Special compilation from Parisian re-issue kings, Born Bad, of the late Cameroonian master musician, Francis Bebey. This is the material we were hoping would follow the excellent comp from last year. Amazing 'universal' music currently only available on expensive originals. Double album with printed innersleeve. BIG TIP!

"The first time I saw a sanza (a type of African "thumb piano"), it was just sitting there on a piece of furniture in my family's living room/dining room � a space that our father also transformed into a recording studio every day. It seemed more like a box than a musical instrument: a mysterious instrument, which arrived at our house, like many things, in a somewhat miraculous way. We knew our father loved to collect anything that could produce a sound. I don't know where he got this sansa. It was rather crude, clearly handmade, with only a few "keys" or "tines". I don't think he really played this one. The sounds it produced seemed particularly bizarre; to my young musician's ears, trained in Western classical music, it sounded out of tune. That's because, like my brothers and sisters, I had been trained on the piano. I had trouble understanding how anyone could endure these tones and, honestly, our father's passion for "unusual sounds" did not interest me. I was in secondary school at the time (the very late 1970s) and was not at all oriented toward musical projects. I planned to graduate, and then become a chef. In the early 1980s, my interest in music picked up. I was still undecided about my career. I was content to pursue my "serious" English studies while hanging out at jazz clubs at les Halles in Paris, where I sometimes joined jam sessions. Next, I put together my first band with professional musicians; I had hidden my age and lack of experience from them. France was just beginning to accept "world music." Musicians of every nationality were performing in Paris. It was a wonderful period. My father asked my brother Toups and me to accompany him for a few concerts. In particular, we toured Tunisia together at the time of the 1983 Carthage International Festival. Back then, my father was renowned across the French-speaking world. Everyone looked forward to hearing his humorous songs, like "Agatha" and "La condition masculine." But, behind the scenes, he continued his research concerning electronic music, the sansa, pygmy polyphony, etc. One day he put a sansa in my hands, without saying a word. He was sending me a message: "Let's see what you can do with it!" That's when I really discovered something. Exploring the instrument and playing, I transcended the "imperfect" aspect of its sound and began to discover its fascinating potential. Playing the sansa, you enter a world that enraptures you in a very serene and mesmerizing way. I think its sounds evoke a rainbow, with rain falling while the sun shines. A very peaceful feeling. It allows you to make music that truly sounds like life. The sansa is also the instrument that my father and I shared the most because I am a pianist and he was a guitarist. I also share this eminently African instrument with my musician brother, Toups. Our father loved to tell us one of the legends of the sansa: how it even managed to dispel the boredom felt by... the Creator himself! This instrument gives life to the world, to beings and things. I did not participate in the production of the various records that my father devoted to the sansa. He did it himself, you might say, in his "laboratory." Yet today, I cannot imagine playing a concert without using a sansa. The piano remains present so that listeners don't become disoriented and wonder about the weird sounds invading their ears! However, I find the eccentric and disturbing side of sansa interesting. And the sansa always affects the audience: in reality, it excites them. The secrets of this instrument are surely its beneficial powers and... its magic!" Patrick Bebey More

Special compilation from Parisian re-issue kings, Born Bad, of the late Cameroonian master musician, Francis Bebey. This is the material we were hoping would follow the excellent comp from last year. Amazing 'universal' music currently only available on expensive originals. Double album with printed innersleeve. BIG TIP!

