Rover
Rover

“Who the hell is Rover?!?”

“He's the new Napoleon of pop.”

This was the SMS exchange that occurred when I unwrapped my Christmas gift in astonishment.

First track: Beatles; second track: Interpol; third track: Muse/U2; fourth track: Bowie. Okay, let's stop for a moment, this listening makes no sense, we first need to understand what on earth this album is, why it was given to me, why it ended up in my carefully curated collection. I read reviews, I see that this Rover even placed decently in several year-end polls. Did I miss something? Could it be that Rover is actually the hype of the moment?

What I'm writing about is the recording debut of Timothée Regnier, a character not exactly easy to grasp: thirty-three years old, French, said to have spent his childhood in New York, attended school with members of the Strokes, sang punk-rock in Lebanon from where he was expelled and sent back to France. And that he chose his stage name following his passion for British cars. What I can see with my own eyes is that he is certainly not a stunner, that despite being a bit overweight he dresses like an early 1900s dandy; that he has himself portrayed in plasticky poses like a young Werther from our parts, brooding expression, perched on cliffs, floundering in the rippling waters of a cold lake; that he has a mug and stature reminiscent of an improbable mix between Gerard Depardieu, Antony, and Meat Loaf. In short, there are enough reasons not to consider Timothée Regnier a credible character, and yet....

And yet, while it's true there are dull albums/artists we convince ourselves to like because it's cool to listen to them, because they're spoken about positively, or because they're not spoken about at all, or because the listening premises are decidedly good (because someone plays in it, someone else collaborates, another has said it's worth it), it's equally true that there are albums/artists that end up appealing to you even if on paper you wouldn't bet a dime on them, and Rover is undoubtedly one of these. The premises behind the recording debut of this nobody are all detrimental, starting with the musical proposition: catchy earworms, a decidedly manufactured emotional exaggeration, a definitely retro decadence. Regnier likes the Beatles and also likes David Bowie, Regnier certainly doesn't make a secret of it, and we certainly can't hold that against him, but the question is another: was there a need? I mean, in 2012, was there really a need? And yet....

And yet, as already stated by other authoritative voices (and I'm simply here to reiterate it), in Rover's first LP the strengths outweigh the weaknesses, and despite the shortcomings leading us to catalog the product in a nanosecond as something forgettable in a record market afflicted and weakened by bland rehashed material, our judgment will not be so harsh. Indeed, listening to it again, while we're still pondering whether or not to give weight to prejudices linked to the anachronism of the proposal and the ridiculous way the artist presents himself, it will already be too late for us, and we will finally have to admit that the CD in question spins in our player more frequently than many other works we might be more proud of in the vanity fair we are part of.

First of all, Regnier is a musician: he takes on not only the writing of his compositions but the entire performance aspect, playing (and well) all the instruments. A thank you surely goes to whoever was behind the mixing desk because the sound is excellent, but the arrangements (let's give Caesar what belongs to Caesar) remain more than good for someone at their recording debut who shoulders almost the whole burden of the project, unable to rely on providential sessions provided by the record company, or even better on the clarity of trusted companions.

Let's start again from the beginning. The opener “Aqualast” may initially appear to us as affected and flashy in its blatantly Beatles settings (come on, enough already!), yet it carries within itself something that doesn't make the listening experience necessarily annoying, and already along its course, it can unveil Regnier's ace up his sleeve, namely a beautiful voice, versatile, powerful, capable of ranging from a warm and seductive timbre to rock chameleon growls, without sparing us a mighty falsetto.

Ah yes, Regnier's falsetto: I've never particularly loved those who abuse this technique, and I believe few can really afford it without eventually tiring, yet Regnier, certainly not the humble Regnier, the arrogant and unpleasant Regnier, certainly doesn't skimp on his heartbreaking falsetto, which inopportunely emerges in the most dramatic moments of the songs, never truly appearing out of place, conferring an epicness to the music that rock enthusiasts bathed in pathos will surely enjoy. “Remember” abruptly shifts register: a driving electronic base opens the piece, which in less than three minutes sketches a journey worthy of the great names of modern-day new-wave revivalism (Interpol, Editors, etc.). Rhythms between New Order and Kraftwerk continue in “Tonight” which essentially constitutes the natural continuation of the previous track, complete with The Edge-style delay guitars. But just when you think you finally understand where the album might be heading, everything changes again: “Queen of the Fools” is a titanic ballad that first of all (once again) recalls the White Duke from his golden years. It was clear it would be a recycling operation, but Regnier moves with such boldness that he ends up convincing us.

It is the songs, after all, that convince. Take for example “Wedding Bells”: isn't it the simplest song in the world? Gentle tones, almost like a piano bar, exasperated romanticism à la Gainbourg (the only French reference, besides certain vintage-flavored solutions that closely recall compatriots Air, in an album that reeks of Anglo-Saxon from start to finish), an imaginative use of the bass (demonstrating how Our Man wanted to give depth to the most insignificant details) make it the umpteenth pleasant episode, as if Our Man tenaciously insisted on dodging any possible slagging off by anyone who crosses his path.

The delicate folk of “Lou”, the exquisitely melodic pop of “Silver” (again Muse, with whom Our Man shares a baroque and shamelessly sentimental approach to handling his emotional material – but without assuming hypocritical generational contours) and “Champagne” (again Beatles, and why not?, with that hint of Peter Gabriel that evokes the most saccharine Genesis): it remains the fact that, against our will, the disc flows beautifully with no significant weak points (except a bit of tiredness at the beginning of its second part): we wait at the corner, Regnier, ready at any angle to scold him with a “heard it before!”, but the truth is we just can't bring ourselves to categorically trash it.

We would like to do so with the affected sonorities opening “Carry On”, but here Our Man saves himself in a corner with a sublime, tragic, unbelievable chorus (Regnier evidently lacks a sense of moderation, but in his case, such a deficiency constitutes a strength), a chorus that immediately elevates the listening experience, preparing us for a remarkable album finale, thanks to a duo of songs that together constitute the emotional peak of the work: the desperate “Late Night Love” and especially the powerful “Full of Grace”, which inside deploys, in addition to a vocal performance as always over-the-top in every move, formidable guitar riffs that at this point we did not expect and which certainly constitute a pleasant surprise. And even in the terrible ghost-song, an acoustic ballad infested by baritone bawling ever and always over the top, we won't find enough arguments to definitively dismiss our hero, despite the tragedy often approaching dangerously close to farce.

Regnier is and plays it up, but it's hard to deny a reason for his work to exist: we will soon forget him, the new Napoleon of pop, but with the awareness that it will solely and exclusively be a matter of marketing.