Ä la Recherche du Temps du Club de Pélican
Bonjour Tristesse
The Pelican Club's doors have been closed far too long of late, and what better excuse to throw them open again than to welcome home one of our favorite patrons, quatrefoil from what I can only describe as a European jaunt. In her report of her adventures, Dr. Q mentioned that she'd discovered that her understanding of spoken French had become a bit rusty, so what better excuse for the Club de Pélican to help her brush up.
And don't worry toasty-hampster, there'll be no Jaques Brel. (Belgians! Hawk! Spit! What have they ever given the world apart from a convenient venue to fight battles? Oh, and Tintin, but I digress.)
So let's see how Dr Q'S understanding of sung French is.
We start our star-studded show with the gorgeous Ms Sophie Ellis Bextor with her first band theAudience with probably my favorite musical arrangement of a song which sums up in three and a half minutes pretty much everything Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus ever wrote. Of course, out of respect to the song's lyrical content, we decided not to get the band to perform it live in the Club tonight particularly after they offerred this video which rather proves the point.
And we move on to the powerhouse of Gallic piano that is Veronique Sanson. Yes, Tori Amos, someone else got there first and was doing it in French twenty years before you, in a lamë jacket. This song says everything about being a teenager, male or female despite the title, waking up no longer a virgin. Or at least if it was a lot more romantic than it was for me, but I've experienced afterglow since so I can see where this song comes from.
Now, in the immortal words of Thomas Sullivan Magnum, Private Investigator, I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. This isn't the point in the evening where Sacha Distel starts singing about French bicycles. Instead here's a lad from Long Island, NY trying to be Arthur Rimbaud. He nearly gets away with it but no matter what language, you can't hide a Lawnguyland accent.
And just as a special welcome home present for Dr Q, we'll close tonight with one from the King, and her favorite King. It's not in French, but it sets the record straight although to this observer, it would be more historically appropriate if the white flowers were real roses but much is to be forgiven to any song that contains a rhyming couplet using the word "Plantagenet". (And yes, the lyricist did actually give himself the rest of the day off after coming up with that one.)
The Pelican Club's doors have been closed far too long of late, and what better excuse to throw them open again than to welcome home one of our favorite patrons, quatrefoil from what I can only describe as a European jaunt. In her report of her adventures, Dr. Q mentioned that she'd discovered that her understanding of spoken French had become a bit rusty, so what better excuse for the Club de Pélican to help her brush up.
And don't worry toasty-hampster, there'll be no Jaques Brel. (Belgians! Hawk! Spit! What have they ever given the world apart from a convenient venue to fight battles? Oh, and Tintin, but I digress.)
So let's see how Dr Q'S understanding of sung French is.
We start our star-studded show with the gorgeous Ms Sophie Ellis Bextor with her first band theAudience with probably my favorite musical arrangement of a song which sums up in three and a half minutes pretty much everything Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus ever wrote. Of course, out of respect to the song's lyrical content, we decided not to get the band to perform it live in the Club tonight particularly after they offerred this video which rather proves the point.
Click to viewAnd we move on to the powerhouse of Gallic piano that is Veronique Sanson. Yes, Tori Amos, someone else got there first and was doing it in French twenty years before you, in a lamë jacket. This song says everything about being a teenager, male or female despite the title, waking up no longer a virgin. Or at least if it was a lot more romantic than it was for me, but I've experienced afterglow since so I can see where this song comes from.
Now, in the immortal words of Thomas Sullivan Magnum, Private Investigator, I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. This isn't the point in the evening where Sacha Distel starts singing about French bicycles. Instead here's a lad from Long Island, NY trying to be Arthur Rimbaud. He nearly gets away with it but no matter what language, you can't hide a Lawnguyland accent.
And just as a special welcome home present for Dr Q, we'll close tonight with one from the King, and her favorite King. It's not in French, but it sets the record straight although to this observer, it would be more historically appropriate if the white flowers were real roses but much is to be forgiven to any song that contains a rhyming couplet using the word "Plantagenet". (And yes, the lyricist did actually give himself the rest of the day off after coming up with that one.)