There was a fella by the name of Georges Brassens.
Certainly the greatest Dude France had to offer at that place and time.
(http://img11.hostingpics.net/pics/601097brassensblog02.jpg)
But he may not have enjoyed being used as a figure representing any church or belief system.
Si I guess it should stay somewhere in the forum.Born in 1921 in French south low class, he was some harmless bullshiting kid.
He did enough troubles anyway to have to have to leave his home town for Paris. (reason of the song "the bad reputation")
He worked for a salary for the very first and very last time of his life, only during couple of months in a factory until WWII started.
He said fuck to any kind of work that could help the nazis, spending his time and starvation into a library, studying alone french literature.
Nazis send him to forced work camp, "forced, work, the two worst words ever, they had to put it together" he said.
As soon as he could he deserted and hide with a couple of other poor friends, and he wrote, rode, wrote, drunk, learned guitar playing.
He also loved women a lot, he wasn't much a Dom Juan but he had to learn about love and hothouses.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3c/P1090717_Paris_XIV_impasse_Florimont_Georges-Brassens_rwk.JPG)
That's where he lived between 1940 and 1966.
One of the last building to have electricity in Paris.Germans went away, he could get out more often so he went bowling, a lot.
He also wrote some brilliantly harsh thoughts in an anarchist newspaper.
Until he been pissed of by hierarchies in anarchist movements, then he went bowling again.
Believe it or not, during all these years he became all by himself some kind of French speaking Einstein. Which is something.
His poetry is a mix of awesomely fluid classical french, popular language and slang making shine love, culture, humor and shocking sarcasms, plus a feeling of deep pacific daily involvement sounding a lot like : fuck that.
Crazy about Django Reinhardt, he tried to learn guitar by himself and even if technically way simpler, all his songs sound Gypsy. He was some kind of Parisian bohemian, maybe the only real one that inspired all others.
He was one of our greatest song writer but nobody wanted to know about him cause it sounded quite offensive and often sad.
After years of disappointments cause all he wrote had been rejected by editors he had no chance to share until 1952 a concert date in a bistro of Montmartre.
He sang poorly as ever, played guitar like, well, let's do it, and blown everyone's mind with his words.
He fastly became famous but didn't gived much a shit about it, unless it could help him and his friends to continue their way, that's was success to him.
Already during the sixties the whole country was acclaiming him as one of the greatest, loving him strong and deep also because he was the poet from the crowd, the one that had something to say and was able to say it has he did.
Plus he was a good guy, very straight forward and honorable. Open minded, totaly into doing no harm by nature.
(http://medias.unifrance.org/medias/141/182/112269/format_web/regard-de-georges-brassens.jpg)
Tests demonstrated it took several person to try to lift himHe stayed the same guy, except he could enjoy much more life, until he died in 1981, that's how we all lost an uncle. That had been said and felt.
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Edit : I went crazy on that ^^'
So, well, if you like listening various stuffs and reading obscure translations, you got a lot to do bellow...
These translations are not perfect, yet being effective to tell the meaning, mostly, it can't share how brilliantly wrote it is, nor how many meanings are waiting between words...
Sorry for that.
- - - -
The Bad Reputationhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1IAnGfMoKE
Because how he composed melodies, how he played, what he sang, it is like ready made to get played in reggae, which is cool.
Sensemilia is popular here, and almost any french likes to sing or hear Brassens, up to hundreds of thousands young and older fellows have sang it together on this reggae tune, and that was some piece of a dudeic transmission in my opinion. Have a look to lyrics :
QuoteIn the village, without pretentiousness,
I have a bad reputation,
Whether I make an effort or whether I keep quiet
I am seen as an "I don't know what". (Person of low interest, or worse.)
Yet I don't do harm to anyone
Going on my own sweet way.
But the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs
No the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs
Every-one speaks ill of me
Except the mutes, of course.
On the day of the 14th of July (national french day fest)
I stay in my sweet bed.
The marching music
Doesn't concern me.
Yet I don't do harm to anyone
By not listening to the bugle that sounds.
But the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs.
No the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs.
Everyone points at me
Except those without arms, of course.
