France has an environmental movement of its own, and in the last European legislative elections, in 2009, Les Verts (“The Greens”) won 16 percent of the vote in France. Today the country is aswarm in things écolo (“environmental”) and bio (“organic”). It even has a kind of “Al Gore” in the writer and television producer Nicolas Hulot, who has been successful in pressuring French politicians to address environmental issues and is well known for his book and film Le Syndrome du Titanic (click here for the trailer).

If France had an environmental anthem, it might be “Respire” by the French trio Mickey 3D. Led by singer and songwriter Mickaël Furnon (whose nickname is Mickey), the group released its biggest hit, “Respire,” in 2003 on the album Tu vas pas mourir de rire (”You’re Not Going to Die of Laughter”). This simple, upbeat, but gloomy song blends eerily with the animated video the group made for it.

Below are the video, the lyrics, and a translation (note: in France baby boys are said to be found in a cabbage patch).

Respire

By Mickey 3D
Approche-toi petit,
Ecoute-moi, gamin.
Je vais te raconter
L’histoire de l’être humain.
Au début y avait rien,
Au début c’était bien.
La nature avancait,
Y avait pas de chemin.

Puis l’homme a débarqué
Avec ses gros souliers.
Des coups de pieds dans la gueule
Pour se faire respecter.
Des routes à sens unique
Qui s’est mises à tracer.
Les fleches dans la plaine
Se sont multipliées.

Et tous les éléments
Se sont vu métrisé.
En deux temps trois mouvements
L’histoire était pliée.
C’est pas demain la veille
Qu’on fera marche arrière.
On a meme commencé
A polluer les déserts.

Il faut que tu respires,
Et ça c’est rien de le dire.
Tu vas pas mourrir de rire,
Et c’est pas rien de le dire.

D’ici quelques années
On aura bouffé la feuille.
Et tes petits enfants
Ils n’auront plus qu’un oeil
En pleins milieu du front.
Ils te demanderont
Pourquoi toi t’en as 2.
Tu passeras pour un con.

Ils te diront comment
T’as pu laisser faire ça.
T’auras beau te défendre
Leurs expliquer tout bas,
T’est pas ma faute à moi,
C’est la faute aux anciens.
Mais y aura plus personne
Pour te laver les mains.

Tu leur raconteras
L’époque où tu pouvais
Manger des fruits dans l’herbe
Allonger dans les prés,
Y avait des animaux partout
Dans la forêt.
Au début du printemps
Les oiseaux revenaient.

Il faut que tu respires.
Et ça c’est rien de le dire.
Tu vas pas mourrir de rire,
Et c’est pas rien de le dire.
Il faut que tu respires,
c’est demain que tout empire.
Tu vas pas mourrir de rire,
et c’est pas rien de le dire.

Le pire dans cette histoire,
C’est qu’on est des esclaves.
Quelque part assassins,
Ici bien incapables
De regarder les arbres
Sans se sentir coupable,
A motié défroqué,
100 pour cent misérable.

Alors voilà, petit,
L’histoire de l’etre humain.
C’est pas joli joli,
Et j’connais pas la fin.
On est pas né dans un chou
Mais plutot dans un trou
Qu’on remplit tous les jours
Comme une fosse à purin.

Il faut que tu respires,
Et ça c’est rien de le dire.
Tu vas pas mourir de rire,
Et c’est pas rien de le dire.
Il faut que tu respires,
C’est demain que tout empire.
Tu vas pas mourrir de rire,
Et ça c’est rien de le dire.

Il faut que tu respires.
Il faut que tu respires.
Il faut que tu respires.
Il faut que tu respires.
Come closer, little one.
Listen up, kid.
I’m going to tell you
The story of humankind.
At first there was nothing,
At first it was fine.
Nature was moving on
Without even a trail.

Then man showed up
With his enormous shoes.
Some kicks in the face
To gain respect.
One-way streets
That began to be drawn.
The arrows in the field
spread right along.

And all the elements
Were thought to be tamed.
Then before you knew it,
The story had turned.
Tomorrow’s not even close
To when we’ll return.
We’ve already begun
polluting the deserts.

You have to breathe,
And that’s easy to say.
You’re not going to die of laughter,
And that’s not easy to say.

