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CD
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BORNBAD 174CD
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Cyril Cyril's music seems familiar because it's not deaf to its neighbors, in the broadest sense: Geneva, their lair, Europe, their playground as a duo, and the world, their grocery store. There's plenty in those two heads, but just the two of them on stage. Cyril Yeterian fiddles with a polyglot banjo and catches his tangy voice on the fly with pedals. Cyril Bondi hauls around a huge drum kit (voted wackiest of the decade), covered in sonic shells and the occasional pad. For their third Born Bad album, they have invited two lads from Orchestre Tout Puissant Marcel Duchamp, Inès Mouzoune (multi-instrumentalist from Amami), and Violeta Garcia (whose cello features on Le Futur ça marche pas). Genosidra, aka Carlos Quebrada, who crafts club delicacies in Bogotá, mixed heavy, full gravy, a challenge given the quantity of material, recorded as a family affair at Insub Studio. This album features heavy guitar/drums text-driven ballads, polyrhythmic noisy drum splatter with crafty vocal knitting, deconstructed and harmonically ambitious compositions, and Latino frogs croaks. Since their previous efforts Certaine Ruines (BORNBAD 109CD) and Yallah Mickey Mouse (BORNBAD 138CD), it turns out that the future isn't working out so badly for the two Cyrils, who each have a label to run. Bongo Joe for Yeterian, Insub for Bondi -- who also beats the drum for La Tène in his rare spare time. And that's not counting with their supergroup Yalla Miku (with Hyperculte, Anouar Baouna, Ali Boushaki, and Samuel Ades). Quietly sitting on crates of records, they patiently build their sound. Never tired of sick networks and never-ending struggles, Cyril Cyril live is a rousing mess, shouting out the common spleen while still managing to have a good laugh.
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LP
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BORNBAD 174LP
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LP version. Cyril Cyril's music seems familiar because it's not deaf to its neighbors, in the broadest sense: Geneva, their lair, Europe, their playground as a duo, and the world, their grocery store. There's plenty in those two heads, but just the two of them on stage. Cyril Yeterian fiddles with a polyglot banjo and catches his tangy voice on the fly with pedals. Cyril Bondi hauls around a huge drum kit (voted wackiest of the decade), covered in sonic shells and the occasional pad. For their third Born Bad album, they have invited two lads from Orchestre Tout Puissant Marcel Duchamp, Inès Mouzoune (multi-instrumentalist from Amami), and Violeta Garcia (whose cello features on Le Futur ça marche pas). Genosidra, aka Carlos Quebrada, who crafts club delicacies in Bogotá, mixed heavy, full gravy, a challenge given the quantity of material, recorded as a family affair at Insub Studio. This album features heavy guitar/drums text-driven ballads, polyrhythmic noisy drum splatter with crafty vocal knitting, deconstructed and harmonically ambitious compositions, and Latino frogs croaks. Since their previous efforts Certaine Ruines (BORNBAD 109CD) and Yallah Mickey Mouse (BORNBAD 138CD), it turns out that the future isn't working out so badly for the two Cyrils, who each have a label to run. Bongo Joe for Yeterian, Insub for Bondi -- who also beats the drum for La Tène in his rare spare time. And that's not counting with their supergroup Yalla Miku (with Hyperculte, Anouar Baouna, Ali Boushaki, and Samuel Ades). Quietly sitting on crates of records, they patiently build their sound. Never tired of sick networks and never-ending struggles, Cyril Cyril live is a rousing mess, shouting out the common spleen while still managing to have a good laugh.
