Marie-Paule Belle has been crafting smart, sweet, and tart pop-rock since 1973. It’s time for her profile to be higher outside her native France.
What are the chances you’ve heard of Marie-Paule Belle? From approximately zero in much of the world, they increase if you’re a Francophone, a Francophile, French, Parisian, and/or a devotee of modern chanson. As her Wikipedia page notes, “Marie-Paule Belle est une chanteuse et pianiste française, née le 25 janvier 1946 à Pont-Sainte-Maxence (Oise). Elle est connue pour la chanson La Parisienne, qu’elle a créée en 1976, et pour son interprétation de chansons de Barbara“.
Got that? If not, here’s an English translation: “Marie-Paule Belle is a French singer and pianist, born 25 January 1946, in Pont-Sainte-Maxence, Oise, northern France. She is known for the song ‘La Parisienne’, which she created in 1976, and for her interpretation of Barbara’s songs”.
Maybe you’re familiar with the French singer Barbara (1930‒1997). You’ve heard or at least heard of Juliette Greco (1927‒2020), Françoise Hardy (1944‒2024), Sylvie Vartan (b. 1944), Mireille Mathieu (b. 1946), France Gall (1947‒2018). For more Gallic charm in this vein, turn to Marie-Paule Belle.
Not that Marie-Paule Belle sounds like these singers or others. A 1960s-style yé-yé pop-rocker, for example, she is not. After earning a master’s degree in psychology, she moved from Nice to Paris, where by the early 1970s she was performing in cafés. On her eponymous debut album, released in 1973, Belle offered art songs that combined down-to-earthness and sophistication.
For a particularly lovely and imaginative collection, check out her album 1978 – Almanach de Marie-Paule Belle. That’s one rendering of the title. Another is Almanach de 1978. A third is Marie-Paule Belle, the title given on the labels and spine of the vintage Polydor release from France.
In fact, between 1973 and 1980, Belle was fond of self-titling her albums. She released seven LPs during those years, the first two on Okapi (a division of Sonopresse) and the rest on Polydor. Apart from the one from 1978, the one possibly with Almanach in its title, they’re all titled Marie-Paule Belle—or, as her Wikipedia page puts it, they have no “official” titles apart from her name.
Perhaps that’s where Peter Gabriel got the idea to title his first three solo albums, from 1977 to 1982, Peter Gabriel. Perhaps, too, Belle might be seen as a French, mostly-deeper-voiced precursor of Gabriel’s one-time art-pop compatriot Kate Bush, whose first album appeared in 1978—but best not to belabor that comparison.
In any case, for the sake of convenience, let’s refer to Marie-Paule Belle’s album under discussion here simply as Almanach. That it was released in 1978 is irrelevant, as the lyrics don’t address the year, and the music doesn’t sound of its time, except in a good, analog way. In the front and back cover photos, Belle is dressed and posed as though it’s a century earlier, but the music doesn’t evoke that time either. Someone trying to make warm, playful, orchestrated pop in the 21st century might aim for the sound of Almanach.
That the album’s an almanac matters mostly in terms of the cover art, which features calendars that perhaps list visitors, plus cards that identify each of the 12 songs as representing a specific month. However, the first side opens not with the song for January (Janvier) but with the one for July (Juillet). The rest of the months are scrambled. In short, don’t take the title or the cover art to mean Almanach is a concept record. For some reason, this collection of 12 songs was presented in terms of time.
Ambitious but not pretentious, the results want to entertain, intrigue, and gently move you. That first track, “Les Petits Patelins”, lasts less than two minutes but encapsulates the music-making in all its winning aspects. The title translates to “The Small Villages”, and the lyrics are a brief poem that presents a slice of life.
In their entirety: “Y en a qui vont aux Bahamas / Pour s’ennivrer de maracas / Y en a qui vont à Bilbao / Rien que pour danser le tango / Quand j’veux m’marrer une heure ou deux / Moi, j’vais danser dans mon chef-lieu / Quand on danse à Mérigny-le-Pont / Sous les lampions on est champion.” In English: “Some go to the Bahamas / To get drunk on maracas / Some go to Bilbao / Just to dance the tango / When I want to have fun for an hour or two / I’m going to dance in my capital / When we dance in Mérigny-le-Pont / Under the lanterns we are champions.”
