The Parisian six-man Saian Supa Crew is bouncing around the stage like an amphetamine-charged boy band. As they stomp through perfectly synchronized b-boy routines–tent-sized t-shirts flapping behind them–they belt out exhilarating multi-layered flows, insane beat-boxing, carnival-jump-up-style hooks, and pitch-perfect harmonies. Despite not having a freaking clue what they’re rapping about, I’m immediately swept up in their vibe. Along with the rest of the enthused crowd, I rock, bop, and punch the air like a kid at her first concert, vowing to love these guys for, like, ever.

That was the first time I saw Saian Supa Crew perform at The French Embassy in London, back in 1999. Since then I’ve been fortunate to somehow see Sir Samuel, Sly the Mic Buddha, Feniksi, Vicelow, Leeroy, and Specta (the latter two are no longer part of the crew) perform another four times, the group always as breathtaking as it was at that first magical show. Their prowess lies in their genuine skills, not the fronting. They don’t have the nasty bag of lyrics prevalent in so much of today’s hip hop, but rather the kind of mad-sick ability across the board of hip-hop’s core disciplines (rap, b-boying, beat-boxing) that leaves audiences stupefied.

If I could understand the lyrics of their albums–1999’s KLR, 2001’s X-Raisons, and 2005’s Hold-Up–I’m convinced I’d be even more blown away. My French connections tell me Saian’s style is not just socially biting and hilariously madcap but that they rap in a type of Paris street slang that flips the syllables of a word around to pronounce it back to front. It’s the West’s limited patience with non-English-language music that has kept them off the radar, and from becoming the world-renowned hip-hop royalty their talent merits.

And I’m as guilty as the next head for keeping it that way. I inexplicably forget about them just a few months after watching them in concert. I rarely play their albums, never check for them on YouTube, and never discuss them with friends. Why? Maybe it’s because no matter how much I love the flow, intonation, and beats, I can’t sing along, reassess the lyrical meaning, or empathize with the story of each album. But when I watch them perform I feel them as much, if not more, than I do the vast majority of English-speaking rappers–and fall in love with them all over again.

A native son of the City of Lights, Wax Tailor (otherwise known as JC Le Saout) walks a tightrope between geographies and genres. Parisians forget he’s actually a local, while Americans consider his embrace of hip-hop’s explosive golden era anachronistic in this age of blingy, ego-driven rap. Their loss, and not just because the noir-hop soundtracker actually scored a couple songs for the forthcoming Cedric Klapisch movie, Paris, or because Wax Tailor recently manned the wheels of steel for the Cannes Film Festival. Whether it’s scoring a Juliette Binoche kiss or crafting a haunting track for his recent release, Hope & Sorrow, with U.S. soul diva Sharon Jones, Le Saout has a je ne sais quoi for sonics.

“I began as a big fan of bands like Public Enemy, Eric B. & Rakim, and EPMD,” Le Saout explains, “as well as composers like John Barry, Lalo Schifrin, and Francois de Roubaix. I was totally compulsive about listening to music.”

His previous effort, Tales of Forgotten Melodies, is evidence of that compulsion, filled as it was with brooding arrangements of Hitchcockian splendor, as well as head-bobbing paeans to a hip-hop yesterday that Wax Tailor refuses to bid adieu.

“I feel a kind of nostalgia about the golden years,” he adds. “We’ve still got great producers like Edan or Madlib, but I’m happy to hear one classic album each year, when I used to hear about 15 a year in the early ‘90s. But I really think that there is a connection between the soundtrack and the hip-hop sound. The pulse of the rhythm, the emotions of the arrangements.”

And while the title Hope & Sorrow may indicate no variation on that lovelorn theme, Wax Tailor’s newest record owes more to Herbaliser than it does Bernard Hermann. Especially with the vocal aid of Sharon Jones on the poignant “The Way We Lived.”

“I wanted to mix early ’70s soul with my sound,” Le Saout says, “and I was convinced that Sharon could bring something special to the track. It was a great honor to work with her.”

Their productive culture mash may become the norm in our digital age, where Google Maps brings Paris to your bedroom while internet labels and audiences evolve beyond geographical boundaries.

“In France,” Le Saout explains, “the hip-hop scene is really developed, with more and more alternatives like instrumentals, turntablists, abstracts, and rap. It’s possible to get out of the traditional formats. I think that people don’t care anymore about where the music is coming from. We’re on the internet now. People judge you by your sound.”