The Rodeo - "On the Radio" (2010)

Dorothée Hannequin loves anagrams. She rearranged the letters of her first name to create The Rodeo, the solo persona she adopted after the break-up of her previous band, France’s majestic indie rock shoegaze titans Hopper. Citing the American country music allusions suffused in her new pseudonym, Dorothée announced her departure from the pillowy comfort of Hopper’s sonic lushness by stripping her new songs naked: mostly just acoustic guitar, some piano, and her moody, expressive vocals.

The seven songs on The Rodeo’s “My First EP” (Emergence, 2007) retained Hopper’s emotional power despite this hushed new setting. Dorothée delivered her confrontational lyrics with wrenching emotional bluntness, as the songs encircled various interpersonal proximities, from intimacy to breathless distance to the confusing places in-between.

Meanwhile, the anagrams kept coming. Last year while absorbed in the recording of her full-length debut, Dorothée read a magazine article that referred to a “maelstrom,” a word which at once struck her as a fitting description of her swirling, often turbulent music. Then the letters of “maelstrom” themselves spun around wildly in her mind, resolving to “maestro,” a title with which Dorothée anointed herself in the studio for the duration of the recording, with appropriate measures of authority, delight, and humor. Even after recording, the images stuck: Dorothée named The Rodeo’s new album “Music Maelstrom,” released earlier this year on France’s Emergence Records. And she is still, as she says, the “maestro.”

First single “On The Radio,” is a twisted, bluesy sea shanty, about a love affair so far out to sea that distress calls have no chance of reaching help on the shore. The Rodeo adds new instrumentation—banjo, tambourine, some truly creepy organ—but the music still retains the sparse feel of her earlier solo work. The song boasts what is quite possibly the Rodeo's best chorus, where a haunting, tremolo guitar wails behind Dorothée’s deadpan delivery: “I'm not even dead, but I scream to stay out of this nightmare.”

Recently, Dorothée spoke with Pop de trop in between sets of European tour dates promoting her new record. Here she answers “5 Questions for The Rodeo.”

Congrats on your first full-length, “Music Maelstrom.” How did the recording process differ for a solo release (even though you had friends to help) than when you were in Hopper?
Being in this solo project is obviously quite different from my former band. Decisions are made more easily, there’s no need to practice that much, and when I screw up, I can only take it out on myself.

How long did the record take to complete?

This recording didn’t take months. I wanted something very spontaneous, like a photograph of that moment in my life. Even though many musicians took part in the recording, I’m still the “maestro” when it comes to the final decision!

Talk a little about your process for writing songs: do you write the lyrics first, or the melody, where do you get ideas, do you write on guitar, piano, etc. etc. etc.

Each song is born in my head first. Then I try to remember it for several days. If I still have the song in my head, it means that it’s the right one. Afterwards, the musicians who usually work with me come into the process and give a whole body to the skeleton I’ve created.

How do you decide if you are going to write lyrics in French or English?

I’ve always listened to music written in English. This comes from my musical backgrounds. Even my family used to make me listen to bands like Pink Floyd, The Supremes, The Doors… It’s also just a question of the sound of the words. I think that English fits better with my music.

Who are some of your favorite musicians that you look to for inspiration?

One of my favorite singers is Otis Redding. In fact, I’ve always been impressed by artists with guts, artists who really live through their music: vulnerable people, open-hearted people. One of my favorites today is maybe Jack White. He’s a good songwriter and he’s also inspired by different arts. He is not afraid of doing mainstream collaborations and he’s not stuck in the 60’s or 70’s, as his music might suggest.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Marie-Flore - "Sweet to the Taste" (2009)

Let's face it: I'm no rock critic. Last week's fawning, superlative review of my now-beloved Le Prince Miiaou illustrates my unwillingness (inability?) to explore the music I like from the inside out. Instead, I swallow whole the bio's backstory, quite happy to orbit the permanent, unmoving celestial bodies in some kind of pre-Copernican celestial construct, where the artist calls the shots and I just connect the stars' dots.

Anyway. This week isn't going to be much different.

Or is it? I bought Marie-Flore's 2009 EP, "More Than Thirty Seconds If You Please," and the liner notes contain very little received wisdom for me to rapturously repeat. But check it: Marie-Flore's tousled mullet and black-underscored eyes make her a ringer for "Brass in Pocket"-era Chrissie Hynde, and she sings like a delicate Polly Jean Harvey fronting an analog Portishead.

EP opener "Trapdoor" (which I almost chose for this post) is a brazen declaration of brittle fragility. I can't help but notice, as someone who's trying to talk about Marie-Flore, the chorus' laconic line "Well, you probably don't know me that well," while a sad, trumpet-like wordless backing vocal emits a gorgeous, deflated wail.

