Mortal Prophets – the ever-morphing creation of NYC’s John Beckmann – make us wowed time without number. “French Summer” is an 18-track, velvet- smooth, slightly unhinged joyride down the French Riviera. Top down, rules shattered on the Autoroute. Buckle up, buttercup. This is the real deal.
Beckmann, the mad scientist behind this operation, has never played by the rules. Dude kicks ’em over and builds something gloriously strange from the rubble. “French Summer” is his most cohesive, seductive, and flat-out engaging blast yet. Forget those tired old labels – this beast mashes smoky lounge noir, hypnotic Euro-disco beats, avant-garde weirdness, and a hefty dose of cinematic flair into something purely Prophets. Yeah, that vibe.
The album starts off with “Romp in D Minor – Intro”, unfurling like the opening credits of some forgotten arthouse masterpiece – all analog synth fog and faded glory. It’s the perfect setup. Then “Monaco Rendez-Vous” slams the accelerator. This is where shit gets real. You can almost see Audrey Hepburn, hair whipping in the wind, tearing ass through those winding Riviera roads in some sweet vintage ride. The beat’s relentless, slick as hell, and packed with layers that feel cozy and weird all at once.
But hold up, Beckmann’s not going it alone. Enter the album’s ace in the hole, its beating heart: Anais de Nerval. And yeah, that lineage is legit – a direct descendant of the Symbolist poet Gérard de Nerval. Her voice is an instrument of spectral seduction. On “Sun Seekers”, she doesn’t so much sing as materialize. Distant, husky, delivered in sultry French, it’s a voice you feel you remember rather than hear – a ghost whispering from sun-bleached Polaroids. On “It’s Dope”, she steps into the spotlight. Crystal clear delivery, but still wrapped up in Beckmann’s lush, movie-soundtrack production. She’s not just there for show – she’s the key that unlocks all the weird, trippy magic this album’s got going on. When she shows up, tracks go from cool background noise to huge journeys.
The band deserves its props too. This isn’t only Beckmann’s playground. Parker Bryant’s bringing the heat with those guitars and violins. We’re talking sounds that’ll sting ya like that first drag of a cig in some dive bar, or lift you up like you’re riding the ocean breeze. Check the exotic percussion textures on “Swept Away” or the causal tension he creates. Richmond Davis is holding it down on keys and organ, laying down that vintage warmth and those pulsing beats. And those synth lines are pure magic.
And what about the tunes? Forget filler. “Bling” struts in all brass and sass, with bass that’ll rattle your bones and jazz licks that’ll make you snap your fingers. “Lost Halo” submerges you fully – like diving into the deep end. Just like some underground art gallery where the DJ’s spitting Baudelaire between beats. The synths pulse like your heart’s about to burst. It’s pure electric night, baby. Then there’s “Bed, Bad, and Beyond” – probably the hardest rocker on the album. It’s got that old-school arcade feel, driven by this shimmering arpeggiator and looped vocals that’ll get stuck in your head for days. Forget Moby’s polite electronica; this is Beckmann’s dirtier, more dangerous, rock-inflected take. It moves.
“Monstre Doux” is something else. It’s like this creepy-beautiful dance between darkness and light. You know when you stumble into an old movie theater and catch a glimpse of some weird, forbidden flick on a dusty projector? That’s the vibe. “Mushrooms” lives up to its name, setting the mood before tracks like “Sommeil”. And just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, “Hand In My Pants” comes along with a cheeky little wink. The whole thing wraps up with “Cinematic Romp – Outro”. It’s a sinister, playful farewell – the album vanishing with a smirk and a puff of smoke.
So, what’s “French Summer” about? Beckmann nails it: “Imagine driving from Nice up the winding roads to Monaco—passing through perfumed air, stunned by the sea-swept vistas—doing 80 miles an hour in a luxurious convertible.” That’s the essence. It’s like memories drenched in sweat and fancy perfume. It’s the rush of going too fast and the ache of moments you can’t get back. It’s that dizzy feeling when you catch a whiff of some exotic scent on a hot day. There’s hedonism (tracks like “Saint Tropez Tan” and “It’s Dope” aren’t shy about it), humor in the titles, but also a deep undercurrent of sadness, wrestling with distance – from lovers, places, past selves. You feel it in the spaces between the beats.
“French Summer” is John Beckmann at his most visionary and assured, backed by the brilliance of Anais de Nerval and the sharp, textured playing of Parker Bryant and Richmond Davis. It rewards repeated, loud listens. It’s theatrical, beautifully strange, and unapologetically ambitious. It’s not just an album; it’s a world. A velvet fever dream of a world you raise to eleven, soak in, and emerge from slightly changed.
So, ditch the algorithm. Grab a drink. Dim the lights. Crank this beast. Let the Mortal Prophets take you on their French Summer. It’s the most exhilarating, intoxicating, and flat-out cool rock ‘n’ roll trip you’ll take this year. Just don’t expect to come back entirely sane. Stay tuned. Stay strange. And for fuck’s sake, listen.