L'ORAGE (1960 - French) Georges Brassens (1922-1982) Parlez-moi de la pluie et non pas du beau temps, Le beau temps me dégoûte et m' fait grincer les dents, Le bel azur me met en rage, Car le plus grand amour qui m' fut donné sur terre Je l' dois au mauvais temps, je l' dois à Jupiter, Il me tomba d'un ciel d'orage. Par un soir de novembre, à cheval sur les toits, Un vrai tonnerr' de Brest, avec des cris d' putois, Allumait ses feux d'artifice. Bondissant de sa couche en costume de nuit, Ma voisine affolée vint cogner à mon huis En réclamant mes bons offices. « Je suis seule et j'ai peur, ouvrez-moi, par pitié, Mon époux vient d' partir faire son dur métier, Pauvre malheureux mercenaire, Contraint d' coucher dehors quand il fait mauvais temps, Pour la bonne raison qu'il est représentant D'un' maison de paratonnerres. » En bénissant le nom de Benjamin Franklin, Je l'ai mise en lieu sûr entre mes bras câlins, Et puis l'amour a fait le reste ! Toi qui sèmes des paratonnerre' à foison, Que n'en as-tu planté sur ta propre maison ? Erreur on ne peut plus funeste... Quand Jupiter alla se faire entendre ailleurs, La belle, ayant enfin conjuré sa frayeur Et recouvré tout son courage, Rentra dans ses foyers fair' sécher son mari En m' donnant rendez-vous les jours d'intempérie, Rendez-vous au prochain orage. À partir de ce jour j' n'ai plus baissé les yeux, J'ai consacré mon temps à contempler les cieux, À regarder passer les nues, À guetter les stratus, à lorgner les nimbus, À faire les yeux doux au moindre cumulus, Mais elle n'est pas revenue. Son bonhomm' de mari avait tant fait d'affaires, Tant vendu ce soir-là de petits bouts de fer, Qu'il était dev'nu millionnaire Et l'avait emmenée vers les cieux toujours bleus, Des pays imbécile' où jamais il ne pleut, Où l'on ne sait rien du tonnerre. Dieu fass' que ma complainte aille, tambour battant, Lui parler de la pluie, lui parler du gros temps Auxquels on a t'nu tête ensemble, Lui conter qu'un certain coup de foudre assassin Dans le mill' de mon cœur a laissé le dessin D'un' petit' fleur qui lui ressemble...

THE THUNDERSTORM (Translation by David Yendley) Talk to me of the rain and not of fine weather, Fine weather turns me off and sets my teeth on edge. Splendid azure skies drive me wild, For the greatest love which was granted me on earth I owe to bad weather, I owe to Jupiter. Love fell down from a stormy sky. With a november ev’ning, straddling the rooftops A dreadful thunderbolt, with deafening caterwauls, Set off its firework display. Leaping up from her bed in her night attire The lady next door came banging on my portal Crying for my good offices. “I’m alone and frightened, open please, for pity’s sake My husband has just left on the hard job he has, How the poor man makes his money Having to sleep outdoors when the weather is bad For the good reason that he works as a sales rep With a lightning conductor firm. Blessing the renowned name of Benjamin Franklin I put her in a safe place snuggled in my arms And then it was love did the rest! You who scatter conductors round in abundance Why did you not stick one of them on your own home? The most fatal mistake to make…. When Jupiter went to make himself heard elsewhere, The beautiful woman, released from her fear And with all her courage regained Went back to her own hearth to get her husband dried. Fixing me a date for all thundery weather A date arranged for the next storm. From that day on, I never more let my eyes drop I devoted my time to observing the skies, To watching the clouds going by, Gazing at the stratus, peering at the nimbus Casting fond eyes on the least bit of cumulus But she hasn’t come back again. Her good husband had secured so much business Sold so many little iron parts on that night That he’d become a millionaire And had taken her away to skies always blue Idiotic countries where never does it rain Where nothing is known of thunder. May God grant that my lament goes forth loud and clear To speak to her of rain, to speak of foul weather That we faced up to together To tell her that a certain deadly thunderbolt Hit its target in my heart leaving the trace Of a small flower that is like her…

This translation has been penned by David Yendley. You'll find notes on this song and many other Brassens' songs with an English translation on his interesting blog.

THE THUNDERSTORM (English version by Andrew Kelly and sung by Graeme Allwright) 1 Please don’t talk about sun, you can talk about rain: All those good weather days were made to drive me insane, And when it’s blue skies – I curse out loud: For the truly great love of my life in this world Was sent in a storm from Jove, the lightning God, When love came down from Heaven’s thunder clouds. 2 One dark night in November a thunderstorm crashed. Above roof-tops that trembled sheets of lightning flashed, And in the tempest high winds howled and roared. Then the lady next-door in a great state of fear And her night-dress came over – she hoped that help was near – She knocked so hard she nearly broke my door. 3 I’m alone and afraid, won’t you please let me in? My poor husband’s out, a storm means work for him; He’s got to earn his keep against the odds. He goes out on the job in the worst kind of weather But the reason is plain – he’s a salesman as you’ll gather. He’s finding customers for lightning rods . 4 And I blessed the inventor, good Benjamin Franklin, As I opened my arms and took her safely within – You know that Love will always find a way. But I wonder super-salesman of lightning conduction Why you made the mistake, and issued no instruction To put one in for her security?

5 Now when Jove and his thunderbolts went off elsewhere And the beauty at last had overcome her fear, And had completely pulled herself together; She went home where she dried out the poor man, but first Made her plans to return if a thunderstorm should burst. We had a date! Depending on the weather! 6 From that moment I never once lowered my eyes, I did nothing but gaze upon the great wide skies And watch the passing clouds that floated free. I would look out for stratus, I would seek out the nimbus, Making eyes to encourage fair cumulus into grimness, And yet she never did come back to me. 7 For that evening her husband had been in fine fettle And the fellow had sold so many bits of metal That he became a millionaire no wonder! So he took her away to the bluest of skies, To the stupidest lands where rain’s not recognized And no-one’s even heard of thunder. 8 Dearest Lord, hear my prayer: send her on my lament, Let it tell her of loving in the storm you sent, Of how we braved the tempest, seized our chance. And of love at first sight – how the lightning engraved On my heart a small flower, I’ll bear it to the grave, A sprig of rosemary, that’s for Love’s Remembrance.

Live rendition by Georges Brassens
Live rendition by Julien Clerc

Recording in English by Graeme Allwright

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