Broken ballad "Sweet to the Taste" is a marvel; a Pop de Trop chart-topper. The song opens with a deceptive hush before turning towards its full-disclosure pre-chorus: "If I'm sweet to the taste, I can get sour." The lyric's poetry workshop sincerity belies the claustrophobic regret with which Marie-Flore sings it. This is no preemptive, told-you-so warning shot from a serial commitment-phobe. Instead, she sounds morbidly apologetic, a Dr. Jekyll begging for forgiveness even as he's changing into Mr. Hyde.

At the chorus, the song itself transforms: percussive handclaps jump out and startle, the sound you'd make to scare off a cat. Marie-Flore's overdubbed backing vocals sing something that sounds like "Ow, ow" as she repeats the line "Now go outside, because you block my view." A quietly distorted, staccato guitar points toward the door on a single note.

Seconds later, the song simmers down. "Handle me with care, my man," Marie-Flore implores.

After all, if she's sour to the taste, she can get sweet.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Le Prince Miiaou - "Football Team" (2009)

A self-described awkward introvert, Maud-Elisa Mandeau, mastermind behind the dramatic indie-rock alter-ego "Le Prince Miiaou," is no stranger to alienation. Growing up in the backwater town of Jonzac in southwestern France, the young Mandeau drifted from scene to scene and hobby to hobby, never quite clicking with anything she tried.

Then her brother, on a whim, asked her to sing in his metal band. She was 15 years old.

To hear Mandeau tell it, that's when she discovered a passion that she'd never before experienced. Devoting her life to music, she embraced every facet of her new obsession, finding joy in such mundane tasks as changing guitar strings and learning music software on her laptop.

After secondary school, she moved to Paris to continue her education, but music came first. As she got to know the city's competitive music scene, she developed her character "Le Prince Miiaou" to help boost her confidence onstage. The more outrageous her persona became, the more it fueled her songwriting. (My favorite of Miiaou's outfits: combination snorkel mask and little red riding hood cape!)

After a strong self-released debut that, without label support, attracted critical praise in France, Le Prince Miiaou released her second album, "Safety First," in 2009. Joined by Norbert Labrousse (drums) and François-Pierre Fol (cello, bass), Mandeau builds on her debut across all areas: singing, guitar playing, and, yes, overall confidence (the snorkel mask is clearly working).

The costumes may be goofy, but Le Prince Miiaou means business. She sings like Cat Power's Chan Marshall fronting a slightly more refined version of the White Stripes. The band approaches authenticity without getting stuck in retro-themed formalist poses. In fact the most "classic" characteristic of "Safety First" is its thrilling consistency: the back-to-back-to-back excellence of the songs recalls the heyday of the LP-as-art.

Still, Mandeau's sense of alienation has been hard to shake. The plaintive "Football Team" channels the heartbreak of an outsider's sour-grapes loneliness using two chords, Mandeau's gorgeous voice, and the repeated chant "They don't want me on their football team." The guitar swells, the cello cries, and even that snorkel mask gets a little foggy.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Coming Soon - "Home from the Blues" (2008)

Coming Soon, one of France's most exciting indie folk/pop bands, hails from the culturally and geographically isolated town of Annecy. Imagine a great new band bursting out of Michigan's Upper Peninsula: you'd certainly expect, thanks to the interwebs, the band to be fully attuned to any number of current musical sub-genres; you might also predict a certain free-wheeling mixing and matching of influences and ideas that expose the remoteness of the musicians' origins—like a rare Galapagos finch developing more colorful tail feathers during the course of its evolution in an isolated environment.

The tail feathers of Coming Soon have got some serious color. Now based in Paris, the young band (whose members now range in age from a tender 17 to an able-to-drive-the-tour-bus 28) was inspired by the previous decade's American anti-folk scene and its stylistic antecedents. Originally a trio, the core members adopted vibrant nicknames (Leo Bear Creek, Ben Lupus, and Billy Jet Pilot) and began writing songs, recruiting friends into Coming Soon as the band developed. By the time their debut cd, “New Grids” was finished, the band had expanded to seven members, each with his or her own nickname and persona.

Like many debut albums recorded quickly (5 days!), “New Grids” is jam-packed with great ideas. Not all of them are fully realized, but the band's enthusiasm and joy in experimenting more than compensate. From the space-age 12-bar blues opener "Memento Mori" (in which the band members helpfully count down the bars during the chord changes) to the rousing, gather-your-friends album closer "What You've Left Behind," "New Grids" wears its twee/shambolic influences proudly. The album respectfully conjures Jonathan Richman, Calvin Johnson's Beat Happening, Half Japanese, Pavement (whose "Crooked Rain"-era fuzzy guitar tone is borrowed throughout), and the Shop Assistants with a smart mixture of hero-worship and springboard.

