Delphine Dora is a classically trained French pianist who plays as close to the wild heart you can get. She´s a bogwoman just emerged after spending a thousand years in suspended animation sunk in a northern quag, chewing on her braids, biding her time. Discovering a piano in the wilderness, she tests a voice that hasn´t been used in centuries, inventing a new language to claim the land as far as it reaches.
That Gallo-Celtic glossolalia squats on its haunches and pliés like a silkweed in the wind, expressing some wonted pain and casting purposive alchemical incantation, pagan abstract expressionism in sound. Self-sacralizing, it doubles and triples over itself, as the piano follows, occasionally brushed with the soughing sweep of a low-hanging branch of synth, pelted with its falling pinecones, beneath it nettled strings, the frog croak of harmonica.
Près du coeur sauvage is a kind of masterpiece in its sometimes off-key, very off-kilter insistence; a raw, chthonic, yet fair-complected folk music, old as mountains and unbeholden to any tectonic shift other than within its own, ancient soul.