Even though I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California, I was raised as an Armenian first. This means several things to me, but when it comes to music specifically, it means my ears were constantly exposed to a very wide range of international music regularly including Armenian, Russian, French, Arabic, Spanish, Italian and Greek music.
Here is a French song I would like to introduce to you: La Bohéme by Charles Aznavour. In the video below, a very young Charles Aznavour is performing this song at the Olympia in Paris, France in 1968 with English captions.
French Je vous parle d’un temps La bohème, la bohème. Ça voulait dire on est heureux Dans les cafés voisins La bohème, la bohème. Ça voulait dire tu es jolie Souvent il m’arrivait La bohème, la bohème. Ça voulait dire on a vingt ans Quand au hasard des jours La bohème, la bohème. On était jeunes, on était fous English I am telling you about a time La boheme, la boheme, it meant we are happy. In the coffee shops nearby La boheme, la boheme, it meant you are pretty. Often I would, La boheme, la boheme, it meant we are twenty years old. When on a random day La boheme, la boheme. We were young, we were foolish. —————— Turin, Piedmont, Italy La Bohéme was originally a song called “Porta Pila” by Piedmontese singer Gipo Farassino in 1960 referring to his city of Turin in Piedmont. Piedmont is a large mountainous region in northwestern Italy where over 2 million people speak Piedmontese. Interestingly, piedmontese is not a dialect of Italian, but an endangered Romance language, of which there are 31 in Italy alone. Charles Aznavour and Jacques Plante took the music of “Porta Pila” and created their own French version. This is a classic of French chanson and Aznavour’s signature song. He later recorded Italian, Spanish, English and German versions as well. If you liked the Aznavour version, you may also enjoy this French version sung by the beautiful Portuguese fado singer, Mafalda Arnauth: Fado is a rich music genre from Portugal and it’s portuguese for destiny or fate. There are two kinds of fado music. They both incorporate the Portuguese guitar and may also be called saudade (for which there is no perfect translated word in English). One is from Lisbon and the other from Coimbra (both are cities of Portugal). The Lisbon style is the most popular, while Coimbra’s is the more classic style. Carlos Paredes is my favorite artist of the classic fado style. He helped make the Portuguese guitar known all around the world. Here is the melancholic and lovely Canção verdes anos by Carlos Paredes: Also check out “Sa Jeunesse” by Charles Aznavour below which roughly translates to “One’s Youth.” French Lorsque l’on tient Lorsqeu l’on voit Car tous les instants Souvent en vain Avant que de sourire et nous quittons l’enfance Lorsque l’on tient Lorsque l’on voit Car tous les instants Souvent en vain English His youth When we see Because every moment Often in vain Before smiling and we leave childhood When one holds When we see Because every moment Often in vain That’s all folks!
La boheme
Que les moins de vingt ans né peuvent pas connaître
Montmartre en ce temps-là accrochait ses lilas
Jusque sous nos fenêtres et si l’humble garni
Qui nous servait de nid né payait pas de mine
C’est là qu’on s’est connu
Moi qui criait famine et toi qui posais nue
La bohème, la bohème. Nous né mangions qu’un jour sur deux
Nous étions quelques-uns
Qui attendions la gloire et bien que miséreux
Avec le ventre creux
Nous né cessions d’y croire et quand quelque bistro
Contre un bon repas chaud
Nous prenait une toile, nous récitions des vers
Groupés autour du poêle en oubliant l’hiver
La bohème, la bohème et nous avions tous du génie
Devant mon chevalet
De passer des nuits blanches
Retouchant le dessin
De la ligne d’un sein
Du galbe d’une hanche et ce n’est qu’au matin
Qu’on s’asseyait enfin
Devant un café-crème
Epuisés mais ravis
Fallait-il que l’on s’aime et qu’on aime la vie
La bohème, la bohème et nous vivions de l’air du temps
Je m’en vais faire un tour
A mon ancienne adresse
Je né reconnais plus
Ni les murs, ni les rues
Qui ont vu ma jeunesse
En haut d’un escalier
Je cherche l’atelier
Dont plus rien né subsiste
Dans son nouveau décor
Montmartre semble triste et les lilas sont morts
La bohème, la bohème. Ça né veut plus rien dire du toutLa boheme
That people under twenty years old would not know.
