Like her famous parents Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg, Charlotte moves between films and music with ease.
She is perhaps best-known for her starring role in Lars von Trier's 2009 horror film "Antichrist" - which surprisingly won at 2009 Cannes Film Festival - but it would be a pity if that notorious work overshadowed her other ventures.
"IRM" is a brooding work filled with cinematic strings and velvety textures, over which Charlotte whispers her songs with unrelenting seriousness.
Musically evocative, lyrically surprising, this collection of breathily intimate, seductively Francophile electro-folk-pop flirts with death, but shows no fear, radiating a confidence without trace of self-pity. It is certainly the actress's face and name on the cover, her quiet, intimate voice at the fore, and her near-death experience in 2007 (after a water-skiing accident) that supplies the narrative backdrop. And it was Gainsbourg's idea to make music that reflected her immersion in the hypnotically noisy womb of an MRI scanner (the title, IRM, being the French acronym for magnetic resonance imaging), a backwards reference to the scan that detected Gainsbourg's cerebral hemorrhage in 2007. "Take my eyes and / Paint my bones / Drill my brain / All full of holes / And patch it up before it leaks", she sings with breathy insouciance on the opening track, "Master's Hands" against a jittery rhythm.
But the songs were actually written and produced by Beck, one of the outstanding talents of contemporary pop, primarily because he really loves those old records Serge Gainsbourg put out. "Paper Tiger" on Sea Change was basically Beck's homage to Serge's "Histoire de Melody Nelson".
Much like her mother, Jane Birkin, Charlotte's musical identity is that of muse rather than creator, first with her father, Serge (on the incestuously prurient duet "Inceste de citron (Lemon Incest)", on "Charlotte Forever" in 1986), then with Air, Neil Hannon and Jarvis Cocker on the coffee-table indie chill of 2006's 5:55.
Beck is clearly enamoured of Gainsbourg, filling his arrangements with romantic elegance, wispy melodies, dreamy beats and erotic froideur, but the width of his sonic palette and weight of his subject matter creates something that constantly pushes at the edges. Gone are the ethereal overtones and lilting mews of "5:55", replaced by Mr. Hansen's penchant for urban blues, bulging with percussion and reverb.
Although conceived as a sister album to "5:55", "IRM" is much more than a mere sequel.
It is unafraid to rock ("Trick Pony", "Dandelion") or be resolutely commercial - the duet with Beck and lead single, the novellevague-sque "Heaven Can Wait", and "Time of the Assassins" are surprisingly perky pop tracks that reveal gorgeous melodies.
Beck successfully avoids creating a Serge Gainsbourg tribute record. It's only on "Le Chat du Café des Artists" - with its breathy, whispered vocals over its dark, densely orchestrated backdrop - that he can't resist stylistically referencing Charlotte's father's "Histoire de Melody Nelson" album.
Highlights of the album are the heavenly cuts "Me and Jane Doe", the bilingual "Voyage" and "La Collectionneuse", which find the French songstress carefully ladling her gentle purr over each polished arrangement.
All in all, this is a Adult/Pop at its best and certainly Charlotte's most accomplished work.

Irm

After almost a decade of absence - 25 years into her career - the elegant soul /jazz siren is back with "Soldier Of Love".
The new album sees Sade reunited with the same musicians (Stuart Matthewman, Paul Denman and Andrew Hale) who performed on her 1984 debut "Diamond Life (W/Orig Art)", which became the classic yuppie dinner party soundtrack. It catapulted her to the forefront of the 1980s soul jazz scene and spawned the singles "Smooth Operator" and "Your Love is King".
But despite the success of "Diamond Life" and her follow-up albums - selling a total of 50m records worldwide - Sade has shunned the limelight and has lived in "self-exile", including stints in Spain and Jamaica.
Now 50, she remains one of the most iconic female vocalists alive - partly because of the stylish image she fostered in the fashion-conscious Eighties.
The title song is the least Sade-like track here - with its metallic, shiny, marching band-style drum beats not far from trip hop/Tricky territory, it's the toughest-sounding thing she's ever done, though the lyric posits the idea of the relationship as battleground.
The track is a bit of a revelation - a rich, atmospheric pop symphony with, as the title suggests, a military theme. What's impressive is how fully-realised that theme is, from the marching band percussion to the cadence call-style hooks, the guitar riffs that ape the sound of gunfire to Sade crooning lines like "I've lost the use of my heart".
The remaining nine tracks can't quite match it for shock value.
They glide by elegantly, registering subtle variations.
My highligts: "Baby Father", a gentle reggae-tinged confection apparently extolling the constancy of paternal love. It's in marked contrast to the wounded bittersweetness and the overall melancholy of the remainder of the tracklist: the feel-good beat will have you shaking your booty.
It all gets a little too cosy on "In Another Time", a waltz-time slog where a saxophone and string quartet provide an orchestral extravaganza. Pure magic.
"Be That Easy": Sade's soaring hypnotic voice leaves listeners in a zombie-like trance.
As usual, the album is immaculately produced, and Sade oozes class and sophistication, although seemingly offering variations on a single theme. Recorded at Peter Gabriel's Real World studio, this album illustrates the dilemma of the long-term artist: whether to alienate fans with a radical departure or risk the charge of repetition.
All in all, it's a pleasant and sonic balm, which will make her fans immensely happy, even if there's nothing quite unexpected, idiosyncratic, adventurous, rare, powerful and intelligently written as the title track would imply and suggest.
Enjoy!

