Some Songs by Georges Brassens:  Part One

Jack Foley

Et je demande pourquoi, bon dieu
Ça vous dérange que je vive un peu
-Georges Brassens

Two rhymed translations:

Why should it bother you a tittle,
Lord, that I live and breathe a little

*

I ask you why, my Sovereign Lord,
It bugs you that I have bed and board

When the French singer/songwriter Georges Brassens died, the Minister of Culture issued a statement: "The death of Georges Brassens touches all French people. He was one of the rare artists to combine poetry and music. It will be difficult to live without Georges Brassens." The American novelist Peter S. Beagle called Brassens "the last medieval poet." "It's hard to explain to an American audience what Brassens meant to the French," wrote Beagle. "For 30 years...his presence dominated the chanson. France has had great songwriters for a thousand years; but Brassens alone bridged the gap between the poetry anthologies and the lunchtime whistling of waitresses and construction workers. We have no equivalent for such a figure in America. The French hardly did themselves."

Beagle tells us that Brassens was "a country boy from Sète [in Southern France] who never finished school." He

read seemingly everything published in French, and couched inspiringly obscene ballads in language of almost archaic elegance and daintiness. Self-taught composer, he put flamenco chords into nursery rhymes, sneaky jazz progressions behind ghost stories.

Calling himself "Le polisson / De la chanson" ("The bad boy / Of song") Brassens was capable of delicate, poetic work:

Au bois d' Clamart y a des petit's fleurs
            Y a des petit's fleurs
Y a des copains au, au bois d' mon coeur
            Au, au bois d' mon coeur

In the woods of Clamart flowers grow
            Little flowers at Clamart
In the woods of my heart there are pals, buddies
            There, there in the woods of my heart

But he was also "Le Pornographe du Phonographe," the pornographer of the phonograph:

Autrefois quand j'étais marmot
J'avais la phobie des gros mots
Et si j' pensais merde tout bas
Je ne le disais pas
            Mais
Aujourd'hui que mon gagne-pain
C'est d' parler comme un turlupin
Je n' pense plus merde pardi
            Mais je le dis.

In the old days when I was a kid
I had a fear of bad words
And if I thought merde very softly
I didn't say it
            But
Now that my line of work
Is to talk like a buffoon
I no longer think merde by Jove
            But I say it.

Or, in a rhymed version:

As a kid I had a fear of words
That referred to things like turds
Though I sometimes thought the word,
I'd not say: turd
            But
Now today that my line of work
Is to talk like a man berserk
I never ever think of it
            But I say: SHIT

Brassens wrote lyrics of great wit and complexity and matched them with simple melodies-at times flavored by surprising chord progressions. The violent shifts of moods and contexts-and sometimes keys-often create the sense of a mini explosion.

One famous song, "Le gorille," is about an escaped gorilla who loses his virginity by raping a young male magistrate rather than an old woman. (The gorilla is still a virgin because the females of his species have discovered that he's inexperienced and so won't have anything to do with him.)  The  old woman is amazed that anythingwould desire her; the magistrate is erroneously certain that the gorilla would never mistake him for a mate. Brassens comments that gorillas are not known for their taste or intellect. Given such a choice, he says, he himself would certainly have chosen the old woman, "as almost anyone would." Not so the gorilla. The animal drags the judge into the bushes "by the ear." At the "supreme moment" the magistrate cries, "Mama" and weeps-much like the man he had ordered beheaded that very day: "Gare au gorille," "Beware of the gorilla."

"Le gorille" was written in 1952. It is inconceivable that such a song would have made the hit parade in the United States of that time. Its wildness, violence and sexuality is to some degree equivalent to the wildness, violence and sexuality of Allen Ginsberg's "Howl," produced a few years later. Both were extravagant, even outrageous responses to the deadness of the post-war era. One wonders whether Brassens were aware of the etymological origin of the word "gorilla": wild men, hairy humans. He assures us,

Gorillas are superior to men in lovemaking
Many women will tell you so

After Brassens gained fame, orchestras would strike up "Gare au gorille" whenever he entered a café or night club.

*

The first song I've translated appeared in 1962, when Brassens was in his early forties. Its title, "Le temps ne fait rien à l'affaire," "Time Makes No Difference," comes from a line in Molière's play Le Misanthrope. The song is featured in the film, The Dinner Game. "Le temps ne fait rien à l'affaire" is energized by a gros mot (not in Molière) which is repeated throughout: con. The word means, literally, cunt, vagina. It's commonly used, however, to refer to a fool, a silly person-often male. The closest English equivalent would be the slightly less vulgar word, schmuck, a Yiddish word which literally means penis. A con would be, paradoxically, a "dick-head."

