Belgian, chanson
Album: Jacques Brel (Ces gens-là) (RYM: 3,87/5)
Artist:
Jacques Romain Georges Brel (French: [ʒɑk ʁɔmɛ̃ ʒɔʁʒ bʁɛl] ; 8 April 1929 – 9 October 1978) was a Belgian singer and actor who composed and performed theatrical songs. He generated a large, devoted following—initially in Belgium and France, but later throughout the world. He is considered a master of the modern chanson.
Although he recorded most of his songs in French and occasionally in Dutch, he became an influence on English-speaking songwriters and performers, such as Scott Walker, David Bowie, Alex Harvey, Marc Almond, Neil Hannon, and Rod McKuen. English translations of his songs were recorded by many performers, including Bowie, Walker, Ray Charles, Judy Collins, John Denver, The Kingston Trio, Nina Simone, Shirley Bassey, James Dean Bradfield, Frank Sinatra, and Andy Williams.
Brel was a successful actor, appearing in 10 films. He directed two films, one of which, Le Far West, was nominated for the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 1973.[3] Having sold over 25 million records worldwide, Brel is the third-best-selling Belgian recording artist of all time. Brel married Thérèse "Miche" Michielsen in 1950, and the couple had three children. He also had a romantic relationship with actress and dancer Maddly Bamy from 1972 until his death in 1978.
Too long...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacques_Brel
The song:
"Ces gens-là" is a French language song by the late Belgian singer Jacques Brel, published in 1966 by the Éditions Pouchenel of Brussels, about the despair of a hopeless love. The title, meaning "those people", or, "those folks", has also been translated as "that lot there".
In it the narrator is talking to a third party (a certain "Monsieur" (Sir, or Mister)), where he describes the different members of a given family in a very harsh manner, as in gossip; a family whose existence is particularly mediocre and desperate. He criticizes in particular their immobility.
The list ends with the daughter, the beautiful Frida whom he loves passionately, and whose love is reciprocal, but whose family does not allow the marriage, believing that the suitor is not worthy, which perhaps explains why he hates them so much. In addition: "But let me tell you, Mister, that in that family, you don't leave, Mister, you don't leave."
The subjectivity of the narrator, which could taint his judgement, has also been confirmed by Brel, who called it "faux témoin" (false witness) in an interview with Dominique Arban, without rejecting the truth of his criticism of the petite bourgeoisie. On the other hand, although he denounces this environment throughout the song, the narrator concludes, taking leave of the caller and telling him that he must get on his way home, which can be interpreted as an admission of the fact he himself belongs to the middle class, or at least is close to.
The first part of the song is a slow 3/4 time signature of a repetitive theme, of a somber mood, where, from the perspective of voice, tension grows moderately but steadily, and eventually explodes when the narrator evokes Frida, reflecting his passion for her; the music then returns to its first depressed theme for the end of the song.
The song has since been covered by French popular music bands such as Ange, Oxmo Puccino and Noir Désir, although Ange may have missed the point of the song by excluding the part about Frida; on the Le Cimetière des arlequins album cover, is mentioned: "To Jacques Brel, we didn't dare take Frida from you".
Live version
Another liver version
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XrO-kBidNI
Album version:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9fa9aWFbLM
Oxmo Puccino cover :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDhH8DoHEUo
Noir Désir cover:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAJrrsudQEw
Ange cover:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHVU6dQBkKE
D'abord...
D'abord, y'a l'aîné
Lui qu'est comme un melon
Lui qui a un gros nez
Lui qui sait plus son nom, Monsieur, tellement qu'il boit
Ou tellement qu'il a bu
Qui fait rien d'ses dix doigts
Mais lui qui n'en peut plus
Lui qui est complètement cuit
Et qui s'prend pour le roi
Qui se soule toutes les nuits
Avec du mauvais vin
Mais qu'on retrouve au matin
Dans l'église, qui roupille
Raide comme une saillie
Blanc comme un cierge de Pâques
Et puis qui bal-bu-tie
Et qui a l'œil qui divague...