The album debuts at # 1 of the Billboard Top 200 Albums and at # 1 of the Billboard R&B/Hip-Hop Albums and at # 1 of the Billboard Top Canadian Albums.
Issue date: February 27, 2010

It's almost three years since Norah Jones released her third album, "Not Too Late".
In that time she has parted company with Lee Alexander, her boyfriend of several years, and turned 30.
These are seismic events in any woman's life, and typically they have sent Jones into a frenzy of re-evaluation.
"The Fall" finds her exploring alternative-rock territory, nimbly guided by producer Jacquire King (whose discography features Kings of Leon, Tom Waits and Modest Mouse)to create a record big on atmospherics and easy on the slick, smooth arrangements.
Cue lyrics about potheads and touching oneself, backed with cranky keyboards and haunted guitar lines, some courtesy of Jones herself, the more atmospheric provided by Marc Ribot.
With 'The Fall", Norah Jones has made her best album to date.
After her laid-back, multi-million selling jazz stylings had the critics sneering "S'Norah" Jones, this should serve as a rude wake-up call.
The opener and lead single "Chasing Pirates" is a misdirection, its springy Wurlitzer rhythm both playful and mischievous, betraying little of what is to follow, like the hypnotic "Even Though" hooked to a strangled reggae bass line and lovely muffled percussion.
It is all about the space between notes and guitarist Marc Ribot. His inventive playing infuses every tune, be it the deep chug powering Norah' pining siren on "Waiting", or playing off the marrow-chilling string reverberating in "Light As A Feather".
The voodoo groove of "It's Gonna Be" has more sonic riches to spare, fired up by an earthy electronic piano, guitars growling somewhere off stage left.
When "Tell Yer Mama" begins, carnival bass cutting across swampy drums, you half expect Waits himself to come stomping in.
The blunt piano accompanying "Man of the Hour", meanwhile, is deliciously askew.
Against such backdrops, Norah Jones's cashmere voice sounds more polite than ever.
A totally new concept, an amazingly new sound: this is another winner!

Why is it so easy to sound cool and seductive when singing in French? The language seems to demand a dulcet, husky singing voice that implies the song was composed, practiced and recorded in a bed.

Packed with some of the best, chilled French café songs of the moment, Paris is this summer's essential for barbeques, soirées, dinner parties or possibly just for those hot nights in.

From Coralie Clément singing seductively about the "Samba de Mon Coeur Qui Bat" to the equally seductive Carla Bruni's "Quelqu'un M'a Dit", Keren Ann's "Jardin d'Hiver" -- which she whispers rather than sings -- and Karpatt's caressed and tapped acoustic guitar, this is a compilation of class and smooth charm.

While Paris recalls the heyday of French chanson it is a thoroughly modern mix from the nouvelle scène. It's entirely easy listening -- nothing from the outer reaches of French culture here.

Part of the proceeds from each CD sold goes to Terre des Hommes, who support disadvantaged children around the world, so you can feel good about your purchase while humming along to the catchy tunes.

"Back to Black" is that rare thing: an album you can listen to from beginning to end, in order, over and over again - and find a new favourite every time.

Strutting, defiant she pokes the finger at past lovers demanding, sweetly, "What kind of f**kery is this?" (" Me & Mr Jones" ) and keeps us waiting four songs before the title track peaks - or plunges - into the crux of her theme. It begins with a pacing, pulsing piano chord before sinking into depression. "I died a hundred times...You go back to her, and I go back to...I go back to..."

Reluctant to accept defeat, resolution is deferred as the "I go back to..." refrain gathers strength until, beaten down to a whisper by the piano, she puts us out of our misery.

Back to...black. Yet, just when she seems ready to pack up her guitar and reach for the nearest bottle, drums kick in with the wistful, resigned "Love is A Losing Game", Winehouse's reworking of the archetypal 'getting over him' song. Piling metaphor on top of metaphor; she is relentlessly philosophical. Love is a losing hand, she declares; love is a fate resigned. Love - love is a losing game.

One criticism of the album is that it's too short. After packing 11 songs into just over 34 minutes of alcoholic, iconic crooning she bows out, presumably to go and "smoke [her] home grown".