The dizzy indie spin of "Home from the Blues" is the kind of song that Beck, another sonic touchpoint for Coming Soon, would have put his other foot in the grave to have written: ("This morning I felt Hamlet baking up a pie / for my mother's new wedding, oh man she is wild"). The song, about gulping in the fresh air of freedom, bounces from image to scattershot image behind a lurching drum beat; the guitar sounds like the Basement Tapes if the only amp Dylan had owned was a 15-watt Peavey. By the time the chorus resolves into its clincher "I'm home from the blues, wait till I'm loose," Coming Soon have successfully created an entire world—as far from Annecy as from any other place on earth.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

France Gall - "Mes premières vraies vacances" (1964)

French pop music’s extraordinary contribution to the Swingin’ Sixties, yé-yé extracted the conflicted sexual bravado of the earliest rock and roll girl groups (think a tamer Shangri-La’s or a wilder Ronettes) and infused the music with Paris youth culture’s headlong rush toward freedom (individual and collective) and maturity (same). A complicated, often contradictory musical narrative, yé-yé was nonetheless progressive in that it rejected previous French musical traditions, its iconic figures were women, and it widened the global definition of what made for exhilarating rock and roll.

Named for the ecstatic shouts of “yeah!” by rapt audience members (similar to the way British journalists often referenced the “Yeah Yeah Yeah” chorus of “She Loves You” in their headlines to convey the fervor Beatlemania inspired), yé-yé enjoyed its earliest success in a radio show segment called “Sweetheart of the Week.” DJ Daniel Philippacci spun a new track by a young, female singer; French record buyers did the rest. Most of the records featured on “Sweetheart” sailed straight to Number One on the sales charts. As the movement grew, the most popular yé-yé singers (Sylvie Vartan, Françoise Hardy, Sheila—no last name necessary, thank you—and France Gall) became bona fide celebrities, expanding their hegemony into acting, fashion, and—significantly—greater creative autonomy for their music careers. Ultimately, the genre’s superstars transcended yé-yé, becoming enduring icons in the French pop cultural landscape.

Filling the “kid sister” role among yé-yé singers with her sweet voice and innocent eyes, France Gall was 16 years old when her first single set fire to French radio in 1963. Her early career was navigated by her father, Robert Gall, a lyricist who’d sniffed out pop music’s shifting demographics at the dawn of the 1960’s. A producer friend of Robert’s suggested that France sing a new composition by songwriter Serge Gainsbourg, whose own career at that time was sputtering into early retirement. Released as Gall’s second single, Gainsbourg’s “N'écoute pas les idoles” became a huge hit, cementing France Gall’s popularity and single-handedly reviving Gainsbourg’s flattening professional prospects.

For better or for worse, the success of “Idoles” also bound Gall to Gainsbourg’s material. Almost 20 years her senior, the infamously louche Gainsbourg provided Gall with material that relied on salacious sexual double-entendres (often, allegedly, without the teenaged Gall’s knowledge). Gainsbourg’s “Poupée de cire poupée de son” won Gall the prestigious Eurovision Song Content in 1965, but the songwriter's glib cynicism slunk around in lyrics that obliged Gall to question whether she should be singing about love when she knew nothing about boys.

Even more notorious was Gainsbourg’s “Les sucettes,” which the teen thought was simply about a girl who loved to suck on lollipops. The scandal that blossomed in the wake of the song’s release knocked Gall’s career temporarily off course. Perhaps not surprisingly, the scandal had the opposite effect on Gainsbourg’s popularity: launched into the stratosphere, Gainsbourg settled permanently into his dirty-old-man persona, scored his own hit single with his classic “Je t'aime... moi non plus” with Jane Birkin, and never looked back. Gall, meanwhile, refused to work with Gainsbourg again and thereafter began to exercise greater control in choosing her material. At one point, she traveled to Germany to work with a young Giorgio Moroder, almost a decade before his own star-making turn as the svengali behind Donna Summer’s disco career.

Gall’s career never quite recovered. In part, the 60’s were coming to a close and the yé-yé movement had peaked. Similar to the freeze-out felt by the squeaky-clean Beach Boys as they found themselves labeled increasingly irrelevant by their fellow musicians in the bourgeoning counterculture, France Gall and the other yé-yé singers—who had kicked off the decade as an invigorating break from sedate 50’s pop music—came to be viewed as unfashionable by France’s ascendant prog-rock bands.