When I run into an unlucky thief
Chased by cultural chap,
I stick out my foot, and why keep it quiet,
The cultural chap falls on the ground.
Yet I don't do harm to anyone
By letting apple thieves have a run.
But the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs.
No the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs.
Everybody pounces on me
Except those without legs, of course.
No need to be a Jeremiah
To guess the fate awaiting me
If they find a rope they like,
They will put it around my neck.
Yet I don't do harm to anyone
By following the paths that don't lead to Rome
But the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs.
No the good folk don't like
You follow another way than theirs.
Everybody will come to see me hanged
Except the blinds, of course !
To die for ideasA great example IMO of Brassens dudeness, here a cover by Maxime Le Forestier, an other Dude by the way :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_NwfPCOJ_c which is like, perfect.
QuoteTo die for your ideas. The idea is excellent
But I came close to dying for not having one,
For all those who had it, an overwhelming mass,
While howling for my blood came at me with full force.
They managed to convince me, and my insolent muse
Recanting her mistakes, rallies to their belief
With one tiny proviso by the way :
Let us die for ideas, fine! but let death come slow
Fine! But, let death come slow.
Judging that there's is no great risk in hanging on,
Let's take our time going to the other world.
Because, forcing the pace, chance is that you might die
For ideas, no longer current on the morrow.
Now if there is a thing, bitter, and heart-breaking
On rendering one's soul to God, it's to find out
That you went wrong and latched onto the wrong idea.
Let us die for ideas, fine! but let death come slow
Fine! But, let death come slow.
The Saint John Chrysotoms who preach for martyrdoms
Most often, besides, dawdle down here on earth.
To die for ideas, we are quite right to say so
Is their reason for living, they won't do without.
In almost all the groups, you see some supplanting
Soon Methuselah's record for longevity.
I conclude that they must whisper to each other:
Let us die for ideas, fine! but let death come slow
Fine!! But, let death come slow.
Ideas demanding the supreme sacrifice
Sects of every ilk offer followers of these
And the question is asked of the novice victims:
To die for ideas, is very nice - but which ?
And as they are all alike, one with the other
When he sees them coming, with their great big standard
The wise man, hesitating, gives the tomb more time.
Let us die for ideas, fine! but let death come slow
Fine! But, let death come slow
Again, if it took only a few mass slaughters
For all at last to change, all at last be put right
Since so many grand nights when so many heads fell
In our heaven on earth we?d be already there
But the golden age is postponed constantly
The gods are still athirst, have never had enough
And it is death, death, over and over again
Let us die for ideas, fine! but let death come slow
Fine! But, let death come slow
Oh you firebrands, oh you the good apostles,
Be the first to die then, we stand aside for you.
But for mercy's sake, heavens allow the rest to live.
Life is nearly their only luxury down here.
For in truth, the grim reaper keeps close enough watch enough
She does not need people to hold for her the scythe
No more dance macabre around the grim scaffolds.
Let us die for ideas, fine! but let death come slow
Fine! But, let death come slow
Uh! Have found an English singing nice blues/folk cover of "the bad reputation" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5nJLNuSEFo
And and other one of "to die for ideas" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3AL7NU6Wn4
Rha sorry to spam but I can't resist... thinking some other stuffs are good to share about him :)
It's easy to make reggae with his songs, rap too for almost same reasons. Here two more songs...
First about being get involved into religion being an infidel. Awesome one.
The other is about his opinion on commercial trash press and being famous. Which can be resumed to "fuck off, got a guitar and time for slacking, why would you think I give a shit about the rest ?" Knowing the conversation he had with Jacques Brel (such an other Dude in history) I guess he may have also thought something like "I'm a whore but I wont do whatever you want cause I got anyway more sense of honor than you".
Yo ^^
The Infidelhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYyCE9MI_ik
QuoteIs there in our time anything more odious
Bringing more despair than not to believe in God ?
I'd like to have the faith, the faith of my coalman
Who's happy as a pope and is daft as a brush.
My neighbour up above, a certain Blaise Pascal
Has kindly given me this friendly advice :
Get down upon your knees , pray and entreat the Lord,
Act as if you believe and soon you'll be believing.
