Twi / Broughton / Jaromil

The first time you listen to Twi the Humble Feather, do it with your eyes closed. You will be transported into a strange world, populated by dozens of mouths and guitars, a chorus of falsettos mixed with the sounds of the final scene of a Mario Brothers game, played by a secret society hidden in the forests of Broceliande. They sound like there could be thirty-eight of them, but they are only three: three guitars, three voices equally balanced, alternating between esoteric songs and little noises, groans and growls, building castles for the listener, filling the room with an accumulation of small sounds caught in the air.

I heard them for the first time about two years ago. I wanted to see what they looked like, how they embodied this alien music. The brilliant Les Boutiques Sonores brought them to Paris for a weekend. They played first at l’espace B, a new venue hidden near a bridge in the neighborhood of la Villette. After their concert, they played for Nate and I under a dark and wet arch, taking three minutes in total. They sat on their guitar cases and began, their guitars like a thousand elves running and singing everywhere, skimming around our ankles, using us as a playground.

The next day they played in a florist called Sol y Flor. This time, Nat was there, as well as the same crazy, unique music, in the midst of flowers, children and pretty girls...

When you listen to David Thomas Broughton’s recordings, you may be taken by his puzzling voice, which sounds as if it belongs to a past century, but you will only have a miniscule idea of what he is capable. Making a Take Away Show with him, he only gave a fraction of what he is capable of giving. You have to leave him to seize the space, to launch into his performance, making yourself a discreet witness, to understand why this artist is unique.

He sings, stops, fades, crumbles, creates a bassline by tapping his microphone against his heart, unplugs his cables then replugs, exaggerates the smallest emotions, suspends his voice, as if he is both the musician and the listener surprised by the music. David Thomas Broughton gives more than a concert, creating an installation piece where his body and his voice are the scene and the actors.

Jaromil’s music seems almost orthodox after these two artists who don’t sound like anyone else. Nonetheless, they were comfortable playing in unusual places, to vagabond children, to the old man who came to buy a little bouquet at the end of the song.

Translation by Tara Dominguez