Benjamin Biolay is often deemed an heir to Serge Gainsbourg. Tall as that order may be, there is some truth to the comparison. Like Gainsbourg, Biolay is fond of sexual provocation and references to pop Americana – where his mentor had "Bonnie and Clyde" and "Lemon Incest," Biolay has "Billy Bob a Raison" and "Glory Hole." Gainsbourg composed for a variety of divas, from bouncy Bardot to breathless Birkin, while Biolay courts his own muses, from Coralie Climent and former flame and collaborator Keren Ann to his wife, cine-princess Chiarra Mastroianni, whose mom – one Catherine Deneuve – sang a Gainsbourg tune or two back in her youth. Finally, just as Gainsbourg managed to incorporate a sprawling variety of genres into his chanson approach, Biolay runs with this beyond-Brel tactic, murmuring puns and wordplay over a great deal more than simple acoustic backdrops.

A L'Origine, Biolay's third album, announces this intention right off with the eight-minute title track, a keyboard-based incantation about paternal angst amid modern strife that gradually grows epic in scope – thanks to dramatic orchestration and ghostly choral harmonies – ultimately suggesting an enormous merry-go-round spinning out of control. From there, it quickly becomes apparent that Biolay is intent on rocking out. With its slinky guitar lines and swelling, surging atmosphere, "Mon Amour M'a Baisé" marks the first of two appearances by Biolay's idol, the legendary Françoise Hardy, who whispers "thank you" in Russian over the chorus. "Ma Chair est Tendre" is flat-out trashy glam, complete with squealing solos, while "Ground Zero Bar" matches guitar heroics with lyrical references to heroes.

The highlight of Biolay's previous album, Négatif, was "Little Darlin'," thanks to the frisson generated by its core juxtaposition: slick modern instrumentation and a looped sample of the Carter Family in full nasal twang. It's this type of brash comic-strip collage that distinguished Gainsbourg as a composer, and there's no contrast quite so striking to be found here – Biolay's still rather studious in comparison. But he is branching out, and overall, A L'Origine is a more arresting work than his sophomore effort. Strangely, its simplest chanson moments are some of its best. A bruised and brooding ballad perhaps addressed to Keren Ann, the lovely "Dans Mon Dos" is one standout. Another is the album closer, "Mes Peines de Coeur," which percolates with heartbreak. (Johnny Ray Huston)

Pelican
The Fire in Our Throats Will Beckon the Thaw (Hydrahead)

Pelican aims high from the very first song of their second album: The nine and a half minutes of "Last Day of Winter" burst into flight with the epic heaviness of a cargo jet taking off and build to a grinding crescendo full of crashing cymbals and interwoven melodies that is truly awesome. But has the four-piece from Chicago scooped up more than they can swallow on the follow-up to 2004's Australasia (Hydrahead)?

Maybe, but good for them for trying. The scale and ambition of The Fire in Our Throats Will Beckon the Thaw are as large as the title is long, and on tracks like the meandering, convoluted "-" (which, though primarily acoustic, was inexplicably mastered disturbingly louder than the rest of the tracks on my copy), Pelican's project to expand beyond any "instrumental metal" tag loses the plot. But elsewhere, the band's success is spectacular. On "Red Ran Amber," Laurent Lebec and Trevor de Brauw's guitars don't duel – they wrestle with a deadly grace, a sinewy brawniness that belies their intricate interplay. On "Autumn into Summer," a carefully flicked hi-hat from Larry Herweg foreshadows the build when his brother Bryan unfurls ropey, frantically precise bass lines. Pelican may have a few duds here, but when their ammo is live, the songs are grand, gloriously rocking works of metal that transcend the genre, making you wonder why more bands don't have balls this big. Pelican play Thurs/11, Bottom of the Hill, SF. (415) 621-4455. (Peter Nicholson)

Lizz Wright
Dreaming while Awake (Verve Forecast)

Lizz Wright was raised on gospel in rural Georgia and developed a taste for jazz while attending college in Atlanta. Somehow, though, she manages to set aside the vocal pyrotechnics associated with those styles for her genre-bending second CD, a follow-up to her more conventional 2003 smooth-jazz debut. Few frills are to be found on the dozen tunes that comprise Dreaming while Awake. Wright sings them straight, in a dusky contralto that radiates warmth, particularly through her subtle use of sustains. She cuts directly to the emotional core of the material – a mix of originals and not-so-familiar standards – and the understated accompaniment of guitars, piano, organ, bass, and drums serves to bring the grace of her phrasing into sharp focus.

Wright's record company calls what she's doing "folk-soul," a term befitting the blend of jazz, blues, country, and pop elements she and Craig Street have so nicely concocted. (The New York producer, a onetime employee of Tower Records in Berkeley, has worked other low-key wonders for Cassandra Wilson, k.d. lang, and Norah Jones, yet he tailors each project to fit the voice at hand.) Wright's treatments of some songs recall Roberta Flack's 1972 hit version of Scottish folksinger Ewan MacColl's "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," though Street's use of guitar twangers Chris Bruce, Bill Frisell, and Greg Leisz places Wright's readings somewhere between the Appalachian Mountains and the Mississippi Delta.

Particularly appealing are her renditions of "A Taste of Honey," "Confessin' (That I Love You)," the Ella Jenkins children's song "Wake Up, Little Sparrow," and Dino Valenti's "Come Together," where Wright taps her gospel roots to transform the Summer of Love anthem into a contemporary prayer for peace. Lizz Wright plays Tues/16, the Independent, SF. (415) 771-1421. (Lee Hildebrand)