Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Jacques Brel - The desperates


Original title: "Les désespérés"

Hold each others by the hand
And walk in silence
In those faded cities
which are rocked by drizzle
Only rings their steps
Step by step hummed
They walk in silence
The desperates

They have burnt their wings
They have lost their branches
So shipwrecked
That death looks white
They come back from loves
They woke up
They walk silently
The desperates

And I know their way for having walked it
Already more than a hundred times
A hundred times more than halfway
Less old or more bruised
They are going to end
They walk in silence
The desperates

And below the bridge
Water is sweet and deep
Here is the good hostess
Here is the end of the world
They cry their firstname
Like newlyweds
They melt in silence
The desperates

Let stand up the one
who throws them the stone
He only knows of love
The verb "to love oneself"
On the bridge there is nothing left
But a light mist
They are forgotten in silence
The ones who hoped

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Léo Ferré - Pretty kid


Original Title: "Jolie môme"
You are completely naked
Under your sweater
There is the street
That is crazy
Pretty kid

You have your heart
At your neck
And happiness
Not under
Pretty kid

You have the mascara
Which goes away
It's the thaw
Of the lovers
Pretty kid

Your meadow
It smells good
Make a gift of it
To friends
Pretty kid

You are just a flower
Of the spring
Who doesn't care of the hour
And the weather
You are just a rose
Burst
Which one lays down
On the side
Pretty kid

You are just a touch
of sun
In the grief
of waking up

You are just a camp
Who is turned off
Like a lamp
In the morning
Pretty kid

Your kisses
Are sharp
Like an acute accent
Pretty kid

Your small breasts
are fresh of the day
Soft-boiled
To love
Pretty kid

Your barrier
Of rustles
Gotta get stuck with it
But it's soft
Pretty kid

Your violet
Is the violen
Which is being assaulted
And it's good
Pretty kid

You are just a flower
Of pastimes
Who doesn't care of the hour
And the weather
You are just a star
of love
Which is being webbed
During the fine days
Pretty kid

You are just a point
On the "i"
Of the sorrow
Of live
And just a thing
Of life
Which is watered
Which is being forgotten
Pretty kid

You only have one pair
of eyes
At the poker
Of the conquests
Pretty kid

You only have one rhyme
to happiness
It has to rhyme
or to cry
Pretty kid

You are just a source
In the middle
which splashes
of some good lord
Pretty kid

You only have one door
made of a white veil
Which we push
While singing
Pretty kid

You are just a poor
small flower
Which one make sentimental
And who dies
You are just a woman
To iron
When her soul
Is creased
Pretty kid

You are just a leaf
of autumn
Which one removes the petals from
Monotomous
You are just a joy
gone away
Come at my place
To find it back
Pretty kid

You are completely naked
Under your sweater
There is the street
That is crazy
Pretty kid!

Juliette Gréco's version:

Jacques Bertin - The girl whose whom


Original title: "La fille dont auquelle"
This song is parody, mocking the way some people talk so I tried to translate the deliberate errors the best I could.
Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course but that naturally

It's the daughter of the boss where I work
Why she doesn't like me I do not know
Because despite I am not the good-looker
I am decent and even rather fine
It's a thing that it'd be fine
To go away, her and me, just us both
But as there are the social barriers
It can't be, it's unfortunate

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

I consider that she doesn't care if I exist
She doesn't pay me at all attention
Would it be that I am only an underling
I would note that she has some pretension
It's because of being too poor, it's likely
Not everyone can call themselves differently
I only have a moped and even that when the weather is fine
And it if want like to start even more, it's pathetic

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

If it's like that, it's not without good reason
It's this which reiterates my father
"It's the same. Me, I loved his mother, right?
We are being scorned, it's not from yesterday"
Okay, well, let's admit she'd have come over at my place
For some or other argument,
A paper or something,
It has been seen: She knocks, I open, there is an embarassed silence

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

Her oppressive breathing would beat like a tv wire
I opened the arms in a waiting to such extent that she would haved shouted
Caught up by the demons of the flesh
Bewitched by the mysteries of the charm
We rolled on the bed and on the ground
Intertwined like an alarm signal

