quête:sole kitchen

The journey through French-speaking pop archives continues with this fifth volume, packed with fuzz, gimmicks, and dissent. Far from the charts, the selected tracks display a great creative freedom, often backed by corrosive humor. Welcome to the surprising, kaleidoscopic, and colorful world of the late sixties and early seventies, Wizzz!
Born in Montauban, Robert Pico stumbled into music by chance when he met René Vaneste, then artistic director at Pathé-Marconi. René brought him to Paris to record his first 45 RPM EP in 1964. A year later, Pierre Perret introduced him to Vogue, where he recorded his second album with Claude Nougaro’s orchestra. Sylvie Vartan then introduced him to RCA, where he recorded four singles, including the astonishing "Chien Fidèle," a track backed by a hair-rising fuzz guitar. Alongside his solo career, he also composed for other artists like Alain Delon (the song was recorded but remains unreleased), Magali Noël, Bourvil, and Georges Guétary. In the Paris of the sixties, he mingled with Mireille Darc, Elsa Martinelli, Marie Laforêt, France Gall, Françoise Hardy, Petula Clark, Régine, Dani, Serge Gainsbourg, Joe Dassin, Franck Fernandel, Charles Level, and Roland Vincent. Despite his efforts and winning a Grand Prix Sacem for his final record, Robert Pico didn’t achieve the expected success in show business and decided to leave Paris and return to the Southwest, where he devoted himself to writing. He is the author of 23 books (including Delon et Compagnie, Jean-Marc Savary Editions 2025, a memoir about his youth and his many encounters). Today, he is relieved to never have become a celebrity and devotes himself to his work with passion.
In 1969, the Franco-Italian movie Erotissimo was released, directed by Gérard Pirès (who later directed Taxi in 1998, written and produced by Luc Besson). This pop comedy features Annie Girardot, Jean Yanne, Francis Blanche, Serge Gainsbourg, Nicole Croisille, Jacques Martin, and Patrick Topaloff. The soundtrack was written by Michel Polnareff and William Sheller, with lyrics by Jean-Lou Dabadie. "La Femme Faux-cils," performed by Annie Girardot. It recounts the feelings of a rich CEO's wife who seeks to develop her sex appeal under the influence of advertisement and magazines. Groovy, sparkling and light, this track, with ITS lush arrangements humorously critiques consumer society and feminine beauty standards.
“Je suis l’Etat” (1967) is the flagship track of the first EP by singer-songwriter Spauv Georges, aka Georges Larriaga, better known as Jim Larriaga (1941-2022). Born into a family of bakers, the young man was initially planning to become a hairdresser when he discovered English-speaking music through Elvis Presley and the Beatles. After this revelation, he decided he would become a songwriter and gave himself five years to succeed. He recorded his first two EP’s independently for RCA under the pseudonym Spauv Georges; meaning “that poor George”, a nickname given to him by the mother of her friend Jean-Pierre Prévotat (future drummer of the Players, Triangle, or Johnny Hallyday). Portraying a depressed and eccentric young man, Spauv Georges created corrosive and amusing songs that didn’t reach a wide audience, despite a TV appearance with Jean-Christophe Averty.
Supported by his loyal friend and fellow songwriter Jean-Max Rivière, Georges Larriaga met the future singer Carlos in the early '70s, then Sylvie Vartan’s assistant. He wrote songs for Carlos, including the popular "La vie est belle," "Y’a des indiens partout," and "La cantine", which went onto become a huge hit in 1972. He also composed for Claude François (“Anne-Marie”, 1971), Charlotte Julian (“Fleur de province”, 1972), helped launch child singer Roméo (who sold 4 million records), and later wrote the hit "Pas besoin d’éducation sexuelle" (1975) for the young Julie Bataille. In 1971, Jim recorded an album for Disc'Az: “L’univers étrange et fou de Jim Larriaga”, which featured pop gems like “La maison de mon père”.
The story of the song "Zoé" began when Pierre Dorsay, artistic director at Vogue Records, asked Swiss singer and musician Pierre Alain to write a song for a new female singer. The inspiration came when he realized that Zoé (the artist's name) was also the name of France's first atomic battery, created in 1948, which consisted of uranium oxide immersed in heavy water! The lyrics reflect a bubbling energy that must be handled with caution, while the instrumentation echoes this atomic theme, notably with the use of a theremin.
Zoé’s career lasted only as long as a single 45 RPM, but it seems Christine Fontane was the vocalist behind this pseudonym, who is known for several EPs, a good "popcorn" album in 1964, and a handful of children’s singles in the '70s. Regardless, the photograph on the cover is of a different girl entirely.
Later, Pierre Alain continued his career, writing songs for himself, Marie Laforêt, Danièle Licari, Alice Dona, Arlette Zola (3rd place in Eurovision 1982), and achieving multiple gold and platinum records in Canada. Also an inventor with several patents, president of the Romande Academy, and head of the French Alliance in Geneva, he now composes atonal music, books, and poetry. Moreover, he is also the host of "Les Mardis de Pierre Alain" at "Le P'tit Music'Hohl" in Geneva.
Filled with oriental choruses and fuzz guitar, "Fou" is from Jacques Da Sylva's only EP released by Vogue in 1967. Despite the quality of this recording, all traces of this singer disappear after this first effort.
