Bachi's accalimed debut album, made of bowels, of sweat, of fields and ground. The sound is knead with the ground. The same ground who sands smelling messages to me. The sound is one with the ground. The voice is laying down on the music, just like bowing farmers in the fields to draw the lines. Sometimes it seems to only mime the words with the lips. Implied, just like the sweat, implied into the gesture that goes with. Another time it gives lyrics as charming as flavouring and charming as grapes from the grapevine. And it's a chorus of percussions and strings, now beated and bited, now caressed and kissed by hard wine cellar and field's working callused hands, by mouths closed up by the muggy weather and the nearby sea's salt that burrows wrinkles into the burned faces.
I relax and this music is cradling me. It leads me in a trip into my teen memory, among the barrels of wine that inebriate if I was passing too close and the nettles that stinging my ankles while I'm working the ploughs to let the water flows into the ground.