Throughout the album, the credits remain consistent, representing the collaboration of multiple talents. As in much of Marie-Paule Belle’s work and especially during her first decades of recording, the lyrics were co-written by the writer and actor Michel Grisolia and the novelist Françoise Mallet-Joris, the latter of whom was Belle’s romantic partner from 1970 to 1981. The music, written by Belle, conveys the scene suggested by the words. On “Les Petits Patelins”, the sound suggests a kind of oompah band, with light strings and a disco beat avant la lettre, to give the impression of high-stepping dancers. Proto-punk this is not; it wears its dorkiness proudly, with a sense of mission.
The record’s production (“Direction et Réalisation artistique”) is by Max Amphoux. Arrangement and conducting are split by Hervé Roy and Michel Bernholc. Amphoux, Roy, and Bernholc worked primarily in French pop, including with Mathieu, Hardy, and Vartan in addition to Belle. “Les Petits Patelins” harkens back further, though, to la magnifique chanteuse française, Edith Piaf (1915‒1963). Think especially of Piaf’s biggest productions, such as 1960’s “La vie, l’amour”, with its insistent percussion and dancehall piano giving way to Hollywood strings.
While “Le Petits Patelins” may evoke Piaf, it’s not as though Belle is imitating Piaf’s distinctive trill. It’s more that Piaf could have sung this one. She represented French culture in its layers of richness, sweetness, tartness, savoriness, and so on, and Belle continues that tradition. Like wine, these singers embody the terroir, the environmental characteristics. What they lack in technical ability, they make up for in commitment, personality, and intelligence.
Still, mon Dieu, a whole album of jauntily tooting music like “Les Petits Patelins” could be deadly. The next track, “Une Boucle, Un Trou” (One Loop, One Hole), downshifts. Delicately plucked strings lead to orchestration over a slow, mild funk that suggests Belle’s compatriot Serge Gainsbourg, whom she has covered, or a French female Isaac Hayes—but best not to push that comparison.
“Ma vie n’est pas si bien peignée” (My life is not so well combed), explains the narrator, a woman living on her own. “Je n’sais pas quoi fair’ de ma vie” (I don’t know what to do with my life). Marie-Paule Belle alternates between a matter-of-fact, almost spoken delivery and melodic gliding, rising to a crescendo, and suggesting that the narrator’s lack of direction retains possibility.
The oompah band returns—or is the music full-on polka?—for “Mes Bourrelets D’antan” (My Bulges of Yesteryear). Bounciness and all sorts of wayward musical details create a comic scenario, where the speaker laments having dieted away her bulges, her seductive double chins, and with those attributes, her lovers: “J’ai tout perdu” (I lost everything). Belle exhibits no ego as she inhabits the character, letting flutters, swift upward swoops, downward turns, and even some odd noises indicate the narrator’s being out of control. Off she goes—or they go—in a cluster of seemingly multitracked yodels and whoops.
“Même Si” (Even If) takes life more seriously, yet enjoys the breeziness of Paul McCartney in the mid-1970s. The track is lightly melancholic during the verses: “Même si / Paris devient pour toi trop petit.” (Even if / Paris is becoming too small for you). The music lets in some sunshine when the singer switches to good, if complicated, advice.
“N’oublies pas, n’oublies pas, n’oublies pas les boul’vards / Les travaux, les trottoirs, les détours, les retards / Les coups d’pomp’, les coups d’tête, les coups d’coeur, les coups d’frein.” (Don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t forget the boul’vards / The works, the sidewalks, the detours, the delays / The blows, the headbutts, the crushes, the brakes.)
Marie-Paule Belle now sounds like a completely different character than on the previous songs. That principle operates throughout this almanac: Turn the calendar page, and a different personality appears. In that sense, the more you listen, the more the “concept” signifies. The brief lyrics provide glimpses, and Belle hints at the depths beneath the words. It’s no wonder she has acted on stage.
Perhaps as a kind of in-joke, or possibly striking a balance, “J’t’adore Message Terminé” (I Love You Message Completed) has a John Lennon feel. Indeed, from this track on, the music incorporates so many Lennonisms that the ex-Beatle becomes a ghost presence. Here, the ambitious arrangement features a swirling orchestra reminiscent of the Flux Fiddlers, members of the New York Philharmonic, on Lennon’s “Imagine” (1971).
The lyrics reflect a mind at work, like the Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields Forever” (1967), but with a focus on communication technology that might have amused Lennon: “Y a plein d’messag’ sur nos répondeurs téléphoniques / Je n’peux pas, rappell’, sans faut’, d’accord, qu’ell’ mécanique” (There are plenty of messages on our answering machines / I can’t, remember, okay, that it’s mechanical). Lennon might have written something like this for Double Fantasy (1980). Belle sounds less like him, however, than like a French female Leonard Cohen at his smoothest.
