From the first notes of her sophomore album La Mer, it’s clear that singer-songwriter Claude Fontaine is a chanteuse, and it’s not a role she takes lightly. On La Mer, just as on her self-titled debut, Fontaine plays it straight: her voice wafts, barely weightier than a whisper, over a dreamscape of wistful lyrics and tropical grooves. Backing the young songstress is a crew of tried-and-true experts that includes award-winning pop producer Lester Mendez; rocksteady legend Tony Chin and Sergio Mendes tourmate Kleber Jorge on guitars; Steel Pulse co-founder Ronnie McQueen and established jazzman Andre de Santanna on bass; a couple of additional Sergio Mendes collaborators, Gibi Dos Santos and Léo Costa, alongside Ziggy Marley drummer Rock Deadrick on percussion; and jazz pianist Michael Hyde. Filling out the ensemble are horns by Matthew DeMerritt, Justin Kirk, Christ Bautista, Erm Navarro, and Amy Sanchez, each crucial in livening up an otherwise gentle mix. It’s a charmed assemblage.
The sounds that emerge are familiar ones as the group’s combined decades of experience make for top-tier bossa nova and lovers of rock instrumentals. Upon these evocative foundations, Fontaine spins romance after romance, weaving breathy vocables in between multilingual sentiments that swing between poetic (“One day you will hear the sirens singing / Until then, I’ll watch you on the horizon,” sings Fontaine on “Concha Del Mar”) and more straightforward (“Whenever you’re near / I haven’t a fear” on “Kissing the Sun”). It’s nostalgia that sometimes comes perilously close to trite exotica. Still, Claude Fontaine and her backing band have enough commitment and credibility to make it feel as grounded as it needs to be–not that an album like this can ever do away with kitsch entirely. (Perhaps it doesn’t need to.)
La Mer is split about evenly between bossa and reggae, the channels for Fontaine’s faux-naïf voice alternating between cool clarity and dubby haze. A few standout moments give the atmosphere a little more dimension. Berimbau and cuica offer some texture on “Green Ivy Tapestry”. Fontaine revels in the sensuous French language verses of “Laissez Moi L’aimer”. A masculine voice doubles up with Fontaine’s for the choruses of swinging “Concha Do Mar”, and a jazzy sax solo gives “Camaçari” a little more sizzle, and the nightbird calls that open and close the final track “Chuva de Verão” make for a sensuous end to the record. They’re subtle variations on the overall musical themes of La Mer, but they make all the difference in keeping the album interesting.
Claude Fontaine walks so adamantly in the twee footsteps of 1960s yé-yé stars that it’s hard to question her sincerity. It helps that she has such a strong team of musicians who are helping bring her lyrics to life. Her music won’t be for everyone–sleepy, gauzy vocals and decidedly rose-colored vintage vibes make for a particular aesthetic, and it’s the bedrock of Fontaine’s career to date–but she knows what she wants to do, and she does it with the best. La Mer is a delicate record with a steady point-of-view, and Claude Fontaine effortlessly floats across it.