Emile Parisien Quintet – Sfumato live in Marciac


Putain que c’est français! A fucking accordion starts off this shit with a three-part suite called Le Clown Tueur de la Fête Foraine (The Killer-Clown Of The Funfair). Clowns? Accordion? Funfair? Add some stinky cheese, cigarettes, and a baguette and you win the French stereotype super sweepstakes. Oui? Ya, that’s a big fucking Oui. The main dude on soprano saxophone is even named Parisien for fuck’s sake. That motherfucker makes the sax dance like its got kids to feed. And, du coup, he makes that shit jump, tousle, hoot like a didgeridoo, and go through these magnificent runs with the pace of a speed-addicted tap dancer with shoes made of fire ants.

Vincent Peirani plays the accordion. Or, at least I think he does. A piece of me still believes he might actually be a robot designed with the sole purpose of ruling over a accordion-sentient world. On this live album, the first song starts with Vincent showing his chops solo-style for about two minutes. After the first minute, I know I’m supposed to believe that Vincent is still a human, but fuck that shit, that’s some Google A.I. level shit. So, beep-beep-boop, motherfucker (he’ll know what I mean). He’s not just good at accordion he’s, literally, un-fucking-believable.

Next to this you’ve got Joachim Kühn. Only someone at a Kühn calibre could tie these two motherfuckers together while still also adding his own distinct flare. He’s played since the sixties. And the list of great names he’s played with, the awards he’s won, and a bunch of other cool shit he’s done along the way is too fucking long to be written down here. So, in short, I’ll just say don’t fuck with Kühn. Kühn is pure piano pimp. 

Michel Portal plays the clarinet on this shit. He also happens to be one of the designers of modern European jazz. Motherfucker played on Stockhausen’s Aus den sieben Tagen back in ’69, a classical piece designed to be played solely on intuition. Portal opened the world up to open-form classical music before most motherfuckers were even born. So ya, to say this guy is pretty good at improvisation is like saying getting tortured puts a bit of a damper on someone’s Monday. 

The beauty of this album is not the top-notch players. Get an army of great chefs in a kitchen to make a burger and, by the end of the night, some poor motherfucker is getting chef-shanked in the dick. But these guys don’t do that. They connect together with the singular goal of having a good time and making some good fucking tunes. They get lost in the music. They don’t make it about them. Most fucking garage bands break up because of some guy’s fucking ego. But, somehow, these talented motherfuckers play together without a hitch. In fact, this kind of attitude could be the reason why they got so good in the first place. They didn’t stand up on stage, fuck over their band, and say “j’en n’ai rien à foutre”. They stood with their band, without ego, and said, “Tous pour un, motherfuckers”. 



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