine was utterly annoyed by their music but gave them props for upstaging Steven Tyler in the costume department. Their sort of self-deprecating, humorous approach was something to be appreciated both in the metal world and for musicians in general.

I can't say I was swiped off my feet by their music, but watching them climb over their instruments and goofing around was pretty engaging. It made for the true oddball moment the festival is famous for.

Although the true moment of pure weirdness was in Quintron and Miss Pussycat's set.

Even Princesses Are Renting

Don't know if there's something in the water in New Orleans, but the cultural melting pot can breed some particularly strange hybrids.

Such is the case with Quintron and Miss Pussycat, giving an excellent example of DIY done right. After Circle's display of Scandinavian metal marchioness, the stage was taken over by a big, colorful cube that looked as if some sort of monster vomited out the fabric section of a thrift store. What looked like a flowery colorful blob soon turned out to be a stage! The lights went on, small curtains were pulled away and the show began. With puppets.

Only in their case there was nothing innocent about the fairy tale. Ok, it had talking cloud and mountains and starred a blonde young lady by the name of Princess Diamond Sky Riverdale who was also The Chosen One, with a crown and everything. Oh, the beloved trope of the fairy tale! But, instead of the classic prince charming scenario, Miss Pussycat, assisted by Quintron on voice and sound effects, weaved a modern fable on contemporary living which, despite the surreal setting, felt uncomfortably real.

Let's just say that Princess Diamond Sky Riverdale was more of a Hannah Horvath/Frances Ha character than a khaleesi – she wants to move to Goblinsberg and needs a place to live. A parade of houses ensues: we have a horrifying sky scraper with metal teeth that asks for a ridiculous amount of gold for a one-bedroom, with draconian clauses. Unfortunately, that sort of real estate abuse is too much even for a princess. A friendly house follows, only to reveal that she has no more room left and her walls are also gone. She then meets with the mayor, the skyscraper's girlfriend and tries to work out a deal. Things don't really go as planned, as how could you trust a goblin with a pointy witches hat who clearly wants your crown? But I won't spoil it for you. Let's just say the development is well...pretty unexpected. In a good way.

This story pretty much resonates with anyone who's ever tried to find sensible accommodation in the Big City, be it London, Paris or Wiliamsburg.

A feathered fan and that weird light bulb thing

The show really takes off with Quintron getting behind his one-man-orchestra setup of DIY instruments and handmade electronics. He sits behind a table complete with car lights and a bobble head holding the American flag, gently swaying with the beat.

I'm slightly embarrassed that I haven't heard about them before, since they seem to embody everything I love about experimental music – unique sounds, handmade instruments, a real penchant for dancing and wacky theatrics to boot!

What followed could only be described as very, very delirious dance music; it had the type of infectious energy that I only seen at Gang Gang Dance live right around Saint Dhyphma. The perfect blend of experimental out-there-ness coupled with a very primal understanding of rhythm, causing an almost instant desire to dance. Of course, it was all from the fringes of the alternative/indie realm rather than club music, but it was one of those instances when people from a more rock-oriented background embraced the unrestrained power of percussion and electronics. The crowd was still a bit taken aback, as French audiences usually are, feeling a bit apprehensive before surrendering to the groove. Luckily, as during all my good dancing-concert experiences, there was an outgoing American girl jumping and shouting in the front row with her SO. In this type of situation, having someone who's super into it and not afraid to show it makes for a great icebreaker.

My ultra-fan was sporting a hawk feather, native-American style and was singing along to the mostly mumbled choruses about alligators, cats and other creatures. And, added bonus, she was probably twice the age of the drunk Brit broads and American Indierellas you could spot at Point Ephemere and Glazart among the front-row dancing crowd.

There was screaming, lots of intricate button-pushing and more dancers coming out of their shells.

By the end of their set, it felt like the party could have gone on all night. The crowd had clapped yearning for more, in spite of Quintron's exhausted but happy smile. He was shirtless and drenched in sweat.

