Un exercice de pensée trans-normaliennne pour les esprits néo-thermiques les plus ethérés.

Cette pièce vous propose un voyage spirituel à travers le regard candide du Jeune Teleqouille qui tente de se frayer un chemin vers sa propre existence à travers les actions qui lui sont imposées (par déterminisme pur) et ayant pour objectif final, la trascendence ultime. 

English Translation: 
An exercise in transnormalized thought for those with spirits of ethereal leaning. 

This piece offers a spiritual journey through the eyes of the young and innocent (but nevertheless brave) Telequoille, who attempts to forge his own path despite the actions imposed on him (determinism at its purest form), his final objective being absolute transcendence. 

TRANS-TEMPORAL SEGMENTATION:
0:00     Overture
0:47     Casanova
2:10-5:30    Journey Into the Sands
          2:10 -- A Walk Among Pharaohs (Ozymandias, Rise!)
          4:13 -- The Sunfi attack(or, Il é òû Lèwi?)
5:30-9:37    Le Fiste
          5:30 -- Telequoille en péril
          6:04 -- To Hold Meridians, To Dance in Shadows 
          7:00 -- A Savior From Beyond: TRANSCEND 
9:37     After-thoughts (Une rivière, trois oiseaux?)

Translucid Animalia (The Reckoning)

(English translation bellow!)
Un voyage en terre nouvelle,
Des sensations transcendant le domaine fragile du sensoriel.
L'expérience tropicale ne peut que nous faire grandir mutuellement, individuellement et collectivement.
L'envolée lyrique dans laquelle l'oreille ensorcelée vous échappera saura infuser vos pensées de l'esprit tropical qui a tant alimenté le génie créatif de l'oeuvre musicalo-spirituelle culturalo-perpétuelle et sensorialo-émotive dont il est temps de profiter la saveur!
L'horizon prend le large, le danger EST l'apprentissage, l'araignée est l'esprit qui s'étend
Au fin fond de la forêt se trouve le trésor du savoir palmer
La base est chocolatée, le décor est vanillé, le fluid est métissé, mais la bouchée est une majestueuse envolée des prix du temps perdu à ne pas savourer L'expérience Tropicale.

" Cette décision est trop belle pour les suggestions "
-Putertrude Alpetmougnoul, La Brûlure Du Visible

Translation:
Help. They’ve captured me. I’m Robby Jamesworth (you’ve heard the name undoubtedly.) They think I’m translating the description, those French fucks. English to them is like poverty to me, otherworldly. They saw me on the street, playing the acoustic. Guitar, that is, (I am well renowned throughout the land, mind you, and I was on the street because I chose to be there. I am the captain of my ship, the horseman, not the horse), and they wrapped me in a carpet and stuck me inside their van, up a djembe if I do recall. Can’t comprehend their instructions. They tell me to play. I do. Then they scream. PUTAIN DE MERDE! PUTAIN DE MERDE! SÉ QUA CELA!!! I must hold back on the exclamations, or else they’ll know I’m not translating properly (but don't they understand that I don't speak any French? What is this madness? Someone, tell me, please)
We’re somewhere in the forest. There’s snow. I think it’s Alaska, or Arizona, though it might be a foreign country since you can hear explosions only a mile away (or two miles, three miles, I don´t know). Just try finding me, please! If there’s a snowy forest near you come look! Bring your friends! The police! The military! You must help me!!!!
Incidentally, do check me out on Facebook and Instagram. Robby Jamesworth, Classical Guitarist and Composer. You can also buy my tapes at RobbyJamesworth.flap and get some merch! But you know that already.

L'Éxperience Tropicale(Feat. Robby Jamesworth!)

Le doigt dirige
L'antre des ténébres odorants
Visqueux, nauséabond
Oh! Putain! Bordel de Merde!!!!
                        
                                                      -Ronaldo L'Cawk, Poésies de la nuit

Amy Glover's Album

Trobadoo

Here is the lost Opus of Herve Clügenş Bœle, visionary and musical genius of our time, master of the craft. His various works have captured the imaginations of thousands throughout the decades, and continue to be consistently performed and lauded all around the globe. 

It is not quite clear when this piece was composed. All that is known is that, after Bœle's death, this single file, orchestrated on a generic music-writing software, was found on his computer's desktop. It bore the name "Compendium Magnum". What we all expected was Bœle's ultimate masterwork, a composition to end all compositions. The product itself, however, baffled all. Critics knew not what to make of it. Debate raged day and night. Some were horrified, others defended the piece as a valiant (but nevertheless failed)experimental effort on Bœle's part. No one seemed to consider the fact that Bœle did not attribute the piece to himself. It was a sign. A hint of what was to follow. 

Only a month ago, a secret message hidden within the file's very code was discovered by a hermetic Swede by the name of Claus Clarkson. It went like so:

"I have seen them. The cosmic fairies. They dance and sing in impossible ways, twirling through the galaxies, peppering my mind with their inspiratory, glimmering flakes. This is their work, you see, a product of their higher intelligence. I am but the mouthpiece, the puppet. How I love to be their puppet." 

Ever since, the general consensus has been that Bœle succumbed to some form of extreme dementia, and that this "Compendium Magnum" is but the result of a degenerating mind's final creative croakings. Others are not so sure, and claim that the piece is clearly a practical joke, a chaotic goodbye meant to confuse our rotted species, citing the nonsensical, somewhat obscene rambling found towards the piece's end. All these people overlook the fact that:
1) All accounts cite that Bœle was lucid as ever at the time of his unfortunate and deadly accident.
2)Bœle was never known as someone who harbored hateful feelings for the human animal. A "joke" of that kind simply does not fit the man's character. 

So who is to say, in the end, that Bœle's mind was not truly under the influence of superior beings from beyond? That this opus is not, indeed, a work which simply defies our every conception of what "music" is? If so, will we ever be able to access the genius behind every note and sonic vibration? Can a simple human brain, marred by all its perceptual filters, ever truly come close to comprehending such a creative act? 

I suppose the truth will never be known. 
Here are the "Chapter" titles, as listed by the composer himself:

0:00 Biffle 2
0:31 Revoiyure-simiesque un croc mulet s'il vous plait
0:51 SaGeante YetGelule
1:20 Pyroxene AntioxyNIQUE Sir Mesboules dans les champs
1:38 Chorizo vejesus berserk tragique
1:54 ourshibou_champigno_asseniqué
2:13 La prothese pelvienne du chat de Monsieur Seug1
2:35 Cromatoid 
2:51 Le KLM apres la fistoise
3:30 Sapetite yetpowa
3:51 Biffle 1
4:01 Macron le boulimique (mange trop de huitiemes d'octet)
4:07 CnB
4:22 Eviter_la_babouche
4:49 Voice Of Elven Sage Va
5:20 ouelle ouelle
5:28 poioplpoip + suces ma troisième

Traduction en Français:
Boule.

Herve Clügenş Bœle's Compendium Magnum

Gwambas are creatures of the wood. They build homes in fluffy patches of grass. It is quite rare to catch a glimpse of them, but when you do, they are likely to overheat and perish on the spot from fright. They are quite nervous like that. The exact Gwamba population is not known, and estimates vary. In fact, much mystery surrounds this plump and oily creature. No one is quite sure where they fit within the evolutionary tree. There have even been disputes as to wether or not Gwambas are from out beloved planet Earth at all. One things that can be said for sure is the following: Gwambas are blue in color, bright blue with patches of darker blue, making them extremely noticeable to predators, which is why they hide in the ground.

Les Aventures de Telecuille