Pop acceleration with no brakes
Early in 2009, when 1901 showed up, it felt as though someone had captured the sense of a rooftop summer and sent it revolving via a synthesizer. The song showed up as the first single off Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, an album that would present the Versailles-born group to a worldwide audience they had long been touring. One hundred and ninety-one didn’t need attention; it was constructed on chopped-up guitars, syncopated synth stabs, and Thomas Mars’s featherweight vocals. It just took flight.
Phoenix had always worked on the fringes of French music. Not precisely electro, not exactly indie, not easily boxed. Originating in the Parisian suburbs in the late 1990s, the band rose with pals like Daft Punk and Air but went down a different road. Pop structure was loved yet twisted. Although they employed old equipment, they hunted modern melodies. 1901, written by all four members, was a great illustration of their onstage chemistry: cheeky, melodic, subdued, and precisely orchestrated.
The production has an intimacy never compromising energy. Deck d’Arcy’s bassline delicately pushes the song forward as Laurent Brancowitz’s guitars cut with rhythmic accuracy. Recorded in a little home setup, Mars’ voice travels over the top like a discussion you might overhear via a open window. The words offer no evident narrative. They hint, propose, wander. And strangely, that fragmentation lends to the song’s beauty. It is passionate but never overly explained.
Paris in 1901 was better than it is now. So the song is a fantasy about Paris.
(Thomas Mars, 2009)
The way 1901 spread rather than just the sound gave it its permanent form. Blogs found it. Advertisements found it useful. American radio picked it up very surprisingly. Phoenix, long admired by critics and fashion circles, suddenly found themselves on main stages and late-night shows. The band did not pursue trends. They just kept their own shape consistent as the planet went into orbit.
Hearing 1901 right now still feels new. It all stays together: the manner the chorus folds into the verses, the chopped falsetto, the muted happiness throbbing under the mix. It’s a song constructed from subtle touches and deft layering. And like the best kind of pop, it opens room for the listener. You get into its rhythm instead of getting dragged off. There is no big statement here, only clear and skillful craftsmanship. That’s the genius of it.
