Body / Head – Coming Apart

body-head-coming-apartDeux ans après la mise en sommeil du monstre Sonic Youth, Thurston Moore et Lee Ranaldo, n’ont pas été avares de projets et de tournées. Pourtant, force est de constater qu’ils n’ont pas réussi à toucher du doigt la puissance inégalée de leur collaboration passée. Leurs disques respectifs sont fort honnêtes mais ne suscitent pas d’enthousiasme démesuré. Reste le cas de Kim Gordon qu’on imaginait finalement plus portée vers les arts plastiques que le rock’n’roll tant elle paraissait détachée dans les dernières années du groupe. Finalement, il faut bien le dire, on n’attendait plus grand chose d’elle dans le domaine musical.

C’est donc avec un brin de curiosité mais sans rien attendre de particulier que j’ai mis Coming Apart dans la platine. Et là, il faut bien le dire, je me suis pris une des plus grosses claques de l’année. Ces 10 morceaux étalés sur 68 minutes – le plus long dure 17 minutes – m’ont laissé littéralement sans voix. Comment peut-on infliger un disque de spoken word de cette durée sans susciter une moindre seconde d’ennui. Le dispositif est simple à pleurer : une guitare à gauche, l’autre à droite et la voix de Kim Gordon qui scande, hurle, souffle, passe de l’intimité à la tempête dévastatrice.

Il faut bien sûr préciser que Body / Head n’est pas un projet solo mais bien un véritable duo qui n’aurait pas la même puissance de feu sans l’apport sonique du guitariste Bill Nace. On pense parfois à Sonic Youth, d’autres fois à Throbbing Gristle, mais on est le plus souvent dans un territoire vierge qu’aucun musicien de rock n’est encore venu défricher. Du grand art!

Matador Records – OLE-1042-2

Spoken Words – 2

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the 
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

Spoken Words – 1

Against what light

is false what breath
sucked, for deadness.
Murder, the cleansed

purpose, frail, against
God, if they bring him
bleeding, I would not

forgive, or even call him
black dada nihilismus.

The protestant love, wide windows,
color blocked to Mondrian, and the
ugly silent deaths of jews under

the surgeons knife. (To awake on
69th street with money and a hip
nose. Black dada nihilismus, for

the umbrellad jesus. Trillby intrigue
movie house presidents sticky on the floor.
B.D.N., for the secret men, Hermes, the

blacker art. Thievery (ahh, they return
those secret gold killers. Inquisitors
of the cocktail hour. Trismegistus, have

them, in their transmutation, from stone
to bleeding pearl, from lead to burning
looting, dead Moctezuma, find the West

a grey hideous space.


From Sartre, a white man, it gave
the last breath. And we beg him die,
before he is killed. Plastique, we

do not have, only thin heroic blades.
The razor. Our flail against them, why
you carry knives? Or brutaled lumps of

heart? Why you stay, where they can
reach? Why you sit, or stand, or walk
in this place, a window on a dark

warehouse. Where the minds packed in
straw. New homes, these towers, for those
lacking money or art. A cult of death

need of the simple striking arm under
the streetlamp. The cutters, from under
their rented earth. Come up, black dada

nihilismus. Rape the white girls. Rape
their fathers. Cut the mothers throats.

Black dada nihilismus, choke my friends

in their bedrooms with their drinks spilling
and restless for tilting hips or dark liver
lips sucking splinters from the masters thigh.

Black scream
and chant, scream,
and dull, un
hollering. Dada, bilious
what ugliness, learned in the dome, colored holy
shit (i call them sinned

or lost
burned masters
of the lost
nihil German killers
all our learned

art, member
what you said
money, God, power,
a moral code, so cruel
it destroyed Byzantium, Tenochtitlan, Commanch
(got it, Baby!

For tambo, willie best, dubois, patrice, mantan, the
bronze buckaroos.

For Jack Johnson, asbestos, tonto, buckwheat,
billie holiday.

For tom russ, loverture, vesey, beau jack,

may a lost god damballah, rest or save us
against the murders we intend
against his lost white children