Brassens was a scholarly man who loved the work of the great 15th-century French poet François Villon. He set Villon's "Ballade des dames du temps jadis" ("Ballade  of Women of Former Times") to music and sang it. The poem's famous refrain, "Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?" ("But where are the snows of yesteryear?"), is referred to somewhat scandalously in "Time Makes No Difference." Villon's "où sont" becomes Brassens' "Vieux cons"-a very similar sound. Indeed, the word conis heard everywhere in the song: in "cocon," "Quand," "Qu'on," "controverses," and "confessez."

The singer stands at the crossroads between youth and old age; his youth is gone, and he is just beginning to feel old. The song offers him the uneasy consolation that time doesn't matter-if he is a con. "Time makes no difference": only a schmuckwould think that!

                    
LE TEMPS NE FAIT RIEN A L'AFFAIRE

Quand ils sont tout neufs
Qu'ils sortent de l'oeuf
Du cocon
Tous les jen's blancs-becs
Prennent les vieux mecs
Pour des cons
Quand ils sont d'venus
Des têtes chenues
Des grisons
Tous les vieux fourneaux
Prennent les jeunots 
Pour des cons
Moi qui balance entre deux âges
J' leur adresse à tous un message.

Le temps ne fait rien à l'affaire
Quand on est con, on est con
Qu'on ait vingt ans, qu'on soit grand-père
Quand on est con, on est con
Entre vous plus de controverse
Cons caducs ou cons débutants
Petits cons d' la dernière averse
Vieux cons des neiges d'antan
Petits cons d' la dernière averse
Vieux cons des neiges d'antan

Vous les cons naissants
Les cons innocents
Les jeun's cons
Qui le niez pas
Prenez les papas
Pour des cons
Vous les cons âgés
Les cons usagés
Les vieux cons
Qui, confessez-le
Prenez les p'tits bleus
Pour des cons
Méditez l'impartial message
D'un qui balance entre deux âges

Le temps ne fait rien à l'affaire
Quand on est con, on est con
Qu'on ait vingt ans, qu'on soit grand-père
Quand on est con, on est con
Entre vous plus de controverse
Cons caducs ou cons débutants
Petits cons d' la dernière averse
Vieux cons des neiges d'antan
Petits cons d' la dernière averse
Vieux cons des neiges d'antan

TIME MAKES NO DIFFERENCE

When they're very new
When they leave the egg
Or the cocoon
All the young "white beaks"
Take the old guys
To be SCHMUCKS.
When they reach the point 
When they have bald heads
And gray beards,
Then the old fools
Take the young ones
To be SCHMUCKS.
As for myself, balanced as I am between the two,
I send this message to all of you:

Time makes no difference.
If you're a SCHMUCK, you're a SCHMUCK.
You might be twenty, you might be a grandfather,
If you're a SCHMUCK, you're a SCHMUCK.
No more arguing!-
Decrepit or debutant-you're peers!
Little SCHMUCKS of the latest wave,
Old SCHMUCKS of the snows of yesteryear,
Little SCHMUCKS dressed in the latest fashion,
Old farts of the snows of yesteryear.

You, new-born SCHMUCKS
Innocent SCHMUCKS
Young SCHMUCKS
Who-don't deny it!-
Take your papas
To be SCHMUCKS;
You, aged SCHMUCKS,
Used SCHMUCKS, 
Old SCHMUCKS
Who-confess it!-
Take the little rookies
To be SCHMUCKS,
Meditate on this impartial message
From someone at the crossroads between your ages:

Time makes no difference.
If you're a SCHMUCK, you're a SCHMUCK.
You might be twenty, you might be a grandfather,
If you're a SCHMUCK, you're a SCHMUCK.
No more arguing!-
Decrepit or debutant-you're peers!
Little SCHMUCKS of the latest wave,
Old SCHMUCKS of the snows of yesteryear,
Little SCHMUCKS dressed in the latest fashion,
Old farts of the snows of yesteryear!

