This is by far the strangest recording that I have ever been asked to review. In the first place, the group's name, if it means anything, recalls the French words "trois soeurs", in other words "three sisters" - shades of Anton Chekhov. In fact the band consists of four men, notwithstanding the cover illustration of three women's dresses. However, three of them are brothers, if that justifies something. Moreover, they come from the Flemish region of Belgium and could be expected to have chosen a name in their own language, Dutch. To choose a French-sounding name for the group, given Belgium's complicated linguistic socio-politics (which are, mutatis mutandis, rather like those of Quebec), is provocative to say the least. Then there is the title of the CD: What does "Trah Njim" mean? Well, it is actually the two Dutch words "mijn hart," or in English "my heart," written backwards.
On the basis of its origins, I expected the CD to fit, give or take a few eccentricities, into the category of new wave roots music that appears to be so popular in Flanders at the moment and that I have elsewhere called "Eurofolk." Eurofolk takes elements of national traditional music, adds on some exotic influences from Celtic, Balkan or North African sources and uses unusual time signatures, electronics and recording trickery to produce a curious but often interesting hybrid. Well, this recording does all of these things, but it is vastly more eccentric than this implies or than I expected. It is highly experimental Eurofolk.
When I ran my eye down the track listing, the eccentricity of the CD certainly lept out: the first cut is actually entitled "Trah" and the 15th and last "Njim," neatly bracketing the other tracks between a sort of split title track. "Trah" is a thirty-second a capella introduction, which consists of the words "trah njim", pronounced as spelt, sung just twice and running straight into the second song. As for the closing "Njim," it begins with the violin, accordion and guitar setting up a throbbing rhythm over which the band sings a song in Dutch about feeling a pain in the heart at the moment when one is between sleeping and waking at daybreak. This might not seem so strange, but the words are all sung backwards. I do not mean that the recording is reversed, but that each word is pronounced as a Dutch-speaker would pronounce it if it was written back to front, beginning with the last word of the tale and ending with the first. Thus, if you played the recording backwards, it would not come out as proper Dutch, just as if you pronounce "weiver nam neerg" as written, record it and play it backwards you will not hear the name of our esteemed publication. All of this is done with great vocal and musical accomplishment and with deadly seriousness.
In between these two songs, one finds a bewildering series of titles, very few of which appear to mean anything in any language (and I speak four and understand several more). Looking for landmarks by which to navigate through the disc, I noted that the second track bears the name "Prestano," which is Italian for "they lend." However, the song is sung not in Italian but in an apparently invented language, bearing some distant resemblance to Dutch but containing words that sound as though they come from a variety of other languages and set to a vigorous tune with faint Balkan influences; it's performed well on the band's most usual line-up of violin, accordion, acoustic guitar and double bass. The fifth piece is called "La Isla," which means "the island" in Spanish. It is a short, slow a cappella piece sung in what I suspect to be a pseudo-latinate language that told me nothing about this particular island.
Then there is "Mijen Hart," which looks suspiciously like an old-fashioned or variant form of the words that, written backwards, give the album its title. However, it begins, after an atmospheric bass solo, in another of Troissoeur's spurious languages, close to Dutch but not quite intelligible (and again including the leitmotiv words "trah njim") before emerging as a short unaccompanied song in pseudo-archaic Dutch about a sad heart. Incidentally, all the vocals are sung collectively by the three brothers in the group in close harmony. There are no solo songs.
As you must have realized, while reflecting on the possible meaning of the song-titles I had begun to listen to the music itself, and any doubts that it might be less weird than the titles were soon dissipated. For the remaining titles, I embarked on a Web search, in the perhaps vain expectation that understanding the names of the songs might shed some much-needed light on their contents. What to make of "Aisteje?" My search engine could refer me only to the song by Troissoeur to which I was listening. It begins with a menacing a cappella chant to which the instrumental backing is gradually added, maintaining a slightly sinister and unsettling mood. There is a passage in which violin and bowed double bass establish an Arabic atmosphere and the song is again sung in a mysterious and impenetrable language. I had more success with my Web search for "Menina," which is a place in Slovenia famous for coffin-making, Portuguese for a girl or young woman and also occasionally a first name. I was unable to find any reason why this title was given to a jumpy little instrumental, which somehow reminded me of Steeleye Span, featuring an accordion and what must be the "guitar percussion" that one of the musicians plays.
