Every year, as winter festivities approach, an air of excitement comes around that fills most with joy. For others, however, the holiday season brings a sense of unease. Each year, I dread the onset of my mortal enemy: Spotify Wrapped. Spotify’s yearly retrospective may provide insight for some, bringing to light that obscure phase you went through in the beginning of June where you only listened to Carrie Underwood or mixing that niche Phoebe Bridgers song you played on repeat during exam season back into your daily rotation. But for me it is a reminder of my shameful addiction—my obsession with old-school French songs.
For as long as I can remember, summers boiled down to the same few elements—my grandparents, the sun, and the special television programs I could finally watch. The latter evolved from the Gulli and Teletoon+ cartoons that we did not have access to toward prime-time poor-quality TV shows that are only aired on French networks. However, one program remained constant: N’oubliez pas les paroles, the French version of the American game show Don’t Forget The Lyrics. The show’s target audience must have been at least 50 years old, given that the song selection focused almost exclusively on the 1980s and 1990s. With my lack of exposure to contemporary music, this show became the reference on which to build my musical repertoire.
My musical baggage still grew from my mother’s collection of Téléphone and Dalida CDs—or her favourite—Patrick Bruel, with songs from Les Dix Commandements, Mylène Farmer, or Indochine. While newer artists continued to emerge and songs continued to be released, I remained a step behind, catching up on decades of classic songs in hopes of one day being in tune with my contemporaries.
Maybe it’s the living abroad thing that makes every reminder of home that much sweeter, or maybe it was growing up with limited access to French TV—and the subsequent way that I was relying on the much more accessible music to connect with my friends back home that skewed my listening choices. Having limited access to French-speaking TV and music stations as a kid, I mostly relied on CDs and DVDs to fuel my desire for leisure. My routine included leaving for school when William Leymergie’s Télématin started and sprinting home to watch Mozart l’opéra rock for yet another time or Belles Belles Belles, a musical revisiting Claude François’s repertoire. When I passed my driving test this past winter, the first song I listened to on the way home with my grandmother was from a compilation of his greatest hits: Magnolia Forever.
Maybe these patriotic listening habits are the reason why I feel a bit sad for the American public, who see every song become a world phenomenon. While songs like “Don’t Stop Believin” may feel uniquely American, they often reach multiple platinum certifications in countries worldwide. There is something to be said about American cultural hegemony and how it may come at the price of national cohesion. This is not to say that indie music doesn’t exist in the U.S. But even thousands of kilometers away from home, anytime the first few notes of “Les Démons de Minuit” or “Le Chasseur” ring, I know that my fellow countrymen will back me up on this national monument of a song.
This is not to say that I don’t listen to anything else—I have been working on expanding my listening habits since coming to Montreal. I have been rediscovering music I remember marking my childhood. This past year, Pitbull, The Strokes, and Megan Thee Stallion took their place in my Wrapped alongside Nekfeu and Luidji. Am I the most unique and thought-provoking music listener? No, but nor do I claim to be. As the end of the semester and finals are just around the corner, you can find me walking around with a determination only “Hotel Room Service” can bring to a person.