The duo has been at it for over fourteen years and the result is a tightly-knit display of playful craziness, in all its colorful glory. Quintron is sitting behind his car front table, banging on a drum, while a series of loops are playing, pitching a lap steel guitar and singing, while Miss Pussycat is playing the maracas in a neon asymmetrical dress and adding vocals as well. It's hard to make out his full setup from the front row, but I caught a glimpse of a cardboard turning bass device and what can only be described as ''that weird light bulb thing''. It's funny that my friend Jim, who was already familiar with their work and had seen them in Michigan suggested I should approach them and ask about the light bulb machine, as he never talks about it.

With a little research, I found out it was actually a handmade synthesizer he invented as part of a museum residency in New Orleans. It modulated the sound according to the light from the bulb and has a touch element for control that works very similarly to DJ scratching. They're called Drum Buddies and you can even get one yourself!

Reading more about their projects after the show I found many more fascinating things, including an interview scheduled during the eye of a hurricane and a device designed by Quintron that transforms your house into a weather-controlled healing drone machine.

This joyous display of unbounded creativity left me with that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you encounter the rare kind of beautiful dreamers that still exist. They create that fascinating blend of genres that leaves them impossible to pin down. The term most often used to describe their sound is swamp-tech. While that might sound quite reductive, it captures their Mississippi weirdness and dance floor roots nicely.

They sure were the discovery of the festival for me; I still can't help smiling thinking about their show.

Now those white kids need to watch and learn!

We all knew Saturday was the last big night of the festival; the exhaustion was seeping into the stage crew, but everyone soldiered on, excited about the most anticipated act of the evening – Konono No1!

After a long evening of dance teasing, it was finally THE moment we've all been waiting for; it almost felt like this is what the entire festival has been steadily preparing us for, taking us through a dark, emotional journey only to reward us with exuberant Congo drums for our patience. The entire date was planned as the ''fun night'' of the festival, although the real fun only began about halfway through Quintron's set.

I took another swig of whiskey and headed to secure my front row position before the band got onstage. Unlike the other interludes, many others have taken the same precaution. I could spot them from the backstage, waiting to make their entrance. A group of people that looked completely ordinary, much like the type you would see on your commute on line 13 or near my friend's house in Saint Denis. This sort of average appearance rendered them strangely relate-able. After all, those were the Congo superstars, THE group who toured the world and played with everyone who's anyone. Like many other teenagers, I discovered their music quite late, spotting them among Bjork's collaborators in 2007, a time when The Ex did not have a meaning for me yet. I may have seen a few of them on stage with her during that tour. Maybe on my first trip to Paris for her set at Rock en Seine? Or maybe not, since I recall being bummed they didn't open for her at that show we drove 12 hours to in Istanbul.

Something had come full circle in this musical journey and now the show was about to begin. The audience exploded as they went on stage, cheering and applauding with a very non-characteristic enthusiasm. Maybe it was Quintron's warm up; or just the sheer uncontrollable joy in anticipation of what was yet to come. The show was sold out.

The group started with the leader, Augustin Makuntima Mawangu, slightly nervous, greeting us in French with a full smiling face. He's probably still adjusting to his new position, since his father, the founder of the group, passed away merely a year before. Everyone was in position, waiting for his signal.

Then Pauline Mbuka Nsiala, the lady of the group, started working what looked like an art brut interpretation of a cowbell cluster and the ceremony began.

I can't quite describe what happened after; it's very hazy, lost between the arms and legs of fellow dancers intertwined, avoiding bears and piling on the coats of the newcomers, trying to move closer to the action. It spread like wildfire, leaving no survivors in sight. Within ten minutes, everyone and I mean everyone was dancing.

