Rock Translation: Le Rouspéteur

"The Grouch" ~ Green Day

I was a young boy that had big plans
Now I'm just another shitty old man
I don't have fun and I hate everything
The world owes me, so fuck you

Glory days don't mean shit to me
I drank a six pack of apathy
Life's a bitch and so am I
The world owes me, so fuck you

Wasted youth and a fistful of ideals
I had a young and optimisitic point of view
Wasted youth and a fistful of ideals
I had a young and optimisitic point of view

I've decomposed, and my gut's getting fat
Oh my god I'm turning out like my dad
I'm always rude, I've got a bad attitude
The world owes me, so fuck you

The wife's a nag and the kid's fucking up
I don't have sex 'cause i can't get it up
I'm just a grouch sitting on the couch
The world owes me, so fuck you

[Written by and copyright Billie Joe Armstrong.]

"Le Rouspéteur"

J'étais un garçon qui a fait des grands projets
Maintainant je ne suis qu'un viellard merdique
Je ne m'amuse pas, je n'aime rien
Le monde m'est endetté, va t'en foutre

Je n'attache aucune valeur aux temps heureux
J'ai sifflé la bière de l'indifférence
Je suis le jumeau de cette garce de vie
Le monde m'est endetté, va t'en foutre

---

NOTES

* "Owe" as an intransitive verb is rarely used in French
* "I drank a six pack" carries some cultural value impossible to render
* I took some liberties with "life's a bitch."  Could have gone with more prosaic "La monde est cruelle, et moi aussi" but I like this better and it keeps the pejorative vulgarity.

Rock Translation: Tous ce que vous pouvez penser

"Everything You Can Think" ~ Tom Waits

Everything you can think of is true
Before the ocean was blue
We were lost in a flood
Run red with your blood
Nigerian skeleton crew

Everything you can think of is true
The dish ran away with a spoon
Dig deep in your heart for that little red glow
We're decomposing as we go

Everything you can think of is true
And fishes make wishes on you
We're fighting our way up dreamland's spine
With red flamingos and expensive wine

Everything you can think of is true
The baby's asleep in your shoe
Your teeth are buildings with yellow doors
Your eyes are fish on a creamy shore

[Written by and copyright Tom Waits.]

"Tous ce que vous pouvez penser"

Tous ce que vous pouvez penser est vrai
Avant que l'océan était bleu
Nous étions perdus dans un déluge
Tout teint avec ton sang rouge
Une équipe squelettique nigérienne
 
Tous ce que vous pouvez penser est vrai
L'assiette s'est enfuie avec la cuillère
Fouillez dans vote coeur pour ce petit éclat rouge
Nous nous décomposons en allant

Tous ce que vous pouvez penser est vrai
Des poissons font des voeux en vous regardant
Nous nous frayons un passage vers la crête du pays des rêves
Avec des flamants roses et du vin cher

Tous ce que vous pouvez penser est vrai
L'enfant dort dans ton chaussure
Vos dents sont des bâtiments avec des portes jaunes
Vos yeux sont des poissons sur un rivage velouté

---

NOTES

* Surreal imagery!  Tough choices here, esp. in third verse.  Should I have used "se battre" or "se frayer" for fighting a way through?  Is the "spine" of dreamland a physical feature (crête) or "la colonne vertébrale," as if the land were the great skeleton of some vast animal?  I went with the landscape image.
* For "creamy" (colored or textured?), I went with "velouté," velvety and also the name of a creamy soup.

Rock Translation: Le Jour de la Saint-Swithun

"Saint Swithin's Day" ~ Billy Bragg

Thinking back now,
I suppose you were just stating your views
What was it all for
For the weather or the Battle of Agincourt
And the times that we all hoped would last
Like a train they have gone by so fast
And though we stood together
At the edge of the platform
We were not moved by them

With my own hands
When I make love to your memory
It's not the same
I miss the thunder
I miss the rain
And the fact that you don't understand
Casts a shadow over this land
But the sun still shines from behind it

Thanks all the same
But I just can't bring myself to answer your letters
It's not your fault
But your honesty touches me like a fire
The Polaroids that hold us together
Will surely fade away
Like the love that we spoke of forever
On St Swithin's Day

[Written by and copyright Billy Bragg.]

