Slimane: The Life Story Behind France's Soulful Voice
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Some voices arrive like weather. You notice them before you can name what changed in the room, and the song is already halfway through before you realise you have stopped doing whatever you were doing. Slimane Nebchi sings like that. His voice is not the loudest in French pop, and it never tries to be. It is low, grainy at the edges, and so full of feeling that a simple line about missing someone can sound like a confession made in private. People in France have been listening to that voice for a decade now, and the strange thing is how little it has changed: the same directness, the same refusal to dress a feeling up in something shinier than it is.
Chelles sits east of Paris, far enough from the capital’s glitter that a boy growing up there learns the suburbs first and the city second. Slimane was born there on 13 October 1989, into a family whose roots run back to Algeria. Two languages of home, two kinds of music, two ways of being French: that was his ordinary childhood, not a statement about identity but the air he breathed. At home there were the melodies his parents and grandparents carried from North Africa; outside, on the radio and in the streets, there was French pop, rap from the banlieues, and the American soul records he would later name as his schooling. He did not pick one world and drop the other. He kept both, and the keeping shows in every record he has made since.
This is the account of a singer who reached the top slowly, then stayed there by refusing to become anyone else. There was no teenage explosion, no overnight reinvention, no single lucky break that explains everything. There was a boy who sang where people could walk away, a young man who entered contests and lost some of them, and a winner of The Voice who treated the trophy as a beginning rather than a finish line. Along the way he wrote a love letter to Paris, built one of the most successful partnerships in modern French pop, carried France’s hopes to Eurovision, and became a father. The thread running through all of it is the same: a voice that sounds like it means every word.
Chelles, 1989: A Boy With Two Homelands
The town of Chelles, in Seine-et-Marne, is the kind of place the Paris Métro barely reaches and the guidebooks never mention. It has housing blocks, a market, a river, and families from everywhere, including many whose parents or grandparents crossed the Mediterranean from Algeria in the decades after independence. Slimane Nebchi was born there on 13 October 1989, and the household he grew up in was Algerian and French at once, in the way that millions of French households are: one culture at the kitchen table, another at the school gate, and a child moving between them without ever thinking of it as a problem to solve.
Music was present early, not as a career plan but as a household habit. He sang along to whatever was playing, and adults around him noticed that the boy’s voice had a weight to it that children’s voices do not usually have. He was a sensitive child, the kind who feels things strongly and looks for a way to say them, and singing gave him that way. At school he was ordinary; with a melody, he was somebody. The family encouraged him without pushing him, and they gave him something just as useful as encouragement: the example of hard work, of parents who earned everything they had, and of a home where nobody expected success to arrive as a gift.
What Chelles gave him, besides a home, was a vantage point. A boy from the eastern suburbs sees Paris differently from a boy born in the centre. Paris is a promise at the end of a train line, a place you travel to, a stage you have to earn your way onto. That distance shaped his ambition. He did not dream of fame in the abstract; he dreamed of the city itself, its streets, its cafés, its audiences, and the idea that one day the city might sing his songs back to him. Years later he would write a song that says exactly that, and the whole country would know what he meant, because the dream had been visible in his life for a long time before it was audible in his music.
He listened widely as a teenager, and the listening mattered as much as the singing. French chanson taught him that a lyric can carry a whole story in three minutes. American soul taught him that a voice can break a little and still be beautiful, maybe more beautiful for the break. Algerian music taught him ornament and longing, the way a melody can circle a feeling instead of marching straight at it. He absorbed all of it without a plan, the way young singers do, and the mixture became the sound that would later make coaches turn their chairs: pop on the surface, soul underneath, and a North African warmth in the phrasing that nobody else in the contest quite had.
Singing Where Nobody Had to Listen
Long before any television camera found him, Slimane spent years singing in places where the audience owed him nothing. He sang in the streets of Paris, where passers-by can keep walking, and in the Métro corridors, where the echo is generous and the coins are not. He sang in small bars and cafés, where the crowd is close enough to see your hands shake, and where a bad night means playing to the backs of people’s heads. There is no kinder school and no crueller one. A street singer learns in weeks what a studio singer can take years to learn: how to catch an ear in four notes, how to hold it, and how to keep singing when nobody stops at all.
