This year, I didn’t celebrate the coming of spring. (I didn’t even notice summer roll around. Alas, I live in a rainy region of the world.) What I did notice, however, was that I had a stack full of records in my apartment that have only been 80 percent listened-to. Why? Most of these albums were given to Olivier and me by his French father, a freewheeling type who held on to the 1970s’ “Me” Decade well through the ’90s and who has most recently fell into the 2000s with a distinguished gent attitude to match his equally dashing haircut. This transition brought with it a decision to pass on part of his former life to his children i.e. I’ve gotten a bunch of records that I’ve never heard of, and they are taking up space. At any rate, I am fascinated by what I could learn about the type of person who would listen to this type of music.
I mean, who is Leonard Cohen, really? Was he just big in Europe, and that’s why we have never heard of him in the States? Or has he been so entrenched in the musical obscura that even I wouldn’t hear about him until I came into possession of not only his stuff but also that of people like Nana Mouskouri, George Moustaki and Jean Ferrat? Who are those other people? Must I display someone’s B-artists on my shelves for eternity? Why do the French absolutely love Joan Baez? The questions abound.
My goal is to go through all of said vinyl one-by-one and decide whether to toss each or not. Maybe I’ll learn something about the seventies-era français, or maybe not. First up: Nana Mouskouri‘s Coffret 3 Disques (Philips Records, release date sometime in the seventies).
I picked her first because I reread a New Yorker fiction piece today by Craig Raine from 2009, where he wrote that one of his characters resembled Nana Mouskouri. Truly, Nana had and still has a look. Spacious, rectangular-shaped glasses that are the focal point in most of her album artwork and make me ponder my next choice in eyewear. She may as well be called ‘Mouse’-kouri to match her straight, brown hair that hits her shoulders.
I put the first record on. Just as soon, I felt like I was at the Greek restaurant here that I like to frequent. There were regular bursts of tambourine activity on the track “Va-t-en Vite” that made me wonder whether tambourine action is usually that well-planned out. The music was so melancholic that, at times, I lost myself in an abyss of self-loathing and regret. The wispy strings swept me away for a while, and then I thought: I could probably come up with some sort of choreographed waltz to match Nana’s style. Discs two and three were no-go’s.
The verdict? Toss.
Update: Yes, as I have admitted, I had not heard of Leonard Cohen until I inherited a few of his albums. It should be said, however, that he is now my smoky-voice go-to whenever I have people over at my place. I think of him as a much older Bright Eyes. And, right, he performed the original version of “Hallelujah” that was popularized by Jeff Buckley, whom the 1990s me deified as a grunge era god.