"The first time I saw a sanza (a type of African "thumb piano"), it was just sitting there on a piece of furniture in my family's living room/dining room � a space that our father also transformed into a recording studio every day. It seemed more like a box than a musical instrument: a mysterious instrument, which arrived at our house, like many things, in a somewhat miraculous way. We knew our father loved to collect anything that could produce a sound. I don't know where he got this sansa. It was rather crude, clearly handmade, with only a few "keys" or "tines". I don't think he really played this one. The sounds it produced seemed particularly bizarre; to my young musician's ears, trained in Western classical music, it sounded out of tune. That's because, like my brothers and sisters, I had been trained on the piano. I had trouble understanding how anyone could endure these tones and, honestly, our father's passion for "unusual sounds" did not interest me. I was in secondary school at the time (the very late 1970s) and was not at all oriented toward musical projects. I planned to graduate, and then become a chef. In the early 1980s, my interest in music picked up. I was still undecided about my career. I was content to pursue my "serious" English studies while hanging out at jazz clubs at les Halles in Paris, where I sometimes joined jam sessions. Next, I put together my first band with professional musicians; I had hidden my age and lack of experience from them. France was just beginning to accept "world music." Musicians of every nationality were performing in Paris. It was a wonderful period. My father asked my brother Toups and me to accompany him for a few concerts. In particular, we toured Tunisia together at the time of the 1983 Carthage International Festival. Back then, my father was renowned across the French-speaking world. Everyone looked forward to hearing his humorous songs, like "Agatha" and "La condition masculine." But, behind the scenes, he continued his research concerning electronic music, the sansa, pygmy polyphony, etc. One day he put a sansa in my hands, without saying a word. He was sending me a message: "Let's see what you can do with it!" That's when I really discovered something. Exploring the instrument and playing, I transcended the "imperfect" aspect of its sound and began to discover its fascinating potential. Playing the sansa, you enter a world that enraptures you in a very serene and mesmerizing way. I think its sounds evoke a rainbow, with rain falling while the sun shines. A very peaceful feeling. It allows you to make music that truly sounds like life. The sansa is also the instrument that my father and I shared the most because I am a pianist and he was a guitarist. I also share this eminently African instrument with my musician brother, Toups. Our father loved to tell us one of the legends of the sansa: how it even managed to dispel the boredom felt by... the Creator himself! This instrument gives life to the world, to beings and things. I did not participate in the production of the various records that my father devoted to the sansa. He did it himself, you might say, in his "laboratory." Yet today, I cannot imagine playing a concert without using a sansa. The piano remains present so that listeners don't become disoriented and wonder about the weird sounds invading their ears! However, I find the eccentric and disturbing side of sansa interesting. And the sansa always affects the audience: in reality, it excites them. The secrets of this instrument are surely its beneficial powers and... its magic!" Patrick Bebey More

Wonderful and utterly nuts home studio genius...with artwork to boot (includes printed inner sleeve). A gem. BIG TIP!

" A pop star who turned his back to show business to become an independent
artist, steered by the revolutionary ideas of his wife Jacqueline in
1960's France; these are the outlines of Henri Salvador's unusual
musical career. It made him into a star then led him to entirely
dissociate from the record industry, preferring to make music in his
living room with his guitars. At 50, Salvador starts experimenting with
synths and drum machine, multi-track recorders and altered voice
collages. He takes up editing and mixing, and solitarily makes songs for
young and old from his home in Paris' Place Vendôme.

"Unfortunately, it's not beautiful songs that make an amazing
career. These are songs that will exist after I die." (1969)

How can one even begin to tell the story of Salvador? Seventy years of
music, a thousand of creations of all styles. He has known each and
every genre and trend, appropriated some and invented yet new ones.
Sometimes associated to ye-ye singers, he's also known to have brought
rock to France (in 1956, with Boris Vian). Yet he's 26 years older
than Johnny Hallyday. He's 47 when _Zorro est arrivé_ is released in
1964... and 83 at the release of _Jardin d'hiver_. Seen with today's
eyes it's all very dizzying. You never know whether he's young or
old, or under which label to file him: jazzman, crooner, entertainer,
composer, guitar player, children song singer...

As a kid he picks up the guitar without any theoretical basics and
becomes so talented he plays with Django Reinhardt. He learns to sing
and compose on his own. The 30s are the years of his training; the 40s
of his emancipation within musical ensembles which are to see his
talents flourish. He finds his public and perfects his tricks: laughter
and seduction. In the 50s he rediscovers the songs of the islands where
he grew up, revisits jazz, swing, blues and sings for children. It's
the years of his unforgettable "sweet song", and his voice changes.
His cheeky humour makes way for a multifaceted talent, he fills up
venues, surrounds himself with serious lyricists and accumulates
classics: _Le blues du dentiste, Dans mon île,_ _Syracuse._

"My wife has come to understand me so well that she can now think in
my place. When she has an idea it's, so to speak, my own idea!"
(Télé Magazine, 1972)

Jacqueline shapes and emancipates him. When they marry in 1950, she's
a quiet and cultivated young lady who's to progressively take charge
of his career. She enforces her views and frantic pace. A spectator in
the world of show business, Jacqueline realises that the artists, left
out of professional conversations, often get cheated. Henri undoes the
chains binding him to Philps, Vogue, Barclay, his editor, his manager
and his impresario, and becomes independent. The Salvadors get to know
the inner workings of production, edition, record pressing, distribution
and promotion. They always have material to record a demo at hand. Their
apartment is full of recorders: one at the bed end for the guitar, yet
another in Henri's office for the Steinway. He's on all fronts; he
accumulates hits, invents, mocks, adapts, and produces.

