Though it's little-known to English-speaking audiences, "Voila" is great 1960s symphonic pop, similar in some respects to and as good as contemporaneous efforts by Dusty Springfield in the same vein (such as "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me"). Certainly it was one of the greatest triumphs of Françoise Hardy's career, and it is unfortunate that most of her 1960s work subsequent to this track (which appeared on a 1967 French EP) was not nearly as ambitious in the scope of its production. "Voila" begins with an alternation of sassy piano and horn riffs, against a thundering yet crisp percussive beat that's Phil Spector-like in its density. Hardy sings the verses in a somewhat more confident and playful tone than was her wont, rejoined at various turns by responsive horn lines. She gets more earnest and strident, though, as the chorus approaches and the melody shifts into more powerful gear. The chorus is pull-out-the-stops time, as Hardy grandly intones the lyrics in some of the most powerful, yet clear, singing she ever put on disc, bolstered by melodramatic choral backup vocals, horns, and piano trills. Just as it reaches a fervent climax, though, it hushes quickly down. So do her vocals as she returns to the verse in a sexy near-whisper. Soon enough it's back to the chorus, which this time ends on an expansive sustained note, the horns, piano, drums, and voices all swelling to an appropriately operatic finale. "Voila" is heart stopping, sentimental, dramatic pop, pulled off with more aplomb here than in almost any other disc, by Hardy or anyone else.