2016年7月20日 星期三

George Brassens ( 喬治·巴頌): Mourir pour des idées (Dying for Ideas)(為信念而死)

Georges Brassens (1921 –1981) was a very colorful French character from a small town Sète in southern France, near to Montpellier. He was a very poor student. He didn’t do at all well in his studies until he met his 9th grade teacher, Alphonse Bonnafé, who noted his gift for creative writing and encouraged him to develop his talents and read more poetry
His family is the scene of constant conflict, with a very liberal and indulgent father and a very fervent and strict Catholic mother who loved to sing with his half sister. So from an early age, he learned a great deal about the joys of music and the little ironies of life. He later learned to play the guitar and the piano by himself and made a living by singing in cafés in one of which he met by accident a famous singer at the time, Patachou, who saw the quality of his songs, in which he set to music the poetry some famous and not so famous poets and transformed his life. He wrote, set to guitar music and sang more than 200 sons, based on his own poems as well as those from some from other poets like Louis Aragon’s Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux, Victor Hugo’s La Légende de la Nonne, Gastibelza), François Villon’s La Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis and Antoine Pol’s Les Passantes. . The most popular of his songs are Les copains d'abord, Chanson pour l'Auvergnat, La mauvaise réputation, and Mourir pour des idées. His songs are a complex mix of music and poetry. His poetic songs are set out in 14 song albums he produced between 1952-1976. When he started writing songs, he took as his model the songs of Charles Trenet, Tino Rossi and Ray Ventura. His songs usually have very strong and bouncy rhythms and evident sense of the joys of a simple life, tinged with occasional black humor.

Before earning his living as a poetic song writer-singer, he had worked as a mason apprentice in his father’s workshop, following his expulsion from school for a theft offence and then as a car factory worker at Renault, Paris but shortly thereafter , WWII broke out and in 1943 and he was forced to work at a BMW aeroplane plant in Basdorf (near Berlin). He escaped and went back to Sète. He refused to work because he did not wish to benefit the Germans and spent his time at the local library and started carefully studying the works of such French poets as Victor Hugo, Villon, Baudelaire, Verlaine and then imitated
them until he found his own style and eventually became so good at it that he was awarded the Grand Prix de Poésie of the Académie française in 1967. 
But Brassens did not stay at S
ète long because he felt that his future lay in Paris. So returned there. He lived in a working class district in a cul de sac of the 14th arrondissement Paris which he called "Impasse Florimont," at a slum apartment with his aunt’s friend, a married woman called Jeanne Planches, someone who had crush on him and was the inspiration for his song Jeanne. He stayed in the same district for 22 years!

From an early age, he had music in his soul.  He was reported to have told his friend André Sève, "It’s a kind of internal vibration, something intense, a pleasure that has something of the sensual to it." He had wanted to learn music at a conservatory but his mother refused until his grades improved. So he never took any formal lessons in music.  For a short while after the war, he wanted to start an anarchist paper to be called Le Cri des Gueux (The villains' cry) but did not have money to do so but joined the Anarchist Federation and wrote some vitriolic prose for its paper, Le Libertaire. He wanted the French to return to a simpler and more modest life but his radical writing was not well received and he left. In an interview, he said, "I'm an anarchist, so much so that I always cross at the zebra crossing to avoid arguing with the police…I'm not very fond of the law. As Léataud would say, I could do without laws [...] I think most people couldn’t."

Mourir pour des idées

Mourir pour des idées, l'idée est excellente
Moi j'ai failli mourir de ne l'avoir pas eue
Car tous ceux qui l'avaient, multitude accablante
En hurlant à la mort me sont tombés dessus
Ils ont su me convaincre et ma muse insolente
Abjurant ses erreurs, se rallie à leur foi
Avec un soupçon de réserve toutefois
Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente

Jugeant qu'il n'y a pas péril en la demeure
Allons vers l'autre monde en flânant en chemin
Car, à forcer l'allure, il arrive qu'on meure
Pour des idées n'ayant plus cours le lendemain
Or, s'il est une chose amère, désolante
En rendant l'âme à Dieu c'est bien de constater
Qu'on a fait fausse route, qu'on s'est trompé d'idée
Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente
D'accord, mais de mort lente

