The delectable femme fatale of croissant-lounge musak, April March blends exotic intrigue with a voice that purrs like an overfed kitten asleep in the sun. Called "Nancy Sinatra on nitrous oxide", she oozes spaced-out "kitsch hop" from a bygone era when smoking was cool and romance ruled the night.

Her music pays homage to French Yé Yé music, led by the likes of male yum-yum chanteuse Serge Gainsbourg. For this Audrey Hepburn-worshiping pop tart, "Chrominance Decoder," is not a sound, but a way of life.

April March has a knack for wrapping her succulent voice around kitschy European hits and making them her own special brand of catnip delight. Here are four purrrfectly good reason to snuggle up with someone of consenting age and dream your troubles away.

I hope you have a few minutes because this is a rather long story. It starts with me arriving in Los Angeles from New York City in 1991. I drove out in my sister's Volkswagon Fox to work at Spumco on "The Ren and Stimpy Show."

April March has been creating quite a lengthy discography of eclecticism. From her beginnings in the Pussywillows, to the Shitbirds, to the current April March and the Haves, Blake has kept a constant flow of credible projects and collaborations.

A young American girl with a smile that would have bowled Errol Flynn over goes barefootin' in a Parisian street, buys a second-hand polka-dot dress and sings about a boyfriend about to melt like an ice-cube in her Mint Julep.

Hop on to the backseat of your shiny new Vespa and enjoy live April March's koo-koo-loving, lobe-tickling, vivraphonically-dandy, low-fi ride.

I write songs and record for film and television. I'm a painter. I usually paint as soon as I wake up in the morning. I used to be a professional animator. I like to read. Here are a few of my favorite things.

Meet the boys in the band touring with April March. Go backstage and find out what makes them so special.

She's the cool girl, the girl that wants to be adopted by Robert Mitchum for chrissakes. Have a cosmopolitan, brush up on your French, and send her an e-mail.

And what, or who, does she think of when the end-credits dissolve from the browser screen and the murmur of radio parasites wraps her in electrical snow?