And from Abby, a French hip-hop power ballad (?) (!)…

[Video][Website]
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Kat Stevens: During a week of frequent trips to the local hypermarche for Breton cider, tins of compressed meat and live crabs (selected by one Hazel R of this parish, who as the gite’s resident ostraconophobe was ironically the only person willing to execute their boiling, watery fate), this song was in frequent rotation on SKYROCK FM, one of two music radio stations the hire car could pick up. It lodged in my head firmly enough that I sought out the video when I got home. It’s very rewarding — Gims is being emo up a mountain, but unlike many popstars he remembers to wear appropriate outdoor weather garments! There’s even a trusty Diefenbaker to keep him company. The tune is certainly pleasant enough to soothe the nervous motorist unused to driving on the right — thanks to its Robert Miles-esque properties I didn’t crash the car or kill anyone on the priorite a droit roundabout! Go me!
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Abby Waysdorf: I tend to describe this song by the video, because the video is exactly what the visuals for this song should be — Maître Gims extending his arms dramatically on top of a mountain, on a deserted tropical beach, thumping his chest in the desert, singing to the camera in black-and-white rain. “J’me tire” is exactly that kind of song. It’s all emotion and melodrama, and yet there’s a kind of sparseness to it as well, with the prominent echo of the snare drum and slender guitar riff. Even in the bombast of the chorus the focus is mostly on Gims himself and the insistent almost-growl of his voice. It’s subtle for such a dramatic song (which I guess is right on trend), and it works. “J’me tire”‘s grown on me since I first heard it in May, and as it wound its way to my residence in the Netherlands (my friend says that French songs end up Dutch hits after the Dutch get back from their summer vacations to vacation parks in France, but it arose well into October), it’s become an entrenched favorite. Sometimes you just want to scream on top of a mountain.
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Brad Shoup: That see-sawing guitar figure reminds me of nothing more than soundchecks; why it’s shorthand for deliberative interiority is beyond me. Might as well sample a roadie slapping the snare. Just get me to the chorus, where Maître Gims’ milky, vibrato-free roar summons real existential affront.
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Alfred Soto: The guitars bewitch: a couple of notes plucked and echoed behind a cloud of harmonies. The platitudes ring with force.
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Mallory O’Donnell: The lyrics are a bit self-aggrandizing and self-pitying (“si c’est comme ça, bah fuck la vie d’artiste”), but at least they’re passionately sung, rather than boredly declaimed. I’d like to hear Gims over a more adventurous backing track, but this one at least makes clear the depth of his intentions. One to watch.
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Will Adams: When Drake half-sings about the trappings of fame, it’s uninspiring at best and nauseating at worst. Maître Gims, on the other hand, has a powerful voice that conveys the emotion more convincingly. Unfortunately, it’s being delivered over a watered-down rehash of “Love the Way You Lie.”
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Jonathan Bogart: He’s got a great voice, a hell of a stage presence, and effective if straight-down-the-line emotional shorthand. If we could only do something about that cheap, grooveless beat.
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