Sometime in the future
This will all be our fault.
And your little children
Will have just one eye
In the center of their forehead.
They’ll ask you
Why you have two.
You’ll look like an idiot.

They’ll ask you how
You could let this happen.
They’ll be no point in defending yourself,
Explaining to them softly
That’s it’s not your fault,
It’s the fault of your ancestors.
But there will be no one anymore
To wash your hands.

You’ll tell them about
The time you could
Eat fruit in the grass
Lying down in the meadow,
Animals everywhere
In the forest.
At the beginning of spring
The birds would come back.

You have to breathe,
And that’s easy to say.
You’re not going to die of laughter,
And that’s not easy to say.
You have to breathe,
And tomorrow it’ll get worse.
You’re not going to die of laughter,
And that’s not easy to say.

The worst of this story
Is that we’re each a slave,
In some sense a murderer,
Now fully incapable
Of looking at trees
Without feeling guilty,
Half given up,
100 percent miserable.

Well, there it is, little one,
The story of humankind.
It’s not really pretty,
And I don’t know the end.
We’re not born in a cabbage
But rather in a hole
That one fills everyday
Like a pit of manure.

You have to breathe,
And that’s easy to say.
You’re not going to die of laughter,
And that’s not easy to say.
You have to breathe,
And tomorrow it’ll get worse.
You’re not going to die of laughter,
And that’s easy to say.

You have to breathe.
You have to breathe.
You have to breathe.
You have to breathe.

According to its MySpace page, La Féline is “a trio that likes pop, epic folk, beauty, strangeness, instrumental music, and B movies” (“un trio qui aime la pop, le folk épique, le beau, le bizarre, la musique instrumentale et les séries B”). But I prefer this description that lead singer Agnès Gayraud gave in an English-language interview.

We’re three people. A dark-haired girl, Agnès. who sings and plays guitar, gently leading the band, a grey-haired boy, Xavier, who plays keyboards, and a brown-haired boy, Stéphane, playing drums. We all live in Paris. We’re all looking for something—without knowing exactly what. We only agree on the fact we’re looking for it.

La Féline’s music is sometimes in French, sometimes in English. This song is in both, creating a Franco-American mélange in which French pop tradition wanders freely in the folksy, Wild West.

Below are the lyrics and a translation of the French.

HibOO d’Live : La Féline “Mystery Train” from Le-HibOO.com on Vimeo.

Mystery Train

By La Féline
Je suis montée dans ton Mystery Train
A ton côté, innocente et sereine
Alors, tu m’as tout raconté
J’ai tout quitté en montant dans ce train
Moi je voulais partager ton destin
Alors, on a tout partagé

Everybody loves somebody someday, someday
Everybody leaves the one he loves, you said

Autour de nous filait le paysage
Dans ses reflets, je voyais ton visage
Alors, on a tout traversé
Dessus les ponts, au dessous des nuages
Au bord des gouffres, évitant les orages
La mort, j’ai voulu m’en aller

Everybody leaves somebody someday, someday
Everybody leaves the one he loves, you said

Je suis tombée de ton Mystery Train
J’ai basé mon camp dans la plaine
Alors, j’ai voulu t’oublier
J’ai tout quitté en tombant de ce train
Je t’ai laissé seul à ton destin
Alors, tu m’as tout reproché

Everybody hurts somebody someday, someday
Everybody hurts the one he loves, you said

A l’heure qu’il est poursuis-tu ta course?
A quelle distance du gouffre?
Voila où je veux te parler
Dans les couloirs désertés que tu longes
Si tu me croises au milieu de tes songes
Alors, tu m’auras pardonnée

Everybody misses somebody someday, someday
Everybody missed the one he left, that’s what I say.
I boarded your Mystery Train
Next to you, innocent and serene
Then you told me everything
I left everything getting on the train
Me, I wanted to share your destiny
So we shared everything

Everybody loves somebody someday, someday
Everybody leaves the one he loves, you said

Around us flew by the landscape
In our reflections I saw your face
Then we crossed over everything
Over the bridges, under clouds
On the edge of the abyss, avoiding the storms
Death, I wanted to go away

Everybody leaves somebody someday, someday
Everybody leaves the one he loves, you said

I fell off your Mystery Train
I set up my camp on the plain
Then I wanted to forget you
I left everything falling off this train
I left you alone with your destiny
So you blamed me for everything

Everybody hurts somebody someday, someday
Everybody hurts the one he loves, you said

Are you still racing now?
How far from the abyss?
That’s where I want to talk with you
In the deserted passages you pass through
If you meet me in the middle of your dreams
Then you will have forgiven me.

