We saw Renaud in concert in Montpellier: he didn't find his voice, but he certainly got the hair of the beast

“Photos interdites”, clamait un message avant le début du concert. Renaud, en personne, a démenti : en famille, les photos, ça se fait ! – JBE

Renaud was in concert this Saturday, February 24 at the Berlioz opera, in Montpellier. Despite a singing which remains problematic, not to say absent, the singer showed himself to be in good form, sympathetic and mischievous in his interventions, and supported, moreover, admirably by his musicians. .. and his fans, always so numerous and happy.  

So Renaud's singing would still be a subject ? Since last year when he went on tour again, there is not one of his concerts that is not accompanied by the cannon of the rageurs , who scream at the auditory scandal, who deplore the exploitation of the monument in danger, who mock the boobos scam, who shoot in the pile, like that for free for pleasure, they have to let off steam a little bit… Still, he's nice, Renaud: he didn't force any of these singers, none of these trumpets of his fame, to come see him on stage! His fans know.

They are aware that his song, already fragile at the base, crossed the highway of existence without hesitation and that he was rolled over by loads full of cigarettes, tanks of aniseed antifreeze and fucking trucks of sorrows. By bending the ears, we can distinguish the animal, in the ragged and sluggish remains, a little, but hey, the matter is, if we dare say, understood. His fans are amazed, they didn't come to hear him, but to listen to him and above all to see him!

Sumptuous string arrangements

Saturday evening, the Berlioz opera, at the Corum, was as full as a house on a final night and the atmosphere was barely less cheerful. At the kick-off, it's already the panard in the bays, the enamel bandana of smiles being immediately added to the other, the textile, obviously red. Renaud, for his part, strapped his belly into a sailor's shirt, put on a jacket and put on his white rocker boots. Class. With his mouthpieces spread, Lucky Luke style, he picks up the pieces without flinching, or very little, when he isn't propping his belly up on a stool. The show is elsewhere: two magnificent female string quartets support him in the courtyard and garden, while two very good guys push him in the back with their piano and accordion.

The repertoire demonstrates a beautiful generosity but also a demand for beauty, mixing obligatory hits (which the audience is obligingly invited to sing: Manathan-Kaboul, Manu, Morgane de you, Mistral winner, As soon as the wind blows, this genre) and songs that are a little rarer and systematically poignant (Angling, The Five Senses, As Long as There Will Be Shadows…). The arrangements are sumptuous, which do not drown the melodies in the maple syrup of pompous violins but always seek to enhance their natural beauty.

Lost Heart, which he dedicates to Cerise, his lover with whom fans had their photos taken before and after the concert, is stunningly beautiful. rsquo;where are we going or Dead children are the same. And even if we wake up the haters by saying this, honesty obliges us to point out that his singing improved a little bit as the evening progressed. But once again, we weren't there for that but to see Renaud, the kid, the brother, the friend well accompanied and in good company. And together keep warm.