France Gall’s musical legacy endures. One of the most tender of Gall’s songs, 1964’s “Mes premières vraies vacances” (“My first real vacation”), captures the youthful idealism that radiated out of Gall’s best work. Written by Jacques Jean Marie Datin and Maurice Vidalin, the song describes a young girl daydreaming about an upcoming vacation—the first without her parents. She longs to walk barefoot, and imagines a boy she’d like to meet: if he wants to take her on a boat ride, or buy her stuff, that’s ok. But if he “asks too much… not ok.” Just because she’s a yé-yé girl doesn’t mean she can’t say no.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Marion Cotillard (with Franz Ferdinand) - "Eyes of Mars" (2010)

I had been drifting off to sleep while listening to a podcast when I heard “Eyes of Mars” for the first time earlier this week. Needless to say, the jolt that shook me as soon as this song kicked in blasted the sleep right out of my head. I had no idea who was singing or playing the instruments; my best guess was that some young, impressively polished French indie band was tearing into an obscure Kate Bush song that I’d never heard before.

The reality is far juicier. Last year, Oscar-winning actress and all-around 21st-century heroine Marion Cotillard, having proven her exquisite vocal chops in decidedly non-rock settings (conveying Edith Piaf’s melancholy and infinite sadness in “La Vie En Rose,” partying with Hollywood A-listers while singing tightly choreographed Broadway-style numbers in “Nine”), was approached by fashion giant Dior to serve as the face for their “Lady Dior” advertising campaign. Wanting more than a mere photo shoot for billboards and magazine spreads, Dior wrapped an entire persona around Cotillard—the enigmatic “Lady Rouge,” a character created for Dior by designer John Galliano—and commissioned a mini-movie for the campaign.

Enter the slick indie rock fashion plates Franz Ferdinand. Tapped to provide a song for Lady Rouge to sing in the film, they contributed “Eyes of Mars,” for which Cotillard nailed the lead vocals with exactly the kind of detached cool that has been the purview of Alex Kapranos and Company since they declared themselves the “new Scottish gentry” back in 2003. In short: yeah, Cotillard can sing the hell out of rock too.

Kapranos must have had a hunch about Cotillard’s not-just-for-showtunes skills, because “Eyes of Mars” is a weird, complex song that shimmers through multiple key changes—in odd places—and pivots with intense dynamic shifts that a lesser singer would likely have botched. Cotillard’s breathy, full-voweled soprano (which does recall Kate Bush in places, particularly during the song’s spookily hushed intro) inhabits the song’s pull towards the chaotic with a strong sense of inner stability—Lady Rouge may be getting sucked into a maelstrom, but she’s still got enough wits about her to comment on its beauty as she spins. Even more, Cotillard is enough of a self-aware 21st-century heroine to be able to get away with infusing the line “we’re selling our dreams to you all” with a perfectly furtive smirk.

That said, the song isn’t for sale, but the streamable video is big-budget amazing (although I’m surprised that Dior used faceless, floppy-haired actors for Lady Rouge’s backing band rather than employ Franz Ferdinand themselves). Watch it over and over again (as I’ve been) here:

Marc Lavoine - "Pour Une Biguine Avec Toi" (1983)

In his early 20’s, Marc Lavoine embarked on a career as an actor, mostly landing roles in serial television. In the early- to mid-80’s he scored a few back-to-back hits on the pop music charts (sometimes writing his own material) and quickly attained much more success as a musician than he’d tasted as an actor. His telegenic looks didn’t hurt this transition, which, of course, coincided with the mushrooming global popularity of music videos.

The eerie Rick Springfield comparisons end right there, however. Marc Lavoine most certainly does not reside in a dusty “Where Is He Now?” file of unremembered 80’s video-hit wonders. In fact, as I write this entry, 2009’s “Volume Ten,” Lavoine’s tenth studio album (not counting live albums and compilations) remains ensconced in the French Top Ten Album Charts (nudged out of the highest spots only by the likes of worldwide phenoms Lady Gaga, Michael Bublé, and the Black Eyed Peas). The only time Rick Springfield has ever shared anything with Lady Gaga or the Black Eyed Peas has been in this sentence.

Ok, so having established that Lavoine remains a relevant, pop music elder statesman in France, one who continues to sell lots of records, let me again bounce back to those early days. I had wanted to write about something from “Volume Ten,” but I kept getting sucked into Lavoine’s earliest hits, particularly 1983’s “Pour Une Biguine Avec Toi,” in which Lavoine delivers an absolute classic—on only his second single.