Montmartre at the time was hanging its lilacs
Up under our windows, and even if our modest furnished (room)
That we used as a nest did not look great,
This is where we met,
Me starving and you posing nude.
La boheme, la boheme, we only ate every other day.
We were a few
Waiting for glory, and although poor
With our empty bellies
We would not stop believing, and when some bistro
For a nice warm meal
Would take a painting, we recited verses,
Gathered around the stove while forgetting the winter.
La boheme, la boheme, and we were all talented.
In front of my easel,
Spend sleepless nights
Altering the drawing,
Of the line of a breast,
Of the curve of a hip, and only in the morning,
We would finally sit,
In front of a coffee with milk,
Exhausted but delighted.
We must have loved each other and loved life.
La boheme, la boheme, we lived from the air of the time [basically feeding ourselves from the floating trend, the present time].
I go for a walk
To my old address
I no longer recognize
Neither the walls, nor the streets
That witnessed my youth.
At the top of a stairway,
I look for the studio
Of which nothing remains.
In its new setting,
Montmartre seems sad and the lilacs are dead.
La boheme, la boheme. It doesn’t mean anything anymore.History of La Bohéme
Sa jeunesse
Entre ses mains
Cette richesse
Avoir vingt ans
Des lendemains
Pleins de promesses
Quand l’amour sur nous se penche
Pour nous offrir ses nuits blanches
Loin devant soi
Rire la vie
Brodée d’espoir
Riche de joies
Et de folies
Il faut boire jusqu’à l’ivresse
Sa jeunesse
De nos vingt ans
Nous sont comptés
Et jamais plus
Le temps perdu
Né nous fait face
Il passé
On tend les mains
Et l’on regrette
Il est trop tard
Sur son chemin
Rien né l’arrête
On né peut garder sans cesse
Sa jeunesse
Avant que de savoir la jeunesse s’en fuit
Cela semble si court que l’on est tout surpris
Qu’avant que le comprendre on quitte l’existence
Entre ses mains
Cette richesse
Avoir vingt ans
Des lendemains
Pleins de promesses
Quand l’amour sur nous se penche
Pour nous offrir ses nuits blanches
Loin devant soi
Rire la vie
Brodée d’espoir
Riche de joies
Et de folies
Il faut boire jusqu’à l’ivresse
Sa jeunesse
De nos vingt ans
Nous sont comptés
Et jamais plus
Le temps perdu
Né nous fait face
Il passé
On tend les mains
Et l’on regrette
Il est trop tard
Sur son chemin
Rien né l’arrête
On né peut garder sans cesse
Sa jeunesse…His Youth
When one holds
Between his hands
This wealth
Of being twenty
Tomorrows
Full of promises
When love leans on us
To give us its sleepless nights
Far ahead
Laugh at life
Embroidered with hope
Rich of choice
And craziness
We have to drink ’til drunkenness
Our youth
from our twenties
Are counted
And never again
Will the time lost
Face us again
It goes by
We hold out our hands
And we regret
It is too late
On its way
Nothing stops it
We can’t constantly keep
Our youth
Before knowing youth runs away
It seems so short that we’re all surprised
Before understanding it we leave existence
Between his hands
This wealth
Of being twenty
Tomorrows
Full of promises
When love leans on us
To give us its sleepless nights
Far ahead
Laugh at life
Embroidered with hope
Rich of choice
And craziness
We have to drink ’til drunkenness
Our youth
from our twenties
Is counted
And never again
Will the time lost
Face us again
It goes by
We hold out our hands
And we regret
It is too late
On its way
Nothing stops it
We can’t constantly keep
Our youth