With Wild Beast, we had to catch up: It’s been two years since we filmed a Take-Away Show in speed. No sound engineer (ie: me at the controls), barely an hour, and above that in the worst district of the world, that part of the sixteenth arrondissement lurking behind the Maison de la Radio, where the old hide, the more blimpish, the most paranoid, cranky: On any kind of our music they tumble, you scream above, you cannot tell we are not gypsies in here.
In short, we put the Take-Away Show on the shelf, without losing the desire to one day release something with this unconventional English band with those incredible voices, who play so well that they can afford to brush excessive glam without ever having fingers that stick.
The Pitchfork Festival therefore was a great opportunity to catch the thing. Great, but far from being ideal: at festivals, bands are always less approachable than usual, and we have seen better locations than La Villette to shoot (yes, it gets difficult). There are just two of them this time, the voices aerobatics, with only one guitar. In the streets of the district hidden from the nineteenth arrondissement, it is a walk with no puffery. We knew their new album would be more temperate, mature, but we got the proof that day. Those voices that effortlessly, without rushing, fly together, intertwined like two birds drunk before nightfall. Effortless, weightless, as if there was nothing around.
Translated by Helena Kaschel