The blues gimmick, raw and emaciated, that opens “Le Premier Jour”, rings as the franc confession of a return to the fundamentals. On this second album, Yvan Hio’s music is turned towards his childhood and origins. A trip to Mali , a recent fatherhood, the recurrent listening to a few bluesmen have a little deviated Yvan Hio from the traditional, neat, dark and obscure electronic music that made his first album, “L’Homme Invisible”, what it was: a charming one. The keyboard has been replaced by the guitar. Same goes for the urban wanderings: changed for bucolic moods.
The organic took power over the machines.
His glance in the rear-view mirror has also enabled Yvan Hio to discover the sense of purity. His second album has the ancestral simple charm of a Skip James or a Boubacar Traoré. Yvan Hio’s songs are tainted of parsimony, due to their self-sufficient melodies.
The musicians invited on this album were capable of adapting to new directions. Their attitude is effort-less but has them reaching their goal every time: Benoît Rault’s (Ben’s Symphonic Orchestra) smooth bass; Gilles Lovighi’s pure drums game (Mr Neveux); Eric Deleporte (Pierre Bondu, Perio) or Nemo (Panico).
Yvan Hio sings a kind of “French song” that is a subtle mixture of catching and toxic melodies, of joyful and disenchanted atmospheres, managing to be, at the same time, archaic and contemporary, simple and thoughtful. His singing is constantly in movement, always conceived in order to blur the commons senses and codes.
It remains surprising and innovative, just like the “Porteur d’Eau” is: a minimal Malian ballad, covering synthetic pulsations, sung in Paris.
His songs with fake Hawaiians evocations (“Noël 2002), his gangling rock’n’roll (“Le Goût du Sirop”), his vaporous rambling (“La Rumeur des Vivants”), his bitter –sweet refrains (“Fumer Tue”), very often stands aside while glaring at the World.
He sometimes preaches inaction, while waiting for the “Cri qui Tue” (Cry that kills), the one that would chase the moments when one feels vaguely melancholy. A shout that could be an extremely primal one. Just like a return to do basics.