I began to reel off, kneecaps down on the ground
All the "Ave Marias" and all the "Our Fathers" ,
In the streets, the cafes, on trains and on buses,
All the De Profundis , all the morpionibus
At this same point in time, finding left discarded
A cassock in my size , I changed my persona
With tonsure new-shaven my guitar in my hand ,
T'wards the faith that redeems I set forth on my way.
I bumped into a bunch of zealot churchgoers.
Thinking me some-one else, in one voice they told me:
O Father, sing to us please some sacred refrain,
Some holy song of which you alone have the knack!
Feverishly strumming the strings neath my fingers ,
I intoned Le Gorille and then Putain de Toi .
(two of his shocking famous songs : "The Gorilla" (who ends fucking a Judge) and "You whore" (a terrible love song)
Shouting "Get the traitor, impostor, hypocrite!"
They're wanting to make me suffer Abelard's fate. (cutting his balls off)
I'm going to swell the ranks of harem eunochs.
No more will fair maidens come cling to my bosom,
Thanks to my high-pitched voice, I will be centre stage
Amidst the Little Singers of the Wooden Cross .
Attracted by the noise, a good-hearted lady
Tells them: What's that you are doing? Stop, you wretches!
There're so many men now, perversely inclined
To obstinately take Cupid, turned back to front.
So many men deprived of all their virile charms.
From those who still have them, don't let us cut them off !
These forceful arguments made a great impression,
They let me go away with rousing ovations.
But along heaven's path, I'll take not one step more
Faith will come by itself or it won't come at all.
I have not killed ever nor ever have I raped.
It's already quite a while since I went thieving.
If the eternal exists, in the end he sees,
I hardly act worse than if I had faith.
If the eternal exists, in the end he sees,
I hardly act worse than if I had faith.
Trumpets of FameEven with a cheesy mood it sounds good !
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XD7xuqtuHM
QuoteI used to live well away from the public eye
Serene, contemplative, sombre and bucolic
Refusing to hand over the ransom for fame
Upon my laurel sprig, I slept like a dormouse.
People of good counsel managed to make me see
That to the man in the street, I'd some debts to pay
And, for fear of falling in complete oblivion,
I must freely reveal all my little secrets
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
Flouting the most elementary modesty
Must I, for the needs of agents of publicity,
Divulge with whom and in what exact position
I plunge in debauchery and fornication ?
If I publish names, how many Penelopes
Will be seen straightaway as the most arrant whores
How many valued friends will look at me askance
How many revolver shots will I be hit by!
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
At all public display my heart feels uneasy,
Suff'ring from modesty that's almost unhealthy.
I do not reveal my reproductive organs
To anyone, except my women and my doctors.
Must I, to be headline news in gossip columns,
Drum up attention with my genital parts.
Must I raise them on high more ostensibly
As a choir boy carries the holy sacrament.
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
A society woman of, who often gives me
Free rein to hot delights in her noble quarters
Slyly passed on to me, on her divan of silk,
Some parasites of the basest kind possible.
Under the pretext of sensation, under the heading of publicity
Have I the right to tarnish the honour of this lady ?
By shouting from the rooftops and chanting the catchphrase
The Marchioness has infected me with crabs ?.
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
Heaven indeed be praised, I live on the best of terms,
With father Duval, the singing skullcap,
He the believer / conformist, I the non-conformist / unbeliever
He lets me say Oh Shit!, I let him say Amen,
In agreement with him, must I write in the press
That one night I surprised him at my girl friend's knees,
Singing a flat, unvaried chant in slushing tones,
The while she was searching for fleas in his bald patch
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
So with whom, good heavens! must I go to bed
To make the goddess with hundred mouths talk of me ?
Must a female celebrity, a famous star
Come and take my guitar's place to lie in my arms ?
To get the people and the gutter press excited
Who really wants to lend me her popular butt ?
Who's going to want to let me, according to nature,
Climb around for a bit on her mount of Venus ?
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
Would they sound out more strong, these trumpets of the Gods ,
If, like each and everyone, I was a bit queer,
If I swayed with my hips more like a young woman
And suddenly took on the walk of a gazelle
But I'm not aware that these jokers gain from it Playing the game of love while inverting the roles,
That this would add one single ounce more to my fame.
