The Last Arcadian

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Urban philosopher, ghetto gospelite, rapper Baudelaire, and last Arcadian - this needs more explanation, I know. Claude M’Barali a.k.a. Mc Solaar. The sun in metaphor, a walking, talking supernova, an Icarus of the masses, for he is still flying high up there in the sky. He heeded Dedalus’ warning, yes, to this day he heeds that warning still.

I write quickly, because of the music, he says. It’s much easier if you have the music, the rhythm, but I am fast. First, I have taken in “everything.” Does he not write without the music? Is that not easier? Ah. I used to, he admits in an interview. But when I met the music, I changed. Like when Joyce met the Irish, when Shakespeare first walked onto the stage. Like me, when I met the English language.

This is an artist, and a poet. For most of us out there those are superlatives we will never reach. But for Da Vinci Claude? Art, poetry, philosophy, these are the modulors of his being, his singing, his voice. From sotto voce to adagio to allegro he can sing anything. I try to do things that have not been done he elucidates. With no music, you would struggle … this word or that word? With music, it accelerates you, it forces you, and then you know when to slow down, break, begin. You know. Journalist of the daily life. The eternal witness of his era. He speaks to thieves, thinkers, barflies, dancers, policemen, a blind singer, his young nephews. But above all, he teaches you to wait and listen.

But what is the secret to his genius? It’s the rhythm, he nods, and my interpretation. I know that by the eighth phrase, there has to be shock, poetry, even the excessive. My professors taught me that there must be a structure, a situation, a thesis, an antithesis, a point of view, a climax. Professors taught him that? So there is hope still, for us lesser mortals. Good to know.

This is a Rael speaking in a renaissance personified, and his vocation is to defend, to be a defending angel for a point of view. And it ends with regret, a regret in which you realise there is something better. Perhaps unattainable, but better.

I cannot do rap like the Americans. Other rappers ... American rappers, he pinpoints, are afraid to say that they are afraid or that they can weep. Mais Solaar Pleure. In American rap, there are no losers, and this is a loss. Was that an Antanaclasis at the end. Just like that? It is his speciality, though. Just wait and you will hear it a-plenty...

The American rappers, I don’t like, ideologically. Musically, ok. But not ideologically. I’m for creativity. When I want to do rap, I can do it, I know all the styles, I learned many tricks. You take a mic and you yell and scream, you yell at women, that’s rap-rap-rap. Amen to that, brother, Amen to that.

No, what he does is not rap. It’s on parr with poetry at it’s most authentic form, simple, clear, and like Wordsworth has said perfect. And Solaar is definitely worth his words. No, this is not rap because he has no slogan. His lyricism is void of demagoguery. Don’t be a victim of a musical style, he says. Don’t only repeat death, death, death, deadly, fatal, lethal in every line, and yell unintelligible lyrics. Tension, hate, violence — no. There’s enough racism. And too many Usain Bolts racing to prejudiced conclusions. The finish line is way over there, though, fellas.

Now to the lyrics. Just close your eyes. What follows bespeaks myth because it speaks for itself. So, if there is one thing I still want to ask of you, my dear readers, stop reading, and become listeners. Just take the time, and listen. No sooner have you surrendered yourself to this last Arcadian among us urbanites, you will be transported to his golden world, le monde d’or, le monde Solaar. And yet even this idyll is always eclipsed by Poussin’s grandiloquent epitaph Et in Arcadia Ego. Lest you forget...

A big thank you to Margo Berdeshevsky - the text in bold is taken from her interview. The title picture is also hers.