BLAME it all on Johnny Hallyday, often called the biggest rock star in the world you’ve never heard. That’s a blessing.
Hallyday’s gruff stylisations of British and US hits — veins sticking out on his neck like knotted rope — make for queasy listening. His early success coloured our opinion of French pop for decades. Most unfair: for a start, he’s Belgian.
In the Sixties, there was abundant talent. Beatnik beauty Francoise Hardy was heiress to Juliette Greco’s crown and had a stream of EPs released in Britain.
Less known were France Gall and Chantal Kelly, role models for Vanessa Paradis. No question, the French understood pop stars should almost always be gap-toothed and have long blonde hair.
Hence their appetite for singing actresses. Brigitte Bardot racked up a string of hits. They imported Sophia Loren, Elsa Martinelli and Jane Birkin to Paris, while Anna Karina’s Roller Girl and Bardot’s Harley Davidson are punked-up marvels.
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It is no coincidence that both of these were written by Serge Gainsbourg, the Godfather of French pop. Gainsbourg was a rude, freakish-looking chain-smoking alcoholic who mixed African rhythms, jazz and lyrics of pure filth. Modern pop’s debt to him is enormous. Then came the 1968 uprising and pop music suddenly seemed insignificant. In the Seventies everybody wanted to be Elton John. In the Eighties everybody wanted to be Celine Dion. Or Elton John.
Gainsbourg’s death in 1991 triggered a nouvelle vague which gave us Air, Daft Punk, et al. French pop was never cooler.
Hallyday was still at it in the Nineties, though, marrying his best friend’s daughter and releasing a denim-covered book of semi-nude photos. Silly sod. Ignore his dreary shadow and pick up the just released Best Of Bardot CD.
Bob Stanley is a member of the Gallic-inspired group Saint Etienne