The crime of same sex love, today, no longer pays.
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
After this review of the thousand and one tricks
Which are sure to earn the honors of the papers
I prefer to keep to my first way of doing things
And scratch my stomach, as ever, while singing songs
If the public wishes, I get them out quick time.
If not, I put them all back into my guitar,
Refusing to pay over the ransom of fame
Upon my laurel sprig, I sleep like a dormouse
Trumpets of Fame,
You are so badly out of tune !
Last time I promises ;D
Two other ones just to say...
Brassens rocking ? Or even punk ? Hardcore ? Yeah it can be, he's universal.
Other one is very special to me for many reasons and sounds very dudeic isn't it ?
I hope some of you have enjoyed it.
You whore !One of our greatest rock band ever + the beautifull crazy talented Olivia Ruiz... it can sound weird at some point but shit this is strong !https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGxOtEdiMzk
If you want something more punk, straight to the point : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GzVxOUzHlt0
I don't know... maybe thanks to Brassens, I'm pretty sure he did, french radical rock bands can be a lot into love songs ending bad but with a particularly sense of humor in it. Like https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1IAnGfMoKE Mano Nagra, "Pas assez de toi" (not enough of you) plays on words with "passer de toi" (go without you), and tells in an other way the same story as "You Whore".
QuoteIn those days, I was living on the moon
The joys down here below for me were forbidden
I used to sow violets and sing for peanuts
And held out my paw to welcome lost cats.
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
One rainy night, there's scratching at my door
I rush to open it, no doubt another cat !
Heavens! the cute feline that the storm brings to me
It was you, it was you, it was you
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
With almond shaped eyes pistachio green
You placed on my heart your paw, with claws not on view
Very luckily for me you did not have whiskers
And your virtue did not weigh too heavy.
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
To ev'ry inch of my bohemian life
You trailed, you trailed all the fire of your twenty years
And for me, for my cats, for my flowers, my poems
T'was you the rain and the fine weather.
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
But time passes and reaps willy nilly
Our love was scarcely ripe when you already
Were burning my songs, spitting on my violets
And making my cats' lives a misery.
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
Finally the last straw, miserable bitch,
Since there was nothing left to eat in the pantry
Without any shame you ran, and for a beef steak
You jumped into bed with the butcher.
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
It was over, you'd overstepped the mark
And, shunning frivolous loves down below
I climbed back on the moon, taking my cuckold's horns
All my songs, and my flowers, and my cats.
Ah ah ah ah ! You whore !
Ah ah ah ah ah! Poor me !
Friends firstAnybody else than Brassens would make it better and I've given only covers until now, so it's the perfect time for it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8mMRSQNdo8
QuoteNo, it was'nt the least like the raft
From the wrecked Medusa, this boat
As they might claim down in the ports
Might claim down in the ports
It sailed like a placid old man
On th' duckpond of the open sea
And was called: The pals on board.
Its Fluctuat nec mergitur
Is no mere literary phrase
No matter what doom-mongers say
What doom-mongers say,
Its ship captain and its sailors
Were in no way sons of bitches
But they were friends welcomed by all,
The pals on board.
They were not friends, kind of de luxe,
Little Castors and Polluxes
Men from Sodom and Gomorr'
Sodom and Gomorr'
They were not such friends as chosen
By Montaigne and La Boetie
They enjoyed much knockabout fun
The pals on board.
They were not angels either
The Holy Word they had not read
But love was all around, sails set
Love with sails all set
John, Peter, Paul and company
It was their only litany
Their creed, their confession
To pals on board.
At th' faintest Trafalgar shot heard
It was friendship that took the helm
Friendship gave to them their bearings
Gave them their bearings
And whenever in such distress
That their arms launched their S.O.S
You would have thought them semaphores
The pals on board.
When the good pals met together
Not often had some-one dropped out.
When one of them was not on board
'Twas that he was dead
Yes, but never, never ever
Did death close its seas over him
Hundred years after, what the deuce!
He was just as missed still.
Boats, I've been on a lot of them
But the only one quite up to scratch
Which never lost its direction
Lost its direction
Sailed like a placid old man
On the duck pond of open sea
And was called: The pals on board.