This woman is not a singer. The sweeping voices that unfold on this tableaux are other people’s, she limited herself to direct, to play viola, to coordinate the Electra Strings and anyone found up in zone, to manipulate tapes, to compose the whole in a dark divertissment.

This practice, idle only in appearance, than does indeed not distinguish Jocelyn Pook from Franco Battiato, and that it seems to conform a little to the pseudoeighties diktat, a little to Stanley Kubrick, transform our life, our entire living in a less and less defined and comprehensible world, one pleasant adventure.

To me is impressive, above all, the incalculable power of the most personal and idiosyncratich initiatives a contemporary composer can take and lead through this incomprehensible market whom we all inhabit. The entire knowledge, at least that concerning a careful listener of contemporary music, is found subject to be threaded, with extreme nonchalance, in a recording that has all the features of a home production.

A home production is not at all, more a luxury and authoritative production draft, certified by archangel Gabriel and diffused on a (follow me) world-wide scale. I am myself here thinking of children believing that ultraconservative rock bands are to represent innovation and alternative ways. I listen to this discs and, while I try to identify the categories of marketings that would serve to connect the production and the target, I leave a smile to surface.