Co-translated with Adelle Foley

I mentioned Brassens' setting of François Villon's "Ballade of Women of Former Times." It's amazing to see this poem, with its antique French and its famous refrain, showing up via Brassens as a popular hit in France. The poem is a catalogue of women who no longer exist: they are as transient as snow. People who have read only Galway Kinnell's pedestrian and not entirely accurate translation of the poem should look up the great 19th century translation by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The word "yesteryear"-Rossetti's version of Villon's "antan"-seems to have been in the English language forever; it was, however, coined by Rossetti for his translation of this poem. Kinnell translates "antan" as "last year," and it's true that both "antan" (etymologically ante annum) and "yesteryear" literally mean "last year": "yesterday"/ "yesteryear." But the French have a common phrase, "l'année dernière," which means "last year." Villon didn't write "l'année dernière": he wrote "antan," a more elegant, Latinate word. Rossetti's "yesteryear" is just right. It suggests not only "last year" but jadis, "former times."

This second song of Brassens', "Tempête dans un Bénitier" ("Tempest in a Holy Water Basin") is from 1976. It's more difficult to translate partly because he rhymes on the exact scandalous word: "putains" (whores) rhymes with "latin" (Latin). The air of blasphemy is also difficult to catch-the simultanous affirmation and desecration of divinity. Readers in a Protestant country like the United States are likely to respond only to the desecration-and find it objectionable-but Catholic readers will probably be equally aware of both. Simply mentioning "Sainte Marie" (Holy Mary) in the same breath with "putains" (whores) is a kind of  blasphemy-especially since these whores are "moines" (monks). Worse: Brassens manages to find the sound of "merde" (which means "shit") in "mère de" (which means "mother of"). A literal translation of

O très Sainte Marie mère de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines...

would be "O most Holy Mary mother of / God, tell these whores / of monks...." The closest I could come to "mère de (mother of)" / "merde (shit)" was "she it," pronounced "sheee-it." The tune gives the piece something of the quality of a children's song.

TEMPÊTE DANS UN BÉNITIER

Tempête dans un bénitier,
Le Souverain Pontife avecque
Les évêques, les archevêques,
Nous font un satané chantier.

Ils ne savent pas ce qu'ils perdent
Tous ces fichus calotins
Sans le latin, sans le latin
La messe nous emmerde
A la fête liturgique
Plus de grand's pompes, soudain
Sans le latin, sans le latin,
Plus de mystère magique
Le rite qui nous envoûte
S'avère alors anodin
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Et les fidèl's s'en foutent
O très Sainte Marie mère de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines qu'ils nous emmerdent
Sans le latin.

Je ne suis pas le seul, morbleu!
Depuis que ces règles sévissent
A ne plus me rendre à l'office
Dominical que quand il pleut.

Ils ne savent pas ce qu'ils perdent
Tous ces fichus calotins
Sans le latin, sans le latin
La messe nous emmerde
En renonçant à l'occulte
Faudra qu'ils fassent tintin
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Pour le denier du culte
A la saison printanière
Suisse, bedeau, sacristain
Sans le latin, sans le latin
F'ront l'églis' buissonnière
O très Sainte Marie mère de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines qu'ils nous emmerdent
Sans le latin.

Ces oiseaux sonts des enragés
Ces corbeaux qui scient, rognent, tranchent
La saine et bonne vielle branche
De la croix ou ils sont perchés

Ils ne savent pas ce qu'ils perdent
Tous ces fichus calotins
Sans le latin, sans le latin
La messe nous emmerde
Le vin du sacré calice
Se change en eau de boudin
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Et ses vertus faiblissent
A Lourdes, Sète ou bien Parme
Comme à Quimper Corentin
Le presbytère sans le latin
A perdu de son charme
O très Sainte Marie mère de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines qu'ils nous emmerdent
Sans le latin.

TEMPEST IN A HOLY WATER BASIN

Tempest in a holy water basin!
The lordly Pope and his crew,
What did they do
To make the Mass
This infernal
                  Mess...

They don't know what they're losing,
These monks of the town and city
Without Latin, without Latin
The Mass is really shitty.
We won't march to the music
Nothing resounds with glee
Without Latin, without Latin
There isn't any MYSTERY
Every rite is finished
Who would want to confess
Every chord's diminished
And the faithful could care less!
O Holy Mother-she it *
Is who gave birth to the Lord-
We don't go to Mass, we flee it
Merde! We're bored.

Christ, I'm not the only one left in the lurch
Suffering these pains
These days I never go to church
(Unless of course it rains)

They don't know what they're losing,
These monks of the town and city
Without Latin, without Latin
The Mass is really shitty.
Giving up the occult
Means they only go ding-a-ling
Latin was what made
The rafters and coffers ring
The porter, the beadle and even the sexton
Once spring comes in like a rooky
Without Latin to vex 'em
Will certainly play hooky
O Holy Mother-she it *
Is who gave birth to the Lord-
Tell these whorish priests to gee-it
Merde! We're bored.

