Lost voices

Let the battle commence they say.  But the real battle isn’t between the contestants; it’s between the united forces of the contestants and any song that isn’t French. And it’s also about my battle to recognise the songs from a combination of incoherent lyrics, curious interpretation and puzzling em-pha-s-is.

The French version of The Voice is introduced by a man who appears to be the only person capable of pronouncing his own surname (he’s Greek).

The judges are earnest characters on a round trip from Planet Rock.

It is so innocently awful it is endearing. It’s a glorious, entertaining, life-affirming mess. But I like that.

The contestants would probably never have made it through to the audition stages of the slick, celebrity-skewed, UK version. But smiled upon by their indulgent mentors, they gamely warble and wail their way along, throwing themselves headfirst into challenges like “Kees, by Preenze - ‘zeTohm Jonez ver-zhun.”

It’s nobody’s fault of course. Let me loose on anything French and the results would be one hundred times worse.

I don’t intend to make a habit of watching it. And it may get better.

But I (really) hope not.