Jacques Brel: the king of the Chanson.
Brel: The Belgian Bob Dylan with a voice so powerful it doesn’t have to be translated.
artwork by Joop van Bilsen
Covered by Bowie, Ray Charles, Nina Simone and Frank Sinatra, nominated for the Cannes’ Palme d’Or, the undisputed king of the Chanson, Jaques Brel remains one of the most powerful music figures from the 50s and 60s. Still, despite 25 million records sold, his influence remains overlooked, almost a footnote in our generation’s music discourse.
The Chanson genre (literally translating to “song”) bears its roots in the storytelling of medieval troubadours and later in the entertainment music of cabaret, but it was during the late 50s that it exploded in France. Surging in popularity alongside folk revival, this sub-genre of singer-songwriting was launched into the mainstream with its emphasis on lyrics and vocals instead of musicality, eventually reaching its peak in the mid-to-late 60s. With the elevated poeticism of Georges Brassens, Serge Gainsbourg and, ultimately, Jacques Brel, the Chanson proved to be an incredibly influential movement that left an indelible mark on songwriters worldwide.
Born in Brussels in 1929, Brel was a charismatic, humorous student that, despite his academic struggles, showed a substantial talent for storytelling, already starting to write short stories in his signature wryly macabre style from a young age. And, having left his job at his parent’s cardboard factory, he finally began performing in his hometown by 1952. With a discography spanning three decades, Brel’s music, though varied, consistently shares one key element: his voice. On any track, you will always hear a voice bursting with emotion. Even if you let the music play out without translation, the subtleties of his vocal delivery will evoke emotions as complex as the most intricate Leonard Cohen lyric. Whether it be in the explosive, almost operatic, wails of “Orly” or the numbed, monotone sighs in “Le Plat Pays”, these songs exhibit some of the most impressive and touching performances ever. The chorus of his biggest hit “Ne Me Quitte Pas” [Don’t Leave Me] is nothing but a repetition of its title, yet Brel’s trembling voice leaves the listener in more anguish than most breakup songs would ever dream of! Still, it is difficult to always appreciate Brel’s literary talent. For non-French speakers, it can feel arduous to always look up translations, and it is perhaps for this simple reason that he is so underdiscussed. Still, though translating lyrics may feel limiting, especially with a singer whose music is so reliant on the stories that it tells, it has actively forced me to listen to each word and has only contributed to my enjoyment of him.
If I were to recommend an entry point to his discography, I’d certainly say “Amsterdam”. Never released as a studio recording, this live piece left me awestruck the first time I heard it. Loosely based on the melody of “Greensleeves”, the song uncomfortably describes the port of the titular city, where hoards of sailors helplessly drink to their insignificance and selfishly revel in their hedonism. The track plays out with a minimalist arrangement: Brel accompanied by a piano. However, after a mere three minutes, you are left stricken by the sheer theatricality, the repulsiveness, the profound self-loathing that the singer viscerally catapults through his cries. I especially recommend watching the video recording of the 1966 performance at l’Olympia. Drenched in sweat by the end, he shakes and flails, proudly crying out his lines. A mournful depiction of self-destructive tendencies, many of which Brel himself shared, this track is equally passionate as it is tragic with its degrading, debaucherous descriptions.
“Dans le port d’Amsterdam y’a des marins qui mangent
“In the port of Amsterdam there are sailors who eat,
Sur des nappes trop blanches des poissons ruisselants
On table cloths too white, dripping fish
[...]
Et quand ils ont bien bu se plantent le nez au ciel
And when they’ve drunk enough, they stand with their noses to the sky
Se mouchent dans les étoiles
Blow their noses in the stars
Et ils pissent comme je pleure sur les femmes infidèles”
And they piss like I cry on the unfaithful women”
Often compared to peers like Tom Waits, Brel was first and foremost a performer, expressively acting out his characters to stage the stories he told. And so, it's certainly no surprise that much of his work is defined by songs like “Amsterdam” where his aggressive, bombastic pathos dominates. “Orly” is another noteworthy example, whereby simply oscillating between two guitar chords, Brel constructs a sorrowful, cinematic account of two lovers separating at an airport, presenting an aching, symbiotic relationship in their love as they “hold each other by the eyes”. If you’re looking for climactic tracks rupturing with emotion, start here.
On the other hand, it would be criminal to overlook the carefully crafted storytelling of his more intimate works; German film director Wim Wenders once labeled Brel as one of the five greatest lyricists ever, recognising his delicate and reflective nature. Like many of his singer-songwriter contemporaries, Brel’s earliest works mainly consist of straightforward short story-like songs. If you find yourself enjoying Johnny Cash or early Bob Dylan, with scarce arrangements and a narrative voice, I recommend “Le Moribond” [The Dying Man]. With biting cynicism and playful character, the singer humorously portrays the realizations of a man on his deathbed. He contrasts his shallow pettiness in lines like “farewell Antoine, I didn’t like you, you know/It kills me to die today while you’re so alive and well” with the mournful reality that “it’s hard to die in the springtime” when “they’ll put me in a hole”. And though macabre satires would remain one of his signature song styles, Brel would gradually fashion less grounded, more elusive pieces. His final album Les Marquises, recorded in his final months, exhibits some of his most cryptic, yet enchanting works, namely “Voir un ami pleurer” [To See a Friend in Tears]. In this ballad, Brel observes a decaying world, where “there are people without music” and “cities exhausted by 50 year-old children” as “we march over the flowers”. Then, he suddenly interrupts each verse with the chorus “but to see a friend in tears…” The song is disarming. It overwhelms you with the whole world’s melancholy, just to abruptly break down into the incomplete, but touching, image of a loved one in pain. It's a testament to the singer’s immense sensibilities—a sorrowful yet uplifting ode to friendship.
Overall, Jacques Brel plays a very peculiar role in music for me. His songs can either envelop you in anger or in anguish, and, with striking lyrics delivered by an unparalleled voice, each of his songs will enchant you in countless ways. There are few songwriters that hit the mark throughout such a varied career like he did. Whether it be in performance or songwriting, his lyrics still enthrall us as his legacy lives on and his voice holds the same power as always. Brel was not just a master of the Chanson, but of channeling raw emotions through his beautifully stark stories.
edited by Sixto Mendez
artwork by Joop van Bilsen