Revisiting a childhood favourite…
Ne Me Quitte Pas
I always consider myself lucky to have had such a great introduction to music. Mum and Dad had an eclectic record collection, as I may have mentioned here one or 304 times. They had everything from The Beatles to Led Zeppelin to The Manhattan Transfer to Barbara Dickson. Sunday may have been Music Day – when my folks would play their records while preparing and then eating lunch with all the family at the table – I was constantly interested in their collection of 33 and a thirds. I would pull out the records from the sideboard shelf and study them with absurd intensity, taking in the song titles and credits. It was like a gateway to another world.
At the same time, it was an education – especially when it came to language. Mum had a couple of Polish language records – Bal Au Village Polonais by Boleslaw Nowak and Polkas Galore by Gene Mitchko. Whereas Dad had a fair few French language records by the likes of Mouloudji, Georges Brassens, Gilbert Becaud, Francoise Hardy, Mireille Mathieu…
…and Jacques Brel. I should swiftly point out that Jacques Brel was not French, but Belgian. It’s the same mistake that many make with Hercule Poirot. But out of all the French language records that Dad had, Ne Me Quitte Pas was the one that fascinated me the most. I hadn’t got a clue what Brel was singing about, but the dramatic arrangements and the gruff, deep voice combined to make something unusual and interesting. So when Dad would offer to play one of his French LPs, I would pester him to give Ne Me Quitte Pas a spin.
Because of my fondness for the album, as a grown-up, it’s kind of gone against my principles, since it’s a reworking of old favourites – a trend that I’ve never been too keen on. My pathetic excuse of a baked bean-sized brain will only take the recorded originals as the best. Any remade versions of songs I’ll quickly dismiss as inferior.
But contradictory as ever, I find that Ne Me Quitte Pas from 1972 is an album that reworks old Jacques Brel numbers! But in my feeble defence, I hadn’t heard the original versions. As far as I was concerned, these WERE the originals! So it’s never bothered me, since I can take these versions at face value.
The title track is one of Brel’s signature tunes and has been covered by the world and his wife. The august ranks of Sam Cooke, Olivia Newton-John, Shirley Bassey and Belinda Carlisle have covered Ne Me Quitte Pas, to name but four. It was also reworked by Terry Jacks as the follow-up to Seasons In The Sun as If You Go Away, and was a Top 10 hit in the Summer of 1974.
Brel’s version is phenomenal. Many have suggested that this is a love song – the title translates as “Don’t Leave Me” – but Brel himself has claimed that it is a “hymn to the cowardice of men”, written after the stormy ending of a relationship with former partner, Suzanne Gabriello. While there’s a great emphasis on orchestration throughout this album, on the title track, Brel’s voice does all the hard work.
Over a plaintive piano (and that recurring piano introduction positively freezes the air), Jacques wrings out every scrap of emotion from the lyrics – to the point where his voice audibly breaks in the closing moments. What could have sounded naff – and in the hands of an over-emoting modern-day amateur, it most certainly would – instead becomes a heartfelt work of art.
Marieke
There I am burbling on about how Ne Me Quitte Pas is one of Dad’s French language albums, and already on Track Number Two, he’s alternating it with Dutch lyrics! This could well be a multi-lingual education…
The original Marieke was recorded in 1961, about a Flemish girl whom Brel was once in love with. Marieke lived between “the towers of Bruges and Ghent” and achieved immortality when a statue of her was designed by Jef Claerhout at the request of a journalist called Johan Anthierens who was a bit of a Brel aficionado. If you ever want to visit Marieke, you can find her at the Coupure in Bruges.
The 1972 arrangement is what I would describe as a gradually erupting volcano. It starts as a quiet reflection, and then gradually builds in intensity to this incredible crescendo where the orchestration blares, bells chime and Brel’s voice soars to a gutsy roar. You need a lie down after the bells have rang their last.
On N’Oublie Rien
Being a complete Philistine, I confess that when I listen to music I never pay too much attention to lyrics. The aspect that draws me in is the melody and the sound of it. The sound of Ne Me Quitte Pas was what hooked me, so revisiting the album in this tediously over-analytical way – looking more at the lyrical content – is a brand new experience. You see? You can still discover new things – even when you’re four days away from turning a wizened 52 years of age!
