Ces gens-là Masterpiece. 5/5 On a grammatical note, there are an awful lot of apostrophes in the French lyrics printed above. And lot of them are pretty unnecessary and some are downright misleading. French is difficult enough without adding complications. Let's just say that in French an apostrophe replaces a letter. So for example, when you write 'il y a' in a reduced form it becomes 'y a' with no apostrophe because there's no letter being replaced. You do see the mistake sometimes in French, but that doesn't mean it's correct. OK, rant over. Here's my intrepretation of this fantastic song : At their place First, we have the eldest, the one like a melon, the one with the big nose Who no longer knows his own name, sir, he drinks so much or has drunk so much, Who doesn't lift a finger but says he can't take any more. He who is completely plastered And who thinks himself the king, who gets drunk every night with bad wine, But who you find in the morning snoozing in the church, stiff as a ledge, white as an Easter candle, And then he st-st-stammers and he has a blank look. I must tell you, sir, that, at their place, you don’t think, sir, you don’t think, You pray. And then, there’s the other one with carrots in his hair, who has never seen a comb, Who is a nasty piece of work, even if he would give his shirt to the fortunate poor people, He who married that Denise, a girl from the town, well, from another town, And for who it's not over yet, who does his little business deals with his little hat, with his little coat, With his little car. Who would like very much to have airs but hasn’t got any airs at all. You mustn’t pretend to be wealthy when you haven’t a penny to your name. I must tell you, sir, that at their place, you don’t live, sir, you don’t live, You cheat. And then there are the others. The mother who says nothing or else says absolutely anything, And from evening to morning on his saintly mug, and in its wooden frame, There is the moustache of the father who slipped and died, And who watches his brood eat their cold soup as they make great slurps, as they make great slurps. And then there’s the aged woman who never stops shaking. They’re waiting for her to die Seeing as it's her who's got the dosh, and they don’t even hear what her poor hands are telling them. I must tell you, sir that at their place, you don’t talk, sir, you don’t talk, You count. And then, and then, and then there’s Frieda who is beautiful like a sun And who loves me just as much as I love Frieda. We even tell each other often That we’ll have a house with a load of windows and hardly any walls, And we will live there and it will be good to be there and if it’s not a sure thing At least it’s a “maybe”, because the others don’t want it, because the others don’t want it. The others say, for no reason, that she’s too beautiful for me, that I’m only good for strangling cats. I've never killed any cats! Or if I did, it was a long time ago. Or they didn’t smell good. Anyway, they don’t want it. Anyway, they don't want it. Sometimes we meet, pretending it’s by chance, with watery eyes She says that she will leave, she says that she will follow me, Then for an instant, just for an instant, then I believe her, sir, for an instant, just for an instant, Because at their place, sir, you don’t leave, you don’t leave, sir, you don’t leave. But it’s late, sir … I must return … to my place.
Ces gens-là I agree it's a masterpiece of atmosphere and evocation. The mesmeric piano phrase throughout does all the heavy lifting for the first two minutes until the accordion joins in; then there is the memorable orchestral outburst as Frida bursts onto the scene, which you can hear ebb away again when disappointment and frustration set in (more than once). Could it be that her family are trying to turn her into Margot? I presume the narrator is talking to Monsieur at a bar counter somewhere, but doesn't appear to be intoxicated like the character in L'ivrogne. 5/5 (and a new addition to my personal list of Brel favourites).
Today's song is Jacky AKA La chanson de Jacky (Jacky's Song) Words by Jacques Brel, music by Gérard Jouannest Arranged by François Rauber Recorded on the 2nd November 1965 at the Barclay-Hoche studios, Paris with François Rauber and his orchestra. It was featured on the "Ces gens-là" EP, the 1965 10" album ("Jacky") and the 1966 12" album ("Ces gens-là") It has been covered by, among others, Scott Walker, Marc Almond, Ute Lemper, The Divine Comedy, and Barb Jungr. Brel's ex-girlfriend Suzanne Gabriello recorded a parody, "Charlie" about Charles de Gaulle.
Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris (Original Off-Broadway Cast Recording) version ("Jackie")
Scott Walker, "Jackie" (1967). This was Walker's first solo single and it reached #22 on the UK charts. It was also on his second solo album.
Momus's own translation "Nicky" (Momus's real name being Nicolas Currie), from his Brel covers EP (1986)
Marc Almond's version, which got to #17 on the UK charts in 1991. With the chart success of the Scott Walker and Marc Almond versions, this is probably one of Brel's best known songs in the UK. It was referenced in the sitcom "Absolutely Fabulous" where a character claims to have been the song's inspiration.
Lyrics/paroles Même si un jour à Knokke-le-Zoute Je deviens comme je le redoute Chanteur pour femmes finissantes Même si je leur chante "Mi corazón" Avec la voix bandonéante D'un Argentin de Carcassonne Même si on m'appelle Antonio Que je brûle mes derniers feux En échange de quelques cadeaux Madame, oh madame, je fais ce que je peux Même si je me saoule à l'hydromel Pour mieux parler de virilité À des mémères décorées Comme des arbres de Noël Je sais que dans ma saoulographie Chaque nuit pour des éléphants roses Je rechanterai ma chanson morose Celle du temps où je m'appelais Jacky (Refrain) Être une heure, une heure seulement Être une heure, une heure quelquefois Être une heure, rien qu'une heure durant Beau, beau, beau et con à la fois Même si un jour à Macao Je deviens gouverneur de tripot Cerclé de femmes languissantes Même si lassé d'être chanteur J'y sois devenu maître chanteur Et que ce soit les autres qui chantent Même si on m'appelle le beau Serge Que je vende des bateaux d'opium Du whisky de Clermont-Ferrand De vrais pédés, de fausses vierges Que j'ai une banque à chaque doigt Et un doigt dans chaque pays Et que chaque pays soit à moi Je sais quand même que chaque nuit Tout seul au fond de ma fumerie Pour un public de vieux chinois Je rechanterai ma chanson à moi Celle du temps où je m'appelais Jacky (au refrain) Même si un jour au paradis Je deviens comme j'en serais surpris Chanteur pour femmes à ailes blanches Même si je leur chante alléluia En regrettant le temps d'en bas Où c'est pas tous les jours dimanche Même si on m'appelle Dieu le Père Celui qui est dans l'annuaire Entre Dieulefit et Dieu vous garde Même si je me laisse pousser la barbe Même si toujours trop bonne pomme Je me crève le cœur et le pur esprit À vouloir consoler les hommes Je sais quand même que chaque nuit J'entendrai dans mon paradis Les anges, les saints et Lucifer Me chanter ma chanson d'naguère Celle du temps où je m'appelais Jacky (au refrain)
English paraphrase, with thanks to spondres Even if one day in Knokke-le-Zoute I become, as I dread, a singer for clapped-out grannies. Even if I sing them "Mi Corazon" With the pseudo-bandetto voice Of an “Argentinian” from Carcasonne... Even if they call me Antonio And I fire off all my guns In exchange for little gifts, (Madam I do what I can)... Even if I get drunk on mead The better to talk about virility To grandmothers dressed up like Christmas trees... I know that in my drunken excesses Each night for pink elephants, I'll again sing them my sad song of the days when I was called Jacky. (chorus) Oh, to be for an hour, just for one hour, just sometimes ... Handsome and a dork at the same time! Even if one day in Macao I become manager of a gambling den Surrounded by sultry females... Even if, after being a singer, I become master singer [blackmailer/head pimp (?)] And it's the others who sing! Even if they call me Handsome Serge And I sold boatloads of opium, Of whisky from Clermont-Ferrand, Real queers and fake virgins.... Even if I have a bank at every finger And a finger in every country And every country ruled by me, Despite all this, I know that every night, Alone in my opium den For an audience of old Chinese, I'll sing them my song about me, Of the days when they called me Jacky (Chorus) Even if one day in heaven I become, Much to my surprise, A singer for white-winged women... Even if I sing them “hallelujah”, Regretting the bad times down below Where it's not always Sunday. Even if they call me God the Father, Who you'll find in the directory Between God Damn It and God Help Us, Even if I grow my beard... Even if my heart bleeds And I strain my pure spirit To console mankind, I know, even so, That every night in Heaven, The angels, the saints, and Lucifer Will sing to me my song of not so long ago, of the days when they called me Jacky. (Chorus)