He entered singing competitions too, and the results were mixed, as they are for almost everyone who eventually wins one. Some doors opened a little and then closed. Some judges liked him and some did not. What the competitions gave him, even the ones he did not win, was a tolerance for judgement. Standing in front of strangers who are paid to grade you is its own education, and by the time the big chance arrived, he had already stood in that place many times. He had also learned to keep working after disappointment, which is a rarer skill than singing in tune, and the one that decides most careers.
Money was tight in those years, as it is for most young musicians in Paris. He worked jobs to pay the rent, shared flats, travelled to gigs in cars that were older than the songs he was singing, and recorded demos when he could afford the studio time. Nobody in the music business was waiting for him. The years were not wasted, though. They gave him songs, for one thing: he was writing constantly, filling notebooks with lines about love, about the city, about the people he met in bars and on trains. And they gave him something else, harder to name and more valuable: the knowledge that he could survive without applause. A singer who has survived silence does not panic when the room goes quiet. He simply sings louder, or softer, whichever the song needs.
By his mid-twenties he was no longer a beginner pretending at a career. He was a working singer with a clear sense of what he sounded like and what he would not do: he would not shout, he would not hide behind production, and he would not sing words he did not believe. That clarity is what a television contest rewards when it works properly. It is also what most contestants lack, because they have not spent years in the street learning who they are. Slimane had. When he finally walked onto the biggest singing stage in France, he was twenty-six years old, and he was ready in a way that a teenager, however talented, could not have been.
The Voice: A Chair Turns for Florent Pagny’s Team
In the spring of 2016, Slimane auditioned for the fifth series of the French version of The Voice, and the room changed around him in the way it does when a voice is unmistakably real. The coaches turned, and he chose to join the team led by Florent Pagny, a singer whose own career had been built on exactly the kind of direct, unshowy emotion Slimane was offering. It was a good pairing. Pagny understood what he had: not a contestant to be reshaped, but a finished singer who needed a stage big enough for what he already was.
Week after week, the contest asked him to do the hardest thing in a singing competition, which is to stay yourself while singing other people’s songs. He did it by bending every song toward his own sound, slowing things down when the arrangement wanted speed, letting a line breathe when the instinct was to decorate it. The audience noticed. So did the coaches. He reached the final, and in May 2016 he won, becoming the winner of The Voice in France. The confetti and the trophy were real, but the more important thing happened off camera: the whole country now knew his name, and the record industry, which had ignored him for years, was suddenly calling.
Winning a television contest can end a career as easily as it starts one, and Slimane seemed to know that from the first day. He did not chase a quick hit or let producers dress him in a style that was not his. He signed, he recorded, and he insisted on songs that sounded like the man who had sung in the Métro. That stubbornness looked like ingratitude to some people in the business, and like wisdom to everyone else. A singer who has waited ten years for a break does not trade it for a single summer of radio play. He builds on it, slowly, the way he built everything else.
The victory also mattered beyond his own life. A young man of Algerian origin from the suburbs of Paris had won the country’s biggest singing show, and for families like his, that was not a small thing. He never made a speech about it, and he never needed to. The fact of him, standing on that stage with his name in lights, said it. He carried the moment lightly, with thanks to his family and to the people who had listened to him in bars and streets when nobody else would, and then he went back to work, which is the most honest way to carry a moment like that.
Paname and À bout de rêves
His first album, À bout de rêves, arrived in 2016, only months after the final, and it was exactly the record a patient singer makes when he finally gets his chance: no filler, no borrowed personality, just songs he had been carrying for years. At its centre sat “Paname”, a love letter to Paris, and the word itself is the key to the song. Paname is the old slang name for the capital, the name the streets use, not the postcards. The song thanks the city for everything it gave him: the pavements where he sang, the bars where he learned his trade, the strangers who stopped and listened when they had no reason to. It is a thank-you note set to music, and France took it to heart, because every city has people who arrived with nothing and were given a chance by its streets.
The album mixed pop, soul, and French chanson without ever sounding like a mixture, because the voice held it together. The songs were about love in its plainest forms, about dreams that had not yet come true, about the people who stand beside you while you wait. They were not clever songs. They were true ones, and the difference showed in the numbers: the record sold in the hundreds of thousands, the singles stayed on the radio, and the concert halls began to fill with audiences who knew the words. He toured it, and the touring mattered, because a singer who learned his trade on the street knows that a concert is not a ceremony. It is a conversation, and the audience is half of it.
