Here is a very modest translation, of one of Brel’s great songs, and a video of him perfoming (that’s the word) it in the Olympia in ’66.
First, first, there’s the eldest
The one who’s like a melon
The one who has a big nose
The one who doesn’t know his name anymore
Sir, that’s how much he drinks
How much he drank
Who doesn’t do anything of his ten fingers
But he can’t take anymore
He’s completely baked
And he thinks he’s the king
He gets wasted every night
With cheap wine
And we find him in the morning
In the church, sleeping
Stiff as a beam
White as an Easter candle
And he slurs
And his eyes wander
You have to remember, Sir,
That these people,
They don’t think, Sir,
They don’t think, they pray
And then, there’s the other
With carrots in his hair
Who never saw a comb
Who’s mean as a louse
Who would give his shirt
To poor happy people
Who married good old Denise
A girl from town
Well, from another town
He does his own little business
With his little hat
With his little coat
With his little car
He would like to look like…
But he doesn’t look like at all
You shouldn’t act rich
When you’re without a penny
You have to remember, Sir,
That these people,
They don’t live, Sir,
They don’t live, they cheat
And then, there’re the others
The mother who says nothing
Or sometimes complete nonsense
And from dusk to dawn
Under his pretty apostle’s face
And in its wooden frame,
There’s the father’s moustache
Who died of a slide
And who watches his flock
Feeding on the cold soup
And they all make loud slurps
And they all make loud slurps
And there’s the really old one
Who can’t stop trembling
And they’re waiting for her to die
Since she has the cash
And they don’t even listen to
What her poor hands are telling
You have to remember, Sir,
That these people
They don’t speak, Sir,
They don’t speak, they count
And then and then
And then there’s Frida
Who’s pretty as a sun
And who loves me as much
As I love Frida
We even say, often,
That we’ll have a house
With loads of windows
With almost no walls
And we’ll live in there
And it will feel good being there
And even if it’s not sure
It’s at least maybe
Because the others don’t agree
Because the others don’t agree
The others say
That she’s too pretty for me
That I’m just about good enough
To cut the cats’ throats
I never killed a cat
Or then it was a long time ago
Or maybe I forgot
Or they smelled bad
Anyway they don’t want
Sometimes when we meet
pretending it’s random
With her wet eyes
She tells me she will leave
She tells me she’ll follow me
Then for a moment
For a moment only
Then I believe her, Sir,
For a moment
For a moment only
Because these people
Sir, they don’t go away
They don’t go away, Sir,
They don’t go away
But it’s late already Sir,
I should really go home.
Armel Dagorn 