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Balaise was the original title of Vers le Nord’s debut album. In French slang, balaise means something in between badass and flamboyant. The word keeps popping up throughout the record, like a teenager’s graffiti scrawled on a bus shelter after a few drinks. Balaise robots. Balaise ghosts lurking in the shadows. Balaise is the barfly who fantasies about becoming a street vigilante. In many ways, Matthieu Pellerin's new solo project is entirely contained within that word: a gigantic piece one man against the world cobbled together, a monument shaped by hand using layers of synthesizers sounding like cathedral organs cast in concrete.


Stitching this type of freak together took time. Five years, or what sounds like forever in an age obsessed with career trajectories and content strategies. But for Matthieu Pellerin, it was never about career plans or taking the easy road. Or he would have dug up the rotting corpse of Oi Boys, his now-defunct band, whose brief existence and explosive popularity once united sullen skinheads, gothic street punks, and old school punks alike. Or he would have fully embraced the Metz scene, now that the Great International Triple Alliance of the East (Noir Boy George, The Dreams, The Feeling Of Love...) and rising solo acts like Tune Zitoune, Josy Bazar, Fantôme Josepha, and Tony Gerrano have somehow transformed this sprawling open-air heroin camp into an unlikely capital of cool. But Vers le Nord doesn't point East, and it is as a lone rider that Matthieu Pellerin can fully reveal his songwriting scope.


With Le Seul Élément, his first solo project, the Lorraine native had already shown a rare gift for crafting worlds. Picture vast sonic masses stretching like industrial zones, noise-filled fog pierced by pale neon lights and landscapes caught somewhere between the gnarliest dive bar and a doomsday bunker. And slipping through the soul-crushing slowness and fractured blackened atmospheres, one could perceive a throwback to his years plotting in black metal-tinged Loth and Bishop.

Vers le Nord populates those landscapes that once were rough sketches. Damaged characters reign supreme, with a plethora of exquisite mutts brought to life, rather than outcasts committed to the cause. Where Nuits Blanches —his new supergroup featuring members of Rixe, Lion's Law, Headbussa and La Femme— pulls no punches with raw confessions, Pellerin switches gear for tales of robot apocalypses, vagrants and fam-seeking school shooters, delivered with William Sheller-esque rhymes and striking images. Yet even within fiction, he manages to create something deeply intimate, almost defining, showing very little effort: he is a natural. All in all, à l’aise (at ease). Songs resonate deeply with the listener, perhaps because of Pellerin’s odd way or always addressing someone without ever really naming them, a floating, obsessive and inescapable “you” calling us out.


Despite all of the darkness, Vers le Nord stirs deep emotions. There is something of Type O Negative or Anna von Hausswolff in its constant collision of the ludicrous and the epic gothic, its bleak romanticism that never tells a sordid tale. While the vocals remain rooted in a distinctly French punk lineage—think No Class, La Souris Déglinguée and OG Bérurier Noir—the reactor core is hidden somewhere else. Oneohtrix Point Never feels like a closer relative with his ultra-emotional music made of cold synths and disembodied anthems, swallowing and regurgitating forty years of icy, contemplative new wave across ten songs. It comes as no surprise that Lila Ehjä and Aimable, two rising specialists in lowering the temperature below seasonal norms, appear on “Enterrez-moi bordel” (“Bury Me, for fuck's sake”), a grandiose, spectral and magnificently arrogant finale. And in the end, Vers le Nord starts where the original idea was hiding all along: somewhere amid the ruins, definitely balaise and yet somehow, completely à l'aise.

The Rachel's band began when Jason Noble joined forces with Christian Frederickson. Within months of their meeting on a crowded trolley, they had formed a small ensemble to perform original compositions. In the next three years, madness ensued. Christian finished his degree at the Peabody Conserva-tory of Music, traveled to Switzerland to study, returned home, then wound up in NYC to attend the Julliard School. Jason didn't finish his degree, moved back to Louisville, began employment as an artist by day, dishwasher by night, and be-gan working with friends in a band that would become Rodan. This insane, all over the world life-style, led to a barrage of telephone, demo tape, notepaper, sheet music & mail communication. This, combined with sporadic two-week or two-day person-to-person collaborations in whatever city was central enough, became the bizarre process of the music. During this long gestation, Rachel Grimes became involved, first assisting Jason in his brute comprehension of written music, then joining as a pianist & confidant. Soon she was fully entrenched, providing the strange coincidence of possessing the name "Rachel," and an incredible backbone to the project. Several recordings had been finished, some in the studio, hundreds of 8-track cassettes, a few jambox cuts, but the time for a concentrated attempt at an LP seemed far away. Finally, Rachel, Christian, & Jason began assembling musicians who they respected; John, Mark and Barry from the Chicago supergroup The Coctails, Kevin Coul-tas from Rodan, Bob Weston, and several other string players from various walks of life. The result was a group of semi-vagrants, some reading from sheet music, some rambunctious noisemakers, working from an equally improvisational and tight-assed way. The real character comes from the musicians involved, participating in what can only be called a "labor of love." Handwriting, the band's debut album, was originally released by Quarterstick Records in 1995. Jacket custom screen-printed by Jeff Mueller at Dexterity Press.

