Maurice 2025
Bulldog
Lighting up the night with a staggering set of torch songs, American chanteuse mesmerizes Montmartre.
Leaving the dubious comforts of Mormon lifestyle and classical music strictures, both based on customs and canons, for the freedoms of Paris could have been the undoing of Amy Kyle, yet instead the former Salt Lake City Opera’s soprano blossomed into a fantastic nocturnal creature. Still, it took the sound-seductress a full decade to form an ensemble of her own and record the collective’s debut album, which is nothing short of stunning in terms of the original tunes’ appeal and stylistic surprises that lurk in the platter’s velvet gloom to lure the listeners and reel them in for good. Or for bad – depending on the audience’s mores – but feeling indifferent after leaving this aural premises should seem nigh on impossible.
Of course, it’s easy to be lulled into pleasure-seeking serenity by smoldering opener “Mango” which finds Amy’s smoky voice waltzing in the space between Slim Abida’s bass and Claire Desmoulin’s violin before Guillaume Perrin’s six strings and Laurent Sériès’ drums turn up the number’s heat, yet while “Cherry Moon” marries gypsy jazz to flamenco elegance, with vocal harmonies swaying and swooning in the background, there’s some muscular folk-rocking on the album as well. You can take a lady out of the States, but you can’t take the States out of her, as the hippie-dream-channeling “San Francisco” and the hazily panoramic “New York” suggest in their delicate riff-laden rumble. However, if “Rainbow Soul” flutters from despair to optimism to offer electrifying sympathy to Ms. Kyle’s non-binary friend, and the fado-esque “Piece Of Blue” shares hope and anguish with her sweetheart, “Run” sees the singer put on a pair of funky shoes and propose an inspired escape route for the heartbroken punters.
Without this emotional chute, the infectious pop-swagger of “Sunrise Symphony” – which picks up where a certain other songstress’ “I Feel The Earth Move” left off – wouldn’t appear so impressive, and the histrionic, yet sincere, balladry of “Wingspan” wouldn’t strut with a Little Sparrow sort of defiance. So when, delivered partially en Français, “High” brings it all to a close with a wave of honeyed fatigue, a sense of accomplishment and a whiff of freshness descend upon one’s psyche. An inebriating opus.
*****