Thread guide (part five) 1964 Mathilde Le tango funèbre (Funeral Tango) Les bergers Titine Jef (You're Not Alone) Les bonbons Le dernier repas (The Last Supper) Au suivant (Next) La toison d'or (1963) Les amants de cœur (The Lovers) Je m'en remets à toi (Charles Dumont) Olympia '64 Amsterdam Les Timides (Timid Frieda) Les jardins du casino
General thread guide Grand Jacques/Quand on n'a que l'amour albums, etc. (1953-57) Au printemps/La valse à mille temps albums etc. (1957-59) Marieke/Les bourgeois albums etc. (1960-1962) Les bigotes album etc. (1962-1963) Mathilde album etc. (1964) Brel associates and Brel "bingo cards" 1965 Ces gens-là Jacky (Jackie) Selected index of some of the more famous songs: Amsterdam Au printemps Au suivant (Next) Les biches Les bigotes Les bonbons Les bourgeois (The Middle Class) Bruxelles (Brussels) Ces gens-là Le dernier repas (The Last Supper) La Fanette Les Flamandes (Marathon) Jacky (Jackie) Je ne sais pas Jef (You're Not Alone) Madeleine Marieke Mathilde Le moribond (Seasons in the Sun) La mort (My Death) Ne me quitte pas (If You Go Away) On n’oublie rien Les paumés du petit matin Le plat pays Quand on n'a que l'amour (If We Only Have Love) Rosa Le tango funèbre (Funeral Tango) La valse à mille temps (Carousel) Les vieux (Old Folks) Ongoing spotify playlist of highest-rated songs
Jacky As I mentioned early in the thread, this is where I came in- seeing Almond sing it on TV and my dad telling me it was a Jacques Brel song, and showing me the UK 1967 Brel record they had with the original on there. And I played it, and so all this madness began. Another one of his overtly self-referential songs: I won't say "autobiographical" since none of the hypothetical things he says he might do ever came to pass. But it's a song of a singer called Jacques whose chart placings are faltering and he's starting to wonder just what washed up, sell-out, cheesy future is in store for him as he becomes a has been. Or will he just keep getting bigger and better until he's a god? It seems like this song was a harbinger of his decision to retire from the stage so as not to become what he most feared. Though the verses are amusing, it's the chorus that is really touching. Even if all these things happened, however big or corrupt he became, he'd still want sometimes to be that gawky little kid again. The man with the child in his eyes, as Kate Bush might put it. Musically, a tour de force from Jouannest. Though I prefer the fuller sound of the orchestra on Scott Walker's version. Regarding the well known Shuman translation, so many of the lines are very well done, and funny in their own right, but it misses the mark in a few crucial places to the extent that I misunderstood what the song was really about for along time, having heard the English version first. I know it's hard to get a literal translation to scan, but you can't just translate "même si" ("even if") as "and if". Also an hour every day is quite a lot more than the occasional hour Brel would be content with. In summary, one of my favourites. 5/5
Jacky A spirited romp, with Brel sounding inspired without going completely over the top vocally. 4/5
The English Revue version (Mort Shuman translation) that I'm familiar with is a great song, deep, thoughtful lyrics and a jaunty melody go perfect together. I've never heard the Scott Walker version but Shuman himself does a great job I'm surprised how close the English and original lyrics are on this one
Jacky And another one ! 5/5 * clapped-out grannies * Maître-chanteur is definitely blackmailer so : Even if, after being a singer, I became a blackmailer And made the others do all the singing.
