Jean-Jacques is a child of the Eighties. As such, it could not be withdrawn from a certain environment which has it, consciously or not, worked and influenced its way of thinking, even of life. Eh yes, it is like that, and one cannot escape from it, him like you like me. But what do we have to advance that one comes from the Eighties? These terrible Eighties which definitively killed any form of creation whose rock'n'roll was the last bastion, standardizing and globalisant, levelling, squaring, in a great dash towards the pure one produced marketing and of consumption. These Eighties honnies and shown finger, vilified, conchiées, disavowed.... One needed a scapegoat and the eighties have good back. But it is too easy. Because finally, that to say following, sad and fatalistic decade, populated dunces not daring to dream better, more extremely, more large, that its glorious elder? Miss scale and of charisma, car-compassion are upset with you in here, approximate ashamed but enthusiastic (!) in the best of the cases. And at the present time, that does it occur? You hear things which give desire for beating foot with the radio? Who négligemment give desire of siffloter by tapping finger on the wheel during the congestions? Ah bah yes, as much us refourguer a tube of the Eighties, then!!! Let us take the case Paul Simon. He publishes into 86 the perfect disc for yuppie reader of Rolling Stone of then. Paul Simon! I know some, and not more idiots, who leave their Uzi as of the first two notes "El Condor Pasa ". It is however not its fault in Paulo but its kindness passes quickly for insipidness and then one does not listen to any more the songs. There is in it an atmosphere which makes that they are found ruffle-gna-gna. It is pretty, that never dribbles, and that feels a little the encaustique one. There are however jewels in its old discs with its accomplice Article But good, the man irritates. Too much inoffensive. Miss attitude. It is sure, one is far from the esthetism of Cramps or of Ramones, even of Dick Rivers. Like that, first of all, that does not pack, one even smells that one a little will be bored. And for the emergency feeling, forgiveness! Sure also that it is not very glamour, the boy.... The close kind to mitigate. Worse: there would not be idea to pass one evening with him. Must be with the bed at ten hours with all to break, in any event. I will say to you, hold: child, that was to be the kind not to let to you look on his sheet so that you do not recopy on him. And that, frankly, it is small.... O.K.. But if his disc were listened to, "Graceland". Firstly, whereas at the time, U.S.A. were the world - euh, it is a little always the case, moreover - and that one did not finish any any more coming to assistance of the Third World countries - that one calls from now on country in the process of development, it is to say if progress were made... - South Africa, yes, South Africa of the great time of apartheid, comes to awake and reanimate Paul Simon. It is true that it is of a discrete naturalness but say that that made a lease which one did not have any more vinyl news of him (what is a little the same case today except that one would say compacted). The mbaqanga thus comes to tickle the ears of Simon. This hopping music, favourable with the dance, contains one paradoxically throbbing sadness. It also as well as possible determines the African life, its traditions and its desire of emancipation and modernization, its thirst for freedom, its landscapes immense with the disproportionate sky also and the size inherent in each life of man in the life of tous.les.jours. A celebration and an exorcism. A joy and a pain. All that points out the music of the south of the United States. Both cross in the disc, without clash, quite distinctive however but without that not disturbing coherence, the harmony of the unit. And while speaking about harmony, Paul Simon is truly in liveliness. Its writing, mature and controlled, is extatic. Paul Simon wants, is motivated, galvanized by this music, is inhabited. Creative. Entreating all its gifts and know-how, he writes eleven superb songs, delicate, with the seizing words, the pure melodies. Eleven worthy songs too. You are not likely to hear them begun again and massacred by will stain on a discoidal rate/rhythm: they are too fragile, too subtle, too strong. Art of the nuance and clearly-obscure, of the so beautiful but so hard life. Today, not knowing more to write true songs, one repaît oneself of hits well-worn, coarse and popularized with excess, bound for a public of décérébrés, begun again balanced without heart in hate, but "The Boy In The Bubble" hardly lends itself to it, not more than "Diamonds One The Soles Of Her Shoes". Question of class. Even "Homeless" passes the slope well without the memory of Null being too awkward. In this connection, "Graceland", the song, is a pure wonder, thin and perfect balance of soft misery and morose cheerfulness. Limpid. Life captured in song. It is well the least in truth but rare are those which reach that point. With "Graceland", Paul Simon, clearly, is out of ground of grace. He invites us there, and there is, I ensure you, no reason to refuse. Fi of the bad reputation. This album is superb and rare. It touches deep and that made of the good, that gives hot to the heart (and the body also, one can dance, I say to you), especially by times which sprintent.

Ben Kennedy.