I hate to apologize for doing this, but once again you’re hearing in a mix of mine some jettisoned-off idea I had once tried to write about. What is “nouvelle chanson française”? Simply translated, it means the new French song. Somewhere, a sorely confused Wikipedia article tries to explain it off as some genre stylistic created from the wake of influential artists like Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Brel, and Brigitte Fontaine. Seemingly skipping a whole generation of French artistes, someone, perhaps a sorely lost Gallic Pop fan, edits this page out to roll in the music of Benjamin Biolay, CocoRosie, and Camille. Suffice it to say, they can’t help but be even more wrong.
You see, what you’re hearing in this mix is a new musical thought that was carved out far from typical, Anglo-Saxon discovery. One could argue it began in the pointed stylings of author, poet, comic, and singer Boris Vian who provided an early blueprint for others like M. Gainsbourg and M. Polnareff, hiding all sorts of deep double entendres (dissecting politics, sex, and life) under the subterfuge of lilting modal Pop numbers.
Others like Claude Nougaro would introduce influences from Latin America and Africa to a decidedly Gallic upstart form. Barbara would push M. Gainsbourg to get on with it and actually work within the Pop frame to disguise overtly what they really wanted society to probe. The sweeping neoclassical romanticism of the iconic, mustachioed, Jean Ferrat would add his own rung to this building of an orchestral tradition within this form of music. If you’re thinking of baritone singing that touches the heart — you probably owe some debt to M. Ferrat and his ideas on this.
Then, we have the timeless work of one Léo Ferré. Born and raised in Monaco, in a world before The Great Wars, he encapsulated the journey of this creation myth. Beginning as a poet, he struggled to find music that would capture the beauty of his beloved Maurice Ravel. Turning his eye to composition, Léo began dabbling in expressionist and impressionistic works that hinted at experimental musical ideas that could move the masses in the way the cookie-cutter music of the day wouldn’t. One fateful meeting with Edith Piaf, forced his hand.
“Move to Paris”, “sing”, those were the beliefs Edith entrusted to Léo. The only way he could actually make a difference in this mixed up world is to tie all his aesthetic ideas into songs the common man can discover. By the time he’d reach albums like 1973’s Il N’y A Plus Rien or his final one, 1991’s Une Saison En Enfer, Léo had half a century of creating truly jaw-dropping, inspiring music that had quietly influenced the likes of Scott Walker, Josephine Baker, Dylan, Brel, Bressens, and all the artists you see below.
Outspokenly socialist and an anarchist (of the best kind) to the core, Léo sought refuge in the poetry of Rimbaud, Aragon, Voltaire and Baudelaire, but his music was always pointing at a distinctly “new” French song that somehow remained of this, his people, of those whose language can fully understand everything he really wanted to say. On this my mix, for LYL Radio, I was thinking of him and his connection to the country that hosted him. I was thinking of what I can do to connect with others to my largely, French radio audience. With this waning step I thank you for letting me giving you a glimpse of the vast trove of ideas that others are wondering why we’re still not so learned about.
Guerre et Pets (Nouvelle Chanson Française Special)
- Christophe – Ferber Endormi
- Bernard Lavilliers – San Salvador
- Jean-Claude Vannier – Mimi Mimi Mimi
- Gérard Manset – L’Oiseau De Paradis
- Georges Moustaki – Je Ne Sais Pas Oú Tu Commences
- Renaud – J’ai La Vie Qui Me Pique Les Yeux
- Léo Ferré – Night and Day
- Pierre Barouh – Altitude
- H.-F. Thiéfaine – Buenas Noches, Jo
- Étienne Daho – Duel Au Soleil
- Louis Chédid – Ainsi Soit-il
- Jean-Louis Murat – Cheyenne Autumn
- Mark Isham and Charlélie Coutoure – Parlez-Mois D’amour (Moderne)
- Jacques Dutronc – L’éthylique
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