Back in the ’80s and ’90s it was understood that the French were just not very good at rock ‘n’ roll. I was vaguely aware of Les Thugs, a punk band on Sub Pop, and Serge Gainsbourg’s weird Nazi rockabilly record, but that was it. When I interviewed Air years ago, I asked them why France just didn’t crank out rock bands. Jean-Benoît Dunckel matter-of-factly said, “Ve did not grow up vit it.”

That’s clearly changed over the last decade, as Paris has become a hotbed of post-Strokes garage bands.  Acts like Second Sex, the Plastisicines, Les Shades, Brooklyn, Neimo and the Dodoz are denim-and-leather bubblegum. At the top of heap are scene grandfathers Phoenix. Of course, Phoenix started out long before the rest, as slick arch-pop Air underlings, leaning a little disco and studio-geek R&B on their first two albums, but they’re thrashed things up a bit on the more consistent It’s Never Been Like That and the hot as hell Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, the best pop-rock record of 2009 (so far).

The cavernous Aragon was stuffed up to the bars with neophyte fanatics, who flipped out for the upbeat, hooky W.A.P. tracks, which made up the bulk of the set. Phoenix consistently craft two or three perfect pop singles per album, so a cherry picked live set is always going to wow like a greatest hits set. Fortunately, the new record is pretty much on point from start of finish, so if no room was left for “On Fire,” “Everything Is Everything” or “(You Can Blame It On) Anybody” it hardly mattered (the sophomore Alphabetical was by far the most overlooked collection on this night. Only a riotous take on “Run, Run, Run” made the set). Singalongs, whistles, cheers, hand-claps and a wheat field of waving white arms egged on the thrilled, thankful sextet. Smiling frontman Thomas Mars spewed about 45 “thanks yous” and one big “merci beaucoup.”

He also climbed a speaker rack during the band’s first brilliant single, “If I Ever Feel Better,” and took a short nap leaning against a monitor as the band showed its ties to Air and Daft Punk on the moody, building synthscape “Love Like a Sunset.” I forgave him the humorous lapse in performing, because they guy is dead-on otherwise (and threw in a stripped-down take of his Air collabo “Playground Love” in the encore). Few singers sound on-record-like like live, especially in the dumb echo chamber of that ballroom. But he sprung to his Italian-boot-clad feet as “Sunset” rose to its lovely climax, with touring drummer Thomas Hedlund bashing the shit out of his ride.

Speaking of which, Hedlund is incredible. Get him in the permanent band. Put him in the press photos. Sure, he’s Swedish. He’s in another group, the Perishers. But they’re rather awful. With him, Phoenix is a monster live. Pitter-pat patterns from the album turn into thundering rolls on stage. Hedlund hunches over, banging his head like he’s in Slayer, popping up off his stool to crush his crash cymbal. In a set full of highlights, the propulsive “Lasso” stood above, with the Animal-like percussionist going apeshit on his trap.

They may come across to some as antiseptic audiophiles on album, but these guys are an insanely tight, well practiced, punchy bundle of energy on stage. Keyboards tear through the taut jangle of guitars (in stark contrast to openers, Chairlift, who continue to spoil a delightful album and incessant hype with atrocious live sound mixes), like the gum-rattling Korg ripples in “Rome,” the sharp pulses in “Too Young,” the goofy robo-epic “Funky Squaredance” and the adored hit “1901.”

The latter obviously closed the set, as Mars climbed out into the crowd. The towers of bright LEDs burst with epileptic-endangering strobes of hot white and 3D-lenses red and blue. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. A girl up  held up a piece of notebook paper with crudely drawn red phoenix. A boy waved an LP in a misguided attempt at an autograph.

Holy shit, these guys are finally rock stars.

Photos by Andrew Nawrocki