Fogh Depot, in the jazz shadow
All it takes is a nose to smell the scent of perfume. All it takes is a gourmet to dissect the delicacy of a dish. All it takes is a lover to marvel at love. All it takes is a music lover to get drunk on the notes. Yes, all it takes is just a reflex to appreciate, qualify or even judge why we get up in the morning. Otherwise, exit this way, the last vault on the right.
We say that the essentials cannot be found in many things. While curiosity is found in too many things, it is this that panics on social networks and that mutates into voyeurism when the opportunity arises. But its purpose, as abstract as it is in the moment, is above all healthy and balanced. Well, was it not just yesterday, 12 hours after having decimated the 1000 pictures of 365 virtual friends, that I cast a brief eye on the messages that were in my mailbox. It was the most wise and smart decision of my day: Fogh Depot emerged as the Messiah, with his big mixture of beautiful music and analog swellings.
You know Moscow and its record rise in mercury, its snow which taps like hail and its multicolored domes. We also know the polka, the fur hats and ka words. We do not however know its jazz. No, we are more used to the big New Yorkers, trumpet competitions and movies like Whiplash. When “Sagittarius” quivered in my ears, my subconscious decided to bugger off and leave me alone with my questions. What is brainstorming? A stroke of genius or a fine devilry? With its mythological creature look (which has not been usurped), “Sagittarius” comes from the depths of jazz, of a dark side, to say it how it is. It’s as if, in the merest chance, The Haxan Cloak had drunk tea with Cal Tjader in the Williamsburg neighborhood to then cross Wax Tailor, in very bad shape, near a dilapidated street. Ironically, the French accent was so painful to hear that they decided to bribe him. Result: a quarter of well-deserved urban hip hop, which they then palmed off to three Russian bandits.
Everything is fine with Fogh Depot. Everything is black and acid. We dream of a powerful Russia which resists the mass bland and venal music, whilst almost forgetting their customs, their acrobatic dance and 40 percent spirits.
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