Thanks in particular to the unexpected (and long overdue) appearance of a profile on Wire in 2008, the web sees the inevitable surfacing of doodlers chanting the immensity of Ghédalia Tazartès. Someone even rants in pathetically self-aggrandizing manner, along the lines of “I’ve always needed this stuff for my daily doses of out-of-ordinariness”, and so forth. Having blindly bought a couple of original releases by the eccentric French/Turkish rambler as a youngster – intrigued by the name, of all reasons – I do not seem to recall such a gush of laudamus prior to the above mentioned feature, apart from rare references in the inner circles. Miracles of mass diffusion. In this case we have to cheer, though: if there’s an idiosyncratic personality that deserves a bigger exposure, it must be this 63-year old irredeemable anarchist. Hence the compulsion to add these autonomous reflections to the list of belated praise-singing entries: despite two abundant decades of acquaintance with this figure, the private awareness of this fascinating character had never turned into words before.
Ante-Mortem represents a fulfilling update on Tazartès’ world of wacky fragments, heated pseudo-pygmy ululations, old-fashioned taping-and-sampling, overlaid multi-idiomatic vocalizations and mini-operas. The nameless tracks’ duration ranges from circa 15 seconds to more than six minutes; the elements of interest – and also of legitimate fun – are too many to cite, but something needs to be recounted. For starters, at least twice the man chews morsels of Italian language, with hilarious results for yours truly. What appears similar to a modified Sardinian folk song – delivered in a fabulous Van Vliet/Lydon vocal crossbreed – talks of masturbating on a beach, another refers to the threat of being slapped in the face. Other pictures: a ritual “theme” of sorts is repeated at varying speeds in different chapters, and it’s just memorable. Wild Brazilian rhythms and cumulative loops of hyper-distorted guitars mesh without a problem. Snippets of classic orchestrations are brilliantly juxtaposed to the protagonist’s raspy soliloquies. A pair of Ave Marias close the program: the first is entrancingly guitar-centric and talking-blues-ish, the second is a rendition of Schubert’s “famous” one that procured a convulsive giggle to your host. However, “Vingt-Trois” sounds like the acoustic depiction of a person’s ignition. Almost bloodcurdling.
Ultimately, the spirit of Tazartès is an authentic marvel. No compromises of any kind, no hi-fi, no desire to expand and refine sketches. The art lies right there, in front of the ears. Often a good idea gets prematurely strangled, and selected deliria might result as scarcely palatable. At any rate, those who think and act beyond the pretense of a bogus intellectual attitude – avoiding name-dropping trendiness in the meantime – consider this deeply human individual worthy of belonging in the pantheon of bona fide greats. Here’s hoping that – after appreciating the infrequent manifestations of a unique vision throughout the years – we’re not going to be flooded by nonstop items, worthless remixes, dubious collaborations, “exclusive” downloads and additional last-minute adorers until an uncontaminated artistic entity becomes the newest article of trade. At the time of this writing, the guy’s penciled in for a residency at London’s Café Oto next March. Don’t lay down your arms, Ghédalia.
MASSIMO RICCI. TOUCHING EXTREMES. 