From a 2010 vantage point, “Biguine” is pure 80’s sonic nostalgia: Lavoine’s earnest, growly vocals channel the dude from Simple Minds, the reverb-drenched guitar presages “Boys of Summer,” each chorus explodes with Psychedelic Furs-style keyboard-as-xylophone. Meanwhile, the heart-on-the-sleeve lyrics tally a list of all the things the singer would readily give up for a shot at the girl he’s got his eye on (possibly worrisome for said girl: his toothbrush made the list). Close your eyes, though, and you can see Molly Ringwald doing her library detention dance during Lavoine’s “Doo do-doot doo doo” vocal break after the chorus. Marc Lavoine: Where Is He Now? At the top of the charts, right where he’s always been…

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Clara Clara - "Baise main" (2008)

My favorite music-related French word is batteur, drummer. Batteur—like its obvious English cognates batter and battering—more appropriately conveys, in my opinion, the visceral physicality of playing the drums. The drummers I like the most, from Keith Moon to Dave Grohl to Mike Joyce to Mo Tucker, all battered their kit, flailing away with primal spastic exuberance that typically puts the other (perhaps more orderly) timekeepers of their respective eras to shame.

François Virot, mastermind behind the 3-piece Dijon-based band Clara Clara, is a batteur of the highest order. He batters, bashes, and beats all over his kit like he’s got four arms holding two drumsticks each. The sweat he works up drenches the band’s full-length debut, “AA,” in a wild sizzle. Bandmates—no slouches—are brother Charles Virot, whose loosely-strung bass guitar sounds like a 6-string guitar being lovingly strangled by a doomed suitor in a star-crossed tragedy, and Amélie Lambert, whose analog synths conjure the soundtrack to a ravenous 8-bit go-go videogame that no one but her can win. Collectively, they concoct a joyful, noisy racket that eschews lyrics and vocals save for some three-way, blissed-out chants and shouts.

Kicking off with a splendidly distorted organ line, album highlight “Baise main” lurches with jittery intensity for several seconds before the bass and drums tumble in. The jumpy song shifts textures, rhythms, and melodies several times; the stops and starts recall the Pixies at their most neurotic, or an overstimulated four-year-old unable to decide what to play with in a roomful of toys. Clara Clara summon a mischievous tension that builds to a dizzy head until the song crashes to an exhausted end. Hot.

The crackling sound that you hear, by the way, is the electric excitement here at the Pop de trop offices as we await the imminent, mid-March release of Clara Clara’s second album, “Comfortable Problems,” on the Paris label Clapping Music. Can’t wait!

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

The Dø - "At Last!" (2008)

I’d been listening to the Dø’s bountiful 2008 debut “A Mouthful” for a while when “At Last” snuck up on me as the stand-out track. I had originally been drawn to the album’s moody, almost sinister ballads (“When Was I Last Home?” really creeps me out) when the joyful lilt of “At Last” finally pounced. The syncopated, Frusciante-inflected guitar strums over an unhurried shaker and tambourine rhythm while singer Olivia Merilahti gushes about finally finding true love. Listen more closely and the song’s lyrics betray an emotional yo-yo: “I want to tell the whole world / But I won't say no more / No I won't make it harder on you girls.” The guilt about abandoning her still-single friends for her man doesn’t quite overwhelm Merilahti’s helium-voiced ecstasy, however. And then the bombshell slips: she’s only just met the guy! “Been walking on air for the last 92 hours.” The triangle and finger-cymbals, meanwhile, chime knowingly.

Parisian instrumentalist Dan Levy and Finnish singer Olivia Merilahti met while working on the film score for “Empire of the Wolves.” They collaborated on the music for several other films before joining forces as the Paris-based two-piece indie rock band the Dø. The two first letters of their given names inspired the band’s moniker; their initial path-crossing while recording songs for films continues to permeate their work as a band. As the stacked narratives in “At Last” illustrate, the Dø certainly know how to infuse their songs with complex, cinematic moods. The Dø artfully weave atmospheric story-telling across a variety of musical styles throughout “A Mouthful:” the mischievous jump rope sing-along of “Playground Hustle;” the Lady Sovereign-esque scenery-chewing hip-hop of “Queen Dot Com;” the ukulele and Snow White-style backing choir of “Stay (Just A Little Bit More),” the Finnish-language folk freak-out of “Unissasi Laulelet.” It’s obvious that the Dø aren’t interested in honing a single sound.

Reaching #1 on the French album charts the first week of release back in 2008, “A Mouthful” is finally getting a US release next month courtesy of Six Degrees Records. Here’s hoping it comes laden with bonus tracks; the Dø, I’m certain, have plenty more stories to tell.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Revolver - "Get Around Town" (2009)

I tuned into the Revolver saga just as their initial backlash (a necessary rite of passage for any indie rock band on the path from obscurity to omnipresence) was hitting the Parisian three-piece hard: “Get Around Town” was so popular in Paris’ hazy summer of 2009 that by the time the single made its way to the US, the only online comments I could find were vociferous complaints that the song was everywhere in France.

