How old is Erik Truffaz? 8, 9? It’s dance night, the girls have put on pastel dresses, the boys have tied their ties, the humidity is electrifying; Erik is the conductor’s son, in these suburban nights, this confers a certain status, almost a feeling of immunity. And yet he’s afraid, he grabs his trumpet, activates the three valves to convince himself that they still respond, and blows. His first improvisation is on a Sacha Distel song, L’argent … l’argent, where the French singer states that happiness is worth more than money. It was appropriate; he made it his way of life.
Truffaz was born in the early 1960s, in a no man’s land that is neither really France nor quite Switzerland, the Pays de Gex, with its brass bands and Saturday night dances where music has only a few precise purposes: to break down inner and outer walls, to drench the back, to make the feet ache and to find a shoulder to cuddle up on. All the portraits of Truffaz insist on the experimenter, the all-rounder, his ability to nestle in a symphonic work, behind Indian tablas, or distorted guitars that clash with walls of sound. We’ve understood nothing of his intimate odyssey if we can’t see that music is first and foremost, for him, an unstoppable trigger to fall in love.
Truffaz started racking his brains against binary music at a very early age. The first concert of his life was Joe Dassin. Later, free of his choices, he gobbled up Pink Floyd, the electric Miles, free zones where his shyness, his way of pulling in the shoulders would be deflected by the power of the environment. As a young man, Truffaz was seen blowing brass with a rap band in Lausanne, Silent Majority, and then doing overnight trips to London to host drum‘n’bass parties. Truffaz realised that his trumpet speaks a new form of Esperanto; it’s capable of building the least expected soundscapes. It’s a planetary visa, a seven-league boot, a master key.
So Truffaz had a spellbinding toy to help him conquer the world. But he still needed a brigade, a small, solid troupe, to draw him huge audiences and protect him from fear. Some thirty years ago, the Erik Truffaz Quartet became one of the best time exploration machines we’ve ever known. They made classics of their time for the Blue Note label, jazz that deals in electronic rhythms, The Dawn, Bending New Corners; they only realised their phenomenal success when, in Marseilles, they found themselves facing a human tide that was hanging around without any real hope in front of the club where the quartet would be playing that evening.
Truffaz would probably have been advised to continue kneading these racy, perfectly modern, impetuous jazz rolls indefinitely, from a recipe that was just begging to be developed. However, he has done exactly the opposite. For 30 years, the bird-faced trumpeter has never stopped going against the flow, honing his driving skills on mountain roads, brandishing his trumpet in the face of the giants he comes across. Who can boast such a track record? Truffaz has thrown his rhymes behind the back of composer Pierre Henry, he has haunted Christophe’s endless nights, he has painted Enki Bilal’s drawings with blue notes, he has shared the stage with Jacques Weber, Sandrine Bonnaire, and it seemed on those nights that all the books he had read came back to the surface of his mouthpiece. He has recorded in India on the banks of the Ganges, he has sung with a Malian diva and with the Dandy Warhols, he has given scores to symphony orchestras, he has written extensively for the cinema. It’s as if his instrument has served only one purpose: to extract the emotion buried in everything that passes through him.
He’s often seen in half-squats, invited by very young groups who see him as the commander. He’s more excited than they are. He’s more euphoric. This guy in the hat and white shirt has forgotten nothing of the anxiety and daring that it takes to go on stage. He never says too much. He leaves long spaces for others. The silence that his companions capture after him is still Truffaz. A few years ago, he woke up one morning with his stomach tied in knots: he had to play his mother’s favourite piece, by Verdi, in a church where she was laid to rest. He didn’t fail. We’re not here to show doubt, but to bring the house down.
In 2023 he released two albums under the Blue Note Records label, both paying homage to classic French cinema and reimagening iconic soundtracks. “rollin” is released in April and “clap!” in October 27th. Listen to the first single ‘L’Alpagueur’ here.
“Hypnosis at work (…) a testament to how resourceful an acoustic improviser Truffaz remains.” The Guardian
