MALIBU - Vanities

Vanity: six letters, an infinity of concepts to describe. The capital sin, the “havel havalim” mentioned in Ecclesiastes, the characteristic allegorical paintings of the Baroque, the liminal, transitional spaces that remind us of our own condition of isolation. Within this rich spectrum of meanings and interpretations, French composer Barbara Braccini, better known as Malibu, doesn't just refuse to favor one reading over another—on “Vanities” she decides to draw on all of them, giving life to a project that is as expansive as it is alienating, elegiac and desolate at once. The fruit of years of contributions and studies through “minor” formats (mainly EPs and mixtapes), her first true album under this moniker delves into the sinuous folds of a formless ambient sound, built mainly on trailing synths and voices, seemingly impassive yet possessed of its own austere emotionality. Because isolation, too, demands its own specific poetics.

Compared to the protracted designs of “One Life” and, above all, “Palaces Of Pity,” which courted a rarefied style, dense even in the low frequency of its sonic waves, “Vanities” operates on a different plane, both in form and attitude. Aside from the closing quartet of tracks, closer in intent to the shapes of its predecessors, the whole record settles instead into medium-short running times, almost disavowing the genre's typical tendency toward far more expansive lengths. This in no way undermines the immersive nature of the listen—if anything, it's amplified by the spare fleetingness of these vignettes, captured in instants that bring out all their emotional depth.

Despite the pronounced simplicity of its framework, the impact of the tracks arrives multiplied, exploiting the hymn-like nature of Braccini's voice, expressive and vivid even without a single word employed. Through it she holds sway over deserted spaces, border territories that even a single vocal line manages to turn into poetry: the whole album is the sound of voids finally filled, of grey areas at last lit up by a ray of hope.

Beyond the glacial synths, beyond the industrial drones evoking derelict warehouses, Malibu expresses a hidden sweetness (“So Sweet And Willing,” fittingly), even letting arcane melodies filter through (the piano and flute of “L'empire du vide,” steeped in Enigma-like suggestions), venturing into territories where isolation becomes a purely descriptive matter. There's all the faith (the almost sacral touch, à la Kara-Lis Coverdale, of “Spicy City”), all the inner strength of a subjectivity able to spot the sun behind the clouds even when it seems impossible (the sparse trance forms of “Lactonic Crush,” like the slow clearing of a storm).

In the closing quartet of tracks the concept is spelled out to perfection: even when the sonic swells grow more brooding (the enveloping sprawl of “Contact”), even when everything seems to be heading toward final defeat (the deceptive title of “Watching People Die,” a surprising piano ballad), a pervasive warmth emerges, a firm tenderness that discerns, within its surrounding environments, a clouded calm, the promise of a new future. Alone before the void, Braccini weaves it the most moving of eulogies.

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06/01/2026