Julien Doré is a nice bit of crumpet. As a 24 year old, straight, British male, I have to confess that there is a hysterical 15 year old French school girl that wants him to shower me with Beaujolais, pick me flowers, picnic with me in July on the banks of the Seine, whisk me away on the back of his moped and treat me like the Maltese terrier he is cradling in the video clip for Kiss Me Forever.
He’s the ultimate French pinup. He looks like what Serge Gainsbourg might have had he avoided those innumerable cigarettes and transgressive poetry. He’s pure, lovely, unadulterated. Like cherub’s piss personified.
Who better to perform at the delicate old dame of Paris’s 4th Arrondissement, the Hotel de Ville at the Fnac mini-festival? It was, admittedly, my first exposure to this extraordinary gentleman. I was there to see the headliner, MØ, and another French act I quite like, La Femme.
But he blitzed me with pop, as if I were the panel for Nouvelle Star, which by the way he’s famous for winning, and I was an instant convert.
Hooverphonic
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