Best French Pop Songs' ! -Part 4 (ARTIST : FRANCIS CABREL) /FAVORITE FOR EVER (Normal I 'm a fan) ----20 SONGS for the moment ;)
B1sur J'aime ts les chanteur que je présente sur ce blog mais celui-ci c particulier. Je l'aime je l'aime je laime ! Il est mon Tino Rossi des temps moderne, notre troubadour national, 1 mélodist et parolier incroyable , bref mon idol quoi ! Il a bercé mon enfance et nourri mes rêves o moyen de chansons inoubliables. (Dame d'un soir, Pleure pas petite sirène, je t'aimais je t'aime et je t'aimerais, Samedi soir sur la terre)
Au vu de ttes ses chansons tubesk, g été contrainte de procéder par ordre chronologique afin de ne pas en oublier 1 seule ! Et de vous les faire découvrir, en ne doutant pas que vous deviendrez vous aussi des fans !
Signé Casanovane -fan de Cabrel pour toujours !
Of course I like all the singers that I present on this blog but this one is special . I love him I love him I love him ! He is my Tino Rossi of modern times, our national troubadour , an incredible melodist and lyricist, brief my idol !
He rocked my childhood and nurtured my dreams through unforgettable songs. ('One-Night lady', Don't Cry Little Mermaid , I loved I love and I'll love you , a Saturday night on earth )
In view of all his tubes , I was forced to proceed in chronological order to not forget one single !
Not doubting that you will become also fans!
Signed Casanovane -Fan of Cabrel forever!
Francis Cabrel - Petite Marie - une vidéo Music.mp4
Me, I was nothing, And there I am today The guardian Of her nights' sleep. I love her to death. You can destroy All that will please you, She only has to open The space between her arms, To rebuild everything. I love her to death. She erased the numbers Of the neighborhood's clocks.
Allumés les postes de télévision, Lit televisions, Verrouillées les portes des conversations, Locked doors conversations, Oubliés les dames et les jeux de cartes, Forgotten the ladies and card games, Endormies les fermes quand les jeunes partent. Sleepy farms when the young leave. Brisées les lumières des ruelles en fête, Broken lights of the streets in celebration, Refroidi le vin brûlant, les assiettes, Cooled the burning wine, plates, Déchirées les nappes des soirées de noce, Torn tablecloths wedding parties, Oubliées les fables du sommeil des gosses, Forget the fables of sleep kids,
Arrêtées les valses des derniers jupons, Arrested waltzes recent petticoats, Et les fausses notes des accordéons. And wrong notes accordions. C'est un hameau perdu sous les étoiles, It is a hamlet under the stars Avec de vieux rideaux pendus à des fenêtres sales, With old curtains hung at the windows dirty, Et sur le vieux buffet sous la poussière grise, And the old buffet in the gray dust Il reste une carte postale. It remains a postcard.
Goudronnées les pierres des chemins tranquilles, Paved stone paths alone, Relevées les herbes des endroits fragiles, Identified herbs fragile places, Désertées les places des belles foraines, Deserted places beautiful fairground Asséchées les traces de l'eau des fontaines. Dried traces of water fountains.
Oubliées les phrases sacrées des grands-pères, Forgotten the sacred phrases grandfathers, Aux âtres des grandes cheminées de pierre, The hearths of large stone fireplaces, Envolés les rires des nuits de moissons, Gone were the nights of laughs harvest, Et allumés les postes de télévision. Lit and televisions.
C'est un hameau perdu sous les étoiles, It is a hamlet under the stars Avec de vieux rideaux pendus à des fenêtres sales, With old curtains hung at the windows dirty, Et sur le vieux buffet sous la poussière grise, And the old buffet in the gray dust Il reste une carte postale. It remains a postcard.
Envolées les robes des belles promises, Wings of beautiful dresses promised Les ailes des grillons, les paniers de cerises, The wings of crickets, baskets of cherries, Oubliés les rires des nuits de moissons, Forgotten nights of laughter harvests, Et allumés les postes de télévision. Lit and televisions.
Francis Cabrel - Meme si j'y reste - ( carte postale)
Francis Cabrel Repondez Moi
Answer Me
I live in a house with no balcony nor roof
Where there aren't even bees about the jam jars
There aren't even birds, nothing of nature
It's not even a house
I left in passing several words on the wall
Of the corridor descending to the carpark
Several words for the grand people
Not even insults
If anyone understood them
Answer me
My heart fears being walled up in your towers of ice
Condemned to the sound of trucks passing,
That [heart] which dreams of fields of stars, daffodil garlands
for hanging upon girls' shoulders
But in the morning you train yourself in running around your habits
And in the evening your forest of antennae are branched out towards solitude
And though the full moon would shine
Though the south wind would blow
You, you comprehend nothing
And as for me, I see your splendid dogs passing with eyes of ice
Carried on cushions which their owners would kiss
For hands to touch, it requires a password
For hands to touch
Answer me
My heart is afraid of getting stuck in so tiny a space
Condemned to the sound of trucks passing,
that [heart] which dreams of fields of stars and torrents of daffodils
To cover girls' shoulders
But the last of the fairies seeks her magic wand
My friend, the stream sleeps in a plastic bottle
The seasons have stopped at the feet of synthetic trees
There is nothing left but me
And as for me, I live in my house with no balcony nor roof
1."haggler" is "marchand de tapis" (carpet seller), hence the metaphor of thick wool (they make me sleep on the carpets they sold me)
2.at the time, it was the number of the French telephone information service. Real people were answering the call and gave a phone number in exchange for an address. Nowadays of course all this is done by computers. And there's facebook to forget about our empty lives
Every evening, the same girl waits In the same square, the same bench, Like a forgotten Madonna, Her legs crossed. She travels amidst houses, In the blue night of televisions, As light ghosts, Veils of smoke. They say she has rooms in town, They say she sleeps on the side, That she's rather ...
When winds are tearing on roofs' angles Streets I barely cross through, When days are stretching and do not end, Do I miss home? When I feel autumn wasting away over there, When I know that the fire devours The banks of theGaronnewhere trees blaze, I miss home.
She speaks like water of the fountains As mornings on the mountain Her eyes are almost as clear As the white walls deep in Spain The midnight blue of her dreams attracts me Even if she knows the tearing words I promised never to lie To the girl who accompanies me.