I predicted that this track would be about something more reflective because Brel takes the pace down a bit. It’s a leisurely romp that pleasantly ambles along with a steady beat and some nice rhythm guitar work. The lyrics translate as “We Don’t Forget Anything” or “One Forgets Nothing” (if you’re King Charles), as Jacques muses on those memories that stick in the mind, even the ones that you would prefer to forget. Journeys that make you seasick? Flea pits? At one point, he claims that he could make 1000 songs from his regrets. On N’Oublie Rien itself though is a track that you won’t forget – but for the right reasons.
Les Flamandes
Jacques Brel could be quite cutting with his words, and this Side One midpoint is no exception. Les Flamandes has been criticised for its biting lyrics which some have labelled as being sexist. In fact, it’s taking a swipe at extreme conservatism, attacking severe rules and the accompanying lack of freedom.
The musical template is suitably brash, taking its roots from bawdy music hall. It’s something you could picture being performed on stage. Francois Rauber’s working his socks off to make this come alive – right down to the mocking horns in one of the last verses, almost as if they’re having a sneaky chuckle at these strange old ways.
Les Prénoms de Paris
Another tour-de-force from Francois Rauber, this orchestra-heavy reworking of Brel’s The Names Of Paris whisks you off on a literal mystery tour of the famed city. If Les Flamandes was Brel at his most sardonic, then Les Prénoms de Paris sees the singer at his most romantic.
The opening welcome to Paris translates as “When the sunlight appears, Touching roofs with its hue, That’s Paris most days.” His heart stops and beats when he visits Paris on a good day. A babbling tour guide on one of those open-roofed buses wouldn’t have been able to do as good a job as showcasing the city as Brel did.
But all good things have a tear in the corner of the eye, and Les Prénoms de Paris’ face also falls in the final verses. “But the end of the trip, And the end of it all, That’s Paris turning grey… Final day, final hour, When the first tear will fall, That’s Paris’ rainy day.” The sun’s gone down, the rain’s poured down, and yet despite the melancholy and the feeling of lost love, Paris is still waiting for Jacques. “It’s Paris – I’ve come back!” he shouts at the top of his voice in the last whirlwind peak of kaleidoscopic orchestration and noise – which just as marvellously cuts off abruptly.
The ultimate Parisian tour – and all from the comfort of your own lounge!
Quand On N’A Que L’Amour
The positivity continues with this paean to the power of love. It could well have been sappy, overdone schlock with pompous choirs and ridiculously histrionic caterwauling, but Brel avoids these traps by opting for a plaintive piano-led pattern that again builds in power and volume. It’s more organic than artificial, topped off by a vocalist who was one of the best of his kind.
The production turnaround for the Ne Me Quitte Pas album was quite speedy. Recorded in the June of 1972, Quand On N’A Que L’Amour was the last cut to be laid down – along with La Valse A Mille Temps on the 27th. Whereas these days albums are recorded about 10 years before they actually hit the shelves, back in the ’70s, a quick turnaround wasn’t unusual. But there’s no compromise on the quality at all.
Les Biches
A sometime occurrence of revisiting past telly and music is that one or two aspects have dated. A dodgy turn of phrase here, an iffy lyric there. What might have been acceptable in the past may not be seen as such today. And the lyrics of Les Biches – in which Brel compares women to female deer (The Does) – haven’t quite stood the test of time.
The musicianship, however, is lovely, a nice contrast to the more intense picks elsewhere on the LP. Like On N’Oublie Rien, Les Biches adopts a quieter, more reflective approach with some pleasantly soothing flute work.
Le Prochain Amour
One of the most emotional selections on the album. The combination of Brel’s voice and the string arrangement still moves me to tears, especially at that bit near the end when Brel is gently crooning over a melancholic lone violin.
Plus, the lyrics! How the joy of love and the excitement of the next love can’t ever be separated from the heartbreak of love. How two people besotted with each other will become “enemy ships” that “leave together to fish for tenderness”. And yet at the end, Brel returns to his original mantra of “how good it feels to be in love!”, despite knowing that he’ll put himself on the line to have his heart broken again?
