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REVIEWS
Spleen
Une Torche Pour Orphée
Clarimonde
Derrida
L'Abbatoir
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REVIEWS
Veronique Diabolique
Carte Postale
Posted: Wednesday, March 29, 2006
By: Rik MacLean
Editor
By: Rik MacLean
Editor
Entertaining and literate punk pop with French vocals. Did I mention that it’s absolutely brilliant?
Veronique Diabolique hail from Durham, North Carolina, but I think that’s just an unfortunate geographical circumstance. Ideologically they come from Paris, probably from sometime around the 1920s. I expect that the four of them (Solange, Jean-Luc, Didier, and Dominique) would have spent a lot of time hanging around the Crazy Horse with Cocteau and Picasso swapping ideas and philosophies. I see them being vital and productive members of a community of artists, moving style and substance forward in ways that would still have an effect on culture almost one-hundred years later. I’ll admit to being a little hesitant to say that their disc Carte Postale is a work in the same league as the names I’ve dropped to this point. I will say however that it’s an excellent debut from an act that has been able to tap into a movement in a fresh and exciting way. And I’m not saying that because they sing all of their songs in French (which they do). I’m saying it because they make music for the sake of music, without the need for labels or genres. They’re entertaining and literate, sounding vaguely like the Velvet Underground would if they lived in Paris instead of New York. When it all comes together, I can’t help but love it despite myself.
“Spleen” opens the disc, a slinky sensual slithery guitar strut, with lyrics courtesy of Charles Baudelaire recited with appropriate cool by lead singer Dominique Diabolique. Damn this is good stuff, The Flowers of Evil have never sounded so sweet! It’s about time somebody thought to put some of Baudelaire’s work to music like this and I tip my beret in Veronique Diabolique’s general direction. “Une Torche Pour Orphee” follows, a retelling of the story of Orpheus taken from his wife’s point of view. Filled with sparse guitar and lightly brushed high hats, it’s a bluesy torch song fit for smoky jazz clubs and late night drinking, something I would imagine Nina Simone would want to cover. For sure, it’s a very moving piece, a song of lost love and lost opportunities and it’s more than just a little bitter, but then that’s usually the way with songs of lost loves, isn’t it? I can't help but feel a tear well up in my eye as it plays. “Clarimonde” tells the tale of a rather beautiful vampire; I’m sure you know the type, and I’m sure you know that it’s just not going to end happily. The track has a certain dreamlike quality with a hazy, spiralling guitar riff, subtle percussion, all of it adding to the mystery of the song. I imagine this track would have fit in quite nicely on the jukebox at the Black Lodge. “Derrida” brings out the rockier side of the band, a guitar-driven ode to the noted Deconstructionist thinker. I really can’t think of anything more to say about this track other than the fact that you have to give props to a band that writes songs about Deconstructionist thinkers. I mean, seriously, that's pretty esoteric source material. And what’s more, they make it rock while they’re at it. Pretty impressive stuff! “L’Abattoir” closes the disc, a flanged guitar-ridden epic that's been rolling around in my head for the last few days. I kind of wish that it had a bit of a punchier drum sound; that’s all it really needs to be perfect in my mind, but really, aren't we all better for knowing and recognizing the imperfections of the things we enjoy? In knowing those imperfections exist, they become even more perfect and real in our eyes. And this is a pretty real song to me.
By this point in the review, I think I should acknowledge the fact that I wear black turtlenecks year round. I’ve been known to wear a goatee. I speak French. I know that hell is other people. Furthermore, Carte Postale has made me realise that I am in love with Veronique Diabolique. Even though I feel that love doesn’t exist, even though knowing that I love them will no doubt lead to many hours of nausea and self-loathing, I admit to my love of them. I will go on despite it, knowing that Veronique Diabolique is there for me should I ever need them.
“Spleen” opens the disc, a slinky sensual slithery guitar strut, with lyrics courtesy of Charles Baudelaire recited with appropriate cool by lead singer Dominique Diabolique. Damn this is good stuff, The Flowers of Evil have never sounded so sweet! It’s about time somebody thought to put some of Baudelaire’s work to music like this and I tip my beret in Veronique Diabolique’s general direction. “Une Torche Pour Orphee” follows, a retelling of the story of Orpheus taken from his wife’s point of view. Filled with sparse guitar and lightly brushed high hats, it’s a bluesy torch song fit for smoky jazz clubs and late night drinking, something I would imagine Nina Simone would want to cover. For sure, it’s a very moving piece, a song of lost love and lost opportunities and it’s more than just a little bitter, but then that’s usually the way with songs of lost loves, isn’t it? I can't help but feel a tear well up in my eye as it plays. “Clarimonde” tells the tale of a rather beautiful vampire; I’m sure you know the type, and I’m sure you know that it’s just not going to end happily. The track has a certain dreamlike quality with a hazy, spiralling guitar riff, subtle percussion, all of it adding to the mystery of the song. I imagine this track would have fit in quite nicely on the jukebox at the Black Lodge. “Derrida” brings out the rockier side of the band, a guitar-driven ode to the noted Deconstructionist thinker. I really can’t think of anything more to say about this track other than the fact that you have to give props to a band that writes songs about Deconstructionist thinkers. I mean, seriously, that's pretty esoteric source material. And what’s more, they make it rock while they’re at it. Pretty impressive stuff! “L’Abattoir” closes the disc, a flanged guitar-ridden epic that's been rolling around in my head for the last few days. I kind of wish that it had a bit of a punchier drum sound; that’s all it really needs to be perfect in my mind, but really, aren't we all better for knowing and recognizing the imperfections of the things we enjoy? In knowing those imperfections exist, they become even more perfect and real in our eyes. And this is a pretty real song to me.
By this point in the review, I think I should acknowledge the fact that I wear black turtlenecks year round. I’ve been known to wear a goatee. I speak French. I know that hell is other people. Furthermore, Carte Postale has made me realise that I am in love with Veronique Diabolique. Even though I feel that love doesn’t exist, even though knowing that I love them will no doubt lead to many hours of nausea and self-loathing, I admit to my love of them. I will go on despite it, knowing that Veronique Diabolique is there for me should I ever need them.