As a fresh pair of ears an ocean away, let me say this: “Get Around Town” clearly earned whatever airwave oversaturation it achieved. From the cheekily plucked, hollow-bodied guitar intro to the complex, almost madrigal-style three-part-harmonies, to the delightfully obtuse lyric (“it’s the body countdown, the body counts down”) to the tossed-off effortlessness with which the whole thing is delivered, “Get Around Town” is about as perfect as radio pop can get. The band brings unbridled energy—yet with an understated sense of self-control—to their material, like a Supergrass if Gaz Coombes’ idols had been Belle & Sebastian instead of the Buzzcocks. Miraculously, any preciousness is somehow left behind in childhood music lessons. Sure, Revolver has a cellist. But he’s a cellist who gets his instrumental freak on, thank you very much.

The band successfully sustains the many musical charms of “Get Around Town” throughout their full-length (albeit 25-minute) debut, “Music For A While.” The title references 17th-century British composer Henry Purcell, and, while I’m at it, yes, the band is named after the Beatles’ 1966 studio masterpiece—but despite the band’s giddy name-checks, the focus is on the songs (in particular, those gorgeous, textured vocal harmonies), not the cleverness that surrounds them. At least three other songs have the catchiness quotient of “Get Around Town” and the potential to follow it into radio intransience. Those angry comment-posting haters have their work cut out for them.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Plastiscines - "Zazie Fait De La Bicyclette" (2007)

Sauntering onto the Parisian rock scene with short, beguiling songs that radiated equal parts sass and smarts, the Plastiscines have a backstory that borders on the legendary: they met at a Libertines show, they were discovered by the producer of Kraftwerk, they were barely out of their teens when the ink was drying on their gilded record contract. From such auspicious raw materials, the Plastiscines wound up spearheading an entire movement—les bébés rockers—and, to date, earning the most stateside exposure of this rowdy Paris-based indie rock community.

It’s a crystalline, tidy sort of indie rock, to be sure. In fact, the Plastiscines navigate blithely past the cultural burden of needing to ‘rock as hard as the men’ that their female amerindie compatriots are often compelled to shoulder. Instead, the Plastiscines deliver a stripped-down sound that rocks in a compelling, often deliberately casual way that doesn’t necessarily call attention to the gender of the musicians. The singing’s another story, of course; singer/guitarist Katty Besnard’s laconic vocal delivery recalls Blondie’s Debbie Harry—a perceptive touchstone when your m.o. is balancing the seemingly incompatible mix of standoffish boredom and utter glee.

Speaking of glee, “Zazie Fait De La Bicyclette” is not the catchiest track on the album (the radio-ready “Loser”) or the one that flaunts the most punk energy (the snarling “La Regle Du Jeu”), but it is the funniest, and arguably the most joyously compelling. Over a wonky, mismatched minor key progression, Besnard describes an idealized stage-set of the most iconic elements of the Swinging Sixties (Twiggy in mini-skirts, mods and rockers facing off). Against this colorful backdrop, Besnard sings—like an 11-year-old spazz—about Zazie riding her bike at night. The band oom-pah’s along in cut time, mirroring the wobbly hold on a set of handlebars in the dark.

“Zazie” is a tossed-off, corny joke that doesn’t fit with the rest of the record. It could easily have been left off, or relegated to a b-side; but, like the titular heroine’s bicycle ride itself, sometimes the journey is more important than the destination. For now, I’m happy to pedal right behind the Plastiscines and follow them wherever they go.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Johnny Hallyday - "Rivière Ouvre Ton Lit" (1969)

Originally known as “The French Elvis Presley” for his pompadour, chiseled sneer, and hip-swinging ability to make teenaged girls shriek, Johnny Hallyday (born Jean-Philippe Smet), arguably France’s biggest rock star, is stylistically much closer to a David Bowie or a Madonna: a show-biz lifer with the chameleon-like ability to stay relevant by updating his music with the times. Astute, talented, and enduring, Hallyday has enjoyed over five full decades of top-of-the-charts success with nary a commercial lull.