Vocally, she draws on Lennon at Side One’s end. The elegantly expansive “Mon Odyssée” (My Odyssey) represents mid-1970s pop-rock balladeering at its affecting best. The singer voyaged, whereas the person being addressed: “…Restais / Trop sur terre / Trop ancré / Amarré à l’été.” (…Stayed / Too much on earth / Too anchored / Moored in the summer.) In the end, the singer describes herself, in third person, as having sailed on boats “trop grands” (too big), which ended up “Déchirés / Démâtés par le vent” (Torn / Dismasted by the wind). Hyperarticulate bass conveys the journey, while soaring strings blow around the singer, if not quite blowing the singer around.
Side Two digs even deeper than Side One. It opens with another portrait: “Vieille” (Old Woman). However, the singer isn’t being or lamenting but wishing: “Si déjà je pouvais être vielle / Pour qu’enfin ma douleur s’ensommeille” (If I could already be old / So that at last my pain falls asleep). A delicate combination of instruments—hard to parse, given the album’s condensed mix—leaves lots of room for deep feeling, as Belle projects into this character’s contemplation.
“Souci” (Worry) doesn’t rock, but it’s overtly rockist or rockish, with sinewy guitar, bass, and drums. The music’s relative heaviness—far more atmospheric than metallic—suits the lyrics’ look at a state of mind: “Un chagrin de six sous si souvent si souvent obsédant / Un souci qui s’en va qui revient sans cesse et tout le temps” (A sixpenny sorrow so often so often obsessive / A worry that goes away, that comes back again and again and again). Belle explores her upper register in conveying a faraway stare.
“Le Cha-Cha Plait” (The Cha-Cha Pleases) exists in a different universe, where an uptempo rhythm inspires a social occasion. Sounding uncannily like Yoko Ono singing melodically but enunciating wryly on her 1973 masterpiece Approximately Infinite Universe, Marie-Paule Belle plays the part of a religiuese: “Notre couvent a connu un gros cha-chagrin / A caus’ de la querell’ des / Modernes et des / Anciens / On a réconcilié jeun’z et vieux cha-chaplains / Sur ce rythme latin.” (Our convent has experienced great sorrow / Because of the quarrel between the / Modern and the / Old / We have reconciled young people and old chaplains / On this Latin rhythm.)
That song’s horns give way, and the tempo slows deliciously to a waltz on “La Petite Écriture Grise” (The Little Gray Handwriting). Vibraphone, steel guitar, and fiddle enhance a low-key interpretation of US “country music”. Belle wistfully tells a universal tale. A woman has died, leaving behind a notebook of reflections and revelations: “Mais le temps qu’on le trouve et le lise / Sa petite écriture grise / S’est effacee avec son secret” (But the time it takes to find it and read it / Her little gray handwriting / Has faded away with her secret).
With “Je Viens” (I’m Coming) comes the heartbreak, as a gentle piano figure lays the ground for Belle’s unguarded delivery, ranging from whispery to conversational to enticing. Then the band kick in, as much as this group do, and whoever this ensemble are (the album includes no instrumental credits). Marie-Paule Belle shifts into an eerily intense focus. Despite the English translation of the title, this song doesn’t concern orgasm explicitly. Still, it’s a love song with a sexual frisson: “Éloígnons-nous du rivage / Sur le navir’ de ce lit / Découvrons des paysages / Où le jour deviendrait nuit.” (Let’s get away from the shore / On the ship of this bed / Let’s discover landscapes / Where day would become night.)
The closer, “Je Vide Mon Sac” (I Empty My Bag), lightens the mood. This fun, little tune, just over a minute long, is percussive in music and phrasing, accented with a child’s voice making a sound like a hiccup—a proto-sample. Rushing to keep up with the music, the singer explains that she’s emptying not “un sac à mains” (a handbag), “un sac à dos” (a backpack), nor “un sac de couchage” (a sleeping bag), but “un sac à malices” (a bag of tricks). What to make of this bag is left to you, as is what to make of Almanach’s musical miscellany.
Should you find Belle’s 1973 album pleasing, be on the lookout for 2011’s Rebelle, to cite just one example of a later work that is very much in the same vein but even more heartbreakingly autumnal. In that collection’s “Comme dans le films Italiens”, a single electric-guitar stroke ushers in a very French accordion. Right there, Marie-Paule Belle seems the consummate recording artist, loving the sonic details that evoke a bigger picture. That’s even truer in this one moment than throughout Almanach.
If you’re unfamiliar with the language, you may not know what she’s expressing about Italian films, but the words don’t matter. She is in the moment, and you’re right there with her.