Valentin is a baroque pop singer born in Belgium. He is the songwriter and composer of most of the tracks on his three singles released in the late 60s in Canada. A legend says that he reincarnated himself as Jacky Valentin during the 1970s for a rock'n'roll revival career in Belgium, but his older brother sadly debunked this story. Valentin's first two singles were arranged by Claude Rogen, a Parisian session pianist who had come to Canada to promote the song “Mister A Gogo”, a cover of David Bowie’s “Laughing Gnome”, adapted by singer Delphine, his wife at the time. Far from his usual network, Claude Rogen arranged music for Polydor, including the arrangements for “Je suis un vagabond” in 1969, a jerk tune with string arrangements and a furious optimism.
Jacques Malia wrote, composed, and recorded his only 45 EP for Festival in 1966. “Histoire de gitan” is an incredible beat track with bohemian scat that tells the story of a gypsy musician who came to Paris to make it in the Music-Hall, to no avail. The hero of the song and its author probably shared a similar fate, as Jacques Malia faded into anonymity after this remarkable attempt.
Bernard Jamet recorded two EPs for Barclay in the late sixties and co-wrote several songs with Christine Pilzer, Pascal Danel, and prolific songwriters Michel Delancray and Mya Simile. The track “Raison Légale” (1968), his masterpiece, immerses the listener in a courtroom right when a murderer is being judged, with jerk rhythm and free arrangements. A unique, paranoid, judicial, and psychedelic oddity.
Jean-Pierre Lebrot-Millers started his career in show business in 1967 as a singer and songwriter for the Philips label. After three singles, he wrote several songs of a new kind with his friend Pierre Halioche, in the midst of the sexual liberation movement and the democratization of drugs. With provocative lyrics, “Les filles du hasard” and “Barbara au Chapeau Rose” were released on a Philips singles in 1968. The character of Barbara was inspired by a queen of Parisian nightlife during the psychedelic years: model Charlotte Martin, who dated Eric Clapton from 1965 to 1968, then Jimmy Page from 1970 to 1983. Jean-Claude Petit’s arrangements, with a table-filled intro, soul brass, and Hendrixian guitar, emphasize the flamboyance of a hedonistic and sexy character, whose dog is named Junkie because “Junkie est un nom exquis”! The track was recorded live in three takes with a full orchestra.
Upon its release, the record was censored by Europe 1 and RTL due to its references to drug use. Jean-Pierre Lebrot was then banned from the airwaves and later dismissed by his record label. He changed his artist name to Jean-Pierre Millers, while his companion Pierre Halioche became D. Dolby for a new dreamy composition, “Chilla”, which Jean-Pierre produced himself with arrangements by Jean Musy. Once again, the song was immediately censored everywhere. After this setback, he decided to stop singing and started taking on odd jobs to support his Swedish wife and their son until the day he met Jean-Pierre Martin, then production manager at Decca, who had worked with Manu Dibango. Martin offered Jean-Pierre Lebrot-Millers, then employed at Rank Xerox, the position of artistic director at Decca. He accepted and became, a year later, promotion director (radio, press, TV). He worked on Julio Iglesias’s first album for Decca, which became a massive hit and allowed him to meet Claude Carrère. The latter asked him to write new songs and find their performers, much like a “talent scout.” It’s through him that Jean-Pierre discovered Julie Pietri and Corinne Hermès. He composed “Ma Pompadour” for Ringo, Sheila’s husband, and took the microphone again for the syncope hit “Rendez-Vous” in 1982.
That same year, Jean-Pierre Lebrot-Millers tried to release a track for which he had heavily gone into debt: “Si la vie est un cadeau”. Having recorded it in London, he presented it to numerous professionals, all of whom refused to get involved. The same thing happened with Antenne 2 and the Sacem when he proposed the song as France’s entry for Eurovision. He then met Haïm Saban, who was producing cartoon soundtracks and had just launched the Goldorak theme song. Saban, having listened to the song, declared it had the potential to become a hit. He sent Jean-Pierre and Corinne Hermès to meet the CEO of the Luxembourg radio and television network. The latter received them, asked to hear a verse and chorus a cappella in his office, and immediately hired them to represent Luxembourg at Eurovision 1983. They reworked the arrangements and recorded a new version with Haïm Saban as co-producer. The song ended up winning Eurovision 1983, a great comeback for our hero. He continued producing and hung out with the band Nacash in Belgium when a couple came to introduce their daughter for an impromptu audition in a hotel room. The girl sang “Les démons de minuit” while dancing to a radio cassette. Impressed, he had her take singing lessons for a year and composed a song for her (for which he had the melody and title, but no lyrics). This required him to go on the hunt for a lyricist, who ended up being Guy Carlier. They recorded the song, which was initially a ballad, at Bernard Estardy’s CBE studio, and gave the singer a new name: Melody. They showed the song around their industry network without success. Later, Estardy called Jean-Pierre to suggest changing the rhythm and making it pop-rock. Orlando, Dalida’s brother, liked the result and decided to co-produce the track. “Y’a pas que les grands qui rêvent » became a classic hit. The song has since been covered by Juliette Armanet (as a ballad, like the original) and Valentina.