In the late 1960’s, while the King himself was still struggling to overcome a decade’s worth of artistically bankrupt movies and soundtracks, Hallyday was hitting yet another creative peak. Having already squeezed the juice out of rockabilly, Motown, and Beatles covers (his frenetic version of “Got To Get You Into My Life” is magnificent and worth checking out), Hallyday dove head-first into acid rock. He assembled a stellar group of his musician friends that included Peter Frampton (then still just ‘the guitarist from Humble Pie’) and the entirety of the Small Faces to record his farewell to the 60’s. The resulting album, “Rivière... Ouvre Ton Lit,” released in 1969, was an au courant kaleidoscope of psychedelic blues rock. Rhythm section Ronnie Lane (bass) and Kenney Jones (drums), in particular, destroy mightily throughout the album. Hallyday and company concoct a heavy, spacious sound that mirrored the nascent proto-metal that bands from the Jeff Beck Group to Deep Purple were simultaneously devising across the Channel.

Leading the turbulent charge is a very confident, excited-sounding Hallyday. His gruff voice is in fine youthful form, only beginning to betray the cracks that would deepen and mature his singing in the decades ahead. Placing himself front and center of the maelstrom from the first moments of the opening (and title) track, Hallyday sings himself into a froth within the first 30 seconds and never looks back. The band matches his bubbling-over passion in breathless simpatico. By the time Hallyday finally unleashes a falsetto whoop at the song’s finale over Jones’ triumphant cymbal crashes, the sense of hard-won closure is palpable—and that's only the first track. Goodbye 60’s; hello future.

click the image below to listen to song previews or buy the album:

Trust - "La Grande Illusion" (1981)

They were pals with original AC/DC vocalist Bon Scott; they collaborated with British punks Sham 69; they had a significant influence on the British New Wave of heavy metal; and they were wildly, wildly popular. They were, of course, Trust: one of France’s biggest heavy metal acts of the 1980’s.

Formed in the late 70’s during the genre’s worldwide flirtation with boogie (think Thin Lizzy meets AC/DC), Trust, led by imminent national heroes Bernard “Bernie” Bonvoisin (vocals) and Norbert “Nono” Krief (guitar), embraced a tough-minded socialist stance that paralleled the Clash’s earnest sloganeering: hitting the right targets (greedy corporations, apathetic citizens, the KGB) but ultimately valuing the music more than nuanced commentary. That said, compared to their American metal contemporaries (Van Halen, Quiet Riot) who were then just beginning to conquer MTV, Trust’s songs certainly do flex some intellectual muscle alongside Bonvoisin’s snarling vocal caterwauls and Krief’s up-the-neck guitar pyrotechnics.

Trust never rocked harder than they did in 1981, when their killer lineup also boasted the legendary Nicko McBrain (who would leave Trust in 1982 to join Britain’s Iron Maiden in time to work on their amazing “Piece Of Mind” album). Trust’s 1981 release, “Marche Ou Crève,” remains a start-to-finish thrill ride with at least three enduring classics: the proto-thrash title track, thundering closer “Ton Dernier Acte,” and opening salvo “La Grande Illusion.”

“La Grande Illusion” is no Dennis DeYoung fruity synthesizer foppery. Crafting a double-pronged attack on France’s corrupt politicians as well as the listless populous who would cede them power, Bonvoisin delivers his vocals with typical guttural passion. My favorite lyric translates roughly as “my bulldozer is the symbol of a youth that denies all your political skullduggery,” which sounds like a mouthful but is delivered with a sly, Phil Lynott-style swagger. McBrain pummels the daylights out of his kit while Krief shreds flaming sparks out of his guitar. The song’s closing mantra reminds everyone of the power of their own voice: “Vote! Vote! Vote! Vote!”

In fact, once Socialist Party representative François Mitterrand was elected Prime Minister of France in 1981 and reversed 23 years of Conservative government, Trust’s anti-establishment agenda no longer seemed as relevant. Plus, the band couldn’t hold onto a drummer. Rather than devolve into the type of bombastic cartoons that much of heavy metal was morphing into at that time (Bon Jovi, Def Leppard), Trust wisely called it a day in the mid-80’s.

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Coeur de Pirate - "Corbeau" (2008)

Those fricative r’s may sound poetic, but even in the lilting rhythms of French, the emotional musings of the young, confessional singer-songwriter are stubbornly prosaic: the soaring highs of new love; the endless crushing pain of a stomped-upon heart; the easily-defined, impossible-to-uphold sense of morality; the desperate pleas to be truly understood; the incongruent obsession with death.

Now 20 years old, Québécoise pianist Béatrice Martin, performing since 2008 as Coeur de Pirate, pours such post-adolescent sentiments—age-appropriate intensity intact—all over her pseudonymously self-titled debut. Romantic partners die at night. Breaths choke half-formed in throats, never to convey the life-saving messages they contain. Dancing equals life equals love equals fear.

