When attempting to encapsulate the essence of Paris in a word, Evelyn Waugh endearingly deemed the city "bogus." In his travelogue, Labels, he wrote, "It seems to me this scrap of jargon, in every gradation of meaning... gives a very adequate expression of the essence of modern Paris." Thanks mostly to San Dimas High School, in the seventy sum years since Waugh's trip, the term-- and bogus journeys, in general-- has evolved into a firm negative. Waugh, however, enjoyed Parisians' ability to dismiss nostalgia in art and revel in the present without regard to the future, past, or public reception. In so few words, the French don't give a fuck.
Because of this, American audiences continually underestimate French music, assuming our rigid filters of "authentic" or "ironic" apply. Admittedly, the cultural barrier is difficult to overcome: Daft Punk's masked robot disco, Gainsbourg's reggae, and Phoenix's flying-V Steely Dan tribute seem cute and studied when compared to the supposed bleeding-on-wax of our idolized Kurts and Jimis. As such, investing emotionally in "Sexy Boy" was akin to a Cubs fan buying playoff tickets. Air's revered debut hit cosmetic commercials within weeks of its release and goes great with a dry Chardonnay. 10,000 Hz Legend opened with synthetic voices proclaiming, "We are electronic performers," before 10cc choruses toyingly queried, "How does it make you feel?"
Which makes the overwhelming beauty and longing of Talkie Walkie that much more stunning. No longer are Air's sincerities lost in translation. The album title (no, they're not being cute, that's just how they say it in French) knowingly acknowledges this fact. Like the communication devices, Talkie Walkie sounds intimate, yet distant and distorted. Hope Sandoval nailed "Cherry Blossom Girl" on a demo, yet in forgoing guest vocalists for the first time, Air unerringly personalize their songwriting. Stomping piano and opiated gospel handclaps march "Venus" in a brutal funereal pace through keyboards that break like dead, pale winter sunlight and falling ice. Tolling bells and crickets take the song into twilight. Somehow it's numbingly romantic. Atonal music boxes, Plutonian pings, and digital fugues create a Side One that evokes purgatorial drifting, running out of oxygen, and passing into the light after a Space Walk disaster.
The second half with the propulsive "Surfin' on a Rocket", whistling "Alpha Beta Gaga", banjo-laced "Biological", and the Japanese imperial garden suite, "Alone in Kyoto", reconstitute Brian Wilson's surfing symphonies through Bowie and Eno's Berlin flipsides. Nigel Godrich, rather than supplying his default clean, shimmering production that can homogenize artists such as Beck, Travis, and The Divine Comedy, betters some of his Radiohead A-game here. The album's chilling resonance is due in part to Godrich's anagogical recording of minimal instrumentation and digitally etiolated detail.
Being the good Parisians of Waugh's estimation, Air load Talkie Walkie with images of moonbase love and alien encounters that neither mocks the comically misjudged visions of yellowed science fiction, nor longs for some utopian future. Air creates the alternate now, an environment that begs escapism without denying humanity. Talkie Walkie may mollify Air's overt Frenchness, but should in no way be deemed a sudden opening of the soul. In their insular way, Air have always been soul. They've simply grown more cosmopolitan, and not just in their solubility with vodka, Cointreau and cranberry.
