By Aaron Richter

Alain Bashung died on Sunday, March 14. The next day, I listened to the French singer’s music for the first time. I found a copy of Bleu pétrole, released just this past year and considered Bashung’s late masterpiece, and heard a voice—familiar and bold, sorrowful and dramatic, broken yet defiant. Its Frenchness implied the cursory touchstone of his predecessor Serge Gainsbourg, but its brazen, romantic attitude echoed Leonard Cohen, a slinky cover of Cohen’s “Suzanne” infused with liquid grace in Bashung’s hands.

Bashung died of lung cancer. He was 61 and had released 14 albums and countless singles since his debut in 1966. Though I’d never heard of him before reading the condolences and tributes from fans following his passing, and I doubt I was alone in my obliviousness. The record charted No. 1 in France but didn’t earn a single vote on the Village Voice’s annual Pazz & Jop critics poll—shameful neglect for such remarkable songwriting (since when has “import only” halted our listening habits?). His death felt strangely emotional for me; Alain Bashung composed his best music during my lifetime, yet I’d heard none of it. For many, death of the young or old solidifies immortality, ballooning an end-marked career to new unthinkable heights. But what’s to be made of the late discoverer, the music fan whose interest is first piqued with a tantalizing postmortem? Can tardy ears overcome the stigma of sweeping inadequacy? And what have we lost in failing to celebrate an artist in his or her living days?