Success brought its own pressures, and he handled them in the way he had handled everything else: by staying close to his family, by working with people he trusted, and by writing about his own life instead of someone else’s idea of it. The industry wanted a second album quickly, and a third, and a sound that would keep the charts happy. He gave them music on his own schedule, and the charts followed anyway, because the audience had learned to trust him. A first album that sells is a happy accident; a first album that makes people trust you is a career. À bout de rêves did the second thing, which is why the first thing kept happening for years.
Looking back, “Paname” is the song that explains him best, and it is worth hearing it that way. Most singers write about a city as a backdrop. Slimane wrote about Paris as a person who had been kind to him, and the gratitude in the song is the same gratitude that runs through his whole career: toward the streets, toward the listeners, toward the family that believed him before anyone else did. You can hear a lifetime in three minutes, and that is a rare thing in pop music, where three minutes usually contains only a chorus.
Solune, Vitaa, and the Versus Years
If the first album was a thank-you, the second was a deepening. Solune, his second album, showed a singer writing about love with more shadow in it: not only the joy of it, but the waiting, the missing, the quiet ache of a relationship that asks more of you than you expected. “Viens on s’aime” became one of its best-loved songs, a tender invitation rather than a demand, and it confirmed what the first album had suggested, that Slimane could write about romance without ever sounding like he was performing romance. He sounded like a man talking to one person, and millions of people recognised themselves in that one person.
Around the same time, he began the collaboration that would define the next chapter of his career, with the singer Vitaa. Their voices fit together in a way that is hard to manufacture: his warm and low, hers bright and cutting through, and when they sang about love, the songs sounded like two people actually talking to each other, not two stars sharing a microphone for a marketing plan. They released the album Versus in 2019, and its songs, including the enormous hit “Avant toi”, became part of the everyday soundtrack of France, played at weddings, on the radio, in cars, in kitchens. A follow-up volume came a few years later, and the partnership held, because it was built on friendship and mutual respect rather than a single season’s fashion.
The duets changed how people saw him. A solo singer can be a mystery; a singer in a duet has to listen, to leave space, to let another voice finish a thought. Slimane turned out to be generous in exactly that way, and the generosity made the songs better. He was not competing with Vitaa for the spotlight. He was sharing it, and the light got bigger for both of them. The two Versus records sold enormously, and they made him, alongside Vitaa, one of the central figures of French pop at the turn of the decade, not as a former contest winner but as a working artist with a catalogue that kept growing.
He also kept writing for others and with others, building a reputation in the business as a songwriter as much as a singer. The distinction matters, because a singer who can write is never at the mercy of other people’s songs. He could supply his own material, shape other artists’ records, and keep his own voice honest by writing what he actually felt. By the end of the decade, the boy who had sung for coins in the Métro was one of the most trusted names in French music, and he had done it without a scandal, without a reinvention, and without ever raising his voice above the level of a conversation.
Mon amour in Malmö
The biggest stage of his life so far arrived in the spring of 2024, when he was chosen to represent France at the Eurovision Song Contest in Malmö, Sweden, with the song “Mon amour”. Eurovision is a contest of spectacle: fireworks, dancers, costumes, and songs built to be remembered in three minutes by two hundred million people. Slimane did the opposite of all of it. He walked onto the stage alone, stood at the microphone, and sang a ballad about love in French, with no dancers, no tricks, and nothing between him and the audience except the song. Halfway through, he stepped away from the microphone and sang the final note unamplified, letting his voice fill the arena on its own. It was the bravest moment of the night, and it was the moment everyone remembered.
The performance finished fourth, one of the strongest French results in years, and the praise crossed borders in a way that French-language songs rarely do. Viewers who did not speak a word of French wrote about being moved to tears by a song they could not translate. That is the test of a voice like his: it does not need the words to be understood, because the feeling arrives first and the meaning follows. He had sung in French without apology, about love without irony, and the whole of Europe had listened in silence. For a singer from Chelles, it was the furthest possible distance from the Métro corridor, and the closest possible return to what he had always done: one man, one song, and a room full of strangers deciding whether to stay.
The album that surrounded that period, Chroniques d’un cupidon, released in 2022, had already shown the same instinct: love songs written like diary entries, cupid as a tired worker rather than a myth, romance treated as something real people do rather than something pop stars pretend at. Eurovision did not change his music. It simply gave it a bigger room, and the room turned out to be ready for it. After Malmö he toured Europe, released more music, and found that his audience had grown in countries where his name had been unknown a year earlier. The contest had been a beginning, not a peak, which is the best thing a contest can be.
