Words by Katya Tylevich
In 2004, when elusively-French “Bossa New Wave” collective Nouvelle Vague released their first album of kinda-covers, I turned to my brain and said, “Quick, neurons! Make some memories.” Nouvelle Vague’s music—crisp but silky, full of that gentle irony that accompanies, say, a pouty and adorably inflected version of the Dead Kennedys’ “Too Drunk To Fuck”—is the stuff pathological nostalgia is made of. As I was telling my brain: “These songs can color almost any situation, no matter how dumb, wistful.” You know, kind of the effect the perfect soundtrack can have on an otherwise unremarkable movie. Clearly, Nouvelle Vague co-producer Marc Collin and I had a Jungian moment, then. Behold Collin’s latest project, which draws from his last: Hollywood, Mon Amour, an impressive collection of international female vocalists—like Bianca Calandra, Dea-Li, Yael Naïm, and Juliette Lewis—redefining the songs that made ’80s movies, well, ’80s movies.
Though obscure references and appreciated “google moments” are certainly embedded in Hollywood, Mon Amour’s self-titled debut, the main dish is really an echo of something widely familiar. Something like “Eye Of The Tiger,” only this time, performed by Copenhagen-based artist Katrine Ottosen, who turns the fist-pumper into a viscous and suggestive stalk through dark chord changes and soft harmonies. Or, “Take My Breath Away,” a crumpled then smoothed out, subtly uncoordinated and breathy number performed by Inga. The images of Tom Cruise conjured by this rendition of Top Gun’s endorphin-releaser will make you wonder whether someone slipped a hallucinogen in your Müesli this morning. I mean that as a compliment.
There’s something to be said for a song you never wanted to like, but whose lyrics you accidentally know in full. Taken out of context, stripped of iconic distinguishing features, and spiked with deadpan flirtatiousness, words like “Lose your blues, everybody get footloose” or “I can’t have it all, now I’m dancing for my life” take on new meanings, and demand attention they might not have received otherwise. For the most part, that’s a good thing. A very good thing when it comes to Nadeah’s agreeably disturbing interpretation of “When Doves Cry.” Plus, it’s just fun to overanalyze, isn’t it?
Many of the songs covered by HMA are so maddeningly well known we hardly hear them when they come through our car radios, or hover above our heads at the dentist’s office in their original forms. Why do we suddenly stop to listen (if not actively enjoy) the same songs, reinterpreted? Just think of the bullshit conversations likely to result from a few glasses of wine coupled with Hollywood, Mon Amour in the background.
The “gimmick,” if you will, never dominates the record. Musically, each song is strong enough to stand on its own, never relying on reference or irony to drive it. Yes, there’s something humorous, even smart-assed about Hollywood, Mon Amour (the name alone says it all), but neither sound nor concept come off as silly. The result is a sonic hybrid — highly evocative, but unruffled just the same. The kind of music that makes one wonder why the English language doesn’t have more words for “sigh” (Pias Recordings, 2009).