The complete 21st-century package, Martin boasts doe-eyed, tousled-waif looks, more arm tattoos than Tommy Lee (honestly), and a success arc that owes some of its velocity to an adorable 2009 viral video featuring a toddler playing with his toys set to Coeur de Pirate’s music. From there, it wasn’t long before Martin was bestowed with both a fanboy rave from Perez Hilton and a Francophone Album of the Year nomination from Canada’s esteemed Juno Awards.

Coeur de Pirate (the album) is worth the hype—although it is somewhat less convincing when it embraces the typical sonic emblems of francophone pop (sidewalk café accordions, sprightly waltzes) and much more persuasively laudable in its wrenching ballads. Martin demonstrates a lightness of touch in her piano playing rare among her ilk; her assured voicings recall Regina Spektor’s playful trills and artfully counterbalance the occasional formulaic arrangements and lyrics.

“Corbeau” is one such beautiful highlight. Built around an uncomplicated two-chord pattern, the song conveys Martin’s feelings, rather than describes them in Dear Diary detail. The descending chorus twirls delicately around itself, mirroring the song’s image of two lovers looking at each other and seeing strangers. Martin leaves telling spaces between words and picks at her piano like she’s trying to remember an old phone number. The quiet loveliness of “Corbeau” makes me eager to hear what Béatrice Martin is going to do next.

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Prototypes - "Un Gars Fragile" (2004)

Not to get all meta on only the second post in, but it’s easy to imagine that the male singer of Prototypes’ exuberant “Un Gars Fragile” is precisely the kind of self-aware pretty boy who simply doesn’t turn Yelle’s crank in “Tu Es Beau.” Taken from Prototypes’ self-titled US debut—which was cobbled together out of tracks from the band’s first two French full-lengths—“Un Gars Fragile” is, quite simply, catchy electro-pop delivered with blazing confidence. Which kinda belies the lyrics. Which is kinda the point. The message? Never believe a guy who’s falling all over himself to tell you how “sensitive” he is. Even if he smothers his new wave-flavored entreaties in crisp, Gang of Four snare hits and Split Enz-via-the Strokes squashed, processed guitars—and everything sounds absolutely perfect. Still. Don’t trust him.

Prototypes are a Parisian three-piece: Stephane Bodin (bass, synths—clearly the instrumental powerhouse of the group), Isabelle Le Doussal (vocals), and François Marche (guitar). Normally Le Doussal sings with a winning Terry Bozzio meets Karen O gum-cracking yelp. I’m not sure if it’s Bodin or Marche—or another guy altogether—who sang on “Gars,” but whoever handled these vocals executed them with a lovely, showy élan, tumbling over the fast-moving syllables like a saucer-eyed Plastic Bertrand.

In 2008, Prototypes released their third album (their second stateside), Synthétique, and toured the US. Despite their earlier marketing successes (a ubiquitous iPod Shuffle ad, some high-end Mitsubishi & BMW commercials), Synthétique, unfortunately, failed to broaden the group’s audience. The Prototypes website hasn’t been updated in a while. Here’s hoping they release some new music in 2010. Until then, “Un Gars Fragile” reminds us of those heady days when the Prototypes were so self-assured that could admit to being sensitive.

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Yelle - "Tu Es Beau" (2007)

In which GrandMarnier and Tepr establish an unassailable Chic-style groove within the song’s first four seconds, then step back and let Yelle have her way with the vocals. She coos with a laid-back flow that recalls young LL Cool J at his most risin’ surprisin’ on his behind-the-beat return trip to Cali, and in a similar honeyed way, Yelle delivers one of the sweetest kiss-off songs I’ve ever heard.

“You’re beautiful,” purrs Yelle. “BUT…” And it’s that “but” that turns on its poor, tender head the hip-hop convention of female objectification. Yelle infuses her comprehensive put-down to her male companion with a combustive mixture of derision and desire: you’re no good at all, better get out of my bedroom, you’re just not my type of fella, by the way you sure are easy on the eyes.

The song’s beautifully loooong coda adds almost nothing instrumentally. Literally nothing. Ok, a three-note sax line turns up after Yelle stops singing. But that’s it. It’s gorgeous electro-pop minimalism at its most relaxed.

This is an exciting time for Yelle (the person) and Yelle (the groop, to which GrandMarnier and Tepr rightfully belong). The band’s 2007 debut “Pop-up” yielded two uptempo singles (“À cause des garcons” and “Je veux te voir”) that burned up international charts and even landed Yelle on Coachella’s second stage in 2008. Check out “Pop-up” and you won’t be disappointed. And stay tuned to pop de trop for any upcoming information on their highly-anticipated follow-up.

Happy 2010 everyone!

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