There is a detail worth keeping from that night, because it says everything about him. When the voting ended and fourth place was confirmed, he did not look disappointed. He looked grateful, the way he had looked on the night he won The Voice, and the way he had looked years earlier when a stranger stopped in the street to listen. The size of the room had changed. The face had not.
A Daughter, a Coach’s Chair, and What Comes Next
In 2022, Slimane became a father, and the birth of his daughter rearranged his life in the way that first children do: suddenly the career had a witness at home, and the songs had a listener who would one day ask what they meant. He has kept his family life private, sharing almost nothing about his daughter in public, and the privacy is deliberate. A man who spent years singing for strangers has decided that some things are not for strangers, and the decision has made him more respected, not less. He has spoken only in general terms about how fatherhood changed him: more tenderness in the writing, more awareness of time passing, more reason to be careful about the person his daughter will one day see on a screen.
Fatherhood also gave his later songs a new colour. Love, which had always been his subject, now had a second meaning beside the romantic one, and the songs began to carry it, quietly, in lines about the future, about the world a child will inherit, about wanting to be worthy of being watched. Fans heard the change, even without knowing its cause. A voice does not have to announce a new chapter. It only has to sing from inside it, and the audience hears the difference.
He has since returned to The Voice in the coach’s chair, guiding young singers who are standing exactly where he stood in 2016, and the advice he gives them is the advice he lived: be yourself, trust your voice, and sing as if the song mattered more than the result. It lands differently coming from him than from a coach who arrived at fame quickly, because he can describe every step of the slow road, including the years when nobody listened, and the young singers know he is not inventing it. He is describing his own life, and that is why they believe him.
Today he continues to write, to record, and to perform, and the work has the same shape it always had: a man, a microphone, and a song sung as if it mattered. The rooms are bigger now, the audiences wider, the stakes higher, and none of it has changed the singing. That is the whole story, really, and it is the reason the story has lasted. Slimane Nebchi learned his trade where nobody had to listen, and he has spent every year since making sure that nobody who listens regrets it.
Why His Voice Keeps Finding Listeners
Strip away the contest, the albums, the duets, and the Eurovision night, and what remains is a simple fact: Slimane sings as if he means it, and audiences can tell the difference between meaning it and performing it. That difference is the whole of his career. Other singers have bigger voices, faster songs, and louder shows. He has the thing that cannot be rehearsed, which is sincerity that survives repetition. Night after night, in hall after hall, the songs sound like they are being sung for the first time, because the feeling in them is being felt for the first time, again.
His place in French music is now secure, not because of one hit but because of a catalogue that holds together: a debut that thanked a city, a second album that deepened the writing, duets that showed generosity, and a Eurovision performance that showed courage. Young singers from the suburbs see in him a path that does not require hiding where they come from. Older listeners hear in him the chanson tradition carried forward without nostalgia. Both are right, and both are listening to the same voice.
He is still young, still writing, and still growing, and the next ten years of his work will likely be his best, because the life behind the songs keeps getting richer: a daughter growing up, a career that no longer needs proving, and a voice that has learned everything the street, the stage, and the studio can teach. If the past decade is any guide, he will spend those years doing exactly what he has always done, singing plainly, honestly, and as if the song were the most important thing in the world. It is a small ambition, and it has carried him further than any large one could have.
My Take:
When I think about Slimane, the first thing that comes to me is the sound of his voice, and the way it makes me feel. It is not a loud voice, and it is not a voice that tries to impress you with tricks. It is a warm voice, a sincere voice, and when he sings a love song, you believe him. I think that is the rarest quality in a singer, and it is the reason he has lasted while so many other television winners have faded away. He does not perform feeling. He feels it, and the audience can tell the difference. That difference is everything.
The quality I keep coming back to in his life is the waiting, the long unglamorous years before anyone knew his name. He did not become famous at seventeen. He spent years singing in the street, in bars, in small venues, and in competitions that he did not win. Most people would have given up after a few years of that life, because it is hard, it is poorly paid, and it offers no guarantee of success. He kept going, not because he was sure of success, but because singing was the thing he loved. I think there is a deep lesson in that. Waiting for a guarantee before you begin means you will never begin anything that matters. He did it because it mattered to him, and success came later as a reward for his stubbornness.
