With Obi
My copy of Sylvie Vartan’s La Reine de Saba came with the obi still wrapped around the cover. For some record collectors, an obi, a mere band of paper, matters a lot. At online secondhand markets such as Discogs and eBay, vintage vinyl may be described as “with obi”, which is like “still in shrink” (aka the original shrink wrap) but even more special.
“Obi” is Japanese for sash, as in the belt of a kimono, and Japanese LPs, considered among the best pressings in the world, come with this specially designed and printed paper band around them. Like a sticker on shrink wrap, an obi delivers information about the record, all in Japanese. (Reportedly, some non-Japanese labels have adopted the obi practice as a mark of quality and collector enticement.) Like a sticker on shrink wrap, an existing obi signals that the used record’s owner cared for the artifact, or at least didn’t abuse it. If the obi adorns the cover, chances are good to excellent that the disc inside will be glistening, unscratched, unsmudged. In short: gold, and sold, if the price is right.
My copy of La Reine de Saba, with obi, cost one US dollar. This happened not at a conventional record store, where presumably a savvy collector of Sylvie Vartan or artists like her would have been willing to pay more, but at a Japanese-themed purveyor of secondhand entertainment items, including LPs. The staff does a decent job of classifying, alphabetizing, and pricing albums, but they’re inexpert. For some reason, they had marked this LP down from the initial asking price of $19.
The obi didn’t interest me per se, but the glistening cover did. It’s a large, full-color photo of Vartan’s head in profile, her blonde locks hanging sculpturally, the purse of her lips, and the glint in her eyes all suggest the singer is about to speak or even move. Perhaps an avatar of Vartan will emerge from the cover and perform the songs, like a hologram or an AI duplicate but embodied. The rendering of Vartan’s photo yields the most eerily, thrillingly, intriguingly alive-looking album cover I’m aware of.
Sylvie Vartan’s name, rendered in tastily (not hastily) retro type, was familiar to me from exploring 1960s French pop culture. However, her music had made no impression on me. If you’re a vintage-pop-culture enthusiast, she’s one of those figures you see in lists and montages. It’s stylish Paris, and youth stares out fetchingly from the still of a black-and-white Godard film. Think of the cool, beautiful dance scene in 1962’s Vivre Sa Vie or 1964’s Band à Part, then imagine a pop singer doing that dance, striking those poses. In the 1960s, Vartan was that kind of pop singer, doing her own dances and striking her own poses, like compatriots such as Françoise Hardy, France Gall, Serge Gainsbourg, and Johnny Hallyday, who was her husband from 1965 until 1980. Here’s classic Vartan in action:
French pop of that period can seem like shorthand for fun confections, like musical pastries, the kind of brief songs that grab you with rhythmic hooks or details that lurk in and leap out of the arrangements. Melodies entrance. Lyrics matter less, though their cleverness can merit attention or touch the heart. A DJ or curated playlist might mix vintage French pop with the delights produced in other countries during the girl-group era, in the first half of the 1960s. That shared deliciousness was a bit lost in the shuffle from the mid-1960s on, as rock and roll got taken seriously, grew serious, and transitioned into rock.
Vartan released La Reine de Sabas (The Queen of Sheba) after the transition, in 1974, past the French pop heyday. By 1974, chic French pop remained charming but, like an overripe cheese, had acquired some unfortunate characteristics. In fact, just about every aspect of mainstream pop culture had grown too soft and too tangy, displaying more aftertaste than taste.
Sylvie Vartan remained extremely popular in France, but she clearly retained a devoted audience in Japan. As so often happens, Japanese pop fans could appreciate and celebrate an artist perhaps neglected elsewhere.
Inside the gatefold cover of La Reine de Saba, together with photos of Vartan and typeset copy in Japanese, there’s a reproduction of a handwritten note from the singer to her fans: “Je sais que tous mes amis japonais aiment beaucoup ‘la chanson’. C’est pour vous que j’ai enregistré spécialement ce l.p. avec les plus belles chansons françaises et certaines autres que j’aime. J’espère que vous pourrez autant de plaisir à les écouter que moi à les enregistrer. Votre amie”.
Here’s an English translation: “I know that all my Japanese friends are very fond of ‘la chanson’. It’s for you that I especially recorded this LP with the most beautiful French songs and some others that I like. I hope that you enjoy listening to them as much as I did recording them. Your friend”.
South Koreans may also have been especially fond of Vartan, because the album was released there on vinyl in 1975 and cassette in 1987. A French YouTuber, Sergio BR, mentions some sort of 1995 French reissue, but Discogs doesn’t list it. According to the listings there, La Reine de Saba didn’t appear on CD until 2013, this time in France as well as Japan. Vartan aficionados had finally caught up with a mostly beguiling gem.
Face A
La Reine de Saba opens with the title track. The French singer Michel Laurent wrote this song as “Ma Reine de Saba” and recorded it for his debut record in 1967. Curiously, Discogs lists an expanded, retitled version of that album as having been released in Japan in 1974. Something must have been in the air, the water, or somewhere between Europe and Asia. If the title “Ma Reine de Saba (Japanese)” is accurate, Laurent treated his Japanese fans by rerecording the song in their language.