Watkins Group is a new project from one half of infamous Crust House vagrants Watkins & Almodovar, taking inspiration from the landscapes, myths and legends of ancient Scottish & Celtic culture. The title of this debut album on the newborn Frequency Consortium label, Beanntan a’ Bhròin (Mountains of Sorrow), might already give an indication as to where we’re headed here; evoking Nan Shepard’s meditations on the Cairngorms at their most isolationist & uncompromising as much as it does the creatures that occupy the crags, gullies & glens of old Caledonia. Watkins Group dive deep into fx-drenched grot and expansive somnambulant driftworks over six tracks, as spacious as they claustrophobic, recalling the works of Deathprod, early-90s Lustmord and at times even the stark soundtracks of Mica Levi.

[a] A1. Sluagh na marbh [Host Of The Dead]
[b] A2. Biasd Bealach Odail [The Beast Of Odal Pass]
[c] A3. Am Fear Liath Mòr [Big Grey Man Of Ben MacDhui]
[d] B1. Caoineag [The Weeper]
[e] B2. An Teàrnadh [The Escape]
[f] B3. Cait Sith [The Mysterious Black Cat]

Spoken word recordings from Gregory Corso, Tina May Hall, Sam Lipsyte, Christine Schutt, Gary Lutz, Allen Ginsberg, Dawn Raffel, Jason Schwartz, Kathryn Scanlan, Scott McClanahan, & Terry Southern. About 40 years ago, in a record shop on Long Island during a weekend visit there to see my parents, i found a double-LP that looked like something i should definitely buy. It was called "BIG EGO", by the The DIAL-a-POEM POETS. On the cover was a picture of John Giorno (a great poet Ed Sanders had turned me on to) on a NYC rooftop with Philip Glass, Meredith Monk, and two kids. It cost $2. I bought it and rushed back to my parents house, where i still had my old turntable in the basement, not far from my Jimi Hendrix and Zappa Crappa posters, and my framed portrait of John Cage. My copy of Eno's "Discreet Music" was still on the turntable, having been left there years before, when i'd fled Long Island for good. I lifted it from the platter, gently slid it back into its sleeve, like a priceless religious artifact, and put Side A of the Dial-a-Poem LP on. I almost lost my mind while listening to it. The next day i went back to the same record shop looking for more DIAL-A-POEM LP's. i found two. One had a long list of names on the back, some famous, and some i'd never heard of before. I bought both LP's, and an hour later, for the first time in my life, i was exposed to the art of Laurie Anderson, whom i'd never heard of before. This was 1978. Her contribution was a piece called "Time To Go". It changed my life. Or at least, that’s how I remember it. I was just a kid, so there were a lot of moments like that, around then. Nowadays, these moments can be had in seconds, with a click of the cursor. That evening, as i sat alone by my imaginary campfire (ie; that record player in my parents basement), i promised myself that someday, somehow, i would embark upon a WORDS & MUSIC project that might move people the same way i was moved when i first heard Laurie, and Robert Wilson & Christopher Knowles, and Burroughs, and Ginsberg, and Corso, and Anne Waldman, and John Ashbery, and the great Charles Olson, and so many others. Words, for the very first time, had wielded the same power as music. And it was visceral. Just like music. It ran deep. It was a FEELING. John Giorno died in 2019, but he kept poetry alive like nobody's business. I was lucky enough to have spent some time with him in the early 1980's, when i was briefly a member of The Fugs, and often found myself surrounded by those Ginsberg called, "...the greatest minds of my generation". Ed Sanders (who'd ushered me into that scene) once told me that when he came to NYC, it was easy to go to a cafe, or to St Marks Church, and hear Burroughs, Corso, Ginsberg, and all the greats, reading their poetry. He said that even if you were just a bum on the street, you could just walk right up to them, and start a conversation. They were totally accessible, if they were in the right mood at that particular moment. So i was shocked when Sanders told me he didn't approach any of them, not even once, til he'd been going to their readings for nearly ten years. "For almost a decade, I went to every reading, every lecture, every panel discussion. But I never went near them. Never approached them. Not even once", Sanders told me. "For ten years, all I did, was listen." It took me four decades, but ... better late than never. I finally made WORDS & MUSIC, Book One.