Born into an aristocratic Breton family, Hervé Mettais-Cartier worked as a DJ at Queen Kiss, a nightclub in Poitiers, where he formed the band Les Concentrés with Michel (an actor) and Christian (a radio technician). Together, they created a repertoire of whimsical songs (“Ma bique est morte”, “J’suis un salaud”, “Fils de dégénéré”...) that they performed on stage dressed in white (in homage to “concentrated milk”). They performed at Bliboquet and Olympia in 1968 for the 10th edition of the “Relais de la chanson Française” organized by L’Humanité-Dimanche and Nous les Garçons et les Filles, sponsored by Pepsi Cola. Winners in the author-composer category, alongside Danish singer Dorte, their visibility allowed them to record a 45, and appear on television in Jean-Christophe Averty’s show. The A-side of the disc features Bruno le ravageur, a casatchok dedicated to Bruno Caquatrix, the director of Olympia, nicknamed in the song “Coq Atroce” or “croque-actrices”. The B-side is dedicated to “Fils de dégénéré”, a quirky tribute to Hervé's aristocratic roots, mixing absurdity with sophisticated vocal harmonies.
After Les Concentrés, Hervé Mettais-Cartier formed the duo La Paire et sa Bêtise with his friend Olivier Robert. They performed in Parisian cabarets and toured with Pierre Vassiliu. In the late 1970s, Hervé began a solo career. He recorded two albums for the Motors label in 1978 and 1979, which did not achieve their anticipated success due to lack of promotion. In 1980, he met Bernadette, with whom he started a family and created a “Chansons à voir” (songs to see) show that he performed until his death at the end of 2024.