In any case, the reissue of Laurent’s LP supports Vartan’s point about a French-Japanese connection. Perhaps Sylvie Vartan covered Laurent’s original because it had special resonance for her album’s target audience. Her version’s orchestrated pop dusts off Laurent’s. Displaying both a confident elegance and a heart-on-sleeve expressiveness, Vartan makes a case for herself as one of the world’s great singers.
Next up on the record is “Love Is Blue”, which began life in 1967 as “L’amour Est Bleu”, with music by André Popp and French lyrics by Pierre Cour. The Greek singer Vicky Leandros recorded the first hit version in 1967, and the French orchestra leader Paul Mauriat scored an instrumental hit with “Love Is Blue” the following year. Vartan’s version may combine Leandros’s and a bit of Mauriat’s.
It may also draw on the French-American singer Claudine Longet’s minor 1968 hit, which includes both Cour’s French lyrics and Bryan Blackburn’s English ones. Vartan’s take carries on the overall sound of “La Reine de Saba” but adds propulsion, with a proto-disco beat that almost makes this track worthy of a dancefloor. Or maybe not “almost”; it depends on your dancefloor. Vartan eschews the sweetness of other vocalists and brings the tough sound she was known for in the yé-yé days.
Four years later, by the way, Sylvie Vartan had gone full-on disco. In this clip, she’s a forerunner of today’s dancing pop stars:
Meanwhile, the next track on La Reine de Saba is no one’s idea of dance fare. “Hymne a L’amour” is a special chanson. Not only did the ultimate French icon, Edith Piaf, known internationally as the Little Sparrow, record this song in 1949, but she wrote the lyrics. Marguerite Monnot wrote the music. Vartan’s version follows Piaf’s but omits the background chorus and adds a dramatic drum roll at the end. Vartan sounds unfazed as she enters the Little Sparrow’s turf, an effect aided by her deeper voice and vocal prowess.
“Les Feuilles Mortes”, lyrics by Jacques Prévert and music by Joseph Kosma, became a hit for Yves Montand in 1949. Montand was another French icon, initially championed by Piaf, who performed the song the next year. The title translates literally to “The Dead Leaves”, but the song is known in English as “Autumn Leaves”, with lyrics by Johnny Mercer. Vartan’s French version continues this album’s winning streak. The arrangement ranges from unadorned xylophone to soaring strings, and Vartan’s vocal includes a hint of cracking that suggests the melancholy beneath the impervious exterior.
“The Music Played”, music by Udo Jürgens, lyrics by Mike Hawker and Joachim Fuchsberger, was first recorded by the English singer Matt Monro in 1968. Monro’s version heightens the drama of this torch song with swelling orchestration. His vocal doesn’t vary much, even when the singer loses his woman to another man on the dancefloor. Vartan’s version takes a different approach at just about the same tempo. Baroque piano figures add odd details, perhaps meant to capture the swirling dancers. The orchestra maintains a constant whir, and amid the swirling and whirring, Vartan inhabits the narrative, staying dry-eyed but sounding truly stricken.
“Les Moulins de Mon Coeur”, music by Michel Legrand and lyrics by Eddy Marnay, began life in 1968 as “The Windmills of Your Mind”, with Legrand’s music and English lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman. Although Marcel Armont recorded the first French version that same year, Legrand released a version in 1969, as did Vicky Leandros (a recurring precursor on La Reine de Saba). However, none of their arrangements seems to have inspired Vartan’s. Her version has, for the only time on this album, a lightly jazzy rhythm section underpinning the orchestration.
In 2023, YouTuber Sergio BR created an intriguing “Sergio Extended 12-inch Mix” of this recording by isolating Vartan’s somber vocal, then pairing it with a version of the music that emphasizes the rhythm section. The things people think of! Many other parts of La Reine de Saba might lend themselves to inventive remixes. Get to it, YouTubers.
C’est la fin de la face A, the album’s classic-ballad side. Face B gets weird, in the grand tradition of albums that win you over with flawless first halves and challenge you with odd second halves. On La Reine de Saba, two of side two’s tracks match the tone and theme of side one, but the rest present a grab bag of pop-rock styles.
Face B
“Holidays”, written by the French singer-songwriter Michel Polnareff and Jean-Loup Dabadie, was a 1972 single by Polnareff and appeared on his 1972 album Polnareff a Tokio, another LP released only in Japan. Sylvie Vartan’s version pretty much re-creates Polnareff’s, so it’ll be redundant if you appreciate his, but a find if you’ve never heard his. Chances are better that you’ll consider Vartan’s a find, especially if a French approximation of David Bowie‘s sound on 1971’s Hunky Dory might light you up.
A mellow glam gloss results from strummed acoustic guitars complemented by orchestration on top and electric guitar below. Vartan’s take emphasizes the crunchy guitar riff more than Polnareff’s, but the real appeal is the melody’s infectiousness. You’re meant to enjoy hearing the title as much as the singer does when she repeats it. Was that the appeal for Vartan? Was the song big in Japan? Or was this recording a wink at her husband’s last name, Hallyday?
