Serge Gainsbourg
Histoire de Melody Nelson

THE REVIEW

I must preface that my reviewing skills are far too inadequate for such a masterpiece. I think whatever I write won't do it justice; here we would need Gide or Apollinaire. I'll give it a try, though I'm not sure I'll convey the idea; however, an album like this can't be missing from Debaser. Dear Muse, assist me in this endeavor.

The sides of the Rolls dash boldly, she and I venture into a dangerous area. I, Prince of Darkness, Accursed Archangel. She, the silver Venus of the radiator, nicknamed by the sculptor, an Englishman, "Spirit of Ecstasy." I venture fearlessly into cul-de-sacs forbidden by law, keeping her at the grip of her twenty-six horsepower. Then suddenly, my foot slips on the clutch; I know I've always been a modest driver besides being the Prince of Darkness. Like the fool I am, I take a dry turn, braking abruptly in a whirling spin. A solitary bicycle wheel twirling extracts me from my delirious soliloquies of omnipotence. I just barely avoided hitting a red-haired angel lying frightened before me. "What's your name? Melody. Melody what? Melody Nelson." You must know that my dear innocent creature, barely 15 years old, had never embraced a man. Of Irish descent, a little sweet perverse girl. Truly adorable. I take her with me to a hotel where I’m a regular guest. To enter, you must knock once and then three more times; stairs and columns succeed inside, decorated with gilded baroque stucco, Aphrodites and Salomé. If it's available, I recommend room 44, the one called Cleopatra's room, with the bed's ebony columns in rococo style, attended by black slaves bearing gifts. Among these silent witnesses, I embrace Melody. But as in every respectable story, there is no happy ending. Melody has a great longing for the Irish sun, so she takes one of those damned low-cost Ryanair flights that are so fashionable now.
My mind goes to an ancient spell I learned from certain New Guinea natives: the "Cargo Culte." I invoke the spell to bring my little friend's flight down right before me. But the Mephistophelean magic blows up the plane. I remain here, face to face with the demon of solitude of a man no longer young but not yet old, "I have nothing to lose and no God to believe in." In my mind, only one scene echoes: "What's your name? Melody. Melody what? Melody Nelson."

The arrangements with rock nuances adorned with funk by Jean Claude Vannier will strike you for their spartan beauty; just a guitar, a bass, and a drum with some strings occasionally. By the way, I believe one of the bass lines was sampled and reused by Massive Attack in "Karma Coma." Considering the album is from 1971, one realizes that its sound is extremely modern.

On the cover is the divine Jane Birkin, who of course plays the role of Melody (remember her? Incidentally, she had appeared not long before in Michelangelo Antonioni's film "Blow-Up").
Gainsbourg never made any secret of it: "Melody is Jane; without her, the album wouldn't exist."