Twenty, five and forty-year-olds alike were taking the syncopated beat all in, often in spite of their bodies; it was as if they couldn't resist the urge for dancing but their members somewhat still had to catch up. They were out of sync, not really knowing how to move their arms and legs properly. They were jumping, swaying, raising their arms up in the air, or desperately trying to fit their club moves into the 140bpm orgy. Yet they were all dancing, dancing with the glorious abandon white people rarely get unless they're heavily intoxicated. They were beautiful in their awkwardness. And probably it would have felt less out of place if you didn't spot the few black dancers in the audience who seemed to know exactly how to move to this music. Not with their hands or legs in desperate agitation, but with full control and grace, letting the hips and torso move seamlessly.

But nobody was really paying attention to them; Pauline was stealing the show on stage, exhibiting the authentic way of dancing which had magically un-dislocated hip written all over it.

I was probably the only one looking at the other dancers, feeling uncomfortable in my white girl lack of coordination.

Yet nobody seemed to care, entranced by the music, continuing to move, shout and sway, hypnotized.

Even that stuffy guy who ruins the show by posting himself up front, in primo dance territory with an annoyingly big zoom lens felt like he needed to pay his dues to the dance god and was lightly swaying while swapping cameras.

Augustin talked for another couple of couple of minutes, telling the audience how they have traveled the world and have seen so many incredible places on their journey and they were headed to Florida next, before introducing they new tune, Kuna America, from their collaboration with Batida.

The result was not much different from the rest of their repertoire, the brief intermission soon melting back into the drums/bells/whistles/likembé vortex sweeping everyone off their feet.

I left my suffocating spot to get a better look at the crowd; the dancing was endemic. It was pure joy to see the staff members coming over the fence, happily celebrating this last effort with a frenetic dance. From the bar to the backstage, the large industrial hall was still trembling after a solid dance marathon clocking towards a full hour by now. If you looked closely, you could almost see the sparks in the air.

Stormy weather

The next couple of days were a blur; it might have something to do with my Montreuil night bus misadventure that can only happen if your head is still full of music and your feet barely hold up after all the dancing.

And, since Paris is the cruel cultural clusterfuck we all love and hate, my quiet Sunday with a short show scheduled turned into an evening interview with my fellow Beaux Arts alumni who took RadioBAL to the electonic art festival in Creteil and my new RA friends invited me to Concrete for their Residency party series with Move D and Margaret Dygas. And I love me some Dygas!

Not that it would have any direct connection with the festival, but it just goes to show that a trip to Paris for one event is never just that, as there are probably 3 or 4 equally interesting art/music-related happenings going on at the same time, often fighting to reach the same audience.

Monday I finally went to see the Re:Cycle art show associated with the festival, although Nicolas Collin's charming conference made more of an impact. I don't think I've seen an artist present his work with such poise and humor. Watching footage of performances from his generative scores, it felt like he could have been better integrated into the program as a composer, not just through his workshop and art piece. I really hope I'll get to meet this master again.

My Tuesday plans fell through, when rushing to get to Grand Action, one of those repertoire cinemas in rue des Ecoles I used to love frequenting as a student, I saw a large fire truck blocking my path. A group of people were outside the theater. Oh no. The red truck was, unfortunately, linked to the festival – an overheated projector caused a small fire in the cinema. Nobody was injured, but the screening had to be moved. Cecile, the PR, was handling the crowd with a brave, nonchalant smile, jokingly suggesting that the theater caught fire because they were too hot.

The found footage film, 24 Hour City by People Like Us was moved to an improvised screening room within the exhibition space in La Generale, two hours later. I was impressed by their diligence, but my sleep deprived self could have not endured another nightly adventure and my 6 am flight.

I said goodbye with a heavy heart, crossing the bridge towards the 85 to a beautifully-timed sunset, Eiffel Tower, the works... It was the Paris carte postale in all its glory; the perfect credit-rolling ending to this beautiful festival. I was sure hoping to return the following year.

Waiting for the bus with a friendly looking bearded clochard, I played again the lyrics that have been on repeat in my head all through this journey: ''Keeps rainin' / Don't know why it keep on rainin' , to Viola Wills' melodrama disco tune.

#sonic protest 2016 #the attic mag #instants chavires #konono no1 #film photography #35mm film

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