A Camille concert is an extraordinary experience. Over two hours, the maverick singer writhes barefoot on the floor, dances like a galloping horse, howls like a wolf, sings audacious harmonies with a trio of backing vocalists and hits the kind of high notes that might only be audible to dogs. She sings in English about adultery and ecology; she sings in French about the futility of planting a Twix or a Mars bar in the soil, or how pregnancy turns a man’s semen into milk. She starts her set with a mournful, melismatic reading of Joni Mitchell’s Blue and reaches a truly bestial climax with a gospel punk version of the Dead Kennedys’ Too Drunk to Fuck.In an Anglo-American pop world that has traditionally treated French pop with a mixture of contempt and ridicule, Camille Dalmais might have been invented specifically to puncture this anglophone arrogance. In the 15 years since her debut album, Le Sac des Filles, audiences around the world have been enthralled by her [ . . . ] More at: Camille: the French pop animal unafraid to get physical | Music | The Guardian