Steel & Velvet enter the room like a trio carved from old wood and sea wind. They are the kind of artists who appear to have drifted ashore straight from a storm and decided to stay just long enough to play you something honest. Born in 2021 from the long-standing friendship of Johann Le Roux (vocals) and Romuald Ballet-Baz (guitar), and soon joined by fellow Breton guitarist Jean-Alain Larreur, they are the rare band whose name perfectly suits their sound: steel-string bite matched with velvet warmth. Though rooted in classical training, their hearts wander freely through folk, Americana, blues-rock, and the grittier corners of grunge.
Their EP, “People Just Float,” carries the same intimate DNA as Johnny Cash’s American. Just acoustic guitars and a voice, but in their hands, that simplicity becomes a landscape. Let’s do a track-by-track analysis of the EP.
“Orphan’s Lament” opens the EP in a hush, with finger-picked guitar lines that feel like slow snowfall. Johann’s vocals are the heart of this track: timeless, plaintive, and steady. His delivery carries that rare ability to sound restrained and wounded. The theme circles loss, longing, and the sense of drifting without an anchor. The band resists every temptation to overplay. The silence between phrases becomes its own percussion. A beautiful, aching introduction.
Covering Johnny Cash is bold, but Steel & Velvet take the gamble gracefully. Instead of the flaming mariachi swagger of the original, they reinterpret “Ring of Fire” as a soft, slow, intimate smolder. The guitars lock into an earthy pulse, and Johann leans into a smoky, unhurried vocal that reveals the song’s vulnerability rather than its bravado. It’s less a ring of fire than an ember glowing in the dark, which makes it unexpectedly affecting.
Dylan’s gothic wanderer gets a Breton shadow in “Man in the Long Black Coat.” Jean-Alain’s blues-rock fiber threads through the arrangement, giving it a drifting, spectral quality. The performance is hypnotic, making the voice and guitar move like mist down a narrow road. The theme of fatalism, mystery, and quiet doom is honored but not imitated. The trio inhabits the story without impersonation. This is one of the EP’s most atmospheric tracks.
“Silver” shifts the mood into something more contemplative, almost meditative. The instrumentation remains sparse, but the strumming gains a gentle shimmer like sunlight glinting off water. Vocally, Johann softens his tone here, showing the “velvet” half of the band’s name. The song explores themes of purity, small hopes, and the fragile brightness we cling to in darker times. It’s a much-needed breath in the EP’s emotional arc.
The fifth song, “Lake of Fire,” is a bold and beautifully raw reinterpretation. Steel & Velvet strip away the snarling grunge edge of the Meat Puppets’/Nirvana-popularized “Lake of Fire” and replace it with unease built from patience. The guitars are dry, almost brittle; Johann’s voice carries a restrained dread. It’s haunting without ever trying to be. The track’s themes of judgment, exile, and the unknown deepen in this quieter form. This is where the band’s minimalist philosophy shines brightest.
The EP closes on a surreal whisper. Their take on “In Heaven” (the eerie gem from Eraserhead) pays tribute to the Lynchian oddity while softening it into something mournfully beautiful. The vocals feel close—as if sung inches from the listener’s ear. The guitars drift like vapor. The theme of transcendence, dread, and fragile comfort remains intact, but Steel & Velvet give it a new tenderness, a human warmth beneath the strangeness. It ends the EP like a curtain that falls slowly, almost sleepily.
Johann Le Roux’s voice is the guiding star of this EP. It’s steady, weathered, and gorgeously honest. He doesn’t dramatize. He doesn’t push. He tells truths, and that is far rarer than power or technicality. Romuald and Jean-Alain provide a deceptively simple guitar foundation. Their playing is disciplined, deliberately understated, but rich with feeling. Every pluck and slide sounds intentional, organic, and beautifully human. Together, the trio performs like people in deep conversation rather than musicians in a studio. There’s humility in the delivery and yet an unmistakable courage in how bare they allow their sound to remain.
The production is sparse in the best way possible—no gloss, no digital perfume, no distractions. The guitars sound like they’re being played in the room with you, and the vocals sit close enough to feel the breath behind them. It’s a style reminiscent of Rick Rubin’s ethos: strip away everything unnecessary until only the soul remains. This minimalism makes the EP feel intimate and timeless. You lean in. You listen differently. You hear things like the slight scrape of a fingertip on a string that modern production often erases. And that’s part of what makes People Just Float so compelling.
Listening to this EP felt like walking into a quiet evening with no expectations and finding yourself unexpectedly moved. There’s a purity to it, but a sincerity that immediately disarms. These songs are not meant to impress you; they’re meant to reach you. And they do. “People Just Float” is a gentle triumph: an EP that pays homage to great American songwriting through a Breton lens while maintaining its own identity. Steel & Velvet don’t shout; they don’t posture; they don’t rush. They speak softly but leave echoes. And in a world full of noise, that’s everything.
Listen to “People Just Float” on Spotify
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