With his Fleurs du Mal, François Atlas gives us a record as personal in his obsessions as universal in the texts he uses. He dresses Baudelaire with modernity and musicality, and proves in passing that poetry is ageless and that it offers for ever a comforting alcove for all souls, whether gay, sad, lost or distant. If only one thing should be remembered from this possessed album is that poetry is alive and will never die.

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