Pass my hanky!
Le Moribond
Let’s return to Terry Jacks. While he’d had a Top 10 hit with If You Go Away, his big moment came earlier in 1974, when in the Spring, he rearranged Brel’s Le Moribond into Seasons In The Sun. A straightforward weepie told from the viewpoint of a dying man remembering all the good times on his deathbed was surefire Number One material, and sure enough it raced to the top that April.
Brel’s original uses the same template, but where Jacks’ interpretation bordered on the saccharine, Brel’s take is mired in black humour. It tells the tale of “The Dying Man” who says goodbye to his friend, his priest, his wife, but also to his wife’s bit on the side! “Goodbye, Antoine, I do not like you very much, you know,” sneers Brel. “And it’s killing me to die today, knowing that you are still so alive, And yet still as solid as boredom…”
The music is in perfect sync with the caustic lyrics – upbeat and with some lovely chord choices, but sung with a distinctive lip curl by Brel, who’s relishing every bit of the cynicism. Then there’s the chorus. The difference between this and the Terry Jacks version is enormous. Jacks’ sing-songy chorus is catchy and pleasant, but Brel turns it into something dark and threatening with its harsh, sawing beat and orchestra. When he sings of the mourners: “I want them to laugh, I want them to dance, To amuse themselves like crazy when they put me in the hole,” Le Moribond’s character is dying with a big belly laugh.
And as if to suggest that the protagonist has suddenly exited this mortal coil, the music abruptly cuts off – like someone’s pulled the plug in the recording studio.
The best on the album.
La Valse A Mille Temps
The gradual build-up pattern of Marieke is repeated again on the penultimate track. Whereas Marieke emphasised the drama, La Valse A Mille Temps (The Waltz A Thousand Times As Fast) is playful and fun. It opens slowly with quiet woodwind and chimes – and then as the rest of the orchestra joins in, the tempo gradually increases, getting faster… and faster… and faster… until that mad last bit in which the players race through the verse at a rate of a million knots while breaking the light speed barrier.
I think that’s why I always requested this LP to Dad when I was a kid. Not just because of the unusual music patterns, but because of the thrill and the rush that tracks like La Valse A Mille Temps offer. I didn’t know what on Earth Brel was singing about – he could well have been reciting the Parisian telephone directory for all I knew – but the ambition and drama came through louder than a foghorn.
Je Ne Sais Pas
Ne Me Quitte Pas is an album of extremes. From vulnerable uncertainty about love to cynical deathbed barbs. From heavy orchestration to a lone piano note. Right at the end, Brel does it again. No sooner has his orchestra collapsed on the spot from sheer exhaustion, Je Ne Sais Pas concludes with quiet contemplation and world-weary sadness.
I Don’t Know – as it translates – ponders on many questions. Why the wind amuses itself. Why “the veil of icy fog” is reminiscent of cathedrals. Why the streets open one by one. But while the character in this achingly sad song does know that he loves his woman still, the narrative pushes him to his heartbreaking realisation. He doesn’t know what time the “sad train” for Amsterdam departs, which port from Amsterdam the great ship leaves or why his woman will be on that train and ship (“Which breaks my heart and body, Our love and my future”).
While this could have been an overwrought bit of nonsense, Je Ne Sais Pas succeeds as a moving finale because it’s downplayed so much. That recurring mournful wailing noise throughout the track adds to the sorrow, concluding the track and the album with one last despairing sigh. Brel also uses the deeper range of his voice to add to the woe, resigned to the fact that the Amsterdam ship and the love of his life have sailed off into the sunset.
What a marvellous album. I’ll always be grateful to Dad for introducing me to the music of Jacques Brel – we still talk about his music regularly to this day. Even if like me, your French is on a par with Officer Crabtree from ‘Allo ‘Allo, you’ll still likely treasure Ne Me Quitte Pas.
(Cover design photography credited to Alain Marouani)
If you liked this article, you might like some of my other books which are available to buy at Amazon:
Amazon.co.uk: JOHN BENSALHIA: books, biography, latest update
