hungprep
Peas, Audi, JUB! CUATB!
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Because you said La Petite Tonkinoise was 'perfect to teach' children French, I asked if she – Josephine Baker – wasn't on Sesame Street.
I meant it humorously, but I actually do remember seeing Josephine Baker – or at least an actress dressed as her – singing on some kids program on PBS (if not Sesame Street) when I was a about 9 years old. Come to think of it, though, it may have been simply a performance, or film clip, to promote a documentary about her (or perhaps Ken Burns' Jazz series) that was on PBS at that time…
Anyway, here's one more song by Gilbert Bécaud – perhaps my last one of his cos I haven't had any luck finding any of the ones I like better from my Grand-mère's record collection on YouTube: La vie d'garçon, Quand le spectacle est terminé, Il faut marcher, Les amoureux du monde…
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXW9w2lBNsE&fmt=18"]Mon père à moi Gilbert Bécaud[/ame]
'Je le revois assis sur son vieux banc de pierre
Roulant sa cigarette au bout de ses dix doigts
Il était simple et bon, et il était mon père
Mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père à moi…
'Il était menuisier du plus petit village
Qu'on rencontre là-bas avant le pays haut
Il m'enseignait la vie, comme on construit sa table
Mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père à moi…
'Oh, je sais qu'il avait fait des bêtises
Certains soirs il parlait du Moyen-Orient
Il s'en avait même fait la valise
Mais il revint pour moi en pleurant…
'Il savait fabriquer des grandes armoires aux lavant
Où les jeunes mariés rangeraient leurs draps blancs
Et où les vieux mariés l'encourageraient leur légende
Mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père à moi…
'Je sais qu'il avait fait des bêtises
Certains soirs il parlait du Moyen-Orient
Il avait même fait la valise
Mais il revint pour moi en pleurant…
'Je le revois debout tel qu'il fut, et qu'il reste
Derrière l'établi de sa pauvre maison
Avec pour tout galon des copeaux sur sa veste
Mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père, mon père à moi…'
'I can still see him, sitting on the old stone bench
Rolling a cigarette on the tips of his ten fingers
It was simple and good, and he was my father
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father with me…
'He was a carpenter from the smallest village
That you encounter down there, before the high country
He taught me to live life as one constructs a table
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father to me…
'Oh, I know he did stupid things
Some nights he spoke of the Middle East
He had even packed himself a bag
But he returned to me in tears…
'He knew how to make large cabinets for the washing
Where young newlyweds would put away their white sheets
And where old marrieds would promote their legend
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father with me…
'I know he did stupid things
Some nights he spoke of the Middle East
He had even packed a bag
But he came back to me crying…
'I can still see him, standing just as he was, and there he remains
Behind the workbench at his poor home
With tape for all the sawdust on his vest
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father in me…'
.