What I love about “Paname” is that it is a song of gratitude, and gratitude is a beautiful thing to sing about. Most pop songs are about wanting more: more love, more money, more fame. “Paname” is about thanking a city for what it gave you, for the streets where you sang, for the people who listened when no one else would. That is a generous way to write a song, and it tells me a lot about the man who wrote it. He did not forget the hard years. He turned them into a song, and he gave that song back to the city that had helped him. I find that moving, and I think it explains why so many people in Paris love that song.
I also think about his background, and about what it means to grow up between two cultures. He is French, and he is Algerian, and he belongs to both worlds. That is not always easy, because the world often asks you to choose one identity and to leave the other behind. He refused to choose. He carried both cultures with him, in his music, in his voice, and in his life. Refusing to drop half of who you are takes nerve, and plenty of young French people recognise that nerve because they live it every day. They belong to France and to their parents’ homelands at the same time, and nobody should have to bury half of that to be welcomed. Slimane shows them that they do not have to.
There is something I find sad in his story, and it is the thought of all the years when no one was listening. He sang in the street, he sang in bars, he took part in competitions, and for a long time, the big break did not come. I think about those years, and I wonder how many times he doubted himself, how many times he thought about giving up and finding a different life. Most of us will never know what that feels like, to have a gift and to wait for years for the world to notice it. I respect him for waiting, for keeping his faith in his own voice, and for not letting the silence make him bitter. That patience is a form of strength, and it is one of the reasons I admire him so much.
I admire his collaboration with Vitaa, too, because it shows a generosity that is rare in the music industry. Plenty of famous singers treat the stage as private property and every other voice as competition. Slimane saw Vitaa as a partner, and together they made music that was better than what either of them could have made alone. Their duets are about love, about friendship, and about the complicated feelings between two people, and they work because both singers are honest and open. I think that generosity is a sign of a secure artist, a person who does not need to be the only star in the room. He lets another singer stand beside him in the glow, and somehow the glow gets warmer for both of them when he does.
I think about his Eurovision performance, and I feel proud for him. There he was, on one of the biggest stages in the world, singing a simple and emotional song in French, with no dancers, no fireworks, and no tricks. It was a brave choice, because Eurovision is famous for spectacle, and a quiet ballad can easily be lost among the loud acts. But he trusted his voice, and he trusted the song, and the audience listened. He finished fourth, one of the best results for France in many years, and he did it by being himself. That is a lesson for any artist: you do not need to shout to be heard. Sing what is actually true, and the people who need it will somehow find their way to you.
If I must find a fault, it is barely a fault at all, more a hope dressed up as one. I wish his records travelled further than they do, because a voice this honest deserves listeners on every continent. Singing only in French narrows his audience in a pop world run by English, yet the ache in his delivery travels perfectly well without a translation. I hope the Malmö night sent curious strangers back to his records, and that they stayed long enough to hear the albums whole. His catalogue holds far more than the hits, and digging through it repays every minute spent.
I also think about his daughter, and about what it means to be a father and a famous singer at the same time. He guards his home life from the cameras, and that guardedness strikes me as the most sensible decision a famous father can make. He does not use his daughter for publicity, and he does not let the public into every part of his life. Drawing that line takes backbone, and it is also, in its own way, an act of love. Where famous people are now expected to broadcast every hour of their lives, he hands over only the pieces he selects and keeps the remainder at home. That restraint looks wise to me, and I suspect it is part of why he has kept his footing in an industry that swallows people whole.
Another thing that stays with me is his kindness. Colleagues of his keep mentioning the same things: the warmth, the courtesy toward everyone in the room, and the way he never forgets who gave him a hand when he had nothing. That counts for a great deal in a trade where headliners routinely treat their crews as furniture. Being decent to people is a decision you remake daily, and he appears to remake it every single day. I believe his listeners can hear the gentleness inside the songs, and that hearing it is part of why they never drift away. When the singer is gentle, the songs come out gentle too, and gentle songs have a way of mending what a hard day breaks.
My mind wanders sometimes to the teenagers watching him on a screen and suddenly picturing a stage with themselves on it. When a young person from the suburbs, from an immigrant family, sees Slimane on stage, they see someone who looks like them, who comes from a place like theirs, and who is loved by millions. That is not a small thing. For years, the famous faces on French screens looked nothing like the teenagers watching from the housing blocks, and those teenagers quietly learned to believe that stardom belonged to someone else entirely. Slimane broke that idea. He showed that a young man from Chelles, with Algerian roots, can be the biggest voice in France, and that changes what young people believe is possible for them.
