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	JANE BIRKIN CHANTEZ-VOUS FRANÇAIS?

The last time I saw Jane Birkin was . . . in 1966, as one of the two aspiring photomodels (she was the blonde) in Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow-Up. After that, she became Serge Gainsbourg’s inamorata and muse (and the mother of Charlotte Gainsbourg, no mean actress) and an internationally renowned chanteuse/variété star who made her first Boston appearance at the Berklee Performance Center on November 13. Stuck in that Piaf/Aznavour moment, I’d lost track of her career, so I was curious to see what France had wrought from the English-born daughter of actress Judy Campbell.

She came out in dusky casuals — boatneck, half-sleeves, sweatpants — and that big, gap-toothed smile. "Hello, Boston!" "Thank you, Boston!" "Merci, Boston!" "Are you all French? Or are you French people who have chosen to live in Boston?" Berklee was in fact packed with fans who were well acquainted with Birkin’s œuvre. Her first three numbers were backed by pianist Fred Maggi, the stuff that French bittersweet romance is made of. Then she brought on oud/lute player Amel Riahi el Mansouri, percussionist Aziz Boularoug, and violinist Djamel Benyelles. She did "Couleur café," "Elisa," "L’amour de moi," "Dépression au dessus du jardin," "Amours des feintes." "Elisa," she explained, Serge wrote for Zizi Jeanmaire. Upon hearing "Couleur café," she said, "Scotland was very surprised. Miami loved ‘Couleur café’ "

During a band break in the intermissionless evening, she left the stage, returning a few minutes later with her hair down and in the same red sheath she wears in the liner booklet for her Arabesque. She likened her musicians to jewels: Aziz was a ruby, Amel an emerald, Fred (playing mostly keyboards after the initial piano trio) a sapphire, Djamel a diamond. We were lucky to hear them, she told us. "They kept them at the customs. They liked them so much, they didn’t want to let them go." That was typical of her humor: very dry, very British. When she sang, she tended to close her eyes, clench her fists, and swoop into the microphone, as if she were channeling Serge; even the Middle Eastern–flavored dance she did barefoot in her red dress was oddly impersonal. She revealed more of herself when she sat on the edge of the stage and confided to the audience, in English or French, her lilt suggesting Julie Andrews or Hayley Mills. "Thank you, Boston! Thank you, Berklee! I went to Kerry’s house, it was very nice. Thank you for your curiosity." Standing ovation. She’s a sweetheart, but my curiosity was sated, and I didn’t stick around for the encores, which doubtless climaxed with "Je t’aime . . . moi non plus."