THE GREATEST BELGIAN OF ALL TIME*

Thursday 9th October was the 30th anniversary of the death of Jacques Brel, iconic crooner, poet, adventurer, sailor, pilot, actor and by popular vote* the Greatest Belgian of All Time. He was born about 10 minutes walk from Wayne-Bough Towers, and I am proud to share a postcode with the great man. He died, age 49, in a Paris hospital, of lung cancer, and is buried in the Marquise islands, where he spent his last few years, his grave a few metres from Gauguin's.

Jacques' grave on Hiva Oa in the South Pacific: nice view

I became a fan of Brel during my Paris days, when I would spend hours at cafe tables sporting a beret and black turtleneck sweater, smoking Gitanes and looking bored. I lived in a fancy apartment on the boulevard St Michel, where I kept my Rolling Stones records and a friend of ... oh hang on, that wasn't me. At the time, I could be reduced to tears by the words of "Ne me quitte pas":

Moi je t'offrirai Des perles du pluie Venues de pays Où il ne pleut pas

Laiss'moi devenir L'ombre de ton ombre L'ombre de ta main L'ombre de ton chien
Ne me quitte pas Ne me quitte pas

I will offer you pearls of rain from places where it doesn't rain .... I will be the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand, the shadow of your dog, just don't leave me ...

And then one day, many years later, with the force of experience, it struck me that his poor wife, who was stuck in Belgium for years while he was swanning around being famous, would not have been impressed by his "pearls of rain". She didn't want him to be the shadow of her dog, she just wanted him to stick around and help with the kids. Fix the crack in the wall. Do the washing up occasionally. Put her first, for a change. And do you know, readers, I never cried again over that song. Call me unromantic if you will, but having seen interviews with Mrs Brel and her daughters, he wasn't the greatest husband and father. A genius, yes, but a bit of a sod.


Some new footage has recently been released of an interview where he talks about the political problems between the Walloons and the Flemings. He dismisses them as "la basse politique" and says that Belgium is worth more than a linguistic quarrel. He recorded some songs in Flemish, which actually bring beauty to a language which otherwise sounds like someone clearing their throat. (I'm certainly risking becoming permanently persona non grata in Antwerp for that, but where do you think the word phlegm comes from? Think about it).

I'm still a big fan of the rest of Brel's songs which are word-paintings, and my favourite is "Orly", a tender study of two young lovers saying goodbye at an airport. Many of his songs were about loneliness, failure and death. He was the Coldplay of his day, really. I've put up a little Brel-fest for you in the margin so you can hear some of his best songs, which have been recorded by everyone from David Bowie to Nina Simone, Scott Walker to Sting, Julio Iglesias to Rod McKuen and, er, Terry Jacks' appalling "Seasons in the Sun".

Here's old Jack singing "Les Vieux", for Mrs Pouncer, who is having a bit of a crisis over her lost youth. I dare say he'll wander home eventually. This'll cheer you up, old girl.

* according to the Francophone poll. In the Dutch-language poll he came in 7th behind Father Damien, a sort of Belgian Mother Theresa, and Ambiorix, a 1st century warrior and follower of Asterix in the business of Getting Up the Romans' Noses. There could be a message in there.