© [ P I A S ] 2005
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ORIGINS
Sometimes, a collection of songs needs time to settle before becoming patently obvious. Some will even say that it is the rule for these albums that defy time, while forcefully grasping hearts and senses, just like these bedside-table books with their yellow fading pages. “Après L’Amour” is one of these records.
Three years after “Femme X”, which introduced her to the public, Karin Clercq shakes up certainties and explodes every pigeonhole in sight. On “Femme X”, she sang: “being nobody, now that disturbs me”. She can put her mind at ease. Karin Clercq has become someone. “Femme X” was already a subtle role-playing exercise, in which this formally trained actress slid into the skin of various female characters with contradictory paths. With “Après L’Amour”, the question of role-playing no longer arises. The “Me” prevails. A “Me” that is not necessarily autobiographical, not systematically feminine; a “Me” that dives into the meanders of relationships - which are often tumultuous, we will convene - with disturbing lucidity.
With Guillaume Jouan, musical partner in crime on « Femme X », the outline was drawn in acoustic mode. On the one side, Karin’s voice and her texts that are constantly on edge; on the other side, Guillaume’s intimate caskets. An Arpeggio of classical guitar here, some electric chords there. After six months of endless returns between Brussels, where she lives, and Rennes, where Guillaume set-up his home studio, the result is more nuanced and the borders have become blurrier. An acknowledgement yet reinforced during recording sessions at the Cocoon Studio in Rennes under Bruno Green’s leadership, or during the ever-delicate phase of mixing with the precious help of Gilles Martin.
« Sur Le Fil » - a song that creates the link with “Femme X” – sets the tone and blurs the tracks from the opening piece. The voice is familiar; the guitar is reassuring; but already, here and there, one stumbles onto clues, just to prove that the journey has only just begun. “La Sincère” confirms this impression. The song is stripped at the beginning and concludes with a heady rhythmic. The listener has just set foot on a path strewn with surprises. False minimalist ballad but real success, “A Louer” is touching by its simplicity and its audaciousness. On “Franchise”, a trumpet casts its spell on the listener. Somewhere in between kitsch and The Cure, “The Lover” presses on the pop button. Velvet Underground-style guitars run across “L’Homme Qui Pleure”. « Je Suis à Toi » and « Chacun Son Tour » are both luminous melodies that choose not to choose between song and rock. “Dire Qu’il Faudra Mourir Un Jour” is a cover of George Moustaki, and is as obvious as the text is. Finally “A Fleur de Peau”, “J’Ai Attendu”, “Ne Pense à Rien”, and “Après L’Amour” illustrate the sheer determination of coating the voice with the bare essentials. Beauty never needed superfluous.
« Read me to remind yourself that one day we loved one another. That we did not drown when we were to part”, sings Karin in “Franchise”. It’s all there. That’s where it starts and that’s where it ends. Fed on the words and aches that surround her, this singer songwriter tells of love and all it leaves. She tells of her impulses (« La Sincère », « Je Suis à Toi »), her gestation (« J’ai Attendu »), her expectations (« A Louer »), her break-ups (« Franchise »), her set of rules (« Chacun Son Tour »), and her hesitations (« Sur Le Fil »).
Although she signs most of the texts, Karin Clercq doesn’t wear blinkers. She listens, she observes, she scrutinizes, she reads. “A Fleur De Peau”, written soon before the “departure” of a close one, was inspired by a poem by Portuguese Fernando Pessoa. Karin slides into the skin of a bit of a man, a bit of a pimp: the “Lover”, born from a passage of “Les Bons Sauvages”, a novel by Belgian author Jacqueline Harpman. “La Sincère” rests on a text written by nineteenth century poetess Marceline Desbordes Valmore. Finally, the hidden track “Taslima” is a tribute to Taslima Nasreen, Bangladeshi journalist and novelist who dared lift the veil of women’s position in society in some Muslim countries.
Beyond literary references, a deep feeling of candour oozes out of this new album. As unaffected in real life as she is on stage - where she made her debut on the opening night of the Nuits Botanique in September 2002 in Brussels - Karin Clercq has always favoured sincerity to bluff. She has chosen discretion over media fuss, and the economy of words and gestures over unnecessary outpours. She introduced herself as a novice of the discipline only three years ago, and has since charmed the critics (Quebec Walloon Brussels Award) and experienced public recognition with remarkable and remarked performances at the Festival des Vieilles Charrues, the Ancienne Belgique, the Francofolies de Spa, and in both Quebec and Germany. By offering these daily chronicles with a rare accuracy, realism and self-control that further eases identification, Karin Clercq does better than confirming. She is compelling.
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