Forget Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. And tell Burt Bacharach to go sing his silly little love ditties at a goddamn wedding. '60s French pop star Serge Gainsbourg was the original gangsta-- a lecherous, drunken, charming slab of a man who made lounge pop a true art. Adored by the French in his time and admired by such uber- hipsters as Stereolab, Beck, and Polly Jean Harvey, Gainsbourg remained virtually unknown outside Europe until very recently. Way back in 1995, Aussie cool cat Mick Harvey, himself a bit of a renown/ unknown singer and songwriter, decided something must be done. Intoxicated Man was the result.

The idea was to translate Gainsbourg's playful, often scandalous lyrics into English and represent them for an unsuspecting public. Musically, Harvey decided to change little from Gainsbourg's echo laden, bad behaviour beats, organ- drenched jams and over- the- top string arrangements. Harvey does his best simulacrum of Gainsbourg's husky, dirty- minded tone. Even chanteuse Anita Lane, who makes vocal appearances, cops the appropriate swagger. What we have then is Serge en anglais-- a somewhat disturbing concept, one that might have Monsieur G. rolling is his grave.

By being so direct in his approach, Harvey is making a valuable point. The main purpose of this record is to make those deliciously wicked turns of phrase more available to the English speaking public. And, if you're into nasty, funny melodrama, you could do no better than Serge. In "Jazz in the Ravine," Harvey translates "Turn the music up a blast/ don't worry baby, I will dress fast," while maintaining Gainsbourg's pervert metre and tone. "You little bitch, you're waiting still/ For me to swallow this bitter pill/ But I never will," he croons on "Sex Shop," over a lush arrangement straight out of a James Bond film. But Gainsbourg wasn't all just pickles in pants. He also dealt with serious topics like alienation ("I don't need anyone/ I'm a Harley Davidson"), the stifling effects of big cities "New York City USA/ When I see it I feel high") and gun control ("The Barrel of My 45").

Sure, this sort of randy swagger is hardly the type of thing Pitchfork would endorse or condone. Yes, Harvey could be called to the mat for resuscitating this decadent relic. You should know something, though: below our stern, furrowed eyebrows, under the velvet draped tables in the shitty retro lounge where we've made our names known, our patent leather shoes were tapping.

-Samir Khan