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

Me, I like the defenseless gazelle
When their big eyes shout "Zero to the juice!"
She would have had her pleasures of the senses
On that side I am not too bad either
Then at that point maybe she loves me
And that we would married what do we know
And I would becoming the husband that she herself
It was the one I just chattted to you about

Here is well the girl whose to whom
she is my wife and I the spouse
I am the assistant manager
By the fact itself which of which
By the fact itself which of which

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Marcel Mouloudji - Like a small poppy


Mouloudji Comme un p'tit coquelicot,
Original Title: "Comme un p'tit coquelicot"
Text: Raymond Asso

The forget-me-not and then the rose,
Those are flowers which say something
But to like poppies
And only like that...One must be an idiot!

Maybe you are right! The only thing is,
when I will have told you, you will understand!
The first time I saw her,
She was sleeping, half naked
In the light of the summer
In the middle of a wheat field
And under the white blouse
Where her heart was beating
The sun, gently,
was making a flower live
Like a small poppy, my soul! Like a small poppy.

It's strange how your eyes are shining
While you remember the pretty girl!
They shine so strongly that it's a bit too much
To explain...the poppies!

Maybe you are right! The only thing is
When I took her in my arms
She gave me her beautiful smile
And then afterward, without telling each other anything
In the light of summer
We loved each others! We loved each others!
And I have pressed so much
My lips over her heart
That at the place of the kiss
There was like a flower
Like a little poppy, my soul!
Like a little poppy.

It's nothing else but an affair
Your little story, and I swear to you
That it does not deserve a single sob
Nor that passion...of the poppies!

Wait the end! And you will understand:
Another one was in love with her who she did not love!
And the next day, when I saw her again
She was sleeping, half naked,
In the light of the summer
In the middle of the wheat field
But, on the white blouse,
Right where her heart is
There was three drops of blood
Which were making like a flower
Like a little poppy, my soul!
A very small poppy

Another version:

Monday, April 13, 2015

Serge Reggiani - Georges Moustaki - Your daughter is twenty years old


Original Title: "Votre fille a vingt ans"
Text: Georges Moustaki

Your daugther is twenty years old, how time is flying by
Madam, yesterday still she was so small
And her first torments are your first wrinkles
Madam, and your first worries

Each of her twenty years counted twice for you
You know already all what she is discovering
You have forgotten the things which trouble her
Madam, and troubled as well

People thought she was pretty and here she is beautiful
For an individual almost as young as her
A boy who resembles to the one for whom
Madam, you had grown in beauty

They make for themselves a garden from a corner of bad weeds
Knotting the prime of life into a superb bouquet
It has been a long while that you have been put in a spray
Madam, spring is forgetting about you

Each night which seems to you similar to every night
While you are dreaming your reasonable dreams
Of pleasure and of love they make themselves guilty
Madam, in the hollow of the same bed

But guilty ones never had so much innocence
So little regrets and so little concern
That they do not even ask for you indulgence
Madam, for their tender offence

Up to the day when maybe at the first tear
At the first love's and woman's sorrow
It'll be up to you to smile Madam
Madam, for her to smile at you.
for her to smile at you.

Moustaki's version:

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Jacques Brel - Madeleine


Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
I brought some Lilac
I bring some every week
Madeleine she likes that

Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
We will take the tram thirty three
To go eat some fries at Eugene's
Madeleine she likes that so much

Madeleine she is my Christmas
She is my own America
Even that she is too good for me
Like her cousin Joël says

But tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
We will go to the cinema
I will tell her "I love you"'s
Madeleine she likes that so much

She is so pretty
She is so all this
She is all my life
Madeleine whom I am waiting for here

Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
But it's raining on my Lilacs
It's raining like every week
And Madeleine is not coming

Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
It's too late for the tram thrity tree
Too late for Eugene's fries
Madeleine is not coming

Madeleine she is my horizon
She is my own America
Even that she is too good for me
Like her cousin Gaston says

But tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
I have the cinema left
I will be able to tell her "I love you"'s
Madeleine she likes that so much