 "Le Jour de la Saint-Swithun"

Quand je repense aux années passées,

Il me semble que tu ne faisait que déclarer tes opinions
Que signifiaient toutes ces histoires?
Pour le temps, ou la bataille d'Azincourt?
Et l'époque qu'on croyait éternelle
Comme un train, elle a disparu si vite
Et bien que nous soyons restés ensemble
Sur le bord du quai
Elle ne nous a pas fait céder

De mes propres mains
Quand j'embrasse ton souvenir
Ce n'est pas comme avant
La tonnerre me manque
La pluie me manque
Et le fait que tu ne comprends pas
Il rend ombragé tout le pays entière
Mais le soleil brille encore en devant

Merci toute de même
Mais je ne peux pas me ranimer pour répondre à tes lettres
Ce n'est pas ta faute
Mais ton honnêteté me touche comme un feu
Les photos qui nous lient
Sans doute, ils passeront
Comme l'amour que nous avons nommé éternelle
La jour de la Saint-Swithun

---

NOTES

* Maybe "Que d'histoires, pour quoi?" for third line
* I like how "them" in first stanza becomes "elle" (blending the times, the train and girl)
* Double meaning of "moved" in first stanza is hard to replicate

Rock Translation: La Neuvaine de Lorca

"Lorca's Novena" ~ The Pogues

Ignacio lay dying in the sand
A single red rose clutched in a dying hand
The women wept to see their hero die
And the big black birds gathered in the sky
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight for all of our tomorrows

The years went by and the killers came
And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain
And Lorca the faggot poet they left till last
Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight for all of our tomorrows

The killers came to mutilate the dead
But ran away in terror to search the town instead
But Lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away
And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight for all of our tomorrows

[Written by and copyright Shane MacGowan.]

"La Neuvaine de Lorca"

Ignacio agonisait sur la sable
Une seul rose étreinte dans sa main mourante
Les femmes pleuraient à voir ses héros en mourant
Et les grands oiseaux noirs se rassemblaient dans le ciel
Mère de toutes nos joies, mère de toutes nos peines
Intercède en sa faveur ce soir pour tous nos landemains

Les années se passaient et les tueurs arrivèrent
Et saisit les hommes et les conduisirent à la colline de douleur
Et Lorca le pédé poète ils laissèrent pour le dernier
Ils brûlèrent sa cervelle avec un pistolet dans le cul
Mère de toutes nos joies, mère de toutes nos peines
Intercède en sa faveur ce soir pour tous nos landemains

Les assassins rôdaient pour mutiler les morts
Mais plutôt fuirent en terreur pour fouiller la ville
Mais le corps de Lorca, comme il a prédit, s'en allait
Et il n'y a pas de bruit que les femmes qui prièrent
Mère de toutes nos joies, mère de toutes nos peines
Intercède en sa faveur ce soir pour tous nos landemains

Rock Translation: Surcroît de savoir-faire

"Extra Savoir-Faire" ~ They Might Be Giants

When I walk down the street, most guys look like elves
I don't mean to put them down but they do
It's hard to understand me from the language that I use
There's no word in English for my style
What's a man like me supposed to do with all this extra savoir-faire?
What is left for me to prove, dear?
I know just what to do when the ladies come 'round
You can try to copy me but you'll fail
Now, you might think you're different but time will prove me right
When you wake up from your dream I'll be gone
What's a man like me supposed to do with all this extra savoir-faire?
What is left for me to prove, dear?

[written by and copyright John Flansburgh and John Linnell.]

"Surcroît de savoir-faire"

Quand je descends la rue, la plupart des mecs ressemblent aux elfes
Je ne veux pas les rabaisser mais c'est vrai
C'est difficile à me comprendre par le langage que j'emploi
Il n'y a pas de mot en anglais pour mon allure
Qu'est censé faire, un homme comme moi, avec ce surcroît de savoir-faire?
Qu'est-ce-qu'il reste que je peux prouver, cherie?
Je sais exactment ce qu'on fait quand surviennent les dames
Vous pouvez tacher de me singer mais vous échouerez
Or, vous vous imaginerez être différent mais le temps me donnera raison
Quand vous sortirez de votre songe, je ne serais plus là.
Qu'est censé faire, un homme comme moi, avec ce surcroît de savoir-faire?
Qu'est-ce-qu'il reste que je peux prouver, cherie?

Git outta here, ya tinhorn

In comics and other pop culture, I have since a very young age heard the word tinhorn and kinda-sorts assumed it meant about the same as "greenhorn," an inexperienced or naive person.  But "tinhorn" actually means a cheap person, or a scoundrel, especially one who gambles for low stakes.

The Online Etymology dictionary says tinhorn comes from the tin cups the gamblers used to rattle dice.  Which of course gives rise to the question, what's the horn part?  Well, that's from the horn of an animal, but as a verb, as in to horn in on something.  So a tinhorn is a gambler, shaking a tin cup, horning in on game but not playing for big money, so kind of bothering everyone.  World Wide Words has an excellent summary of the derivation.

Oh, not Patient Zero?

"Patient Zero" is the common name for an individual supposed to have been the starting point of a viral outbreak or pandemic.

But, did you know that the original "patient zero," Gaetan Dugas of the HIV epidemic, was originally labelled "Patient O," that's the letter O as in outside of California?

And it turns out that Dugas was not responsible for bringing AIDS to New York, as some shrill fear-mongers said in the press.  The virus was already present there when he was spreading it.  But then, it's easier to point fingers at a boogeyman rather than understanding science or just accepting the vagaries of biology.