Foule emerged from the darkness of Toulouse in 2023. The duo, composed of Zoé Boutin (vocals) and Olly (guitars, machines), invited us into a universe made up of odds and ends, colourful nightmares, broken dolls and things that drool under the bed at night. Single after single, we discovered more about this universe, which convey pictures of dusty attics from which mysterious whispers escape as soon as you look away: industrial metal, witch house, trap, darkwave, punk... Foule mixes it all up a bit. A musical Frankenstein's monster, an assembly of corpses salvaged from here and there? They prefer the metaphor of Kintsugi, sublimating their breaks. In fact, their first album is called Porcelaine.
This universe comes to life right from the intro, like a puppet animated in stop-motion, with jerky movements that give it its charm. A creepy melody from a dying music box, IDM glitches that scratch the corners of our consciousness with their nasty arachnid paws, spectral plaintive singing: Prélude conjures up a whole host of markers evocative of something gothic and melancholic, where forgotten and broken childhood toys take their revenge.
Witch house fans will appreciate the bizarre electronics, saturation effects, coldly sighing high notes, hypnotic trap rhythms (Brûler sounds like Ic3peak locked in a basement watching Tim Burton films on repeat), backward sounds and voices and church echoes. Foule add heavy guitar riffs. The temperature rises with Chair. We love the gloomy atmospheres, the lyrics chanted in French with incendiary rage until they become incantatory mantras (Le Cachot des Enfants Rois, Le Bleu est une Couleur Froide). The production has a DIY feel to it, which also allows us to imagine the potential of this bizarre, twisted thing: Foule sometimes shows clumsiness, seems to be searching and trying, but that's also where the beauty of this project lies, in its sincerity and the way it flaunts its imperfections.
We then explore this cabinet of curiosities made up of mystical poetry (the heady Poison, with its religious touches and intoxicating nostalgia), angry outbursts (the explosion that is contained during Au Diable before finally letting loose, the aggression of Ces Serpents qui Sifflent sur vos Têtes), and hushed atmospheres that gradually become shrouded in a dark and icy fog (Vers l'Enfer). Foule is definitely a strange number, odd of course. Admittedly, we love their ability to conjure up images, to tickle our imagination, their delicacy, but also their taste for hard-hitting rhythms and biting guitars. There are ghosts sighing, but also some nastier demons in there. But we also love how Foule fully embraces its universe, its French lyrics, its sometimes risky balancing acts, and how, in its scars and cracks, Foule reveals itself to be a unique, touching and fascinating creature, full of a limping grace. For that alone, Porcelaine is a precious album, seemingly fragile but whose scars prove its ability to rise again.