Faut vous dire, Monsieur
Que chez ces gens-là
On n'pense pas, Monsieur
On n'pense pas
On prie
Et puis, y'a l'autre
Des carottes dans les cheveux
Qu'a jamais vu un peigne
Qu'est méchant comme une teigne
Même qu'il donnerait sa chemise
À des pauvres gens heureux
Qui a marié la Denise
Une fille de la ville, enfin, d'une autre ville
Et que c'est pas fini
Qui fait ses p'tites affaires
Avec son p'tit chapeau
Avec son p'tit manteau
Avec sa p'tite auto
Qu'aimerait bien avoir l'air
Mais qu'a pas l'air du tout
Faut pas jouer les riches
Quand on n'a pas le sou
Faut vous dire, Monsieur
Que chez ces gens-là
On n'vit pas, Monsieur
On n'vit pas
On triche
Et puis, y'a les autres
La mère qui n'dit rien
Ou bien n'importe quoi
Et du soir au matin
Sous sa belle gueule d'apôtre
Et dans son cadre en bois
Y'a la moustache du père
Qui est mort d'une glissade
Et qui regarde son troupeau
Bouffer la soupe froide
Et ça fait des grands flchss
Et ça fait des grands flchss
Et puis y'a la toute vieille
Qu'en finit pas de vibrer
Et qu'on attend qu'elle crève
Vu que c'est elle qui a l'oseille
Et qu'on écoute même pas
C'que ses pauv' mains racontent
Faut vous dire, Monsieur
Que chez ces gens-là
On n'cause pas, Monsieur
On n'cause pas
On compte
Et puis
Et puis
Et puis y'a Frida!
Qu'est belle comme un soleil!
Et qui m'aime pareil
Que moi j'aime Frida!
Même qu'on se dit souvent
Qu'on aura une maison
Avec des tas d'fenêtres
Avec presque pas d'murs
Et qu'on vivra dedans
Et qu'il f'ra bon y être
Et que si c'est pas sûr
C'est quand même peut-être
Parce que les autres veulent pas
Parce que les autres veulent pas
Les autres ils disent comme ça
Qu'elle est trop belle pour moi
Que je suis tout juste bon
À égorger les chats
J'ai jamais tué d'chats
Ou alors y'a longtemps
Ou bien j'ai oublié
Ou ils sentaient pas bon
Enfin ils veulent pas
Enfin ils veulent pas
Parfois, quand on se voit
Semblant qu'c'est pas exprès
Avec ses yeux mouillants
Elle dit qu'elle partira
Elle dit qu'elle me suivra
Alors pour un instant
Pour un instant seulement
Alors moi je la crois, Monsieur
Pour un instant
Pour un instant seulement
Parce que chez ces gens-là, Monsieur
On n's'en va pas
On s'en va pas, Monsieur
On s'en va pas
Mais il est tard, Monsieur
Il faut que je rentre
Chez moi
First, first, there's the eldest
He, who's as big as a melon
He, who has a big nose
He, who doesn't know his name anymore
Mister, since he drinks so much
He drank so much
That he can't two anything with his ten fingers
But he, who can't take it anymore
He, who's completely drunk
And who thinks he's the king
Who gets drunk every night
On bad wine
But who we find, in the morning,
Sleeping in the church
As stiff as a gargoyle
As white as an Easter candle
And who's babbling
And whose eyes are rambling
I must say, Mister
That those people
Don't think, Mister
They don't think, they pray
And then, there's the other one
With carrots in his hair
Who doesn't know what a comb is
Who's as mean as a tinea
So mean, he'd even give the shirt off his back
To poor happy people
Who married this Denise
A girl from the town
I mean, from another town
And, that's not all
Who goes about his things
With his little hat
With his little coat
With his little car
Who'd like to like one,
But who doesn't look like one at all
You can't pretend to be rich
When you're penniless
I must say, Mister
That those people
Don't live, Mister
They don't live, they cheat
And then, there are the other ones
The mother who doesn't say anything
Or says complete nonsense
From dusk until dawn
From under her nice apostle face
And in her wooden frame
There's the moustache of the father
Who died by slipping on the floor
And who's watching his herd
Eating cold soup
And they make big 'flchss'
And they make big 'flchss'
And then there's the very old one
Who won't stop vibrating
And everyone's waiting for her to die
'Cause she's the one who's got the money
And no one ever listens
What her poor hands are saying
I must say, Mister
That those people
Don't talk, Mister
They don't talk, they count
And then, and then
And then there's this Frida
Who's as beautiful as a sun
And who loves me as much
As I love Frida
We even tell each other quite often
That we'll own a house
With plenty of windows
With almost no walls
And that we'll live inside
And that it'll feel good to be there
And that even though it's not sure,
It's still a 'maybe'
Because the others don't want to
Because the others don't want to
The others say, just like that
That she's too beautiful for me
That I'm barely good enough
To slit a cat's throat
I never killed any cat
Or at least, not recently
Or it's possible I've forgotten
Or maybe they didn't smell good
Well, they don't want to
Sometimes, when we see each other
Pretending that it's just a coincidence
With her wet eyes
She says that she'll leave
She says that she'll follow me
And so for a moment
Only for a moment
Well, I believe her, Mister
For a moment
Only for a moment
Because those people
Mister, they don't leave
They don't leave, Mister
They don't leave
But it's getting late, Mister
I must get back home
Thanks to Crimson_antics on Lyricstranslate.