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I had worrying moment a couple of weeks ago on the way to work when my iPod fell out of my pocket and landed face down on the floor of the 156 bus. As my face reddened under the glare of the other zombified passengers, I thought it had finally died.

It threw me back to the time that a PC of mine flatlined during the closing bars of ‘Caroline, No’ after I’d played Sergeant Pepper’s and Pet Sounds back to back on it. Unlike Brian Wilson that computer never recovered.

The death of my little white box would’ve been no less inglorious – I was listening to Histoire de Melody Nelson by Serge Gainsbourg.

Gainsbourg is best known for his chart-topping ‘Je t’aime… moi non plus’, which was banned by the BBC and later used to soundtrack two ladybirds humping in front of a pint of John Smith’s.

In my ignorance I’d always assumed Gainsbourg was just another totem for dirty old French men. Stereotypically gaunt and yellowed by years of chain smoking, boozing, shagging and, most importantly, thinking about shagging. Now I’m older and Histoire has become one of my favourite albums, I’ve realised that I was right about Gainsbourg, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It seems Gainsbourg was a man, who loved a bit of dirt – he’s even made an album all about farting, which I’ve been meaning to track down – and on this album dirt has never sounded so good.

This concept album, although only 28 minutes long, tells the story of a man who knocks a school girl off her bike, whilst out driving his Rolls Royce, and the ensuing love affair.

Although Histoire was released in 1971 it never sounds dated and from the moment it begins with a loping bass guitar, you realise just how influential it has been. Beck ripped-off the swooping strings, which Gainsbourg deploys throughout, on his break-up classic, Sea Change. And French-duo, Air probably wouldn’t exist without this record’s softer moments awash with plucked guitars and orchestral flourishes. From song to song the pace may vary from fraught to languid, but the result is always cinematic.

Whilst his much-lauded sonic blueprint is so admirable what makes this album so compelling is Gainsbourg himself. He casually purrs his way through the story with a lingering sexual menace and when he actually sings he conveys a perverted tenderness that only Gallic people can conjure. Lines, like “Melody Nelson has red hair. It’s her natural colour,” could only come from a dirty old Frenchman’s mouth and sound so inspired…

Michael Lane