The lights are down, but the air still hums with the residual glow of a thousand watts. You can almost smell the hairspray and the dust motes dancing in the studio’s final, exhausted beam of sun. This isn’t the gritty, tambourine-shaking, “us against the world” vibe of their breakthrough. This is something else entirely. This is the moment in 1966 when the self-proclaimed ‘Wondrous World’ of Sonny & Cher, even as they titled their second album exactly that, admitted to a seismic, internal fracture. The admission came in the form of a devastatingly mature ballad: “What Now My Love.”
I first encountered this specific piece of music not through a crackling vintage radio, but through the polished, almost impossibly deep audio of a later compilation. It was a late-night revelation. The familiar pop duo, all bell-bottoms and shared harmony, were suddenly channeling a despair that felt ancient, continental, and infinitely heavier than their hippie-protest anthems. It was a stylistic pivot, a gamble on sophistication that ultimately paid off, both by proving their vocal and production mettle and by giving them a durable classic beyond the immediate shadow of “I Got You Babe.”
The Chanson in the California Sun
To understand the weight of “What Now My Love,” we must first acknowledge its pedigree. The song is the English-language adaptation of “Et maintenant” (“And Now”), a 1961 French chanson written by Gilbert Bécaud with lyrics by Pierre Delanoë. This lineage is crucial. It means that Cher and Sonny were not tackling a standard Brill Building track or a folk song; they were interpreting a European masterwork of high, operatic sadness, translated into English by Carl Sigman. It’s a song about the crushing finality of a relationship’s end, an abyss of existence that opens up when the essential other is gone.
Sonny Bono, who had worked as an apprentice to the maximalist producer Phil Spector, took on the mantle of producer for this track (as he did for much of their early work). His arrangement is a remarkable evolution from the relatively simple backing tracks of their debut. Here, Bono leans fully into the dramatic, orchestral capabilities of the studio, reportedly employing the stellar session musicians collectively known as The Wrecking Crew. The single, released in early 1966, was immediately recognized as a different creature, peaking within the Top 20 on both the US and UK charts and offering a dramatic counterpoint to the folk-pop sound that had made their name.
Architecture of Despair
The arrangement is a study in controlled ascent. It opens with an unmistakable rhythmic motif: a low, insistent, almost heartbeat-like pattern in the percussion section, a subtle homage to the boléro rhythm found in the original French song. This rhythmic anchor is the foundation upon which the towering melody is built.
The initial verses are reserved, carried primarily by Cher’s voice. Her timbre here is lower, less brassy than it would become, yet profoundly resonant, imbued with a world-weary sorrow that belies her youth. The instrumentation is sparse at first—a delicate, tremulous string section enters, sustained and shimmering, painting the atmosphere in shades of grey. A solitary, perfectly placed figure from a piano helps mark the harmonic changes, its notes sounding like teardrops hitting the tile floor.
Then, the orchestra swells.
When Sonny joins Cher for the choruses, their combined voices become one voice of sweeping, existential dread. It’s an exercise in sonic contrast: the raw, slightly nasal quality of Sonny’s voice providing texture and grounding the immaculate, dark honey of Cher’s lead. They sing in unison, not the playful call-and-response of their hits, but a unified lament that seems to hold all the sorrow of the world.
“The track finds its grandeur not in volume, but in the sheer conviction of its heartbreak.”
The full orchestration arrives not as a chaotic wave, but as a disciplined tide. There are sweeping banks of strings, yes, but they are used for color and intensity, never obscuring the core vocal performance. There’s a crucial, low, almost growling brass element that adds gravitas during the instrumental break, which leads into a plaintive, brief solo line, possibly from an acoustic guitar, a whisper of Americana momentarily intruding on the European drama. If you listen closely, particularly on a good premium audio system, the depth of the reverb tail on Cher’s sustained notes is almost three-dimensional, capturing the feeling of a cavernous, empty room left behind by a departing lover.
The Contrast of the Couple
The genius of Sonny Bono’s production is the way he took the perceived limitations of the duo—often criticized for their relative vocal simplicity compared to sophisticated balladeers—and forced them to rise to the grandeur of the composition. They succeed by sheer conviction.
This song is the grit beneath the glamour. While they were building their public image as the charming, stylish, in love duo, their music here suggests a far more turbulent interior life, a maturity they had not yet been credited with. It gave them a valuable artistic dimension: they weren’t just the architects of teenage devotion; they were capable interpreters of adult despair. The track served as a bridge, transitioning them from novelty act to enduring cultural figures, capable of covering and creating material that stood up next to the work of the era’s most revered artists. Its success showed the record label, Atco, that the Bono-Cher partnership could deliver complex, dramatic pop music, not just folk-rock hits.
The Sound of Solitude
Think of the person putting this record on in 1966. Maybe they’re finally alone in a quiet suburban living room, needing a soundtrack for an unspoken failure. The song isn’t loud or abrasive; it’s a slow-burn emotional release. It’s the kind of song that prompts the purchase of sheet music to try to capture the sweep of that piano melody or the string arrangement, a tangible souvenir of a deep feeling.
The sheer dramatic weight of the composition means it’s ripe for re-interpretation, and indeed, many have recorded it, from Elvis Presley to Herb Alpert. But the Sonny & Cher version holds a unique place: it is the moment the street-smart, denim-clad pop stars became opera singers of the everyday. They took a foreign language of grief and made it sound like the common tongue of American heartache.
It’s a testament to the duo’s early drive and ambition—Sonny’s vision, Cher’s unique vocal power—that a track of this melancholic sweep became a hit. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most sophisticated statements are born not out of sunshine and happiness, but out of the grand, orchestrated articulation of profound loss. Put it on, turn it up, and let the magnificent despair wash over you.
Listening Recommendations
- Scott Walker – “Joanna” (1968): Shares the same dramatic, orchestral arrangement and devastating, first-person narrative of loss.
- Shirley Bassey – “What Now My Love” (1962): An earlier, more theatrical version that emphasizes the song’s grand, chanson origins.
- Dusty Springfield – “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself” (1964): Another 1960s pop track that elevates a simple emotional crisis with lush, Phil Spector-esque strings.
- The Righteous Brothers – “Ebb Tide” (1965): Features the same kind of deep, resonant male-female vocal contrast set against a swelling, epic orchestral backdrop.
- Frank Sinatra – “It Was a Very Good Year” (1965): Similar mood of mature, reflective melancholy, using a subtle, sophisticated arrangement to underscore a life’s passing.
- Walker Brothers – “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore” (1966): An equally despairing pop song from the same year, built around a colossal wall of sound and soaring vocals.