Fumier DBaleine by Michel Tonnerre: A Chaotic Yet Unforgettable Folk-Pop Odyssey
Alright, buckle up, because this album is a wild ride through French folk, Celtic vibes, and some straight-up pop Schlager madness. Released in '94 on Keltia Musique, Fumier DBaleine (yeah, that’s “Whale Shit” if you’re wondering) feels like Michel Tonnerre grabbed every genre he could find, threw it into a blender, and hit puree. The result? A messy but oddly addictive stew of accordion wails, electric guitar riffs, and vocals that range from heartfelt to borderline unhinged.
Let’s talk tracks. First off, "Mon Petit Garçon"—or as I call it, the earworm anthem of 1994. This track hits hard with its punchy accordion lines courtesy of Bernard Loffet, who clearly didn’t come to play games. It’s got this raw energy, like someone shouting love letters at their kid over a pub jam session. You can practically smell the spilled beer and cigarette smoke while listening to it. And Michel’s voice? Dude sounds like he’s about to cry or start a bar fight—maybe both. It sticks with you, not because it’s polished, but because it’s real. Like, REAL real.
Then there’s "Les Goémonniers," which slaps harder than most things labeled “folk.” Between Patrick Sacaze’s harmonica solos and Lionel Neyssenssas laying down basslines so groovy they should be illegal, this one’s an instant head-nodder. There’s something primal about how all these instruments clash together—it’s chaotic, sure, but in the best way possible. If you don’t feel your chest tighten during the chorus, check your pulse. Seriously.
The rest of the album follows suit: repetitive track titles (Les Quatre Mâts Barque, anyone?), overlapping themes, and enough accordion to make your grandma weep with nostalgia. But here’s the kicker—it works. Somehow, despite feeling like a drunken sailor stumbled into a recording studio, Fumier DBaleine holds together. Maybe it’s the sheer audacity of it all. Or maybe it’s just France being France.
Reflection time: Listening to this record feels like wandering into a Breton village festival where everyone’s slightly tipsy and no one speaks English. Is it perfect? Hell no. Does it matter? Not even a little. Because when Paul Faure’s piano kicks in alongside Richard Loury’s percussion, you realize perfection isn’t the point. The point is connection—messy, loud, unapologetic connection.
And honestly? That’s kinda beautiful. Who knew whale shit could sound so damn good?
