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Why? Because the producers (rumored to be an anonymous Italian-French collective with ties to the avant-garde film world) understood one thing: tension. The track—there is only one, stretching across both sides of the original 12” press—builds for seven minutes before the first lyric even arrives. And when it does, it’s not a lyric. It’s a command: “Oublie ton nom.” (Forget your name.)
— For the collector: Original pressings on the Éros Bleu label command four figures. Reissues are notoriously bad—the 1999 CD edition accidentally removed the bass track. Seek out the 2022 “Unleaked Masters” bootleg for the proper, grimy experience.
Let’s be clear: this is not background music. From the first crack of a conga that sounds like a hip bone breaking the surface of primordial ooze, Bacchanale grabs you by the lapels of your crushed velvet jacket. A sinuous, fuzzed-out Fender Rhodes line snakes through the mix, while a bass so deep and greasy it must have been recorded in a vat of baby oil holds down a groove that is equal parts Latin heat and avant-garde unease.
Why? Because the producers (rumored to be an anonymous Italian-French collective with ties to the avant-garde film world) understood one thing: tension. The track—there is only one, stretching across both sides of the original 12” press—builds for seven minutes before the first lyric even arrives. And when it does, it’s not a lyric. It’s a command: “Oublie ton nom.” (Forget your name.)
— For the collector: Original pressings on the Éros Bleu label command four figures. Reissues are notoriously bad—the 1999 CD edition accidentally removed the bass track. Seek out the 2022 “Unleaked Masters” bootleg for the proper, grimy experience.
Let’s be clear: this is not background music. From the first crack of a conga that sounds like a hip bone breaking the surface of primordial ooze, Bacchanale grabs you by the lapels of your crushed velvet jacket. A sinuous, fuzzed-out Fender Rhodes line snakes through the mix, while a bass so deep and greasy it must have been recorded in a vat of baby oil holds down a groove that is equal parts Latin heat and avant-garde unease.
