Anne Pigalle Everything Could Be So Perfect ZTT
NAMES come to mind… distant, luxuriant, exotic names. French names—
Old numbers come to mind… broken dreams. Sadly, however, none of the slivers of atmosphere displayed here are strong enough to carry such a thinly-sketched personality, and Anne’s character is too frail to stamp its authority on the shifting scenes of background music that only fade into the distance.
Her signature is illegible. Her sex is sterile, antiseptic, and about as enticing as Maurice Chevalier’s left buttock. Even the wistful entreaties of “He! Stranger” complete with melodramatic violin serenades issue no warmth, no regret, no ecstacy and no pain. In fact, the only pain throughout the album occurs when Miss Pigalle actually tries to sing. A torch singer with no flames.
The bogus sophistication of “Looking For Love”, and the mindboggling emptiness of “Souvenier D’Un Paris” are only partly made pallatable by Luis Jardim’s sheen of production—
Words come to mind… Harsh words. French words. Words for Anne Pigalle… Give up.