{"product_id":"cyril-cyril_yallah-mickey-mouse-vinyl_2020_lad","title":"YALLAH MICKEY MOUSE (vinyl)","description":"THE NEW GEM FROM BORN BAD RECORDS \u0026 BONGO JOE LABELS: \"LES HELVÈTES UNDERGROUND\" --- FRANCE INTER ---. The white highway, Sunday swimming, Mont Saint Michel... all join the stage, Cyril Cyril shakes the snow globe, Helvet underground as they are called. Cyril Cyril's Sunday is a trance, we arrive, we gather, the people. The sampled voice hesitates, moans a little, Miami Beach, OK let's go. This is how Cyril Cyril's new album, Yallah Mickey Mouse, opens. They've picked up their instruments and their roots with tousled tips. It's not about untangling them. The sounds are sculpted in vibrant marbles with untamed fossils. A visionary sound narrative, an invitation to unorganized travel. Personal emanations and studio research, multiple influences are invoked. A tribute to friends of Hyperculte in memory of an Egyptian dromedary, nods to the phrasing of Cha Cha Guitry, to the animal of Gerard Manset or to the hand of Indochina. \"DAZZLING, HYPNOTIC, CLOSE TO TRANCE\" --- FRANCE INTER ---. \"THE SWISS DUO CONFIRMS ITS STATUS AS A GENIAL UFO.\" --- FIP ---. Of all the Cyrils born in Calvin's City at the dawn of the 80s, these two were bound to find each other. Two Cyrils like two dizygotic souls whose twists of fate hastened their meeting. Cyril Cyril. A free hydra, born from this city of diplomats where Borges, in The Other, duplicated his rejuvenated ego. On the ruins of their exhausted bands, an empire of cosmopolitan essence is built. For these Cyrils have accumulated miles, from their Genevan haven. Muezzin without borders, Cyril Yeterian came into the world dishevelled in Mama Rosin. A trio awakening the ghosts of rogue bayous, the sweaty Mardi Gras of an electric Louisiana. The world quickly fell in love with their verve. The BBC celebrated them, Jon Spencer produced them, records proliferated. And then in 2017, the state of grace passed away. Cyril is alone. Oh, not entirely. Because around him, music proliferates. In his Bongo Joe shop, on the label of the same name, in the DJ nights he foments in the basement, Yeterian clears ground frantically, in a bulimia of exiled grooves. In the same space-time, Cyril Bondi takes the tangent. Diatribes, La Tène, Insub Meta Orchestra, the most adventurous projects of the Genevan scene all have dealings with this percussionist in search of unheard-of pulsations. He also travels, knows the ascent, the intoxication of the peaks and the fall. Plaistow, his mediumistic jazz band, of acoustic hypnosis, shakes up the saturated landscape of the piano-bass-drums trio and wins the hearts of Europe and the East. Until the break. Bondi then sought a place to deposit his gear. He found better: an accomplice in musical prospecting, a Cyril in tune with his rebellious instinct. No question then of leaning, like the \"Colossus of Rhodes,\" on tested foundations. The adventure demanded new luggage, a new language. Cyril and Cyril are in a boat and both jump into the water. Guitarist and accordionist, Cyril Y. adopts the banjo. He grafts effect pedals onto it, quickly transforming it into a sickly bouzouki, an epic saz, a lyre from Addis. Cyril B, for his part, recomposes a cannibal kitchen drum kit, setting his parade-model bass drum with enormous bells and tropical nuts. You have to have seen these two, one evening at a popular festival, overheating a cramped club by summoning utopian neguses. Playing as new Berbers, provoking improbable seismic soukous in a trance that owes as much to hippie vertigo as to Fraggle Rock. Because music, for Cyril Cyril, is a way of using the world. A joyful decentralization that offers new ways to apprehend chaos. The point here is not a globalized country outing, a gluten-free exoticism. Under the beach, the cobblestones. Politics always surfaces in these intoxicating songs, these bony grooves. When he's not tracing the family lineage of a Lebanese dialect adopted late, Cyril Yeterian chants in French rhapsodies whose imperious vocabulary says everything about the insurrections to come. Thus \"La ville,\" a Doorsian harangue where the epic verve of a Prix Goncourt (Texaco by Patrick Chamoiseau) meets the poetic prophecies of the Invisible Committee. Thus \"Ultra moderne solitude 2,\" more Alain Péters than Souchon, where one wonders: \"Where have the souls gone \/ with whom to take up arms. Nothing, however, to transform Certain Ruins into a verbose pamphlet by bad jokers, by neo-post-everything killjoys. Because, let's admit it, \"the leviathan is intimidating\" (\"Sous la mer c'est calme)\"), Cyril Cyril knows the superior powers of suggestion, restraint, happy sobriety. A word, a cry says much more, provided it is inhabited. A duo's sound, reduced to its simplest expression - rhythm-riff-voice - can carry within it, a double helix of DNA, a musical organism of infinite luxuriance. Cyril Cyril, so rich, so rich. --- Nicolas Julliard ---.","brand":"Cyril Cyril","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":55310281736536,"sku":null,"price":23933698.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0898\/4943\/0360\/files\/3521381562941_849a3bc7-9723-42da-bf51-3670e923f91a.jpg?v=1760318025","url":"https:\/\/vinyles.com\/en-us\/products\/cyril-cyril_yallah-mickey-mouse-vinyl_2020_lad","provider":"Vinyles.com","version":"1.0","type":"link"}