French artist Féloche’s third and most recent offering is one which demands critical attention whilst simultaneously shunning it at every opportunity.
Not only are translations of its lyrics non-existent, it’s the kind of record that bobs along slightly under the radar, emerging at the exact moment when critical attention is no longer relevant. Add to this an absurd fusion of sounds and a manic depressive scope of emotion and you have Silbo; possibly one of the best albums of the year, possibly one of the worst.
To start at the beginning of both record and career, Féloche began his musical life in the Ukranian Punk band Vopli Vidopliassova before moving onto a style that “is halfway to the electro, the song and rocksteady wild.” None of these influences are in anyway present in the record’s namesake and opener ‘Silbo’ and yet the song is quite simply and irrefutably beautiful. A dreamy whistling sound acts as a soaring refrain as an offbeat baseline carries Féloche’s dusky voice over a rustling seascape and gently plucked acoustic guitar. The only song with a discoverable translation, we are treated to a simple, narrative-lacking reverie for the Gomera bird, “Seeing him yomping, agile football, bowed legs, We Distinguish him from clay only with His whistle sound.”
https://soundcloud.com/yabastarecords/f-loche-silbo-1
The follower up is an instant reminder of Féloche’s varied musical style and, in no uncertain terms, a banger. A lyrical exchange between the lead’s half-spoken/half-sung French and Roxanne Shanté’s English rap, ‘T2Ceux’ is reminiscent of a C2C breakbeat shuffle that merges magnificently with strings, synth and scrapey stick. Further down the track listing we are treated to ‘On Va Ouh!’ in which the listener is carried from chirping rural scenes to a muffled, Daft Punk inspired club exterior. Climaxing with an energetic mute-flute/electro trumpet duet, the song is a brilliantly weird display of the avant-garde.
It is perhaps unfortunately at this point that the album escapes me. Much of the record is taken up with frantic, closed fret acoustic scrabbles that seem humorous on a Ukulele Orchestra track, but do little but induce images of painfully self-congratulatory smiles here. Add to this an unfathomable mixture of beat-boxing, big-beat and apple crunch sound effects and you have something truly bizarre. The one constant is Féloche. His voice rests somewhere between the gut wrenching reverie of Jacques Brel and the beyond stereotypical lechery of Serge Gainsburg: the musical equivalent of having a man wearing a beret rest his hand on your thigh whilst talking about his dead mother. I’m yet to decide whether or not this is a good thing, but it remains aural sexual misconduct.
In truth, I have to think that this album is a little on the shit side. It has the refrains and it has the scope, it just lacks that certain something that stops a ground-breaking record from becoming a forced, melodramatic concept piece. There is still much to take away from this strange little gem and even to my unerring Anglicised ears I recognise something is lost in translation, but also something gained. In all, it is most definitely worth a listen.