By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
On a somewhat sunny day in September last year, the French singers Camille and Mélanie Pain pulled up in a yellow cab at the meatpacking district salon Bumble and Bumble with French producer-DJ Marc Collin. The event was an art world party hosted by New York City-based Hint Magazineand attended by beautiful-important people on the level of Jeffrey Deitch, Fischerspooner's Casey Spooner, and former Smashing Pumpkin James Iha. Collins helped Camille and Mélaniewhom he'd worked with as producer on the upcoming compilation album, Nouvelle Vague, which will be officially unveiled with a live set April 12 at Joe's Pubset up a simple stage with a guitar and a couple of microphones. Producing a mixture of smoky, anxious vocals amid bossa nova-inspired guitar chords, the singers proceeded to fade, royally, into the background.
Silly, predictable fashionistas! This was not just some isolated incident, where self-important New York personalities flutter about their business while ignoring one or another well-meaning foreign musician. (Collins, who says the event "was the worst thing we've ever done," revealed that at least French actress Elodie Bouchez, also in the crowd, paid her dues to the musicians with a chat and a few rhythmic steps.) That the entertaining crew was French, of course, steeps the dismissal in a rich history: Aside from an erratic chain of exceptions, including the cultish attention slathered over '60s icon Françoise Hardy and electronic savants Air and Daft Punk, Americans have been turning their noses up at French pop music since long before France asserted its moral superiority as the most stylishly vehement critic against the Iraq invasion.
Yetwhat is that soft crooning you hear?things are changing. "Six years ago, everyone thought French music was horrible," says Dan Cohen of V2 Records, who's been instrumental in bringing both Nouvelle Vague and Air to the U.S. This time, it's not coming in the form of refitted retro or poppy techno, but in the most seductive shape of all: the French chanteuse. A cluster of talented, quietly toxic French female singers are making their way to these shores. Among them are Carla Bruni and Coralie Clement (sister of French pop star Benjamin Biolay)whose solo French-language albums Quelqu'un M'a Dit (V2) and Bye Bye Beauté (Nettwerk), respectively, were officially released in the U.S. this springand the Israeli-born, Paris-raised Keren Ann, the best-known figure in the scene, who set the ball rolling with her U.S. debut, Not Going Anywhere, last August. None of them are at the peak of fame (Italian-born, Paris-raised Bruni is best known as a supermodel, a career she has given up for music), all of them perching on a windowsill somewhere between the French underground and the worldwide pop music sceneone that is largely determined by an American market. And it seems this spring they are ready to pounce: Wrapping themselves around outward-pointing traffic signs on their CD sleeves, crawling up street-facing windows, they are slowly sidling out of Montmartre and into Lower Manhattan.
photo: Sanchez & Mauro Mongiello
Where Not Going Anywhere sauntered along with sturdily pretty melodies and hearty lyrics of love and loneliness, Nolitaventures into a more opaque, mystical soundstill heavy on melody, but more exploratory acoustically, and revolving lyrically around general themes of expatica and cultural dissonance. "Think I'm gonna stay/Think I'm gonna marry you/for myself/somewhere I would like to be cold and safe"so goes the title track, sort of; the lyrics are not exact, Keren says, but "I think I like them better." Says the 31-year-old singer of her New York: "Nolita is not necessarily about New York; it's stories about New York's mistresses. I believe I was one of them at some point and still am." On the inside cover, Keren Ann's strong, long facea face only enhanced by the singer's brunet, forehead-length bangs reminiscent of such obvious influences as Joni Mitchell and Astrud Gilbertopresses itself out through the window of Café Gitane on Mott Street. The cover depicts two tiny Keren Anns perpendicular to one another, in front of a looming painted wall. "One is me, the other is my narrator, " she offers. "One is a New Yorker, the other is a Parisienne. All of the above are a possibility."