What a song. Brel rages like a hurricane, as if he has too little time to say everything he wants to say. No time to breathe. Wonderful song. I love it. 5/5
Our average score for "Jacky" was 4.7 Today's song is L'âge idiot (The Idiotic Age) Words and music by Jacques Brel Arranged by François Rauber Recorded on the 2nd November 1965 at the Barclay-Hoche studios, Paris with François Rauber and his orchestra. It was featured on the "Ces gens-là" EP, the 1965 10" album ("Jacky") and the 1966 12" album ("Ces gens-là")
Lyrics/paroles L'âge idiot, c'est à 20 fleurs Quand le ventre brûle de faim Qu'on croit se laver le cœur Rien qu'en se lavant les mains Qu'on a les yeux plus grands qu'le ventre Qu'on a les yeux plus grands qu'le cœur Qu'on a le cœur encore trop tendre Qu'on a les yeux encore pleins d'fleurs Mais qu'on sent bon les champs de luzerne L'odeur des tambours mal battus Qu'on sent les clairons refroidis Et les lits de petite vertu Et qu'on s'endort toutes les nuits Dans les casernes L'âge idiot, c'est à 30 fleurs Quand le ventre prend naissance Quand le ventre prend puissance Qu'il vous grignote le cœur Quand les yeux se font plus lourds Quand les yeux marquent les heures Eux qui savent qu'à 30 fleurs Commence le compte à rebours Qu'on rejette les vieux dans leur caverne Qu'on offre à Dieu des bonnets d'âne Mais que le soir on s'allume des feux En frottant deux cœurs de femmes Et qu'on regrette déjà un peu Le temps des casernes L'âge idiot c'est 60 fleurs Quand le ventre se ballotte Quand le ventre ventripote Qu'il vous a bouffé le cœur Quand les yeux n'ont plus de larmes Quand les yeux tombent en neige Quand les yeux perdent leurs pièges Quand les yeux rendent les armes Qu'on se ressent de ses amours Mais qu'on se sent des patiences Pour des vieilles sur le retour Ou des trop jeunes en partance Et qu'on se croit protégé Par les casernes L'âge d'or c'est quand on meurt Qu'on se couche sous son ventre Qu'on se cache sous son ventre Les mains protégeant le cœur Qu'on a les yeux enfin ouverts Mais qu'on ne se regarde plus Qu'on regarde la lumière Et ses nuages pendus L'âge d'or c'est après l'enfer C'est après l'âge d'argent On redevient petit enfant Dedans le ventre de la Terre L'âge d'or c'est quand on dort Dans sa dernière caserne
English paraphrase by spondres The idiotic age is at 20 flowers (years) When your stomach is burning with humger And you think you're washing your heart When you're just washing your hands When your eyes are larger than your stomach When your eyes are larger than your heart When your heart is still much too tender When your eyes are still full of flowers When you enjoy the smell of fields of Lucerne The smell of badly hit drums When you smell the cooled down bugles And the beds of little virtue And you fall asleep every night In barrack blocks The idiotic age is 30 flowers When your belly starts to form When your belly takes on power When it nibbles at your heart When your eyes start to be heavier When your eyes mark the passing hours Those who know that at 30 flowers The countdown starts When you reject the old men in their cavern When you offer dunce's caps to God But in the evening your light your fires By rubbing the hearts of two women together And you already miss a little The time of the barrack blocks The idiotic age is sixty flowers When the belly rolls around When the belly pots [made up use as a verb - ventripotent is an adjective meaning pot-bellied] When it has eaten up your heart When your eyes no longer shed tears When your eyes falls as snow When your eyes lose their snares When your eyes give up their weapons When you feel the effect of your loves When you have feelings of patience For old women coming back Or for the too young departing And when you feel protected By barrack blocks The golden age is when you die When you're lying beneath your belly When you're hiding beneath your belly With your hands protecting your heart When your eyes are finally open But you know longer look at each other When you watch the light And its suspended clouds The golden age is after hell It's after the silver age You become a little child again In the belly of the earth The golden age is when you sleep In your final barrack block
L'âge idiot One of the most harsh and strident sounding Brel songs, with those blaring trumpets. Though there is the glorious oasis of calm in the penultimate line of each verse. And as with a lot of these songs, the second half of each verse is generally sweeter, or at least more yearning-sounding, than the first half. I really love this album so much, in either version, that I really can't be down on any of its component parts. 4/5
