Hollie Cook
Twice

If my godfather were Boy George, surely a decent (...) part of my musical education would include Reggae. Definitely. Because in Mr. George O'Dowd's Club, Reggae was never absent. Nor did it play a subordinate role, ultimately.

But if I had Jamaican blood running through my veins, surely at the same time, I would have Reggae within me much more than Boy George. Or at the very least, I would be much more at ease with those offbeat rhythms.

And if my father were Paul Cook (and I mean PAUL COOK, the blonde who pounded the drums behind Johnny Rotten when he yelled like a madman), I could also join the Slits thirty years later and include in my album my personal tribute to that great lady with dreadlocks who sang in the Slits: "she" Ari Up...

Hollie Cook didn’t have to choose among the three options. And not more than a few months ago, she also gifted me this new little gem of tropical pop produced by Mike "Prince Fatty" Pelanconi. The cover looks like the comic translation of certain Creole art pieces I brought with me on the return flight from Martinique. And songs that seem like the sonic equivalent of those colors.

And when the covers speak clearly, you can say you start listening to an album even before putting it in the player.

The dub-remix of her debut three years ago bore more fruits than the palm trees immortalized in the 'Postman' video. The basses make their point, the pop vein remains intact, the tracks flow like a pleasure. Irresistible, with a vintage touch. And a decent orchestra adds vague moroderian flavors from the '70s Disco. That hint of Brazil brought by the percussion, and a remaining 90% of Jamaica all muted guitars and seductive lazy cadences.

If you're among the purists looking for a "roots" sound from plantation songs and the like, you will be somewhat disappointed. If you're one of those who loved the contaminations of Peter Tosh from the days of Rolling Stones Records (ah, the vinyl with the red tongue on a yellow background in the center, those instantly recognizable ones...), then this is for you. And by "you," I mean those who adored the sound of Sly Dunbar’s drums (yes, even if you couldn't recognize it instantly, it didn’t take long...) and learned to distinguish it from the sound of any other drums. That sound has become a benchmark everywhere, but we already knew that. Apparently, it has become a benchmark here too.

Then, there's the fact that she is perfect as a performer. A detail, yes. But without certain "details," I wouldn't be here talking about how delightful an album like Twice is. Perhaps even something more than "pleasant." Indeed.

And in this final stretch of 2014, in which I've barely heard a handful of new stuff, I'm so lethargic that I haven't even managed to play the Pink Floyd single on YouTube (ah, there's new material under the name "Pink Floyd"...?), there's this Jamaican from the West End who appears to be quite a decent cultivator and who captivates me. And what to do at this point...?

I let myself be captivated.

And then she is Paul Cook's daughter. Oh, I say: PAUL COOK.

Ah. I already mentioned that.