Publicité comes from the final EP by the Missiles (Ducretet Thomson, 1966), a disc that also includes “La (nouvelle) guerre de cent ans”, featured on Volume 4 of our Wizzz! series. Please refer to the booklet for the story of the band.

“He’s 1.82 meters tall, 28 years old, weighs 135 kg, is black and Belgian”: this is the description of singer Hegesippe on the back of his sole single (Decca, 1967). He appears on the album cover wearing a Greek toga, like a hippie gag – we are at the end of the year 1967. In “Le crédo d’Hegesippe”, this former bodyguard of Antoine and the Charlots plays the delightful card of the thick brute converted to Flower-Power and non-violence, with arrangements by Jean-Daniel Mercier, aka Paul Mille.
“Ethéro-disco” was released on a promotional record for clients of the Maréchal company (Liège, Belgium) for the New Year 1979. Over a funky rhythm, celebrity impersonations (Brigitte Bardot, Jacques Dutronc, Fernandel…) deliver an enigmatic text about pharmaceutical products like ether, bismuth, and aspartate. The track was composed by Dan Sarravah (responsible for Joanna's “Hold-up inusité” featured on Wizzz! Volume 3) and Tony Talado, who was also a singer (one 45 in 1967), songwriter (with over a dozen credits between 1964 and 1985 in various styles from surf music to disco), author (Devenez Végétarien, Dricot Editions, 1985), ad designer, and psychologist.

Décollez-les is on the A-side of Mamlouk's only single, a pseudonym for Marsel Hurten, who is known for his work on several EPs in the late sixties, as well as composing music for Hervé Vilard’s “Capri, c’est fini”, Claude Channes' “La Haine”, Annie Philippe’s “On m’a toujours dit”, and Nancy Holloway’s “Panne de Cœur”.
This strange song, with Afrobeat horns and absurd dialogues between a chef and his kitchen staff, is the result of a collaboration between Marsel Hurten and one of his neighbors, a photographer from Pavillon-sous-Bois (93), where the musician settled after returning from the Algerian War. A music video was shot to promote the record.
Marsel Hurten was born in Tourcoing (59) into a musical family. At a young age, he joined the brass band founded by his grandfather, playing the piston before studying trumpet at the conservatory, as well as teaching himself how to play the guitar. As an orchestra musician, he toured in France, Belgium, Germany, and England. He released a series of solo 45’s between 1965 and 1968 for the DMF and Az labels before stopping recording to focus on working for other artists (Gilles Olivier, Noëlle Cordier…).
“L’amour nu” (Vogue, 1971) is the work of the short-lived Belgian band Mozaïque. The track, written by singer Jacques Albin, closely resembles another of his compositions, “Carré Blanc”, which he recorded in 1969 for Disc’AZ.
Represented by the Lumi Son micro-label based in Marignane (Côte d'Azur), Jean-Marc Garrigues released two 45 RPMs in the late sixties, defending the French jerk sound. The song “Je dis Non” is a short, joyful ode to youth, pop music, and rebellion.
Songwriter and performer Jacques Penuel released three singles. The first one, “Astronef 328” (Fontana, 1969), features a dizzying series of chords punctuated by sound effects, a sci-fi story, and arrangements by Jean-Claude Vannier.

We would like to sincerely thank Pierre Alain, Moon Blaha, Marsel Hurten, Bastien Larriaga, Jean-Pierre Lebrot-Millers, Bernadette Mettais-Cartier, Robert Pico, Olivier Robert, Claude Rogen, Micky Segura.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

“Ta Da” is the debut full length from J. McFarlane Reality Guest, the collective name for the trio headed by the eponymous McFarlane. As a member of the group Twerps, McFarlane has traversed guitar-centric, melodic pop music for some years while honing a highly unique, personal musical language. Ta Da is the first recorded unveiling of McFarlane’s affecting, oblique songwriting panache. Originally released in her native Australia on Hobbies Galore, Ta Da will be released worldwide by Night School in June 2019.