Speaking of whom: Next up is “Rock’n Roll Man”, written by Tommy Brown and recorded by Hallyday as “Rock’n’Roll Man” in French in 1974. Vartan’s English version was the B-side of her 1974 French single “Da Dou Ron Ron”, and the A-side appears later on side two of La Reine de Saba. Both tracks were included on another Vartan album from 1974, Shang Shang a Lang, released in France. Neither one sounds like the rest of La Reine de Saba. Thank goodness, because an album of music like this would be unlistenable.
“Rock’n Roll Man” suggests Bobbie Gentry‘s “Ode to Billy Joe” or Dusty Springfield‘s “Son of a Preacher Man” with a small horn section and a small group of female backup singers. “Rock, rock, rock, rock’n roll”, the singers affirm, same as they do on Hallyday’s version but more so, in fact, over and over, as in a music obsessive’s nightmare. In the tradition of songs about rock ‘n’ roll that don’t actually rock, “Rock’n Roll Man” is 1970s-groovy in an unpromising way, but Vartan sounds committed, and the ensemble builds steam by the end. This recording must have had special significance for Vartan, Hallyday, and people who loved them.
From a different universe, or at least back to the land of side one, is “Ne Me Quittes Pas”, later anglicized as “If You Go Away”. The French version, written and recorded by Belgian singer-songwriter Jacques Brel, was covered by Vicky Leandros, Barbara, Nina Simone, and others. Sylvie Vartan’s version features elegant piano and her convincingly pained vocals, with a hint of vibrato. This winning performance almost helps you forget “rock, rock, rock, rock’n roll”. For a smoother listening experience, you might want to go digital with this collection so that you can omit or resequence tracks.
On vinyl, though, the music’s upswing continues with another winning performance. “Bang Bang”, written by Sonny Bono, was first recorded in 1966 by his then-wife, Cher, and subsequently that same year by Nancy Sinatra, Petula Clark, and Sheila, who sang it in French. Vartan’s version splits the difference between Cher’s and Sheila’s, combining the Eastern European languor of the first with the tasteful orchestration of the latter.
Especially nice is the “Music played, and people sang” interlude, which comes in percussively yet more smoothly than in arrangements that try to make it funky. Throughout, singing in English but perhaps inspired by the arrangement to subtly channel her early life in Bulgaria, Vartan delivers more authentic reminiscence than any of the 1966 renditions. If you like the song in other forms, seek out this sweet two-minute one.
“Dadou Ron Ron”, as it’s titled here, is the joyous explosion we know and worship as “Da Doo Ron Ron,” written by Jeff Barry, Ellie Greenwich, and Phil Spector. The latter produced the Crystals’ 1963 hit, which Johnny Hallyday covered in French that same year as “Da Dou Ron Ron”, with lyrics by Georges Amber. Presumably, “dou” is more French than “doo”.
Eleven years later, Sylvie Vartan’s version may, in changing “Da Dou” to “Dadou”, have taken the Frenchness a step further by referring to the river Dadou, in southern France, or the combined word might just be a mistake on Vartan’s album, like the missing word space and second apostrophe in “Rock’n Roll”. The guitar-heavy music here is way more boogie than Wall of Sound, but give Vartan credit for not trying to re-create either the thrills of yesteryear or Hallyday’s gruff-voiced romp. Once again, she sounds completely committed. When she sings “Oui!” she means it.
La Reine de Saba’s finale, “Qui Saura” (“Who Will Know”)—music by Jimmy Fontana, lyrics by Franco Migliacci and Michel Jourdan—takes another stylistic turn. The arrangement is based on the Israeli-French singer Mike Brant’s 1972 original but avoids that version’s excessive production. Over a mellow pop backdrop of strummed acoustic guitar and light orchestration, Vartan’s double-tracked vocal delivers some of the promise of La Reine de Samba’s front-cover photo. Just as Vartan’s profile seems to embody mildly troubled mindfulness, so does her delivery.
Getting Personal
The personal nature of this album, or at least its personalized presentation, tempts me to make a grander case for it or wish that I could. Imagine if it were a career breakthrough, Vartan’s equivalent of Marianne Faithfull‘s Broken English (1978). Or suppose it were an autobiographical statement: a disguised narrative about Vartan’s rise to pop stardom, or a tour through pop styles from the start of her career through the state of the art in 1974.
No such glue holds the collection together, but Vartan had a hand in choosing the songs, and a good part of the connective tissue is Frenchness. A Gallic icon pays tribute to Gallic icons. If you consider “The Music Played” as in the spirit of chanson and acknowledge the French precursors of the rock songs on side 2, La Reine de Saba becomes a concept album. Avoiding the occasional bombast of the original versions, Sylvie Vartan delivers the truly French songs as though crafting a love letter to her adopted country while preparing a gift for aficionados of her and of artists like her. If you’re a fan of either or both, you’ve probably started checking out the music before reaching this sentence.