A Bright New Dawn or a Fading Star? The New Coming of Michel Notko

A brief interview by Amelie Roux in French music magazine Rock & Folk in November 1976.

We're at Michel Notko's apartment in Monaco, where he has been living for four months now after spending some time resting and finding the urge to make music again. Michel looks a bit weary, and the first thing he does when I come in, is to read some of his poetry to me. He has just recently released a new album, J'ai été vers le bas, and has been touring for a month now. When I ask him, if he is satisfied with the album, he smiles shyly, and lights a cigarette.

”Well, it depends”, he says, “are you satisfied with being a reporter? This is what I do, and I want to do my best. We had some good moments recording the album, but is it good? You tell me.”

I assure him I've enjoyed the album very much, but he doesn't seem convinced. He is not eager to talk about what he's been up to lately, so he tells me he has to work at a construction site to pay the rent, and that he hopes there will be a hit, but he thinks the material in the new album may be a bit too ”challenging” for the audience.

”I have really only read Apollinaire's poetry for the last few years”, Michel says with a mysterious look on his face, ”so the only option really was to use Apollinaire's poems as lyrics for the new album. I think I'm finally starting to understand Apollinaire, but at the moment I have little interest for anything, so maybe I'm lost with Apollinaire, too.”

Michel says he has to lie down, so he walks a little painstakingly to his couch, and continues:

”You know, if Claude [Perreault, Michel's band member] hadn't made me, I think there would be no record. But turns out Claude can be very convinving. 'These tunes sound amazing', he said when I played him the stuff I'd been working on in Africa, and I had almost thrown the reels in the dumpster. So he immediately started to arrange the songs, and, as usual, they turned out much better after his handling. I think I might be in the gutter, if it wasn't for Claude. He's my hero. He's a fine young man, as they say.”

I'm wondering if Michel is happy with his life, as he seems a bit off, and I ask him tentatively what makes him cheerful.

”Mostly things I cannot talk publicly. You know, illegal stuff. Like listening to 'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds', if you know what I mean. That shouldn't be illegal, considering how powerful and inspirational the Beatles are, but that's probably just because people are afraid of the side effects, and the fact that you might get trapped to listen to the Beatles for eternity, you know, not in touch with reality anymore. But I've had only good experiences with the Beatles, though I think Ringo Starr is a bit mediocre.”

We turn the discussion to Michel's childhood, as he suddenly recalls a memory, which he just realizes is important in order to understand the latest album. Michel was in a graveyard, where he had gotten lost from his parents, and felt an inexplicable need to explore the area like some scientist who wanted to understand everything he had been studying. He listened to the birds extra carefully, he looked at a flower for five minutes. He put his head to the ground, and felt the heat of the summer, and the slight humidity of the soil. That was the first time he felt something he now feels as he makes music. And with Claude he keeps on being amazed by the world of music, which he calls ”a universe made out of sand and waves”.

”I feel that music is the waterline that is never the same. It keeps on moving back and forth, and you just feel it, what it means. It's magical and mundane at the same time. You take a chord, and you hear a melody. At some other day you maybe would’ve felt nothing, but at that particular day something vibrated in you. I'm not very analytical. I just go where they tell me, and I get a gut feeling when something's right. It's as simple as that. I don't really understand life. And I think that those who say they do are lying.”

Michel starts to get a bit restless, so I suggest we listen to a song from his album. He says he is a bit too close to the latest, so he puts on his first record. I observe him as he arrays the album and starts to listen, and I think he is either pleased or amused, and soon he says:

”I have no connection to this album whatsoever. I don't recognize myself from this. This is some guy they picked up from the dock and made to do magic tricks for the kids. Or maybe it is the clown from their birthday party, I don't know. But I kind of like the guy. He's so unaware of things. I think you should be a bit unaware. I've done some... Well, I'm not proud of everything I've done. I think I shouldn't say this, but I've been a bit lost for almost ten years. I've gone to places, but felt very little. I need things, people, substances, all kinds of external crap to feel something. But that's

probably what twentieth-century people feel in general. We have modern technology and a lot of entertainment, but let's face it, it's a bit empty, isn't it? I think I’d be happier in a really small village with minimal stimulation, so that I would have to connect with people, find satisfaction in everyday chores and such. I don't know. I hope I'm not boring you.”

No, you're not. But I keep wondering what's really going on in Michel Notko's head. Who is Michel Notko at the moment? I ask Michel, if he's interested in politics.

”As I was away, resting, I didn't have much time to follow politics. Sure there were newspapers, but I was glad to get the breakfast in. Then I had a talk with someone from the personnel, and they said everything would be fine. Now I'm glad I got the album done. I think there's not much else to say. I'm sure everything will be fine. Ironically enough, when I was resting, I couldn't relax. I just need to relax... Would you like some coffee?”

I say I've already had four cups today, and Michel says he'll make some for himself. As he is making the coffee, I take a closer look at the room: a small bookshelf, maybe some 20 records, a green chair, and a brown, wooden antique table. On the wall, there is an abstract painting. Very minimalistic. Michel comes with a cup in his hands and sighs. Whose painting is that?

”You know, I'm not really sure. I bought it from Africa. There was a market where they sold food, clothes, handcraft – and art. I just thought the painting looked nice. I have spent hours watching at it, and I still don't know what it portrays. But that's not important. What’s important is that I get a good feeling about it.”

Michel sits down, and for a few seconds I get a sense that there's nothing in his eyes. That he's a blank canvas, waiting to be filled with something, something, but I'm not sure what it is. He takes slow sips from his coffee, and I sort of get a feeling I shouldn't be bothering him anymore. But I have one last question: what's going to happen next in your life? Where is this all leading you?

”Well, we have booked several gigs for the next months, and I hope people show up. I hope we reach people. That they don't just come to see the guy who once sang about Camille, but for the spirit, the atmosphere we created for the new album. I hope I can be a better version of myself, maybe a bit more unaware than I am now”, Michel says and discreetly winks at me.

I understand he hasn't got much more to offer, and we end this drowsy, but pleasant conversation with a formal handshake, which is kind of strengthless, and I sense Michel is not at the top of his form, but maybe headed towards a brighter future, who knows. When I'm at the door, Michel calls out: ”Smell the grass, it's almost winter.” With these words I leave his apartment, and hope things work out for him.