The end result is a taut show reel that leaves us salivating, willing us to press play again - and move from the playfully titled last track 'Addicted' back into 'Rehab'. It's circular, compulsive. Were it not for the amount of bleeps needed - and the difficult of getting a song whose main refrain is "you smoke all my weed man" past the censors - each would be worthy of radio play, especially the motowny, doo woppish, "Me & Mr Jones".

Yet it's a little too introspective for the airwaves. Even the cover is dark. Where first album "Frank" pictured a grinning, pink clad Amy dragging a dog on a lead, this one shows her languid on a chair in an empty classroom, peering moodily out from between gothic fronds.

Well, it is called "Back to Black". Noticeably thinner (her shrinking frame has elicited mutterings of 'anorexia' from interviewers) and more angst-stricken, undercutting the powerful, almost masculine voice is a dissonant note of fragility - despite the bold reassurance of lines like "I'll battle till this bitter finale/Just me, my dignity and this guitar case." ("Some Unholy War").

Unlike "Frank", a bright-eyed newcomer surveying the musical landscape, Back to Black is a leap into the abyss of self-exploration. In contrast to her 2003 debut, there are no jazz standards covered and her writing credits appear on every track, oozing intimacy.

It works: we're poised on the edge of her cliffhanger. Let's just hope she doesn't fall off.

Madeleine Peyroux comes across as an artist older than her years.

Even though she is only in her early 30's, her music and voice sound like they belong to the previous generation.

The fact that Peyroux's voice absolutely reeked of her Billie Holiday influences somewhat tarnished that breakthrough album "Careless Love".

For her new album, "Half The Perfect World", she showcases the emotional core of songs by other singers and songwriters she's admired, and also displays her talents as a writer on four songs she co-wrote, keeping a distinctly romantic edge.

The CD is slightly less heavy on the Holiday-isms but more intriguing in the song selection.

For Peyroux tackles the love songs she loves, treating them to timelessly jazzy readings.

Given the makeover are Johnny Mercer's "The Summer Wind", Leonard Cohen's "Blue Alert", Joni Mitchell's "River", Fred Neil's "Everybody's Talkin'", Tom Waits's "(Looking For) The Heart Of Saturday Night", Serge Gainsburg's "La Javanaise" and Charlie Chaplin's "Smile".

The album conjures in the mind imagery of smoky bars, music lifted from the screen of an American feelgood movie. Drums are always light brushes, barely touching the skins, guitars light and fruity, clearly a double bass rather than an electric.

No cutting edges are approached, no taboos challenged, but it is a pleasant amble through familiar territory.

Her mother Jane Birkin added her breathy, orgasmic tones to her father Serge Gainsbourg's "Je T'Aime... Moi Non Plus".

And the family resemblances are unavoidable in Charlotte's album, that voice hesitant, barely a whisper at times, but shimmering with sexiness.

What saves this album from being a lot of Gallic mumblings bound up in its own self-importance is the heavweight help the family name commanded.

Jarvis Cocker and Neil Hannon are involved in the writing, those Parisian maestros of wafting electronica "Air" are on board, as is "Radiohead" producer Nigel Godrich and Nigerian percussionist Tony Allen, lauded by Brian Eno as "the greatest musician on the planet".

We get the mildly erotic, such as the teasing "Beauty Mark", and we get something like beat poetry in "AF607105", with its stark lines about air travel.

There's also big helpings of the kind of wistful balladeering only the French can muster.

This is the second album for the eclectic, multi-lingual New York band that, despite its name, is largely male and definitely not from Brazil.

The Brazilian Girls return with another mix of upbeat electronica, organic rock, jazz and world music. This is nonstop erotic dance music for jet setters, with the proudly Euro-trash Sabina Sciubba riding the grooves like an old, charismatic pro.

What separates these non-Brazilians from the pack is that they are old school musicians with real ability and they've gelled together as an unbreakably tight unit.

Sabina has a voice clarified and honed by years of singing jazz that enchants the listener without overwhelming bandmates Didi Gutman, Aaron Johnston, and Jesse Murphy. The band's melodic and rhythmic synergy makes their music at once danceable and memorable, and worked to great effect on their eponymous debut. Melody dominated "Brazilian Girls", but their live performances and their remix of Blossom Dearie's "Just One of Those Things" on the third Verve Remixed compilation showcased an underlying yet relentlessly driving beat.

"Talk to La Bomb" is more effective than "Brazilian Girls" was at bringing this melodic but powerful energy to a studio album, perhaps because the new album's mood is darker and sharper.

Languages roll off Sabina's tongue with the same sexy insouciance that genres spring from her bandmates' fingers.

On "Jique," she mashes up Spanish, French, German, and oh yeah, English.

This New York-based band of vagabonds makes multicultural, cosmopolitan, intellectual dance music: Ibiza meets punk, dub goes tango, trance gets smart. And with her tongue-in-chic costumes and cool delivery, Sciubba could be the 21st century's first superstar-style siren.