TUJIKO NORIKO - Solo

Listening to the fresh reissue of "Shojo Toshi" (titled "Shojo Toshi+" for the occasion), the temptation to hear something new emerging from Tujiko's magic formula was irresistible.

Very prolific years for our little "sprite," especially during the 2005/2006 period, when she managed to release one gorgeous work after another. From the soft glitch-pop pearls of "28", to the abstractions of her previous solo album ("Blurred In My Mirror"), to the precious collaborations with Riow Arai as RATN, with the album "J", and the even more compelling mass of sound called "Stéréotypie", built on the work of Peter Rehberg (aka Pita) under the Dacm moniker.

"Solo" is a very particular album, perhaps the artist's most complex. The songs drag on even more, slower and more exhausted than in the past. The tempo is (almost) always calm, despite the ever-present drum machine. The structure grows even more intricate, since there's never a recurring melody or pattern: various noises and sounds alternate with no apparent logic. Everything comes together and blends as soon as her voice arrives. Oh yes, that's still the same. Her singing remains caught between disenchantment and enchantment, forever teetering between digital distraction and flashes of melody. The songs - yes, let's get to the songs. There are nine of them, each one lovelier than the last, each for a different reason.

As soon as "Magic" kicks in, it sounds just like "Niagara Hospital" (the opening track of "Blurred In My Mirror"), the same claustrophobic atmosphere, the same sounds. There is, however, the addition of rhythmic fragmentations (the bouncing sound in the background), rubbery beats, cyclical timbres chasing each other without ever meeting. It's beautiful, because it reminds us of her past, and it's certainly no unpleasant thing to have it brought back to mind.

"Sun!" is built from a brilliant swarm of "faunistic" samples, noises, clangs, flickers of an ever-present digital machine, dictating a stripped-down, broken rhythm. It sounds like an imagined score for the forest living inside her (Tujiko's, obviously) little head, with colorful trees, lush grass and a bright blue sky. In order, this second track wins us over because it lets us dream without reservation.

"Ending Kiss" escapes our grasp for two reasons. A handful of guitar chords (rather thin ones, at that), a few digital remnants, and that's all we're left with to latch onto something recurring. The second reason lies in the sheer beauty of the voice. The chorus, charged with emotion, hangs suspended, the words dance among the clouds, and so the listener can never quite catch hold of a single phrase. It's maddening, because the heart weeps, overwhelmed with feeling.

"Let Me See Your Face" is essentially a love song, or a song about desire. Tujiko insistently repeats the line: "Let Me See Your Face Again, again, again…", while, oblivious to everything, scraps of sound flicker on and off, background vocalizations dream and speak of their own nocturnal story, Japanese takes the place of English, and it all ends in a finale where everything vanishes and reappears. The fourth track enchants simply because it speaks of regret, of a "fantasy" that no longer exists, or that perhaps will return once everything has changed.

"Saigo No Chikyu" is a fairy tale that begins hushed, glides along straight, decisive lines, stumbles into a rhythm that feels like an endless flow, shudders as beats come rumbling through, and settles back the moment calm returns in silence. An extraordinary alternation of chromatic tones, from dark, scarring colors through to a pale blue. If the numbers add up, this fifth step casts its spell through its shifting timbral rise and fall, able to pull attention away, ensnare the senses and leave indelible marks.

"Gift" is perhaps the only episode in which the mood sets melancholy aside and pulls itself back from oblivion with a still-relentless drive. The gradual downpour of the beat-storm reaches its peak at the very end, when the voice is almost completely submerged, only to be let loose in a finale of rare tenderness. This track wins us over for the grace with which it settles into our senses.

"No Error In My Memory" isn't really a song, at most it could be called a kind of poetry set against a musical backdrop. Tujiko tells her story in Japanese, while the jagged bursts of sound stand out for their flair and hunger. This piece's great merit (and so, the reason it's so appreciable) lies in its ability to drag our fears out into the open and throw them right in front of the listener, in front of us. "Spot" is the culmination of this handful of songs' intangible essence, the rhythm turns crumbled and all but nonexistent, while the vocals, as throughout the record, grow ever more personal and, above all, fitting for every moment. Small traces of song appear here and there, but what truly envelops us is a sense of disorientation. Then again, that's exactly why this penultimate episode is, once again, highly recommended.

You'd expect anything from Tujiko, any kind of twist, but a lively, almost dance-like ending? Not a chance. "In A Chinese Restaurant" is a brilliant tangle of electronic fragments that stretches on for nearly 9 minutes, through highs and lows, intertwined surges, relentless stimuli. Perhaps all of her imagination pours out right here, and maybe whatever lies ahead for her can be glimpsed in this mysterious clue. The fact is, nothing feels out of place, so the gold star goes to track number 9 as well, for one simple reason: the "surprise" is priceless.

Distracted by this last gem, we're led to the end, with no certainties, lost and left adrift. The only fixed point we can find is in a work that is cohesive as a whole, different from what came before, groundbreaking within the arc of Tujiko's career. The side of us most devoted to emotion comes away fully satisfied, as proven by every single moment, down to the smallest appreciable detail.

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16/03/2007