It’s actually not about the music. My favorite music has a lot more to do with context than chords. It’s why I can cry from watching movie trailers; and it’s not, as you’d think, because of the word "trailers." I swoon when the music pipes in at just that thick, delicate moment, the moments when we risk, when we’re scared but do it anyway, when we’re moved to do something immediate and heartfelt. I like my music intense but gentle, building up to a scream. Like sex.
Aside from the songs that are a piece of your childhood, the ones that ground you to a campfire, and a freckled boy with shoulder-length hair each time you hear them, I’m all about the lyrics. It’s often why I prefer songs with an acoustic guitar. Not always. We can all appreciate the sounds of our past, the way they link us to memories like scent. But of newer songs, when I’m on the prowl for newer artists, I’m really looking for songs that tap into moments of abandonment or freedom, songs that make me ache and feel alive. I can, of course, appreciate mood music. Playing a big red barolo of a song while wearing an apron and hoop earrings, letting my man lick the red sauce from my wooden spoon. Good songs sound like a warm story you’re told by a stranger at a bar.
As I tried to pick through a few favorites, I asked Phil for some of his. "Stuff with really good lyrics," I’d said. Then he sent me the lyrics of a song via email.
"Dude, are you serious?"
"What?"
"Seriously, I ask you for your favorite lyrics, and you send me some song in FRENCH?"
"Google it."
"You couldn’t even make French dressing, never mind translate a French song."
"Google it."
"If I have to Google it, you’re missing the point," I say as I google it. I have nothing against French music, mind you. I prefer it on rainy afternoons, or in the evening, something scratchy, as I drink something sweet. Or in the morning with a paper, dressed in yellow, crossing my legs, sitting in a breakfast nook, eating leftover Tart Tatine. French music is for Sundays.
"Did you find the lyrics yet?" Damnit, fool, if I have to find them, it won’t damn matter. It’s never going to affect me, change me, move me the way a song I actually understand will. I’m so not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I’d never have almost peed in my pants, be it La Boheme or Pirates of Penzance.
I then stumbled upon a few translations, one of which I’ve included below. I can now see why he was moved to move past my stubborness and push me along to it.
Translation of Ne Me Quitte Pas:
Don’t leave me
We must forget
All we can forget all we did till now
Let’s forget the cost of the breath
We’ve spent saying words unmeant
And the times we’ve lost hours that must destroy
Never knowing why everything must die at the heart of joy
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
I’ll bring back to you the pearls of rain
From a distant domain where rain never fell
And though I grow old I’ll keep mining the ground
To deck you around in gold and light
I’ll build you a domain where love’s everything
Where love is king and you are queen
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me
For you I’ll invent
Words and what they meant only you will know
Tales of lovers who fell apart and then fell in love again
There’s a story too that I can confide
Of that king who died from not meeting you
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
And often it’s true that flames spill anew
From ancient volcano’s we thought were too old
When all’s said and done scorched fields of defeat
Could give us more wheat than the fine April sun
And when evening is nigh with flames overhead
The black and the red aren’t they joined in the sky
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me
I will cry no more
I will talk no more hide myself
To look at you and see you dance and smile
And hear you sing and laugh
Let me be for you the shadow of your shadow
The shadow of your hand the shadow of your dog
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
Don’t leave me don’t leave me