She is so pretty
She is so all this
She is all my life
Madeleine who is not coming

Tonight I was waiting for Madeleine
But I have thrown away my Lilacs
I have thrown them like every week
Madeleine won't be coming

Tonight I was waiting for Madeleine
There goes the cinema
I am staying with my "I love you"'s
Madeleine won't be coming

Madeleine she is my hope
She is my own America
But it's certain she is too good for me
Like her cousin Gaspard says

Tonight I was waiting for Madeleine
Here! The last tram is going away
Eugene's must be closing
Madeleine won't be coming

She is, and yet she is so pretty
And yet she is so all this
And yet she is all my life
Madeleine who won't be coming

But tomorrow I will be waiting for Madeleine
I will be bringing some Lilac again
I will bring some every week
Madeleine she will like that

Tomorrow I will be waiting for Madeleine
We will take the tram thirty three
To go eat some fries at Eugene's
Madeleine she will like that

Madeleine she is my hope
She is my own America
Nevermind if she is too good for me
Like her cousin Gaspard says

Tomorrow I will be waiting for Madeleine
We will go to the cinema
I will tell her "I love you"'s
And Madeleine will like that.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Jacques Brel - At my last meal


Jacques Brel - Le dernier repas par kiki_75

Original Title: "A mon dernier repas"
At my last meal
I want to see my brothers
And my dogs and my cats
And the sea shore

At my last meal
I want to see my neighbors
And then a few chinese
By way of cousins

And I want us to drink there
In addition to communion wine
Of that so pretty wine
That we drank in Arbois
I want us to devour there
After a few soutanes
A pheasant poultry
Coming from the Perigord

Then I want to be taken away
On top of my hill
To see the trees sleeping
While closing their arms
And then I want to still
Throw stones toward the sky
While shouting "God is dead"
One last time

At my last meal
I want to see my donkey
My chickens and my geese
My cows and my women
At my last meal
I want to see those hussies
Of whom I was master and king
And who were my mistresses

When I will have in my paunch
enough to drown the earth
I will break my glass
To ask for silence
And will sing my head off
To the advancing death
The bayard romances
Which scares the nuns

Then I want to be taken away
On top of my hill
To see the evening making its path
Slowly toward the plain
And there, standing up still
I will insult the bourgeois
Without fear and without remorse
One last time

After my last meal
I want people to go away
For them to finish feasting
Elsewhere than under my roof
After my last meal
I want to be installed
Sitting, alone, like a king
Welcoming his vestals
In my pipe, I will burn
My childhood memories
My unfinished dreams
My remains of hope
And I will only keep
To dress my soul
nothing but the idea of a rosebush
And a firstname of a woman
Then I will look at
the top of my hill
Which danses, which is being made out
And ends up sinking
And in the scent of the flowers
Which will soon go out
I know that I will be afraid
One last time

Another version:

Jacques Brel A Mon Dernier Repas par jacque_brel

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Anne Vanderlove - Ballad in November


Original Title: "Ballade en Novembre"
Leave me to my memories
Leave me to my dead loves
It's time to close the door
It's getting time to go to sleep
I wasn't always well attired
I had the hair in the eyes
But this is how he took me
I think well that he loved me a little

It's raining
On the garden, on the shore
And if I have water in the eyes
That's because it's raining
On my face

The North wind which piles up
Has fun alone in my hair
I wasn't always very beautiful
But I think that he loved me a little
My dress still has its mends
And I still have the hair all over the place
But that's how he took me
I think that I loved him a lot

It's raining
On the garden, on the shore
And if I have water in the eyes
That's because it's raining
On my face

If I have melted so many candles
Since the time we saw each other
And if I remain faithful to him
What good does me so much virtue?
Leave me to my dead loves!
Leave me to my memories
But before closing the door
Leave me the time to laugh about it
The time to try to smile about it

It's raining
On the garden, on the shore
And if I have water in the eyes
That's because it's raining
On my face

Mouloudji - We have to live

Original Title: " Faut vivre " Despite the big eyes of the void "It's to better eat you, child" And the silence...