Place Vendôme sees the birth of the label Rigolo. Why Rigolo (French
for "funny")? "Because it's funny", he used to answer.
Homemade clips are broadcasted in TV shows they self-produce: Salves
d'Or (a play on words sounding like "Salvador" meaning "bursts
of gold") and Dimanche Salvador. Their approach turns out to be
profitable. The Salvador couple enters the 70s with confidence.

At times, Henri takes out the cabriolet along with his colporteurs on
record shop tours. Meanwhile Jacqueline is a formidable businesswoman.
Disney threatens to sue the singer over his use of the name Zorro: she
turns the situation to her advantage and cashes in on a Disney-Salvador
contract. The decade will see them release five records: _Les
Aristochats ("The Aristocats")_, _Blanche-Neige ("Snow White")_,
_Le petit Poucet ("Hop-o'-My-Thumb")_, _Robin des Bois ("Robin
Hood")_ and _Pinocchio_. Ever reinventing themselves, the Salvadors
intend to do without studios, engineers, producers and musicians
altogether.
"I started working with just a tiny recorder. Now I've gotten to
sixteen tracks. I have electronic drums and my instruments. I can give
the impression of a full orchestra. It's amazing, I have as many
musicians as I want at my disposal, at whichever time of day and
night" (1972)

They install a high-end recording studio in their living room they
nickname the PAM – referring to the name of their company, Productions
Artistiques et Musicales. Louis Chedid remembers, "there was a huge
mixer, custom made I believe, a 3M tape recorder. They must have had the
very first drum machines, the ones that accompanied organs for example,
inspired by the Ace Tone; they came with pre-recorded beats like 'samba'
or 'biguine' [pressing two keys simultaneously you could combine them].
Plus there were quite a few guitars. What I do remember very well is his
guitar playing. He was seen as an entertainer but, really, he was a
virtuoso."

Using his mixer and reels, Henri endlessly multiplies and harmonises his
voice. Everything is done hastily though with care. He plays around with
the offbeat sounds of the synths, has a blast with the drum machines. He
uses all of the pre-recorded beats, loops the "fillers" to generate
more beats, fiddles with the speeds, programs his own, sometimes goofy
rhythms. This creative shift changes his musical groove. Salvador
invented a mechanical jazz for himself, one that gathered its swing from
the guitars and its energy from the vocals. He worked around his
weakness on the bass with his strings and Moog keyboard. To get his
public used to this new style, the PAM first produces a few singles'
B-sides – _On n'est plus chez nous_, which recounts the story of two
scat-men interrupted by a passerby looking for Place de l'Opéra in
Paris. Then an A-side: _Ah ce qu'on est bien quand on est dans son
bain_, (which could be translated as "Oh how nice it feels to
bathe"), which was recorded straight from the bathroom and became
1970's Christmas hit. And finally the first self-released album: _Les
Aristochats_, rewarded by the Charles Cros Academy in 1971. Many things
are in Jacqueline's hands: the lead, the books, and even the keys of
the studio: at times Henri would get locked in to compose, let out only
to work on his TV shows.

Under his contract with Disney, he's required to produce
family-friendly records. Along with his authors he creates songs about
Uncle Scrooge, Sneezy and Mickey. He combines them to other, very
peculiar, pieces: _Les voisins_ ("The neighbours"), an old hater
complains about the noise; _Petit Lapin_ ("Little Bunny"), a city
man advises a rodent not to settle in town; _Voilactus_, (from "voie
lactée", French for the Milky Way) an alien mocks our banking system;
_J'ai envie de Lucie_, in which the narrator explains how he's
always longing for Lucie; _Maman Papa_, a spoiler for kids on how to
hate theirs parents later on in life; but also _Le temps des cons
_("The time of the jerks"), a harsh commentary on French society.
"I make kids laugh. I love to belong to this audience, the most
righteous and the most severe. If they like you, they tell you; if they
don't like you, they tell you, too." (Télé-Star, 1977)

These LPs are also full of tender songs, dance floor baits and
environmentalist vignettes - a hodgepodge less well regarded than his
sixties period. And yet it's a boisterous collection of gems, with a
peculiar signature and many fresh ideas. _Siffler en travaillant_
("Whistle While You Work") is a brilliant reinterpretation of one of
_Snow White_'s theme song, which a young Salvador had already
performed with Ray Ventura's Orchestra in the 40s; _Hello Mickey_, a
catchy, spirited ska_; J'aime tes g'noux_, a great cover of Shirly
and Co's _Shame shame shame_; on _Un jour mon prince viendra_, he
makes a beat borrowed from Suicide and a Les Paul solo collide.

