Return of jazz
Divine diva, Grace Jones swallowed all raw the Montreux jazz
On Saturday, the 77 -year -old singer made the scene of the lake her church and her brothel, in a sound of madness and a crazy show at will.
Grace Jones and his death helmet. “I celebrated more than anyone, it’s a miracle that I’m still alive!”
Thea Moser
The nature of the divas is to be desired, and Grace Jones one is damn one, of diva. Worship! Untouchable, although the following will prove that not. But for the time being, which turns, the audience of the lake scene is waiting for the curtain raising by tapping from the foot in a circumspect excitement: the queen of the night of the seventies, the icon of the Equi shone in the Montreux Jazz during his many visits – but the last Dates back to eight years already-the one that eaten cars in television advertisements still under the hood?
Yseult the rebel
Because road exit level, this Saturday had started in the decor. The one, toc as much as possible, of Yseult playing her ugly girl with a carnival nails armband and punk inclinations because, is it, as she thinks he is forced to explain it, “punk is anarchy and freedom to be what we really are”, basically. Alone on stage, on recorded bands of bad metal evoking much less Slayer than Billy Idol, the rebel from “New Star” has thus made ninety minutes of grimaces and fingers of honor to cameras, in an exercise of egotism in fishnet and royal vulgarity more worthy of a candidacy for Eurovision than of the big scene of jazz. Next year, Afida Turner in Montreux?
Yseult is “punk”. His music, less.
Lionel Flusin
Let’s go back to serious things. Grace Jones behind the curtain. Who, finally, falls like a guillotine – but not touches the queen! This is seated on a large throne and stars 5000 subjects behind a death mask. Welcome to its night temple, the procession can start at the reggae tempo of a “nightclubbing” more Jamaican than ever but sticky as possible, the synth clawing space like nails in point would launch a thorax.
Grace Jones on his throne. Imperial.
Thea Moser
The provocation of Grace Jones
While “Private Life” continues in the same atmosphere of an ill -famed alley, the mask finally rises and reveals burning eyes and an agile language. At the age of 77, Grace Jones has retained his provocover tics without filter – a real punk, for the time being -, this bottom of untamed madness which undoubtedly prevented her from reaching the sustainable and vast success to which her voice can claim as a singer. Her great hours were those of the 80s, when she invented in Jamaica a trio of records merging the force of reggae roots and the strike of clubbing Postpunk.
She smokes a big spliffreturning from behind the scenes suddenly decked out of gigantic dreadlocks to honor “My Jamaican Guy”, which she sings valued on her throne. The seven musicians behind her, including a drummer and two choristers, are impeccable precision, formidable groove. The bass of Malcolm Joseph is tabassed at night, the Fender of Louis Eliot cuts it like a Bowie knife. The guitarist has such an aristocratic pose that we will not even be surprised to learn later that he is a kind of British duke living in a castle. Has not Jones been ennobled by the Jamaican government?
On the market square, 5000 happy people.
DR
Fortunately, it is well known, the monarchs are all depraved. The Jones Court sinks deeper into the dampness of an interlope nightclub, flips the troubled tempo of “Libertango”, pushes the groove high on an unprecedented funk, “The Key”, totally old school But absolutely unstoppable, “something from my next album but I don’t know when he’s going to go out!” The public enters the dance, which Jones interrupts a little quickly, using wine or leaving behind the scenes in search of a hat or any feathered thing. Small details that make the show less solid but in return more endearing, just like its diva.
Which could not leave Montreux without removing the bottom, first barefoot and in a dress, then in a single jersey, revealing a body always agile enough to ensure six minutes of Hula-hoop on “Slavic to the rhythm” and firm enough to hold well on the shoulders of a happy safety gentleman, on which Grace climbs in order to parade in the crowd with the infernally compact sound of “Pull Up to the Bumper”. Glued to the bumper … The hands are stretched towards the singer, touch it, greet her, she laughs, makes a round trip to the crowded square then gratifies a kiss double her servant knight. He rosit of pleasure. We too.
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