‘French Summer’, the newest offering from The Mortal Prophets- helmed by the ever-visionary John Beckmann- is an opulent hallucination wrapped in satin and cigarette smoke. It has the feel of a soundtrack to a European art film flickering just out of reach.
Created in collaboration with the enigmatic Anais de Nerval, whose spectral vocals seem almost summoned, ‘French Summer’ is the rare project that feels untethered. You don’t listen to these 18 tracks so much as drift through them, like watching your reflection in a passing train window. The result is a heady, disorienting mix of lounge noir, vintage electronics, and poetic detachment- a swirling homage to glamour, ghosts, and that peculiar ache of memory.
From the moment the prelude ‘Romp in D Minor’ unfurls like a curtain at a Parisian cinema, it’s clear Beckmann has composed more than just a set of songs. This is a dream sequence with a pulse. Tracks like ‘Monaco Rendez-Vous’ and ‘Sun Seekers’ shimmer with retro-futurist textures, conjuring vintage Riviera decadence laced with digital unease. Elsewhere, ‘Lost Halo’ and ‘Tout Moi’ lean into shadow and seduction, wrapped in breathy murmurs and waves of synth that blur the line between sensuality and surrender.
The instrumentation- crafted with help from guitarist and violinist Parker Bryant and keyboardist Richmond Davis- plays like a smoky séance with the ghosts of French cinema and Berlin clubs. The arrangements pulse with restraint, favouring atmosphere over bombast. But within that restraint lies a wild sense of abandon: ‘Boss A Nova’ teeters into satire, ‘Mushrooms’ slips into woozy surrealism, and ‘Hand in My Pants’ winks with cheeky provocation.
Anais de Nerval is the album’s secret weapon, a chanteuse of shadows who doesn’t merely sing but inhabits the mood. Her voice isn’t there to guide you- it’s there to seduce, to haunt, to remind you of something you can’t quite name. As Beckmann himself puts it, “Imagine driving from Nice to Monaco… stunned by the sea-swept vistas.” That’s precisely how ‘French Summer’ hits: as glamorous as a convertible ride at dusk, as disorienting as perfume in the heat.
While there’s humour and hedonism throughout- the titles alone (‘Saint Tropez Tan’, ‘It’s Dope’, ‘Bed, Bad, and Beyond’) suggest a self-aware wink- there’s also a deeper undercurrent. In its most vulnerable moments, ‘French Summer’ wrestles with distance: from people, from places, from former selves. There’s melancholy between the beats, like footprints on a marble floor fading into night.
What’s certain about this album is that it’s Beckmann at his most realised: a hypnotic blend of style and soul, mystery and movement. In an era of endless singles and fleeting trends, ‘French Summer’ dares to be immersive, theatrical, and beautifully strange.
Stay tuned, stay strange indeed. This is a summer romance worth getting lost in.