These crazy birds, these dominical classes
Have cut and sawed and sliced
The branch where they put their asses
Forgive them, O Lord Christ!

They don't know what they're losing,
These monks of the town and city
Without Latin, without Latin
The Mass is really shitty.
The wine of the sacred chalice
Changes into murk
Without Latin, without Latin
The magic doesn't work
At Lourdes Sète or even Parme
At Corentin and Quimper
The vicarage isn't a charmer
There's no Latin there
O Holy Mother-she it *
Is who gave birth to the Lord-
We don't go to Mass, we flee it
Merde! We're bored.

* Pronounced "sheee-it."

*

In 1972 a thief broke into Brassens' house, stealing some of his things. Brassens responded by writing "Stances à un cambrioleur" ("Stanzas to a Housebreaker"), a song which actually addresses the thief. Since Brassens recorded the song-and since Brassens was extremely popular-it is quite possible that the thief heard it. The reference to Mercury is a kind of joke: Mercury is the patron of both thieves and poets. The melody has a mysterious, enigmatic quality-like the burglar.

STANCES À UN CAMBRIOLEUR

Prince des monte-en-l'air et de la cambriole
Toi qui eus le bon goût de choisir ma maison
Cependant que je colportais mes gaudrioles
En ton honneur j'ai composé cette chanson

Sache que j'apprécie à sa valeur le geste
Qui te fit bien fermer la porte en repartant
De peur que des rôdeurs n'emportassent le reste
Les voleurs comme il faut c'est rare de ce temps

Tu ne m'as dérobé que le strict nécessaire
Délaissant dédaigneux l'exécrable portrait
Que l'on m'avait offert à mon anniversaire
Quel bon critique d'art mon salaud tu ferais

Autre signe indiquant toute absence de tares
Respectueux du brave travailleur tu n'as
pas cru décent de me priver de ma guitare
Solidarité sainte de l'artisanat

Pour toutes ces raisons vois-tu je te pardonne
Sans arrière-pensée après mûr examen
Ce que tu m'as volé mon vieux je te le donne
Ça pouvait pas tomber en de meilleures mains

D'ailleurs moi qui te parle avec mes chansonnettes
Si je n'avais pas dû rencontrer le succès
J'aurais tout comme toi pu virer malhonnête
Je serais devenu ton complice qui sait

En vendant ton butin prends garde aux marchandages
Ne va pas tout lâcher en solde aux recéleurs
Tiens-leur la dragée haute en évoquant l'adage
Qui dit que ces gens là sont pis que des voleurs

Fort de ce que je n'ai pas sonné les gendarmes
Ne te crois pas du tout tenu de revenir
Ta moindre récidive abolirait le charme
Laisse-moi je t'en prie sur un bon souvenir

Monte-en-l'air mon ami que mon bien te profite
Que Mercure te préserve de la prison
Et pas trop de remords d'ailleurs nous sommes quittes
Après tout ne te dois-je pas une chanson

Post-scriptum. Si le vol est l'art que tu préfère
Ta seul vocation ton unique talent
Prends donc pignon sur rue mets-toi dans les affaires
Et tu auras les flics même comme chalands

STANZAS TO A HOUSEBREAKER

Prince of cat-burglars and housebreaking
You who had the good taste to choose my house
While I peddled gaudrioles, my bawdy tales-
I have composed this song in your honor

Understand that I appreciate the value of the gesture
Which made you carefully close the door when you left
For fear that mere prowlers might make off with the rest.
Proper thieves are a rare thing in these times

You stripped me only of what was strictly necessary
Disdaining the execrable portrait
Given me for my birthday
What a good art critic you would be...you bastard!

There was also another sign indicating your complete lack of blemishes:
Respectful of the good worker, you did
Not think it decent to deprive me of my guitar
Ah, holy solidarity of craftsmen!

For all these reasons, and after carefully considering the matter,
I pardon you without a single reservation
What you stole from me, old man, I give you freely
It couldn't have fallen into better hands

As for me, the one  who talks to you with these little songs,
If I hadn't succeeded at singing
I might have turned dishonest, just like you
I might have become your accomplice who knows

When you sell your spoils be careful in your bargaining
Don't be too loose in your arrangements with receivers of stolen goods
Make them pay dearly, evoke the adage,
"Those guys are worse than thieves!"

