Sylvain Chauveau - Biography
Many of us are still not sure what Simon Reynolds was thinking when he coined the questionable term “post rock” in the 1990s. Post what. Post office? Much of it was just nerdy guys from Wicker Park in horn-rimmed glasses, showboating in awkward, abstruse time signatures — which, when you think about it, is hair metal with all the fun blanched out. The French-born, Belgium-based composer Sylvain Chauveau got lumped into this category with the release of his solo debut in 2000, but his work more closely resembles the Sargasso Sea explorations of Hector Zazou and ZNR, or the melancholic minimalism of Michael Nyman, or, for that matter, the ambient efforts of Brian Eno, rather than anything you would have caught at Lounge Ax. In fact, over the course of several stylish, thought-provoking albums, Chauveau has demonstrated a ebullient disregard for any sort of label or categorization. His work is most often articulated with piano and cello, but he’ll utilize any type of sound that suits his fancy, from samples to electronics to choral arrangements to guitars to orchestral instrumentation. This freewheeling eclecticism is the crucial component of Chauveau’s appeal, and it makes him one of the most distinctive voices in today’s music scene — regardless of genre.
Chauveau’s solo debut was the extraordinary Le Livre Noir du Capitalisme [The Black Book of Capitalism] (2000/2009 Type). In it he glides effortlessly through post-classicism, Gallic folk motifs, and snippets of dialogue intermingled with the occasional syntesized swoosh. The opener sets the mood: “Et Peu À Peu Les Flots Respiraient Comme On Pleure” maintains a simple, repeating line on piano, as waves of aural foam wash ashore. Chauveau has a masterful ability to sustain melancholy without lapsing into maudliness. “Ma Contribution À L'industrie Phonographique” shimmers in slick drones reminiscent of Christian Fennesz; “Je Suis Vivant Et Vous Êtes Morts” is anchored by a deep, ominous Om offset by peculiar electronic quacks. For being Chauveau’s first album, Le Livre Noir du Capitalisme is a staunchly self-assured effort.
The next year, Chauveau released Nocturne Impalpable (2001 FatCat), a mesmeric series of vignettes, written mostly for strings. Un Autre Decembre (2003 FatCat) featured several lilting pieces for solo piano — “Sous Tes Yeux Probablement,” “Alors la Lumière Vacille,” “Lettre Qu'il N'Envoya Jamais” — interspersed with a series of delicate yet vaguely menacing electro-acoustic compositions. It’s an effective juxtaposition, and in a stroke of inspiration, Chauveau resolves the balance with some asymmetry and closes the album with a track slow-paced accordion. Folks were mildly surprised when he resurfaced with Down to the Bone: An Acoustic Tribute to Depeche Mode (2005 DSA). Chauveau plays piano and leads a small chamber group, Ensemble Nocture, through a series of DM tracks, including “Stripped,” “Death’s Door, “Blasphemous Rumors” and “Never Let Me Down Again.” The arrangements are uniformly sparse, elegant, drowsy, and effective.
After signing with the acclaimed Type label, Chauveau released two outstanding albums, possibly his most multifarious and assertive to date. S. (2007 Type) Is primarily an electro-acoustic EP, and it’s radiant. On the opening track, titled simply, “Composition 8,” prepared guitars murmur and rumble. He then accomplishes something marvelous, and continues the drone with completely different instrumentation: a grand piano, mic’ed to capture the ringing of the notes as he steps on the sustain pedal, after he’s played a simple key or two. It’s a moment of inspired nuance. Nuage (2007 Type) is an extended soundtrack, returning to Chauveau’s aesthetic rudiment: piano and cello. It’s a lovely, plaintive, evocative work, and tracks like “L'approche Du Nuage,” “Vers Les Montagnes,” and “L'orée Du Bois” — and the contrast of the soaring, prepared guitar on “Fly Like a Horse” — demonstrate the extent to which Chauveau is able to unite the laptop, sci-fi grit of Mego with the gently billowing Gymnopédies of Erik Satie. And sure, the post-rock label is meaningless and a disservice to an artist like Chauveau, but if Simon Reynolds meant to suggest that some really good, innovative music transcends rock, then one thing can be said with certainty: Sylvain Chauveau transcends post rock.