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LP
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BORNBAD 138LP
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LP version. Includes printed undersleeve and download code. Cyril Cyril stirs the snow globe, Helvet underground as they are called. Cyril Cyril's Sunday is a trance, you arrive, people gather. The samples vocals, hesitates, moans a little, Miami Beach, OK let's go. This is how Cyril Cyril introduce their new album Yallah Mickey Mouse. Once again, they take back their instruments and their roots with their ruffled tips. It is not about untangling. The sonorities are sculpted in vibrating marbles with indocile fossils. A visionary sonic narration, an invitation to an unorganized journey. Multiple influences are called on in the frame of this project of personal emanations and studio research. A tribute to the friends of Hyperculte in memory of an Egyptian camel, winks to the phrasing of Cha Cha Guitry, to the animal of Gerard Manset or to the hand of Indochine. Cyril Bondi is at the drums with his custom instruments, his body is trained to the groove of the wizards, and the fanfare of delirious insects starts. Cyril Yeterian is on the banjo or on the electric guitar. His storyteller's voice, that has travelled time and migrations, resumes the stories suspended since our last meeting. Cyril Cyril carries our voices, including the ones of those who are no longer here. They come back, it's crazy how modern they are, and then without embarrassment too, without embarrassment and generous, happy to be able to regain a little youth, it looks lost, they sing. Cyril Cyril carries their voices. Reeds, hands, undulate, breathe, like this music. Cyril Cyril carries our bodies. The ternary scale of our emotions and our smiles that come back. The wave makes you lose control, but the harmonies gently overtake this feeling as you lay on the sand. Also, the irony. The figures of power, the small march of insects accompanies them while laughing, these presidents. And always the surprise, bells ring in all you ears, eyes, and hands. Cyril Cyril carries your senses. Cyril Cyril opens your mind. You resonate more and more, you get more and more entangled, everything intertwines, the sounds and their lights. The psychedelic organ melody accompanies the voice which rises in the higher frequencies, the percussions encourage you. You accelerate the pulsation, you get closer and stomp together, you want the head of Mickey Mouse. Echoes of bird songs, of a bestiary. You are animals, the carnival of animals.
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CD
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BORNBAD 138CD
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Cyril Cyril stirs the snow globe, Helvet underground as they are called. Cyril Cyril's Sunday is a trance, you arrive, people gather. The samples vocals, hesitates, moans a little, Miami Beach, OK let's go. This is how Cyril Cyril introduce their new album Yallah Mickey Mouse. Once again, they take back their instruments and their roots with their ruffled tips. It is not about untangling. The sonorities are sculpted in vibrating marbles with indocile fossils. A visionary sonic narration, an invitation to an unorganized journey. Multiple influences are called on in the frame of this project of personal emanations and studio research. A tribute to the friends of Hyperculte in memory of an Egyptian camel, winks to the phrasing of Cha Cha Guitry, to the animal of Gerard Manset or to the hand of Indochine. Cyril Bondi is at the drums with his custom instruments, his body is trained to the groove of the wizards, and the fanfare of delirious insects starts. Cyril Yeterian is on the banjo or on the electric guitar. His storyteller's voice, that has travelled time and migrations, resumes the stories suspended since our last meeting. Cyril Cyril carries our voices, including the ones of those who are no longer here. They come back, it's crazy how modern they are, and then without embarrassment too, without embarrassment and generous, happy to be able to regain a little youth, it looks lost, they sing. Cyril Cyril carries their voices. Reeds, hands, undulate, breathe, like this music. Cyril Cyril carries our bodies. The ternary scale of our emotions and our smiles that come back. The wave makes you lose control, but the harmonies gently overtake this feeling as you lay on the sand. Also, the irony. The figures of power, the small march of insects accompanies them while laughing, these presidents. And always the surprise, bells ring in all you ears, eyes, and hands. Cyril Cyril carries your senses. Cyril Cyril opens your mind. You resonate more and more, you get more and more entangled, everything intertwines, the sounds and their lights. The psychedelic organ melody accompanies the voice which rises in the higher frequencies, the percussions encourage you. You accelerate the pulsation, you get closer and stomp together, you want the head of Mickey Mouse. Echoes of bird songs, of a bestiary. You are animals, the carnival of animals.
