#95 Man Man

With Man Man, there has been a before and an after, a side A and a side B of their Take away show. The first one was smoothness, nonchalance and little bits of happiness spread under a dim sun. Side B is the exact counterpoint of it.

In Antoine’s apartment, when they decided they were going to play Van Helsim Boombox, side A was coming to an end. Boombox is that wobbly, wonky ballad which twists my spine every time I hear it. Its honky-tonk rhythm and melancholic melody support Ryan’s voice, scratched to the bone.

In the apartment, we left these beautiful melodies they know well how to twist to change them into something darker, more vicious, and without knowing it, we went towards a conclusion which was far beyond our hopes.

The swing took place when the first part gave way to a telluric blast, a flood of decibels, of cries and metallic percussions, right in the heart of Paris.

The Parisian macadam was literally vibrating, walls reflected the clamor up to the highest roofs of the street. It was tribal and invigorating. They’re not the first ones to theorize a flood of sound as a type of musical sharing experience. Volcano (amongst others) had already showed it to us. But the Indians of Philly pushed the jamming part way beyond, with the enthusiastic help of kids who were wandering in the neighbourhood. What we don’t see is onlookers who gathered little by little, neighbours who came at their windows, and us, happy and laughing because of what was happening during that special encounter with Man Man.

A few minutes before, though, I was somehow a little bit disappointed with this Take away show. Of course, there had been Sergeï who had had his hair cut while the rest of the band was singing Everyone say I love you, by the Marx Brothers. They had well understood the concept, and suggested to film in that salon.

A few weeks before, in Brussels, Man Man told me about a cover. Tom Waits ? Britney Spears ? No, « something better ». Nothing to be disappointed about.

The Marx Brothers, apparently so far from their musical sphere. But in fact, whether it be at the terrace of a café, in Antoine’s bedroom, in St Maur street, or trying to negociate a so-called Tuareg bracelet, Man Man was always funny and atypical.

Toys, voices, getups, the band could easly make a record for kids. Tim Burton and Bill Plympton would sure be its godfathers.

As we were walking with them, I remembered the debt I owe to music storage medias such as CDs. If Man Man had appeared on my computer as a MP3 file, not a bit of it all would have happened. When I ordered their first record, four years ago, on the evidence of only one track as intriguing as twisted, I would have never imagined the enthusiastic relationship I have from now on with their music. The album spent some time on a shelf after a first and not very convincing listening. Then, one day, I put the record in my player, out of curiosity. It was a slap in my face, I discovered their record, absolutely astounding. Without the CD, it would have bee, Delete > Empty the Recycle Bin.

On the way back, the saxophone, drove into a corner, triggered everything. Everyone started to bang on trash cans, fences, making noise with every single object they could find. Black Mission Goggles’s poum tchak never ended until Belleville Boulevard, among kids there’s nothing to ask to, because they understand immediately.

Music as it comes, alive and freed from all constraints.

A few hours later, the finale of a terrific show was transformed into a risk-taking moment, the distance with the audience has been given a pounding. Another piece of evidence that this band is big, very big.

Translation by Nora