Les saint jean bouche d'or qui prêchent le martyre
Le plus souvent, d'ailleurs, s'attardent ici-bas
Mourir pour des idées, c'est le cas de le dire
C'est leur raison de vivre, ils ne s'en privent pas
Dans presque tous les camps on en voit qui supplantent
Bientôt Mathusalem dans la longévité
J'en conclus qu'ils doivent se dire, en aparté
"Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente
D'accord, mais de mort lente"

Des idées réclamant le fameux sacrifice
Les sectes de tout poil en offrent des séquelles
Et la question se pose aux victimes novices
Mourir pour des idées, c'est bien beau mais lesquelles ?
Et comme toutes sont entre elles ressemblantes
Quand il les voit venir, avec leur gros drapeaux
Le sage, en hésitant, tourne autour du tombeau
Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente
D'accord, mais de mort lente

Encore il suffisait de quelques hécatombes

Pour qu'enfin tout changeât, qu'enfin tout s'arrangeât
Depuis tant de "grands soirs" que tant de têtes tombent
Au paradis sur terre on y serait déjà
Mais l'âge d'or sans cesse est remis aux calendes
Les dieux ont toujours soif, n'en ont jamais assez
Et c'est la mort, la mort toujours recommencée
Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente
D'accord, mais de mort lente

O vous, les boutefeux, ô vous les bons apôtres
Mourez donc les premiers, nous vous cédons le pas
Mais de grâce, morbleu! laissez vivre les autres!
La vie est à peu près leur seul luxe ici bas
Car, enfin, la Camarade est assez vigilante
Elle n'a pas besoin qu'on lui tienne la faux
Plus de danse macabre autour des échafauds!
Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente
D'accord, mais de mort lente

Dying for Ideas

To die for ideas, excellent idea
Me, I fail to die for not having had it
Cause all those who had, the damning crowd

Yelling at death are fallen under for me

They knew how to convince me and my insolent muse
Abjuring their errors, rally to their faith

With however a suspicious reserve

We for ideas, agreed, but death wait awhile

Agreed, but of death wait awhile

Judging that there’s no risk in staying there
We go towards the other world lingering on the way
As by forcing the allure, one may die
for ideas haven’t got a lesson the day after
But, if there’s a thing bitter, desolate,
In returning the soul to God, it’s good to state
That we had made a wrong turn, that our idea is wrong
We die for ideas, agreed, but death wait awhile

Agreed, but death wait awhile

The St Johns who preach martyrdom with a mouth of gold
Most often, besides, are delayed here below
To die for ideas, is the case of saying it
It’s their reason for living, they don’t deprive themselves of it
In almost all areas that we see that supplant
Rather early , Methusalah in his longevity

I conclude from that that it must be said, in a different way
“We die for ideas, agreed, but death wait awhile

Agreed, but death wait awhile

Ideas claim the famous sacrifice
Sects of all kinds offer sequels
The question is posed to the victimized novices
Die for idea, it’s very beautiful but which?
As all of them look like each other
When they see it coming, with their huge flag

The sage, hesitating, turn around from the tomb
We die for ideas, agreed, but death wait awhile

Agreed, but death wait awhile

Again, it only needs a few massacres
for everything to finally change , for everything to be straightened

After so many “great nights” for so many heads to fall

In this earthly paradise in which we would already be
But the golden age is ceaselessly postponed in the calenders

The gods are always thirsty, and can never have enough

And it’s death, the death that’s always re-started

We die for ideas, agreed, but death wait awhile

Agreed, but death wait awhile

O, you the firebrands, O you, the good apostles

You die first, we give you right of way

But freely, hell’s teeth! Let the others live!

Their life is their almost their only luxury here below

Because, the Comrade is quite vigilant
She doesn’t need to be given what’s false
More of the deathly danc around the scaffold

We die for ideas, agreed, but death wait awhile

Agreed, but death wait awhile