It never fails to amaze me how much strange and exotic music exists in the spaces of the cosmos, waiting to be created, performed, or in a recent case, rediscovered. I had only known of Brigitte Fontaine from a brief (but scene-stealing) guest appearance on a Stereolab 12″ years ago and her collaboration with Sonic Youth on SYR 6 (2002). Then last month, while perusing the nooks and crannies of eMusic, I stumbled upon a curious little rarity that I would have never found otherwise, titled Comme á la Radio (1969). I’ve been mildly obsessed with it ever since.

Brigitte Fontaine was born in 1939 in Morlaix, Finistére, the extended northwestern tip of France. She began recording in the late ’60s, first collaborating with Jean-Claude Vannier, who had worked with Serge Gainsbourg as arranger. Throughout the ’70s Fontaine’s output increased with a series of bizarre, otherworldly pop records, many of which enlisted the questionable talents of Areski Belkacem, whose gruff tenor contrasted - often uneasily - with her dry, silky voice and surrealistic poetry. Actually, “pop” is a relative term; if Fontaine’s records fell under the veil of what constitutes popular music, it wouldn’t be on this planet, however, the couple did release a beautiful double LP in 1977 titled Vous et Nous which is somewhat tame but no less highly recommended. There is an abundant (and perhaps definitive) discography on her own site, and seeing as her records continue to fetch extravagant import prices, eMusic is really the best way to go for now.

In the midst of the cultural turbulence of the late ’60s, Fontaine had an opportunity to record her fourth album with the Art Ensemble of Chicago, whose unorthodox jazz experimentation and avant-garde theatrics were beginning to find favor with a large audience. Comme á la Radio was the result, and arguably remains the strangest item in Fontaine’s catalog. Wadada Leo Smith is also accounted for in the proceedings, and Areski’s presence isn’t as dominant or instrusive as on later recordings. The music itself is difficult to convey, but throw these descriptors in a pot and see what the imagination comes up with: hypnotic percussion jams, North African snake charming exercises, ethereal musique concréte pieces, and smoky basement-club jazz are but a few of the treasures contained within. It’s unknown whether psychotropic substances were ingested during the sessions or served as the basis for inspiration here (what, drugs?), but taken on its own terms, the music is fascinating and immensely rewarding with subsequent listens.

“Tanka II” (the album is sequenced so that it appears before “Tanka I”) is one of the shorter tracks on the record and is built from a busy, percolating pattern on hand drums. Fontaine whispers seductively like she’s possessed as Malachi Favors’ thick upright interjects a three-note motif sparingly but effectively. At 1:41 the drums abruptly halt as Fontaine continues speaking over what sounds like an impromptu woodwind rehearsal.

“Tanka II” – Brigitte Fontaine 2:04 (Comme á la Radio, Saravah 1969)

Fontaine’s influence has distilled into more artists than I care to list, but what immediately struck me about “L’été l’été” was it’s uncanny similarity to some of the more serene moments on Talk Talk’s peerless masterpiece Laughing Stock (1991); excluding the vocals, the fluid, churning body of brassy sound here is strikingly reminiscent of “Taphead” in texture and color. Areski chants the dark theme while Fontaine mourns sensually and delicately, eventually mirroring him at the conclusion. The entire track has an exotic, voyeuristic air to it, much like listening in on a séance while hiding in the shadows.

“L’été l’été” – Brigitte Fontaine 3:56 (Comme á la Radio, Saravah 1969)

“Le Noir c’est mieux choisi” is the closest thing to a recognizable “song” on the album and as a peculiar touch, serves as its final track. Fontaine exudes a carefree abandon as she sings the idyllic melody over an acoustic guitar progression, which continues to repeat over a cello and Latin percussion. It’s a great example of how she could play it “safe” and melodic when she desired; or, from a different perspective, she did whatever the hell she wanted as her whims saw fit.

“Le Noir c’est mieux choisi” – Brigitte Fontaine 5:02 (Comme á la Radio, Saravah 1969)

Most of Comme á la Radio isn’t easy listening by any means, but it is worth approaching and deserves a serious listen. It’s also a refreshing reminder that relevant, challenging music can be just as exciting today as it was nearly forty years ago.