Vincent Delerm, 25 years old in 2002, imposes a singular style from his first album. And a character close at hand, like an ex-college friend around his thirties, cultured and funny. Dreamer or mytho, he would like to believe that he has a romantic relationship with Fanny Ardant whose portrait sits on his library. A Shakespearean monologue bores him, he flirts with a reader of Bukowski, resurrects Deauville from the time when Anouk Aimée threw herself into the arms of Jean-Louis Trintignant. Good ! But, in 2002, Vincent Delerm did not only have admirers. His name dropping passes for an ease of writing and places him socially on the left bank of the Seine, on the side of the scholars. And then, he’s an anti-singer, no big orchestra to surround him and support him, quite the opposite of what the 1990s, Quebec and musicals offer on the radios. Wouldn’t he rather find his place in bookstores, like Philippe Delerm, his father? The sequel proves not: his first album
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