Meanwhile Rigolo also releases less family-oriented singles. After all,
Salvador's in for a bit of fun. He takes up eroticism, the financial
crisis, and the negotiations between the US and Vietnam. He writes some
luminous ballads such as _Marjorie_ and catchy classics like _Pauvre
Jésus Christ_. Some tracks are the result of unbridled experimentation,
like _Sex Man_ – particularly innovative – or _Et des mandolines_,
an ode to cool eyeing on the side of Lucio Battisti. He makes the score
of a messy film, _L'explosion_. The soundtrack was only released in
Canada though it's full of wonderful material like _Thème du bateau_
or the depressing though dazzling _Le bilan_, written by his friend, the
drummer Moustache.

Should he have kept recording in his living room beyond 1975, where
would have Salvador ended up? Would he have been found to be one of the
pioneers of rap or techno? In 1975 Jacqueline is diagnosed with a
cancer. As she manages, decides and initiates everything, Rigolo starts
idling. The year's only release, _Pinocchio_, is finished in a rush
and poorly distributed. The Salvadors accumulate medical consultations
but the following year Jacqueline passes away. It's the end of an era,
the end of the home studio. Weary and beat, Henri doesn't feel like
playing in his empty house anymore. He lets all of their projects die
out: the TV show, the label, the musical editions, the PAM. It's a
free-for-all; the labels and editors scramble at his door. He's robbed
and pressed for more Disney albums. _Peter Pan_ is on the way, _Bernard
et Bianca_ ("The Rescuers") and _Mary Poppins_ should be next, but
nothing comes out. His old impresario Marouani helps him back on his
feet and takes him to the other side of the globe to drown his sorrows.
Henri had never gotten on a plane before.
"He's my man, my child, my baby and my islands' memories. I'm
his shadow and alter ego. I live for him." (Jacqueline Salvador, 1973)

Back in line, he records _Salvador 77_ with a handful of producers. He
slips in two oldies from his home-studio period: _Rock star_, a Johnny
Hallyday parody made for their TV show at the time and _L'amour, va,
ça va_, made in his crooner style. The latter is an outsider with its
sloppy arrangements. The synth is so saturated on the record it seems
the speakers might just blow up. In 1978, for RCA still, he records _On
l'a dans l'baba_ in the studio. It resembles a typical electronic
track with a Vocoder – the beat though doesn't emanate from a drum
machine but from a flesh-and-blood drummer. Here again however the irony
didn't bother Salvador. And neither us – we included the song as the
closing-track of our compilation.

In 1980, he handwrites _"Si vous ne l'aimez pas, allez vous faire
foutre"_ (literally, _"If you don't like it, go fuck
yourselves"_) on the sleeve of his latest album. We'll never know
whether it was meant for the journalists or his label. He records the
same hits again, releases dull singles. All the same, he remains a great
performer who can get the whole of Paris dancing, as well as a champion
for the youth (_Emilie Jolie, La petite sirène_). The 90s may prove to
be artistically poor, they are emotionally rich for Salvador: he meets
his last wife, Catherine. Lifted and lit up once again, he makes his
comeback in the 2000s with _Chambre avec vue_.
"In the 60s, the artists were getting ripped off with ridiculous
rates. In the 80s, the lawyers got involved. The economy changed and
non-recoverable advance payments emerged. Labels started financing
artists so they wouldn't end up doing like Salvador did." (Louis
Chedid)

Together with Jacqueline, Henri Salvador should've set an example for
other artists: one of independence against an unfair and unyielding
system. An inspiration not to end up enslaved by contracts signed too
early, or to feed a bunch of comatose owners clenching onto millions of
publishing rights. Be glad, music-consumer friends: tonight a pen-pusher
will offer himself an entrecote thanks to the money you kindly invested
in this compilation. Happy listening. More