Everybody misses somebody someday, someday
Everybody missed the one he left, that’s what I say.

Although Francis Cabrel has been one of the best-selling songwriters in France since the late 1970s, he’s hardly had the typical life of a celebrity. Raised in the village of Astaffort, in the southwestern French department of Lot-et-Garonne, he still lives there with his longtime wife, Mariette. His first hit, “Petite Marie” (“Little Marie”; 1977), was dedicated to her.

Below is a video of Francis Cabrel performing “La Corrida” (“Bullfighting”), a song from his 1994 album Samedi soir sur la terre (“Saturday Night on Earth”), which sold three million copies. I love the tall, French windows at the back of the stage.

The lyrics describe the horror of bullfighting from the point of view of the bull, and the song shares with Cabrel’s other music a dreamlike quality and a yearning to say something that feels essential. Andalousie (Andalusia), mentioned below in the lyrics and translation, is a region in southern Spain known for bullfighting. The French expression “dormer sur ses deux oreilles” (“to sleep on both ears”) means to sleep deeply. In the song it’s used as a pun. After killing a bull the bullfighter is sometimes given its ears as a gift.

Francis Cabrel – La corrida
envoyé par dimigardien. – Regardez la dernière sélection musicale.

La Corrida

By Francis Cabrel
Depuis le temps que je patiente
Dans cette chambre noire
J’entends qu’on s’amuse et qu’on chante
Au bout du couloir
Quelqu’un a touché le verrou
Et j’ai plongé vers le grand jour
J’ai vu les fanfares, les barrières
Et les gens autour

Dans les premiers moments j’ai cru
Qu’il fallait seulement se défendre
Mais cette place est sans issue
Je commence à comprendre
Ils ont refermé derrière moi
Ils ont eu peur que je recule
Je vais bien finir par l’avoir
Cette danseuse ridicule…

Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux ?
Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux ?

Andalousie je me souviens
Les prairies bordées de cactus
Je ne vais pas trembler devant
Ce pantin, ce minus !
Je vais l’attraper, lui et son chapeau
Les faire tourner comme un soleil
Ce soir la femme du torero
Dormira sur ses deux oreilles

Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux ?
Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux ?

J’en ai poursuivi des fantômes
Presque touché leurs ballerines
Ils ont frappé fort dans mon cou
Pour que je m’incline
Ils sortent d’où ces acrobates
Avec leurs costumes de papier ?
J’ai jamais appris à me battre
Contre des poupées

Sentir le sable sous ma tête
C’est fou comme ça peut faire du bien
J’ai prié pour que tout s’arrête
Andalousie je me souviens
Je les entends rire comme je râle
Je les vois danser comme je succombe
Je pensais pas qu’on puisse autant
S’amuser autour d’une tombe

Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux ?
Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux ?

Si, si, hombre, hombre
Baila, baila
Hay que bailar de nuevo
Y mataremos otros
Otras vidas, otros toros
Y mataremos otros
Venga, venga a bailar…
Y mataremos otros
During the time I was waiting
In this dark room
I heard people having fun and singing
At the end of the corridor
Someone put his hand on the lock
And I dove into the daylight
I saw the commotion, the gates
And the people all around

At first I believed
I needed only to defend myself
But this place with no exit
I’m beginning to understand
They locked up behind me
They were afraid I was going back
I’m just going to end up doing
This ridiculous pastime . . .

Are these people serious?
Are these people serious?

Andalusia I remember
The meadows lined with cacti
I’m not going to tremble before
This nobody, this moron!
I’m going to catch him, him and his hat
Make them spin like a sun
This evening the bullfighter’s wife
Will sleep on both ears

Are these people serious?
Are these people serious?

