I'm finding myself drawn to another simple vocal and instrumental combo today. This time, the invocations of French singer and upright bass player Mélanie Loisel, under the name Borguefül. Horst is Mélanie's first LP with the project, a reclamation of deep sentiment and discordant heuristic, tilling for a contested past, while settled in the vantage point and bower of a harrier's nest. A quaking emergence, out from under the dust of ancient tears, and a yearning cry for an unknown emotion to sink one's teeth into and sup of its juice like a ripe pomegranate. Chords plucked like feathers from a crow's tail, a squawk of a bow shouts back in reply to its own mischievous transgression. Globular repetitions chase jousting indictments as a marble caught in a pinwheel stalks the wind, ignorant to the truth that it is the wind's capricious impetus that keeps it from plummeting to the ground. Growning bellows harmonize with Mélanie's lucid aural articulations as a woman attempting to sing a cyclone to sleep- a vain nursery rhyme persuasively pouring from a place of optimism into a world of resolute opposition. A scourge of rain prompted a mountain to collapse inward into a surging landslide, a redwood tree withering in the heat to a heap of tumbleweeds, a desert flooded with stagnant water, a return to paradise by casting oneself into perdition. Horst is elevated through its ability to brace for the ultimate and inevitable fall.