Wheezing into view with a troubled reed instrument set against a s of whoozy synth lines, Human Tissue Act is a foggy curtain the listener is invited to peel back. The dissonant notes are left to dance entwined, with clarinet heralding a Harry Partch-esque mallet percussion interlude. It’s a mood. With no resolution in sight, an audience dragged closer into uncertainty is suddenly drenched with the light of inter-weaving wah wah synth and saxophone. I Am A Toy introduces us to McFarlane’s vocal, an effortless and matter-of-fact, accented statement that quietly takes the reins. While McFarlane’s previous work in Twerps might reference 80s UK and antipodean guitar pop, Ta Da showcases a different influences immersed in psychedelic music and synths. It’s a brilliant, deft concoction swimming in Young Marble Giants-type minimalism washed with bare pop and harmony similar to Kevin Ayers making sense of a Melbourne suburb full of faces half-recognised in the blanching sun.

What Has He Bought begins with a Casio-keyboard rhythm pattern, palm-muted guitars and immaculately enunciated vocal give way to a burnt melodica part that elevates the spirits. Simple patterns repeated, like a well-tempered pop song that does what it needs to do and no more, build into the sound of summer leaking orange juice. They’re moments of joy, layered on top of each other like a melting cake. Do You Like What I’m Sayin’ recalls Marine Girls covering a classic ‘66 Garage nugget, organ lines fighting funk with guitar chords played just behind the percussion. “In a talking world, meanings are the same. Words want to hold on to the people they contain. Do you like what I’m sayin’?” We’re in a Beckett play perhaps, obtuse absurdities rendered pretty. Alien Ceremony is a heart-melter, given a melancholic timbre by bowed double bass it’s a tragi-comic piece that almost reeks of Robert Wyatt at his mid-whimsical twisting a fugue completely out of shape. Beneath the layers of harmony and twinkling instrumentation you sense there’s a genuine sadness somewhere even if it remains veiled.

Through out Ta Da, McFarlane plays with counterpoint and contrast to sometimes delirious effect. On Your Torturer, a simple, upbeat chord progression is hard panned, underpinning a flute solo which seems out of place, hence making it completely in place on this warmly surreal album. My Enemy is a slowly swinging eulogy to a failed relationship punctuated by analogue synth burbles, with our protagonist simply asking, in the aftermath, “can we be nice?” Here McFarlane’s vocal is straight forward, lyrically conversational but still not completely in focus, a surreal kitchen sink drama filtered through a dream where everything is in the wrong place. It’s a fine precursor to Heartburn, which similarly borrows BBC Radiophonic Workshop-style noise synths and the use of space to carve up the simple “You Will Make My Heart Burn” line. At this point, the listener has been in such close proximity to McFarlane’s show, the reality guest in a performance where they’re the sole audience member, that when Where Are You My Love rises on the horizon as a sleepy, psychedelic send off it’s uplifting. The vocal drifts away into the sunset, simple and direct. It leaves the listener slightly confused, perhaps, but grateful for the gentle surprise.

As one of NYC's most innovative individuals, Incienso are happy to announce Kiki Kudo's debut full length EP 'Splashing'. Operating seamlessly between the mediums of music, food and general vibes, her new release follows up the 'Mineral Sequences' mixtape on Good Morning Tapes, plus a track on Physical Therapy's allergy season compilation 'Physically Sick Vol 2'.

After starting music production just last year with one sole piece of hardware (but DJing in NYC years before), these are some of the wildest songs in time. A self-described mix of 'Nanotech Pop, Synth Jams, Kitchen Wave, and Listening Techno' - somewhere between the experimentalism and anything-goes ethos of the downtown scene, the out-there exploration of City Pop, and a world all of her own.