First is the pulsation, vibrating, organic, that announces the beginning of the trip. Then the shot. The confrontation. The war between the parties is declared and the motivations are unshakeable. Hammering, slaughtering. The beast will not survive. Even if it means to end up under a straitjacket or in the isolation chamber of the psychiatric asylum. Screeching, gusts. Take that in your fucking face. Exult in your own blood. The race has begun, the regular, metronomic rhythm cleans everything on its way. Until the trance. Repetition, fury. Orchestration of chaos. The perception is shaken. Bewitchment. The music is a drug, it allows to see beyond. The free sax gets stuck in some lifeless mud. We are beyond physicality. The soul floats, rambles, spreads out. The sweat becomes vaporous. Threat. The situation is not so comfortable. The winds come from opposite ways until the final blow. Rough, icy. The tongue is hanging, the words knife themselves. Too instinctive and aggressive to be Kraut, the music of France Sauvage is too hallucinatory to be really industrial. Vertiginously bubbling. A direct language. Rancid & acid.

Max Lachaud  -Obsküre Mag-

Crédit photo: Vesna@Klubi/Zurich 2013