Brel, the Monument

Brel, the Monument

I still remember my 8 year old self regularly waking up to the sound of my father’s “old french music”. Once awake, I’d get out of bed to go and listen to these antiquated songs. Calmly stood in the kitchen, enveloped by Jacques Brel’s “chansons”, my father would absorb the weight of the lyrics, and then watch my reactions to them. If I was indifferent, which too often I was, he’d try to reason me. “Listen carefully” he’d go, “these words are pure poetry”. If this failed, which too often it did, he’d invoke history, culture, and fact. “This is Brel” he’d add, “a francophonic master”, “a wizard of words”, “who inspired Bowie”, and “made a young me fall in love with music, performance, and french.” Selfishly, I thought my father was living in the past. I was growing up, looking towards the future, and here he was, telling me about this old music no one had ever heard of. I dismissed his infatuation as melancholic nostalgia, and paid no attention to these dated tunes. And then one morning, I heard “Orly” (Here’s the link, so you can not only understand some of the things you’re about to read, but listen to this masterpiece for yourself).

The first thing that struck me was the emotion. The music came from the speakers in the kitchen, and from my bedroom, I was blown away by the power, and intent, with which Brel narrated. As I got closer, it became clear that Brel was indeed speaking into the microphone, rather than singing. Eventually, I could discern what it is that he was telling me; just me, intimately. Lyrics of a heavenly accuracy, fluid poetry floating on melodic waves of emotion. My 8 year old self couldn’t believe it. These weighty words, those my father had told me to pay attention to so many times, were like tiny shards of glass, each stabbing a different part of my young heart. “Orly”, named after the Parisian airport where the action takes place, tells of the separation of a couple in an airport. Though the subject matter is quite mundane, albeit moving, Brel channelled a mastery of French, poignant lyricism, and depth of emotion that makes me want to tell you all about this artist, which I now will.

“Orly” was my doorway into the monument that is Jacques Brel, a place my father has lived in, rent-free, for half a century. I later learnt that when Brel wrote the song, he suffered from lung cancer. Through this song, he sang of separation, which to him would be with life itself, and all those he loved. “Orly” was one of 17 songs on “Les Marquises”, his last album, recorded in 1977, a few months before his death. Before this final masterpiece, Brel cemented himself as an all time great, whether as a singer, activist, or man. What touched people most was his generous authenticity, which he expressed as much in the person he was as in the songs he sang. Born in Brussels to a well-off Flemish family on the 8th of April 1929, Brel’s morose childhood, and early twenties, were comfortable and uninspiring. Out of his boredom, Brel began writing songs, which he would then perform at gatherings and cabarets, much to the displeasure of his family and friends. ​​In 1953, Brel sent a demo recording to Jacques Canetti, a famed artistic director, who had discovered countless artists and personal heroes of my father, such as George Brassens and Serge Gainsbourg. Canetti invited Brel to Paris, who made the most crucial decision of his life, to go to Paris. As the Algerian war of independence raged on, Brel wrote “Quand on n’a que l’amour”. A testimony of Brel’s lifelong opposition to war, this is our first encounter with Brel the advocate, who sang that people had much more than “only love” with which to oppose war.

In 1959 came revolution. Brel’s years in Paris had proved enlightening. Armed with a complex understanding of society, nuanced characterisation, and first-rate musicians, Brel released “La Valse à Mille Temps”, his fourth album. With immediate commercial success came performance; during the next few years, Brel would give more than 300 concerts, from Djibouti and Canada, to America and the USSR. To many, it is performance that he is remembered for. With the stage presence of a cathedral, Brel would personify the characters of which he sang, twisting his ugly face and limp body to the orchestra. In line with his musical crescendos, Brel would build up his drama to a mesmerising climax, arms outstretched, his face dripping with sweat.

Brel’s commercial success only heightened the advocate in him. Despite his immense popularity, he would give free concerts at retirement homes, or bring his entire troupe to perform for children. In 1962, Brel sang at the World Festival of Youth For Peace in Helsinki, and in 1965, performed against atomic bombing and testing in Brussels. Bolstered by popularity, and the platform that came with it, Brel went on to release a plethora of committed albums, and continue international concert tours. Then, at the height of his success, in 1967, he decided to quit singing and devote himself to theatre and cinema. Brel wasn’t interested in ease or repetition, seeking new forms through which to express himself. He would play Don Quixote, act in movies, and write and direct his own. 

And then, in 1974, Brel was diagnosed with lung cancer, bringing us right back to “Les Marquises”. It is said that “feelings of injustice, respect and generosity pushed him to produce his best songs”. After devoting the final years of his life to his passion for sailing in the Pacific, Jacques Brel died in Paris on October 9, 1978, at the age of 49. He was buried in the Marquesas Islands, a few yards away from the grave of Paul Gauguin. To me, my father, and countless others, Brel's brief 20 years on stage, the singularity of his body of work, his incandescent interpretations of the world around him, his craft, his generosity, and his unrelenting passion, broke generational, and linguistic, barriers. He was, and is, loved and admired across the world, but I chose to write about him simply because as his legacy slowly disappears behind the thick curtain of time, the person he was, and the material he left behind, are worth remembering. After all, I’m glad I listened to my father, because it’s thanks to his sometimes questionable musical taste that I discovered Jacques Brel, an artistic, moral, and human inspiration who left the stage, but entered the pantheon, with this final performance.  

Here are some links on stuff I’d love to share but don’t have the time to:

• Translations of his song texts here
• Analyses of his songs and career here
• One of Brel’s entire live performances here