I pursued their ghosts
Almost touched their ballerina shoes
They struck hard on my neck
So that I’d bow down
Where did these acrobats come from
With their paper costumes?
I never learned to fight
Against dolls

To feel the sand under my head
It’s crazy how good it can feel
I prayed so that everything would stop
Andalusia I remember
I hear them laugh as I groan
I see them dance as I die
I didn’t think anyone could have so much
fun gathered around a grave

Are these people serious?
Are these people serious?

Yes, yes, man, man
Dance, dance
You have to dance again
And we’ll kill others
Other lives, other bulls
And we’ll kill others
Come, come and dance . . .
And we’ll kill others

As another hint of the upcoming books under our own imprint, we are starting today the French Pop Song of the Week. Writers live in the bubble of their own language, landscape, and culture. While waiting in a grocery store line or taking an escalator in a department store, French writers hear songs that Americans or Brits, for example, would not recognize. French music influences French writers, whether they wish it or not, just as growing up by a sea washes a permanent tint over a person’s sensibility.

There are a fair number of French singers who imitate Anglo styles, which is not surprising, as American and British music dominates the market in much of the world. But the French have tenaciously clung to music in their own language. Since 1994 at least 40 percent of songs on French radio stations have by law been required to be in French, and sales of French music in France, though varying from year to year, usually do not stray far from the percentage heard on the radio.

Is there anything distinctive about French pop music? Listening to the radio, I usually know before someone begins singing if the song is Anglo or French. The range of French pop is too broad to generalize, but there is often a romantic, epic, though ambivalent quality that settles in your spirit in some notable French way.

In French the word variété can mean “pop music,” so French pop music is called variété française. A great tradition within French popular music is the chanson à texte (literally “text song”), in which the words, often poetic, reflective, or otherwise engaging, have as much importance as the music. An example in the United States would be Bob Dylan; in France a famous chanteur à texte is Georges Brassens.

Our first French pop song of the week is “Mon amie la rose” (“My Friend the Rose”), sung by Françoise Hardy, one of the best-known singers of the French 1960s yé-yé era. The video, from 1965, has been viewed about 1.5 million times on YouTube. Below is a translation of the lyrics.

Mon amie la rose

Lyrics by Cécile Caulier
On est bien peu de chose
Et mon amie la rose
Me l’a dit ce matin
A l’aurore je suis née
Baptisée de rosée
Je me suis épanouie
Heureuse et amoureuse
Aux rayons du soleil
Me suis fermée la nuit
Me suis réveillée vieille

Pourtant j’étais très belle
Oui j’étais la plus belle
Des fleurs de ton jardin

On est bien peu de chose
Et mon amie la rose
Me l’a dit ce matin
Vois le dieu qui m’a faite
Me fait courber la tête
Et je sens que je tombe
Et je sens que je tombe
Mon cœur est presque nu
J’ai le pied dans la tombe
Déjà je ne suis plus

Tu m’admirais hier
Et je serai poussière
Pour toujours demain

On est bien peu de chose
Et mon amie la rose
Est morte ce matin
La lune cette nuit
A veillé mon amie
Moi en rêve j’ai vu
Eblouissante et nue
Son âme qui dansait
Bien au-delà des nues
Et qui me souriait

Crois celui qui peut croire
Moi, j’ai besoin d’espoir
Sinon je ne suis rien

Ou bien si peu de chose
C’est mon amie la rose
Qui l’a dit hier matin
We are really almost nothing
And my friend the rose
Told me that this morning
At dawn I was born
Baptized by the dew
I blossomed
Happy and in love
In the rays of the sun
I closed up at night
I woke up old

And yet I was very beautiful
Yes, I was the most beautiful
Of the flowers in your garden

We are really almost nothing
And my friend the rose
Told me that this morning
See the god who made me
Makes me bow down
And I feel that I am falling
And I feel that I am falling
My heart is almost bare
I have one foot in the grave
Already I am no longer

You admired me yesterday
And I will be dust
Forever tomorrow

We are really almost nothing
And my friend the rose
Passed away this morning
The moon last night
Watched over my friend
Me, in a dream, I saw
Dazzling and naked
Its soul that was dancing
Far beyond the heavens
And smiling at me

Believe, those who can believe,
Me, I need hope
Otherwise I am nothing

Or at least not much of anything
It was my friend the rose
Who said that yesterday morning