What are a pair of diminutive popstrels who aren't Kylie Minogue supposed to do as the pioneering priestesses of a new indie pop movement in order to keep their names from sinking underneath the maddening weight of the Boyles and Lamberts of this good galaxy? They could hawk Toblerones. But gut instinct tells me that they've grown accustomed to street cred and sell-out shows at Webster Hall and wouldn't compromise that for all the delicious nougat-filled Swiss chocolate in the world. A-ha! Maybe they can exchange snappy ditties.

A thorough cross-section of scenesters, roguish Frenchmen, and NYU kids playing hooky from their evening classes were in attendance last night at Yelle's show at Webster Hall. And had I not been swimming in a bowl of tom kha soup at Klong just up the street, I would've also been in attendance for the sets of support acts kap10Kurt and Funeral Party. The singular highlight of the night wasn't Yelle's orange sneakers (though they did come close), but both performances of her hit single.

A few years back, it was penguins who ruled the documentary roost. Then came docs about Iraq. I predict the next trend in nonfiction filmmaking will have something to do with the economy, but until then, following French electro acts on tour looks like the subject matter du jour. Watching the trailer for the new Justice tour DVD A Cross the Universe made me giddy with jealousy as well as forcing an unwelcome life-path reconsideration. The doc was shot by So Me (the man responsible for Justice's brilliant "DVNO" video), while the Ed Banger boys toured their breakthrough album †. Another documentary, C'est L'Amerique, featuring BlackBook favorite Yelle, is also in production; this one's by Yoann Lemoine, who, beginning ten days ago, is following the French singer around the US and Iceland (and also shot her newest video for "Ce Jeu." Combined, the teasers show that the French are effortlessly cooler than we are, and they probably have more fun in this country than we do. Because when it's all said and done, they get to leave. Videos after the jump.

In the booming, bustling world of urban nightlife, things are neither silent nor still, nor necessarily what they seem. Here, when most people have begun cashing in on their eight hours of rest, we hit the streets with our most beloved, insatiable crew of revelers—from deejays and drag queens to one very poised 92-year-old single gal—to experience the debauchery and decadence of the world after dark.

There we were, perched atop the balcony inside the Highline Ballroom waiting for Yelle to take the stage—which didn’t happen until 1:30 a.m.—when our friend picked out a bleach-blonde dancer amidst the mass and said, “Isn’t that Sia?”

Strutting out on stage in sequins, French electro-pop singer Yelle has that je ne sais quoi to automatically captivate the audience at her Toronto show. With an intense, non-stop energy, her saucy moves prompted sweaty bodies to lose it on the crammed dancefloor. When asked where this stamina comes from, Yelle attributes it to feeling her feel-good performance. “I don’t take drugs or drink alcohol before the show, I just eat pasta, and I sleep every chance I get.”