When I picture the years ahead of him, the feeling that rises is a calm sort of hope, not excitement but trust. He is still young, he is still writing, and he is still growing as an artist. His voice has matured, his songs have deepened, and he has a life now that includes his daughter, his work, and his fans. I am genuinely curious to hear what he writes over the coming decade, once more living and more learning have piled up behind him. I suspect the songs still to come will outshine the ones we already love, since his writing deepens as his life does, and his life is nowhere near finished. I hope he refuses to hurry, and goes on singing only what he actually feels, since that plain honesty is what won people over to begin with.
In the end, what I take from the story of Slimane is a simple idea: sing what you feel, and sing it honestly. He did not try to be anyone else. He sang in French, he sang about love, he sang about Paris, and he sang about his life, and the world came to him. It runs directly against the usual counsel handed to young singers, which is to chase whatever is fashionable and keep the charts happy. He pleased himself first, and the market followed. Building a career by staying yourself, rather than by chasing the market, strikes me as both the boldest and the cleverest route, and the lesson holds well outside music. Whatever the work, whatever the life, the ones who endure are the ones who know themselves and will not act a part they do not believe.
One last thought stays with me. When I hear him sing “Mon amour”, I hear a man who has learned to love deeply, to lose, to hope, and to keep going. That is not just a pop song. It is a story of a life, told in a few minutes, with a voice that carries all of it. I am glad he is here, and I am glad he is singing, and I hope he keeps singing for a long time, because the world needs voices like his, voices that are warm, honest, and true.
I also think about the street, because that is where his story really begins, and I think the street taught him something that no school can teach. When you sing on the street, you learn to be humble, because the people passing by owe you nothing. They do not have to stop, they do not have to listen, and they do not have to pay. You must earn their attention with every note, and you must be grateful when they give it to you. That humility has stayed with him, even now that he sings in big halls. He still sings as if he is grateful for every listener, and that gratitude makes his concerts feel warm and personal.
There is another lesson in his story, and it is about the value of a simple song. We live in a time when pop music is full of effects, of auto-tune, of loud beats and bright lights, and it is easy to forget that a song can be just a voice and a melody. Slimane reminds us of that. His best songs are simple, and they work because the feeling in them is real. I think that is a lesson for young artists: you do not need a hundred instruments and a team of producers to move people. You need a true voice, a true feeling, and the courage to let them be heard.
I sometimes wonder what the young Slimane, singing on the streets of Paris, would think if he could see himself now, standing on the Eurovision stage, singing to hundreds of millions of people. I think he would be surprised, and I think he would be proud, not only of the fame, but of the fact that he never gave up. He kept singing when no one was listening, and that is the hardest kind of singing there is. I hope he knows that his younger self would be proud of him, because he stayed true to the dream, and he made it real.
Finally, I want to say that his story gives me hope, because it shows that the world still has room for a sincere voice. In a music industry that often rewards noise and spectacle, a man with a warm voice and an honest song can still reach the top. That is a hopeful thought, and it is one that I will carry with me. If Slimane can do it, then other honest singers can do it too, and the world will be better for it.
Frequently Asked Questions
Where was Slimane born and what is his background?
Slimane Nebchi was born on 13 October 1989 in Chelles, east of Paris, into a family of Algerian origin. He grew up between French and Algerian cultures, and that mix shaped his music and his voice.
How did Slimane become famous?
He won the fifth season of The Voice in France in 2016, as part of Florent Pagny’s team. Before that, he had spent years singing in the streets of Paris, in bars, and in small venues.
What is Slimane’s most famous song?
His most famous songs include “Paname”, a love letter to Paris from his first album, “Viens on s’aime”, and “Mon amour”, the song he performed at Eurovision in 2024. His duets with Vitaa, including “Avant toi”, are also hugely popular.
Did Slimane represent France at Eurovision?
Yes, he represented France at the Eurovision Song Contest in 2024 in Malmö, Sweden, with the song “Mon amour”. He finished in fourth place, one of the best French results in many years.
Who is Vitaa and why do they sing together?
Vitaa is a French singer, and she and Slimane recorded a series of duets together, releasing two albums under the name “Versus”. Their voices blend beautifully, and their songs about love became huge hits in France.
Does Slimane have children?
Yes, he became a father in 2022, when his daughter was born. He keeps his family life private, but he has spoken about how fatherhood gave him a new sense of purpose and changed his music.