"Sylk" turns out from my Web search to be an intimate lubricant, while this track, featuring double bass and violin, is a dirge-like instrumental that lasts all of 30 seconds and would not be out of place in a chamber piece by Alfred Schnittke. It certainly does not conjure up any visions of the kind of activities for which such a product might be useful. Then there is "Hemete." This can apparently be a name in several languages, including Turkish and Hungarian, but again this discovery offers no clue as to the interpretation of the corresponding song, a dramatic number with urgent but incomprehensible vocals and percussively bowed and plucked string instruments, although the piece does sound vaguely Balkan or Gypsy in inspiration. I had more success with "Mynth," which can be, among other things, a new computer music synthesis & processing environment, a massage cream or a Greek nymph loved by the God Pluto: I am not sure which of these justifies its attribution to an instrumental featuring some beautifully plucked acoustic guitar, reminiscent of Spanish music by Albeniz or Sor. Perhaps it would be a good accompaniment to the massage!
Another impenetrable title is "Sertna," which my Web search revealed can also be a personal name: the recurring word "sertna" was the only one that I recognized in this song that again mixes Celtic and Central European sounds. I was unable to come up with any reference on the Web to the remaining titles, all of which appear to be invented words: the only results obtained referred me back to this CD. They are mainly or partly instrumental pieces and make interesting and imaginative use of the acoustic instruments to create a variety of intriguing sounds. The four musicians, Pieter Thys (guitars and mandolin), and the Vanvinckenroye brothers Edwin (violin), Joris (double bass) and Rein (accordion and guitar), all three of whom perform the vocals, are joined on percussion on two tracks by the prominent Belgian jazz musician, Chris Joris.
Then, just as the listener thinks that the CD cannot grow any more bizarre, because the final song listed on the cover has come to an exciting climax, up pops a hidden track, not really a surprise on such a quirky disc: it is a folk song sung absolutely deadpan, in close harmony, in perfectly straightforward and comprensible French. I am tempted to interpret it as a pastiche for three male voices of the style of Flemish female roots supergroup Lais whose work it resembles closely. Sung by the three singers of Lais it would fit perfectly into their repertoire.
I know that GMR has readers who are not afraid to listen to new and strange sounds. Imagine, if you will, that Captain Beefheart has just met some members of the Esperanto Society of Flanders and has decided to make music with them, but the only musicians available are Gypsies, Arabs and Galicians. They work up a few ideas about the sort of sound that they can create with their available resources and aptitudes, make up some meaningless words so that nobody's language is imposed on anyone else and then someone switches on the recording machine. The musicians play extremely well, the singing is highly professional and the arrangements are fresh and exciting. The result is this CD, except that it is really just four young Flemish men and one guest.
Troissoeur has certainly overcome the problem that I frequently raise when reviewing recordings by Flemish musicians, which is that the public for songs in their native language is extremely small. The solution is often to stick mainly to instrumentals or perform some songs in other languages to extend the appeal. "Troissoeur" has found a more radical answer: they sing mainly in a language that nobody understands. (I should add that I am conceitedly assuming that these languages are invented because they mean nothing to me. If they are in fact extremely obscure but real languages, I apologize. In either case, the singers are to be congratulated on their astonishing memories). Whether this linguistic subterfuge will sell CDs, I cannot say, but if any readers are feeling adventurous I recommend this curious recording to them. They will find it unlike anything that they have ever heard before and learn something about the unexpectedly avant garde character that roots music has acquired in present-day Flanders.
