The Solaar Reissues, Volume 3: Paradisiaque
A rediscovery after twenty-five years of semi-oblivion confirms that MC Solaar's third and fourth albums, once frowned upon, did in fact solidify his legacy.
MC Solaar was once asked, in a since-forgotten interview, what his favorite word was in the French language. He replied presqu’île (peninsula), a noun he had used for rapping purpose at least one time, in “Séquelles”, to describe an unnamed muse who left him confused and heartbroken (again). By 1997, this same word would have been a fitting description of MC Solaar’s odd status within the French rap scene. In an ever-evolving genre going through tectonic shifts as its popularity rose, the groundbreaking artist seemed increasingly isolated and remote from the continent. Unbothered, maybe. Presque une presqu’île.
French rap had undergone more transformations since his last album, 1994’s Prose Combat. In Paris, the Time Bomb collective was shaking up rhyme patterns and narrative conventions. Even the compromise-averse Suprême NTM had a radio hit, and on Skyrock, the FM station shrewdly converted to rap, a horny newcomer named Doc Gynéco was giving away his number to all French girls. Paradisiaque, Solaar’s third album, dropped in June 1997, three months after IAM’s L’École du micro d’argent. In contrast to IAM’s magnum opus, the response to Solaar’s latest was lackluster. It seemed the local hip-hop microcosm was blaming him for too much comfort, guilty as he was to dare staying the same within the effervescence of the moment. By the era’s standards, Paradisiaque was still a success, selling north of 300 000 copies. “Les temps changent”, a beloved single dripped in nostalgia, confirmed that MC Solaar could hardly do no wrong when he talked about the good old days. One year later, he came back with another, more subdued album, the untitled MC Solaar, with eleven new tracks and a cover art worth a thousand words: as the relationship between the artist and his record label grew sour, the artwork featured the image of a solar eclipse. This one came and went.
After the departure of DJ and producer Jimmy Jay during the Prose Combat tour, the center of gravity of the Solaar sound had titled. Both Paradisiaque and MC Solaar would be chiefly produced by the ever-loyal Boom Bass and Zdar, now promoted to a central role. Their approach felt brighter and carefree, with nods to the Los Angeles G-Funk (“Tournicoti”) and the gleaming jiggy sound broadcasted out of New York (“Les boys bandent”). In 1996, the duo had released their first house single under the name Cassius. Like most of their French Touch counterparts, Boom Bass and Zdar were scholars of American Black music. Paradisiaque reflected their references across eras of soul and R&B, with occasional calls and responses between song and sampling material: in “Illico Presto”, a tale of lost teenage romance, the instrumental quoted “Come Go with Me”, an R&B classic by master of seduction Teddy Pendergrass.
By 1997, integrity in hip-hop was tied to an imperative of raw realism, and Solaar’s self-proclaimed “bucolic accents” could feel out of sync with the dominant ethos. Yet the rapper hadn’t lost touch with reality, he just took the side road to find the best vantage point. In “Paradisiaque”, his apparent lightness was a set-up for a sobering commentary on precarity in France’s housing projects. While lead single “Gangster moderne” may have felt like a “Nouveau western” spin-off—swapping cowboy wannabes with crime wannabes—it turned out to be a mournful take on political corruption. Yet of course, Solaar would keep winking at pop culture oddities. In “Wonderbra”, a barrage of playful alliterations, he radiocarbon dated the era with surgical precision (TV host Tina Kieffer and disgraced scientist Jacques Crozemarie, random artefacts of media culture in France, both got name-checked within the same verse). These quirks highlighted, once again, Solaar’s passion for channel surfing and a joy for craft that never really left him.
Yet he was becoming—always had been?—a resolute hip-hop introvert. The two albums totaled 28 songs, but few guests were present, except for his good friend Bambi Cruz and singer K-Reen, a foundational voice of French R&B whose match with Solaar felt made in heaven. In songs like “Vigipirap” ou “Onzième commandement”, MC Solaar seemed fascinated with the persona of the anti-hero on the run or the undercover spy. There was a new strain of esotericism in his words, as he played hide and seek somewhere over the proverbial rainbow, a “102th dalmatian” caught in the fifth season. Even his love reveries were painted in camouflage patterns (“Le Onzième choc”). In a genre where alliances and cosigns were precious currencies, Solaar made it seem like he was disappearing in the crowd.
Finally reunited in the double album they were admittedly always meant to be, Paradisiaque and MC Solaar provide a useful read of the frictions at the core of late-century hip-hop. Two ideologies came squaring off: there was a warm and friendly rap, the one heard in “Galaktika”, and there was a sparse, no-hook, straight-to-the-point rap. These harder edges, more obvious in the MC Solaar album, were represented by the productions of New York boom-bap legend Evil Dee, and a way too brief collaboration with late French prodigy DJ Mehdi, who delivered three beats for Solaar. Up until these reissues, both albums belonged in a blind spot of the French rap mythology, a hazy memory of semi-popular records that would rarely be mentioned along stone-cold classics. The brief disenchantment from their past preserved them in the long run. In hindsight, MC Solaar’s brilliance and consistency shine through both albums, and resolve at least some parts of his mystery: his enigmatic discretion of that era was not an estrangement nor an exile. It was the echo left by his freedom.
More on the MC Solaar reissues: catch up with Volume 1 (Qui sème le vent récolte le tempo) and Volume 2 (Prose Combat).