Live Review: So Frenchy So Chic In The Park

A field of flower crowns greeted all eager Francophiles as they gathered beneath their striped umbrellas to sway with closed eyes to Hindi Zahra. The Morocco-born beauty, who has been described as a North-African Patti Smith, added a haunting black-magic feel to the flowing, free-love atmosphere. Dressed in a shocking purple kimono that she flaunted and flittered across the stage, Zahra's desert blues-influenced sound added heat and nuance to the event. Her voice is something of a hybrid between Norah Jones and Billie Holiday — her voice lilts and vibrates akin to Holiday’s tragic perfection. But Zahra is no shrinking violet, and when not singing the singer rolled her head around sending spirals of curls into the air. Zahra lacks the kind of commanding stage presence you would expect from a tragic bluesy artist. Instead, Zahra and her poetic Middle Eastern chant-like sound seemed to flow into the event unperturbed, but also unchallenged. Forget centrestage, Zahra’s melodic gentleness was reminiscent of a lazy busker entertaining lovers taking a late afternoon stroll along the Champs-Élysées.

Meshing perfectly into the ‘joy die vive’ vibe of the event were follow-up act Brigitte. Named after famous French ‘Brigitte’s, the duo is made up of Parisians Aurélie Saada and Sylvie Hoarau who brought a touch of '70s disco-glam to the stage. Both Saada and Hoarau spilled themselves into slinky black sequined gowns, with a revealing slit to the thigh, and despite noticeable tightness, the pair were still able to jive around the stage as they performed their retro-pop hippie chic sound. The key change was noticeable and needed. Hoards of baby-doll-dress-wearing concertgoers began flicking their skirts around as they swarmed to the front of stage to dance and jump along with the singers. Brigitte’s infectious sound even appealed to the surprising number of youngsters in the crowd (aged zero to three, if you please) who soon began bopping along on the ground, kicking up wet dirt and grass. The fact that they sang entirely in French didn’t seem to be a barrier for most, with pockets of revellers standing to sway along to their melodic folksy sound. The pair is happy to revel in each other’s glow and work in perfect symbiotic elegance.

With ribbon on guitar and gold booties, the remarkable Lou Doillon closed the early performances not with a bang, but rather a slow burn. The daughter of Jane Birkin proved her own by commanding the stage with a single strung of her guitar. The sultry timbre of her voice sent shivers up the spines of most. Doillon’s sad blues worked perfectly with the gothic nature of her songs, and she managed to elicit a hushed, hypnotic atmosphere among the now rowdy crowd. Seemingly unperturbed by the growing crowd now spilling out before her, Doillon appears almost like a Valium-soaked Mick Jagger — all legs and arms minus the jitters. Doillon’s vocals stretch and bounce back like a taut guitar string. Her phrasing is unique, with some words sounding like long, languid yawns while Doillon almost spat out others. But here’s the thing: Doillon’s music has the heat and nerve to move and satisfy without needing the bells and whistles of, say, a long, slinky black dress. Elegant, simple and unlike the earlier acts, Doillon stayed still for the entirety of her set, allowing her pure musical force to move the audience. It is Doillon who brought a kind of equilibrium back to the event, reminding crowds of the soft beauty of France and all its heartbreaking art. A truly ethereal experience.

Merci mon ami.