In French rap, Verlan is more than just slang. It’s a sonic weapon, a marker of identity, a tool for complex lyrical acrobatics, and a vibrant form of social commentary. It’s the linguistic fingerprint of a culture that has always defined itself against the mainstream.
At its core, Verlan is a simple concept. The name itself is an example of the process: it comes from flipping the syllables of l’envers (meaning “the reverse” or “back-to-front”). The rules are fluid, but the basic mechanism involves inverting syllables and often dropping or altering vowels for better flow.
Here are some classic examples:
While forms of back-slang have existed in French for centuries, modern Verlan exploded in the post-war housing projects (les banlieues) surrounding major cities. For the marginalized youth, often from immigrant backgrounds, it became a coded language—a way to speak freely in front of authority figures like police (les keufs) or parents, and to forge a collective identity separate from the polished, formal French of the establishment.
When hip-hop arrived in France in the 1980s, it found a ready-made linguistic partner in Verlan. The synergy was immediate and powerful for several reasons:
As French rap matured, so did its use of Verlan. It evolved from a simple identifier to a sophisticated tool for wordplay, allowing artists to showcase their lyrical dexterity.
In the 1990s, artists like MC Solaar elevated Verlan into poetry. Solaar wasn’t just using it for grit; he wove it into complex, multi-layered rhymes, playing with double meanings and contrasting Verlan with more formal French. He demonstrated that the language of the streets could be as clever and profound as any other literary form.
What happens when the mainstream starts understanding your code? You encrypt it again. This led to the creation of “double Verlan”, where a Verlan word is itself put into Verlan. This keeps the language fresh, exclusive, and demonstrates a rapper’s deep fluency in street culture.
The most famous example is the word for “Arab”:
Today, rebeu is arguably more common among young people than beur, showing how rap can accelerate linguistic evolution. Another example is the word for police:
Modern French rappers continue to push the boundaries. Nekfeu, whose stage name is the Verlan of fennec (a type of fox), is a master technician. His high-speed flows are packed with intricate wordplay, anagrams, and multiple layers of Verlan. For him, it’s not just slang but a core component of his artistic identity, a way to display lyrical virtuosity.
On the other hand, the mega-successful duo PNL (Peace N’ Lovés) uses Verlan to build a unique, insular world. Their atmospheric, melancholic “cloud rap” is peppered with their own slang and Verlan, like la mif (from famille, meaning family). This creates a sense of intimacy and in-group belonging for their listeners, making them feel part of PNL’s universe.
Beyond the technical skill, the use of Verlan in French rap remains a potent social act. It constantly redraws the line between “us” (the youth, the multi-ethnic banlieues) and “them” (the establishment, old-world France). Choosing to say une meuf instead of une femme, or vénère instead of énervé, is a small but significant act of cultural alignment.
Words like rebeu are particularly powerful. They represent a community reclaiming its own identity, defining itself on its own terms rather than accepting labels assigned by others. Rap became the vehicle that broadcasted these new terms to a national audience, cementing them in the youth consciousness.
Verlan is the living, breathing, and ever-evolving heartbeat of French rap. It’s a testament to how language, when wielded by a powerful subculture, can be twisted, inverted, and reinvented to tell a new story. So the next time you hear a French hip-hop track, listen for the flip—you’re hearing more than just slang; you’re hearing a revolution, one syllable at a time.
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