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CD
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BORNBAD 109CD
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Of all the Cyrils born in the city of Calvin (Geneva) at the dawn of the '80s, these two were bound to find each other. Two Cyrils like two dizygotic souls whose contingencies have brought their meeting forward. Cyril Cyril. A liberated hydra, born in this city of diplomats where Borges duplicated his rejuvenated ego in The Other (1972). A muezzin without borders, Cyril Yeterian came to the disheveled world through Mama Rosin, a three-piece that stirred the ghosts of the rogue bayou, the clammy Mardi Gras of some electric Louisiana. Soon, the world fell in love with their flair. The BBC celebrated them, Jon Spencer produced them, records proliferated. And then in 2017, the honeymoon period passed; Cyril was alone. Within the same space-time, Cyril Bondi hit the road: Diatribes, La Tène, Insub Meta Orchestra, the most adventurous projects of the Geneva scene all included this percussionist in search of unheard beats. He soon found an accomplice for musical prospecting, another Cyril in tune with his rebellious instinct. A guitarist and an accordionist, Cyril Y. took on the banjo, adding effect pedals to it to turn it into a puny bouzouki, an epic bağlama or a krar. Cyril B. cobbled some cannibal drum kit together, with massive jingle bells and tropical nut shells embedded in his marching bass drum. For Cyril Cyril, music is a way of the world, a joyful decentration offering new keys to comprehend chaos. The point here has nothing to do with some globalized country excursion nor some gluten-free exoticism. Apart from tracing back the family pathway of some Lebanese dialect, Yeterian chants rhapsodies in French, the merciless terms of which say it all about coming insurrections. Certaines Ruines is thus a wordy lampoon of hoaxers, of neo-post-everything killjoys. Cyril Cyril know the superior power of suggestion, of temperance, of happy sobriety. A single word, a single cry can say a lot, as long as it is soulful. The sound of a duo reduced to its simplest expression: rhythm, a riff, a voice can bear within itself an infinitely luxuriant musical organism. Cyril Cyril, so real, so rich. CD in digipak with six page booklet.
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LP
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BORNBAD 109LP
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LP version; includes printed inners and download. Of all the Cyrils born in the city of Calvin (Geneva) at the dawn of the '80s, these two were bound to find each other. Two Cyrils like two dizygotic souls whose contingencies have brought their meeting forward. Cyril Cyril. A liberated hydra, born in this city of diplomats where Borges duplicated his rejuvenated ego in The Other (1972). A muezzin without borders, Cyril Yeterian came to the disheveled world through Mama Rosin, a three-piece that stirred the ghosts of the rogue bayou, the clammy Mardi Gras of some electric Louisiana. Soon, the world fell in love with their flair. The BBC celebrated them, Jon Spencer produced them, records proliferated. And then in 2017, the honeymoon period passed; Cyril was alone. Within the same space-time, Cyril Bondi hit the road: Diatribes, La Tène, Insub Meta Orchestra, the most adventurous projects of the Geneva scene all included this percussionist in search of unheard beats. He soon found an accomplice for musical prospecting, another Cyril in tune with his rebellious instinct. A guitarist and an accordionist, Cyril Y. took on the banjo, adding effect pedals to it to turn it into a puny bouzouki, an epic bağlama or a krar. Cyril B. cobbled some cannibal drum kit together, with massive jingle bells and tropical nut shells embedded in his marching bass drum. For Cyril Cyril, music is a way of the world, a joyful decentration offering new keys to comprehend chaos. The point here has nothing to do with some globalized country excursion nor some gluten-free exoticism. Apart from tracing back the family pathway of some Lebanese dialect, Yeterian chants rhapsodies in French, the merciless terms of which say it all about coming insurrections. Certaines Ruines is thus a wordy lampoon of hoaxers, of neo-post-everything killjoys. Cyril Cyril know the superior power of suggestion, of temperance, of happy sobriety. A single word, a single cry can say a lot, as long as it is soulful. The sound of a duo reduced to its simplest expression: rhythm, a riff, a voice can bear within itself an infinitely luxuriant musical organism. Cyril Cyril, so real, so rich.
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