With their latest EP, People Just Float, Breton folk-rock trio Steel & Velvet deliver a collection that feels like a cinematic meditation on loneliness, redemption, and the ghostly persistence of memory. Recorded in the same stripped-down spirit that defined Johnny Cash’s American Recordings, the six-track project is both an homage and a reinvention—rooted in the textures of North American folk and grunge, yet haunted by a distinctly European melancholy. Each song in People Just Float feels less like a performance and more like a whispered confession, carried by the raw timbre of Johann Le Roux’s unamplified voice and the intricate guitar dialogues of Romuald Ballet-Baz and Jean-Alain Larreur. Released alongside a short film by Loïc Moyou, the EP unfolds as the soundtrack to a dreamlike western, blending sparse storytelling with stark beauty.
From its opening track, “Orphan’s Lament,” the record sets its tone of fragile humanity. Originally a Robbie Basho piano piece, Steel & Velvet’s reimagining trades ivory for steel strings, translating Basho’s spiritual vastness into something more intimate and earthbound. Ballet-Baz’s guitar work is extraordinary here—delicate yet resolute, like sunlight flickering through the trees. Le Roux’s vocals, deep and resonant, carry a quiet reverence that lingers long after the song fades. It’s a powerful beginning, both elegiac and grounding, and it signals what this project is really about: a reckoning with solitude and connection, told through songs that float between eras and emotions.
Their rendition of “Ring of Fire” burns not with bombast but with restraint. Stripped of its famous mariachi horns and rhythmic swing, the song becomes a slow, contemplative descent into desire and danger. Le Roux sings as if weighing every word, letting silence do as much of the talking as melody. The guitars, warm and woody, circle him like loyal companions. The result is a reinterpretation that doesn’t aim to outshine Johnny Cash, but to stand beside him—different century, same dust on the boots. It’s that humility, that willingness to serve the song rather than dominate it, that gives People Just Float its haunting honesty.
“Man in the Long Black Coat,” a Bob Dylan cover, deepens the record’s cinematic mood. Here, the trio crafts a sense of foreboding and myth, blending bluesy inflexions with the cadence of an old ghost story. The arrangement feels timeless and tactile—fingerpicked guitars weaving through Le Roux’s weathered delivery, creating an atmosphere of rural noir. There’s a sense that this music belongs as much to a moonlit cabin as to a desert highway. Dylan’s enigmatic storytelling finds an ideal vessel in Steel & Velvet’s restrained style; they understand that mystery doesn’t need embellishment, only space to breathe.
The EP’s midpoint, “Silver,” introduces a subtle shift in tone. While still minimalist, there’s a flicker of hope beneath the melancholy—a silvery thread of light that gives the track its name. It’s also one of the songs where Jade Le Roux, Johann’s daughter, lends her voice, her youthful tone brushing softly against the weathered texture of her father’s. The effect is tender and symbolic, bridging generations and hinting at continuity amidst impermanence. The song feels almost sacred in its simplicity, a reminder that fragility and resilience often coexist within the same breath.
If “Silver” is a moment of grace, “Lake of Fire” drags us back into the underworld. Originally by the Meat Puppets and made infamous by Nirvana’s Unplugged in New York, the song has always carried the weight of damnation and defiance. Steel & Velvet’s version dials down the angst, replacing grunge distortion with austere clarity. The guitars ring like funeral bells; the tempo is deliberate, ceremonial. Le Roux’s voice doesn’t rage, but mourns. By the time the refrain arrives, it sounds less like judgment and more like surrender. It’s a stunning reinterpretation, one that finds grace in despair rather than noise in rebellion.
The closing track, “In Heaven,” originally penned by David Lynch and Peter Ivers for Eraserhead, seals the EP with a spectral whisper. Sung as a fragile duet between Le Roux and Jade, it feels like a lullaby for lost souls, floating between worlds. The minimalist arrangement—little more than breath, echo, and soft guitar—leaves vast emotional space, as though the music itself is dissolving into mist. It’s an ending that feels final and open-ended, perfectly aligning with the EP’s title. Indeed, by this point, you understand what People Just Float means: it’s about drift, about the quiet, uncertain persistence of life and love even when the ground disappears beneath you.
Visually and conceptually, the collaboration with Loïc Moyou amplifies that sense of poetic drift. The short film companion transforms these songs into moving images—dusty landscapes, silent glances, flickering campfires—where the music becomes a language of its own. The synergy between sight and sound elevates People Just Float from an EP into a full-bodied art piece, rooted in authenticity and emotional restraint.
What makes this record remarkable isn’t innovation in the technical sense, but sincerity. Steel & Velvet’s approach—recording with minimal amplification, embracing acoustic imperfection, and performing as though whispering secrets to the listener—feels revolutionary in its humility. People Just Float isn’t trying to impress, but trying to endure. Like the best folk records, it doesn’t shout to be heard, but lingers quietly in the air, in the spaces between memories, reminding us that in the end, we all float through our stories, carried by sound, silence, and the ghosts we choose to keep.
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