Eleven poisonous songs. The right balance between intelligence and primitivity. Here comes Lescop, wielding his deliciously cruel songs. If this were a movie, you would say without a doubt that this wild child has the poetic sensibility of Jean-Pierre Melville or Rainer Werner Fassbinder.
But this is not a movie. This is music. Well, more specifically it’s French popular music. And Lescop recreates this genre like a fun house mirror reflection: French bipolar music. It’s with this discrepancy that Lescop likes to play his dangerous games. He’s taken a strong liking to diving head first into his own neuroses.
Lescop scrapes his song to the bone so as to be as close as he can to his intimate radicality. And then he sings them without holding back. This existential rage pervades his first album.
An album that exudes sentimentality and exalts a certain type of idealism, with the eagerness of a rookie who has lived a full life. Lescop is not making a statement. He is the author of a story that still needs to be written. In French, let it be noted. And what if the Mecca of pop was here and now? We should be mad to believe it. Mad the way that Lescop dove into the waters of Ying and Yang, and swam in the delights of his humid and shady inspiration.
Mad thanks to the over-caring friendship of John and Jehn, the hyper sexy combination that opens this chest of insanity. His brother in sound, Johnny Hostile, produces the record. But above all, he defends the idea of pop music that has an uneasy and penetrating identity.
He is the instigator of chaos, the one who brings out the unbearable beauty of these dark melodies. It also turns out that one could write a very original story with the songs on Lescop’s record.
Once upon a time, in a cruel tale of youth, delicate love stories went deep into the woods (“La Forêt”). With Lescop, you will dance on the edge of a cliff, you will be exhausted by an American night in a broken Hollywood (“La Nuit Américaine”).
A sequence shot of a dark blue room. Lescop the (sometimes) invincible lover. “Ljubljana”. And cut. (Mostly) no regrets about the past. “Los Angeles”. Lescop doesn’t choose between his evil angel (“Le Mal Mon Ange”) and the good Lucifer. But he does sing with Dorothée de Koon and it is completely unambiguous. As opposed to the sexual fantasies of “Tokyo la nuit” (“Night in Tokyo”) where the mixing of genres can be confused with Yukio Mishima’s “Confessions of a mask”.
The setting: the night outside that makes you dance and conquer your fears. Death, blood, night...and the body. Why not put his back against the wall and make Art out of this? Why not use self-hypnosis so as not to fall in love again (“Hypnose”)? The day will come. In its shade of Orange. Flashback. It is also a dream (“Un Rêve”) made of sweet bite marks, of blurry old icons, of broken dolls met on his own sunset boulevard. A boulevard where Lescop likes to get lost while perhaps thinking of Hanna Shygulla or Rita Hayworth.
Be it when Paris falls asleep (“Paris s’endort”) in the loneliness of a bittersweet evening, or when he’s blown away by the wind of burning memories of all the love past (“Le Vent”). That is how one discovers Lescop, who is both cerebral and instinctive, and how would have no idea where he would be today without The Doors and Eddy Cochran. This boy was born in the torment of a whirlwind. Today he rebuilt himself in his own exalting paradoxes. Those same contradictions that make him pop’s free spirit.