And that was Barbara's particular realm. Her songs ask questions that cut to the core of our relationships. "She feels personal to each of us," a psychoanalyst explained. She is also possibly the first woman anywhere to achieve success as a singer-songwriter.

Her birth name, Monique Serf, was discarded for her maternal grandmother's, Barbara. Born Jewish in Paris in June 1930, she went into two forms of hiding during the Nazi occupation — from fear of betrayal and deportation on the one hand and, on the other, from the unspeakable assault of paternal incest. In her song "Nantes" she croons about travelling to a distant town to see a lover who is dying — and who, in the final stanza, becomes her father, the man who raped her as a child. 

Forbidden love was a recurrent theme for Barbara — in "Amours Incestueuses" and again in "L'Aigle Noir" where the dark shadow that covers her at night could be the predatory father, the forces of evil, or Barbara herself. She always wore black, "her only colour", her dresser told me. 

The colour of her music, however, was far from morbid. Accompanying herself on piano, she added guitar, accordion, strings and electronics to find the exact mood for the sentiments she laid bare. A classical composer who joined as her sound designer would rehearse for six months until she was satisfied. "Once a week?" I asked. "Every day," he affirmed. Friends, managers, musicians and mere acquaintances would get a call from Barbara in the middle of the night to hear a new song or discuss, for hours on end, some trivial news story. Alone was a state she could not bear for long.