How many words en français do our writers know…?

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[5.86]

Hazel Robinson: If the Coco Choco Chanel Coco Coco Choco Chocolat chant wasn’t irresistably charming, the way she says Monsieur Saint-Nitouche so it sounds like Monsieur Vintage Porn (incroyable!) est vraiment divine. The sweetness of the French chorus is gorgeous and well-fitted to the retro stylings, too — it works perfectly with the double-entendre of enchantée in French, which sounds less like a supercilious butler drily taking your coat and more like the spell of the whole song. Awesome.
[10]

Jonathan Bogart: The light, airy melodies of 60s international pop, yé-yé with a Swinging London clatter and swooning disco strings. There’s a certain solipsistic satisfaction that a music-history nerd like me can get from music like this, as though my affection for middle-class retro has been justified through its embrace by the ultimate arbiters of musical authenticity, Africans. Which is a whole ugly mess of racial, class, and historical signification that I’m doing an injustice by even bringing up. But hipster retro is global chic, which can be either horrifying or exhilarating depending on the politicization of your aesthetics. I find it exhilarating, though I’m uneasy about my own exhilaration, and will need to do a lot more listening before I thrust all this weight on Ms. Modja’s shoulders.
[8]

Anthony Easton: Mali was a colony of France, and so it’s interesting to see how that history intersects with the recent news of hi luxe global capitalism, but that might be putting too much weight on this perfect little bonbon.
[9]

Kat Stevens: Our class did German instead of French — but this means I enjoy the song more as I can indulge my mishearings and pretend she’s singing about Carol Smilie and Duncan Bannatyne. Alas the production sounds as dated as Carol’s career (sorry Carol). I wouldn’t be surprised if Duffy had rejected this in 2008.
[4]

Brad Shoup: A vision of Gallic experience as rich as Kim Cattrall’s butter substitute commercial, “French Cancan” (srsly) is a staggering, monotonous mess. It’s a regurgitation of flavorless movie tropes projected on an anxious, cod-cosmopolitan pulse: the Other, who exists only to confer experience and/or wisdom to his bougie acquaintance. Perhaps Americans are being parodied? Surely Steely Dan got there first.
[1]

Jonathan Bradley: Oh, how devilishly playful! So fun! I feel like running out to Old Navy and buying some striped shirts — you know, for that français chic. Actually, it’s a shame Modja is so intent on loading this track with faux-vintage accoutrements; if the drums popped rather than thudded those strings might have been able to work up a decent disco glide.
[4]

Katherine St Asaph: Huh, so they make French kitsch in France too.
[5]