Brigitte – who are neither a woman nor always called Brigitte in real life – bring us their second album: À bouche que veux-tu (Mouth of Plenty).
Here, Aurélie Saada and Sylvie Hoarau play pepper-red-lipped twins, double-(em)bodying a multilayered woman who wears her incongruities with pride. Today’s Brigitte is as much a project Barbarella with a boxer’s body as she is a sleek cat delighted to be held captive by a dazzling lover.
After introducing us to their unique, unclassifiable style (its influences gleaned from a hundred places) on 2011’s Et vous, tu m’aimes? (Mister, Do You Love Me?) – an album that sold more than 200,000 copies and described the repair of a wounded heart – Aurélie and Sylvie now set out to explore all those elements that drive an independent woman.
The duo’s banner of desire is held aloft, fluttering in the slipstream of their burning caramel chants. They whisper their everyday doubts in vivid trills. Sometimes their voices grow more feline, all the better to tame a beloved idiot reigning on his perch. But always, tirelessly, the girls tell us that yes, plenty of loving relationships turn out well.
À bouche que veux-tu was entirely written by Aurélie and Sylvie during their tour of more than 250 dates in France and abroad. It was made for their own label, B. Records, which they created for that very purpose. They brought in Marlon B to co-produce this second album with them, having already worked with him on Et vous, tu m’aimes?
The lavish arrangements gleam with a profusion of brass and strings, paying tribute to the divas of the 70s. Percussion flashes like disco strobes. Sighs are underlined by long lines of extravagant violins. Delicious Rhodes piano anoints a masterly bastard, while African orchestrations enhance submission to incandescent desire. There are synths, too, because Brigitte is also an ordinary guy – except that she sometime cries alone at night, singing of her freedom over strawberry-flavored reggae.
With its multiple influences and colorful words, the album may just reconcile a girl’s quest for intoxication with the achievements of a constructive woman. Brigitte speaks to her lover formally and gets hammered like a polka dancer at the bar. Brigitte sets aside thoughts of an irretrievably inconsolable love affair for the time it takes to sip her soda through a straw. Brigitte clings to the pinball machine, but melts like ice in the sun when a boy is sweet enough to lend her his jacket on a winter’s evening. Brigitte asks politely before offering her mouth of plenty to be kissed. In short, Brigitte’s love is infinite.