Though I didn't call the police
Please don't feel at all obligated to return
The least repetition of the offense would annihilate its charm
Leave me, I beg you, with a good remembrance

Cat burglar my friend, may my goods profit you
May Mercury keep you out of prison
And free from too much remorse   We're quits
Don't I owe a song to you

Post Script. If thievery is the art you prefer
Your one vocation your unique talent
Then set up a place of your own and go into business:
You'll even have the fuzz for customers!

The next piece is my version of the chorus of a famous Brassens song called "Fernande," a woman's name. Brassens' "je bande" has no equivalent in English. "Bander" is an active verb, not passive-not "I get a hard on" or "I get an erection" but something like "I erect."  In the verses Brassens has the song being sung by himself as an "old boy" ("vieux garçon"), by a sentry, by a lighthouse keeper, by a seminarian (after evening prayer), and, finally, by the Unknown Soldier. The concluding lines suggest that "Fernande" ought to become a national hymn. The original has no reference to "my friend's mother," but the phrase helped me in my rhyming and seemed to fit.

FERNANDE

Quand je pense à Fernande
Je bande je bande
Quand j'pense à Félicie
Je bande aussi
Quand j'pense à Léonore
Mon dieu je bande encore 
Mais quand j'pense à Lulu 
Là je ne bande plus
La bandaison papa
Ça n'se commande pas

SUE

When I think of Sue's perfection
I have an erection
When I think of Adrienne
I do again
When I think of my friend's mother
My God, I have another
But when I think of Jane
It won't go up again
Erections, my old chum,
Cannot be forced to come

And finally, a comic, slightly sentimental ballad which veers dizzily between two keys, just as the woman in the song veers between two husbands:

LA FILLE A CENT SOUS

Du temps que je vivais dans le troisièm' dessous
Ivrogne, immonde, infâme
Un plus soûlaud que moi contre un' pièce de cent sous
M'avait vendu sa femme.

Quand je l'eus mise au lit quand j'voulus l'étrenner
Quand j'fis voler sa jupe
Il m'apparut alors qu' j'avais êté berné
Dans un marché de dupe.

Remball' tes os ma mie et garde tes appas
Tu es bien trop maigrelette
Je suis un bon vivant ça n' me concerne pas
D'étreindre des squelettes

Retourne à ton mari qu'il garde les cent sous
J' n'en fais pas une affaire
Mais ell' me répondit le regard en dessous
C'est vous que je préfère

J' suis pas bien gross' fit-ell' d'une voix qui se noue
Mais ce n'est pas ma faute
Alors moi tout ému j' la pris sur mes genoux
Pour lui compter les côtes

Toi qu' j'ai payée cent sous dis-moi quel est ton nom
Ton p'tit nom de baptême
Je m'appelle Ninette eh bien pauvre Ninon
Console-toi je t'aime

Et ce brave sac d'os dont j' n'avais pas voulu
Même pour une thune
M'est entré dans le coeur et n'en sortirait plus
Pour toute une fortune

Du temps que je vivais dans le troisièm' dessous
Ivrogne, immonde, infâme
Un plus soûlaud que moi contre un' pièce de cent sous
M'avait vendu sa femme.

THE GIRL SOLD FOR TEN CENTS

When I was in the depths of drunkenness and grime
A drunken bum, a rummy,
An even bigger drunk, for something like a dime,
Sold me his wife for money.

When I began to strip this wretched bag of bones
This wife who was forsaken
It came to me at once that I had been deceived
My God, how I'd been taken!

"Go back to hubby dear, and he can keep the dime
You're much too skinny for me
I am a bon vivant, I like a real good time
A skeleton would bore me

"Go back to him you wed, let him have all your charms
Let things be as they were now"
She looked at me and said-I heard it with alarm-
"It's you that I prefer now"

"I am too thin," she said (it seemed as though she drowned)
"That's not my fault, I worry"
I took her on my knee and put my arm around
And said, "Tell me your story

"Tell me your name, my sweet, I paid a dime for you
Tell me, I do implore you"
She said, "My name's Nanette," I whispered, "Poor Ninon,
Don't worry, I adore you"

So this girl I didn't want, this skinny bag of bones
With little good about her
Has entered in my heart, I'll never sell her off
I couldn't live without her

When I was in the depths of drunkenness and grime
A drunken bum, a rummy,
An even bigger drunk, for something like a dime,
Sold me his wife for money

(continued)


Jack Foley