Extrait du CD PRÉVERT & KOSMA, "CHANSONS" (Anima Records) et du spectacle "Bouteilles à la mer"
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Elodie Fonnard, Julie Horreaux, Maya Villanueva, Sopranos
Patrick Langot, Violoncelle
Philippe Barbey-Lallia, Piano & arrangements
« L’écran des actualités toujours et de plus en plus bordé de noir est une obsédante lettre de faire-part où quotidiennement,
hebdomadairement, Zorro, Tarzan et Robin des Bois sont terrassés par le mille-patte atomique. »
Jacques Prévert, in «Histoires et d’Autres histoires», 1946.
2015. À l’heure où Zorro part pour la guerre sainte, où Tarzan se terre dans une réserve, où Robin des Bois prend aux pauvres
pour donner aux riches, et où le mille-patte atomique se vautre dans les puanteurs d’une terre devenue décharge - en attendant
la Troisième - nous avons ressenti la nécessité de dire, chanter, crier parfois, ces poèmes. Parce qu’ils disent la vie, l’espoir,
la lutte. Parce qu’ils portent chevillés au corps la conviction intacte qu’un autre monde est possible. Un monde où les hommes
auront du pain et des roses. Où ils auront le temps de vivre, d’aimer, de contempler la beauté terrestre. Où les petits Einstein et les petits Mozart qui meurent aujourd’hui de faim en Afrique nourriront de leur art et de leur science l’humanité toute entière.
Et en ces temps de crise et de remontée des idées réactionnaires, nationalistes, guerrières, ça fait du bien. Et ça fait du beau.
Actuel Prévert ? Vital. Et gare au mille-patte atomique !
Soleil de Nuit, 2014
‘The ever darker screen of current affairs is an obsessive announcement in which on a daily and weekly basis, Zorro, Tarzan
and Robin Hood are struck down by the atomic centipede.’ (Jacques Prévert in ‘Stories and Other Stories’, 1946).
2015. At a time when Zorro has joined the jihad, when Tarzan is penned up in a nature reserve, when Robin Hood takes from
the poor to give to the rich and when the atomic centipede wallows in the stench of an earthly rubbish heap – and waits
expectantly for the Third World War – we feel a pressing need to read, sing and even shout these poems. For they speak of
life, of hope, of struggles. For they carry the unaltered belief in the possibility of a better world in which everyone would
have bread and roses. People would have the time to live, to love, and to appreciate the beauty of the world. The little
Einsteins and Mozarts who are currently dying of starvation in Africa would be able to sustain humanity with their art and
knowledge. And this is exactly what is needed in these times of crisis when reactionary ideas are on the rise - something
beautiful. Is Prévert relevant today? Absolutely. But beware of the atomic centipede !
Soleil de Nuit, 2015
Barbara
Remember Barbara
It was raining constantly on Brest that day
And you were walking smiling
Blooming delighted dripping
Under the rain
Remember Barbara
It was raining constantly on Brest
And I passed you in rue de Siam
You were smiling
And I was smiling too
Remember Barbara
You who I didn’t know
You who didn’t know me
Remember
Remember that day anyway
Don’t forget
A man sheltered himself in a doorway
Then he shouted your name
Barbara
And you ran to him under the rain
Dripping delighted blooming
And you ran to his arms
Remember that Barbara
And don't blame me if I speak to you affectionately
I speak affectionately to everyone I love
Even if I’ve only seen them once
I speak affectionately to everyone in love
Even if I don’t know them
Remember Barbara
Don’t forget
This sweet and happy rain
On your happy face
On this happy city
This rain on the sea
On the naval arsenal
On the battleship
Oh Barbara
War is such a crap
What’s become of you now
Under this rain of iron
Of fire of steel of blood
And the one who took you in his arms
Lovingly
Is he dead disappeared or yet still living
Oh Barbara
It’s raining constantly on Brest
But it’s no longer the same and everything’s ruined
It’s a rain of death terrible and desolate
It's not even the storm
Of iron of steel of blood
Simply some clouds
Who die like dogs
Dogs who disappear
Over water on Brest
And will decay far away
Far away, very far from Brest
Of which nothing remains.
copyright Editions Gallimard
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