Don't be fooled by the mournful grain to Tété's voice and his delicately plucked acoustic guitar. His songs lie at the least sour end of the bittersweet scale, never afraid to cock a jaunty hat in the direction of the sunny side of the street (the heel-clicking “Le meilleur des mondes” literally translates as “the best of worlds”) or a nightclub mirrorball (“La bande son de ta vie” is a Motown symphony). And when he does cast his eyes downward and embrace the darkness, it's with hug-warmed harmonies, a shoulder-chuck from his muscular rock band or heroic uplift from a billowing orchestra.