The English language has always occupied a curious position in France, a combination of suspicious apprehension and starry-eyed respect. This is particularly apparent in France's musical culture. In the Anglophone mind, the French music scene sits somewhere between the lyrical (the technically Belgian Jacques Brel) and the laughable (the some-wish-he-were-Belgian Johnny Hallyday). Yet this side of the channel, the English language plays a far more important role. Distrusted by some and embraced by others, the language of Chaucer and Shakespeare straddles cultural protectionism (in the form of French and regional-language quotas on the radio) and what could be termed the "cool factor", as emerging artists increasingly resort to expressing themselves in English. The language's growing pop profile remains a contentious topic for debate, and raises concerns regarding the importance of lyrics in music. Moreover, such a choice throws doubt on an artist's ability to create a connection with a public that - it should not be forgotten - is arguably second to the UK in terms of linguistic ineptitude in Europe.
Both bands tonight display a predilection for English. Les Colettes, a trio playing sombre Celtic-tinged folk, appear first onto the cramped stage of La Maroquinerie, a popular stopover for bands looking for intimate, below-the-radar shows. Their slightly curious combination of electric roughly-hewn guitar and airy violin makes for, unsurprisingly, some curious dream-folk that treads a similar path to the likes of Smoke Fairies and EMA. Delphine Ciampi's percussive guitar hums and crackles, lending a hard edge to their dark, roots-tinged music. "Pearl", an orgiastic track that melds gothic foreboding, ghostly seascape violin and thrumming drone, sets out for ebb-and-flow but unfortunately lacks the bristling energy needed to hold the audience's attention. In truth, the trio seems slightly nervous, and the set lacks the polish expected for a concert with this sort of exposure. Even the whispered "Bientôt Mina Tindle" sounds like an entreaty to hang in there. Yet moments such as the feral and percussive "Tipsy Toes" and the syncopated, gently melancholic "Clearwaters" offer enough to keep the public in its place. Ethereal vocals are almost a given in this situation, and although Diane Sorel doesn't disappoint, discerning the song's lyrical content is almost impossible, even to a native speaker. This proves to be a recurring theme over the course of the evening.
Mina Tindle has in little time become the standard bearer for a new wave of female French folk. Having burst into the wider public's consciousness with a support slot on Beirut's late summer Paris jaunt in 2011 (although this reviewer also saw her open for The Dodos and Wye Oak at this very venue way back in 2009), March 2012 will finally see her release her now much-anticipated debut full-length. As someone who has admitted to being hard-working and meticulous, it's not surprising that the performance is professional and extremely listenable. Nowadays the contemporary folk genre is large enough to cover anything from Bob Dylan to Amy Macdonald, and Tindle is found towards the unabashedly poppier end of the spectrum. What's more, she's clearly got an eye on the current trends dominating the scene: live looping multi-layered harmonies, tribal beats, and the ever-popular ukulele.
The set is bookended by Tindle flying solo: the live-looped "Time Writer" - drawn out way beyond the one-minute running time it's found in on the album - is a charmingly kooky introduction, whilst the set closer "Plein Nord" offers the mellow comedown that five-hundred sweaty Parisians come to appreciate after one-hundred-and-fifty minutes underground. In between, however, she's joined by some more than able comrades. The concoction of fragile yet soulful voice and nimble tribalistic percussion on "Bells" is a clear demonstration of the artist's nuanced vision, whilst the fidgety pop sensibility of "Lovely Day" scratches a similarly catchy itch. Despite similarities to other female singer-songwriters, such as the mildly freakish Joker's Daughter and the gently light-headed Georgia Fields (particularly on the jaunty "To Carry Many Small Things"), there is something decidedly continental about Tindle, an over-the-Channel elegance that is quite hard to deny. Equally hard to deny is the melodic savvy of her songs, which despite the occasionally indiscernable lyric, remain on the whole pleasantly addictive. "Too Loud" is a whimsical wurlitzer of clattering pop, whilst the coruscating "Henry" and in particular "Sister" - operating out on the far reaches of Tindle's bombastic range - channel an (albeit slightly defter) Florencean - and the Machine - energy.
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It's a shame then that the sole bémol to be found (aside from the tiresome and seemingly never-ending Oscar-aping string of acknowledgements towards the end) is that the lyrics, for whatever reason, once again feel slightly indiscernible. This is curious for someone who takes such pride in offering more than the undemanding English fare mumbled by so many French groups; even more so when one considers the album's pristine production values and clearly audible poeticisms. But no matter, for the appearance of JP Nataf - a frequent collaborator with Tindle - for the wistful acousticisms of the French-language "Pan" seems to comfort Tindle in some way. This and the equally light and reflective "Plein Nord" - which rounds off the night - hearken back to her earlier, gentler material. The symmetry - whether serendipity or otherwise - is intriguing: as the audience is encouraged to take a thoughtful glance backwards, into the airy depths of Tindle's early career, the artist, her debut album "Taranta" set for release this month and her live show selling out the cream of Paris' indie venues, has everything to look forward to.
"Taranta" is out on Believe Recordings on 19th March.
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