If that name sounds like déjà vu, it’s not worth relying on. Michel is as unique as his name sounds familiar. Just like real spies, his music comes from the cold: a block of deep house from Eastern Europe pierced by French rap, in which he has chosen to place his faith. A style below zero that already sets him up as the future of electro, in the land of antiheroes.
Raised near Valenciennes, it was in fact in Belgium, at the Beaux-Arts, that he first started out. Technique, unpublished, no sequel. One train later and a few illusions left behind, he started a school of sound engineering in Paris, where the big names of the scene were sifting through the studio before his eyes. Why not him, after them? With a flow contaminated by a Soviet dance, whose cold drunkenness he reflects, Michel launched himself into it.
From his musical education, he retains the game and his words, a unique diction, a personal weapon to develop his storytelling which makes everyday stories clash. All of this takes place in sharp bends, often at the second degree, like the title “Mal Agi”, a manifesto in homage to defeat, or “J’me barre”, like the point of a vanishing line from which it is difficult to find a way out.
His musicality and sense of detail could already lead him towards comparisons, a potential reflection of the new guard of French rap. But beware of hastily made analogies. Michel disperses any desire for comparisons, if not on a solitary night, precisely. On a dance floor that looks like an iron wall, where a synthetic tension tinged with melancholy lights up the sequel. Written in Cyrillic.