Your email is not valid
Recipient's email is not valid
Submit Close

Your email has been sent.

Click here to send another

My Grandfather’s Love Songs

A visit with Georges Moustaki, whose ballads are an epitaph for the French-speaking Jews of the Middle East

Print Email
Georges Moustaki poses on April 28, 2008, at his home in Paris. (Stephane De Sakutin/AFP/Getty Images)

“Did you buy your bike at Yerouchalmi’s shop in Alexandria?I finally asked, at a loss for anything else to say. As it turned out he enthusiastically remembered the shop and had read my father’s book. Moustaki spent a good deal of my visit telling me about being from Alexandria and how it had changed—a super-highway bridge was planted over the city’s famous crescent-shaped coastal beach, and nobody spoke French there anymore. He wanted to make sure I knew what to expect in case I ever decided to go and see Alexandria for myself. He asked me questions about what I liked to do, my writing, how I learned to write, and what I planned to do with my time in Paris. Finally he told me about going to Brooklyn as a young musician to meet Henry Miller, whom he loved, and how seeing me, a writer in Paris coming to visit him, reminded him that finally his role with Miller had been reversed.

It was now his turn, he said, to be the tired mentor. Indeed he seemed fatigued, and his housekeeper came to check to see if his air supply was attached correctly. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Anything,” I told him. He stopped to think, and finally spoke again: “Never, never, smoke. Promise me.”

Perhaps the Alexandrian in him saw in me a small portrait of this recent ancestry, a sliver of the old world mixed with the new. He wouldn’t go on until I promised him that I would never smoke, and he finally gave me a warm, avuncular smile of approval. Then he told me what it was like coming to Paris and starting out as a piano-bar musician, and how one night after seeing Brassens play, his hobby became a passion. He told me about his friendship with Édith Piaf, and how he was responsible for writing “Milord,” and that she helped promote him and push his name around Paris. He confessed that Gainsbourg was an ugly man and a terrible bore. He told me about Barbara, another French singer who was also a Jew and with whom Moustaki collaborated many times over the years. He explained to me that her personality on occasion seemed particularly dark, but that she was always tender.

But he became very wistful when I asked him about a late friend of his, another great songwriter, Serge Reggiani. He played me a recording he and Reggiani made together of one of Moustaki’s own songs, “Ma Solitude.” He pointed out how well they harmonized. Beside Reggiani’s French voice, Moustaki sounded Parisian, but vaguely foreign. This may have been my own projection. Moustaki was the last of two dying breeds—the classic French chansonnier, and those who had seen and loved Alexandria in its former glory.

Although most of my fellow students in Paris enjoyed going to nightclubs and listening to popular music, I was becoming a student of the French chansonnier. This extinct breed of musician used only pianos and nylon-stringed guitars, wrote lyrics that clouded any line between popular music and poetry, and made sure that their voices strayed as far from actual singing as possible. Instead, they spoke lyrically and with only a vague inflection of melody. Moustaki had taken this trope and embraced it but cast it ever so delicately in a new light. Instead of writing about a particular woman—usually a prostitute—as the French singers did, Moustaki wrote about love in a way that was far more ambiguous and, as a result, far more poignant.

The Alexandrine influence on Moustaki’s chansons is particularly clear in his songLe Temps de Vivre,” or “Time to live,” which is about taking time from one’s life for love. He didn’t write about the banks of the Seine in Paris, he wrote about the Mediterranean wind in the summer, and how ancient each wave is, and how poetic the Alexandrian waters are. He didn’t write about good booze, or a bustling cabaret in the 6th, but about more exotic ideas. He wrote about how his grandfather who spoke only Greek didn’t understand him.

In one TV interview he plays “Le Temps de Vivre,” wearing all white and with a small array of flute players behind him. The suited and pristine French announcers simply do not know how to react. Moustaki took his various influences and patched them together so that they had no single, traceable origin; they came from everywhere, and from nowhere. France did not need another Brassens, but it welcomed and adored Moustaki, perhaps because nobody could put their finger on the man who came to cabarets with his nylon-stringed guitar but sang about something entirely different. Moustaki approached the idea of the chansonnier like a native because he was able to effortlessly adopt its technique and form, and yet at the same time his Mediterranean regalia and unusual songs made him so decidedly a foreigner.

As the recording of him with Reggiani ended, he confessed that he couldn’t quite play guitar the way he used to, but was trying to readjust the way he played chords. He told me to go pick up one of the many guitars that were in his apartment and to hand him the one sitting on the piano. He wanted to show me the chords to “Ma Solitude,” a song about how one’s solitude is perhaps one’s most loyal companion through life. Slowly he walked me through the major and minor chords, almost as though he wanted me not only to know them, but as though he wanted me to remember them once I left his apartment. I knew nobody in my family would believe me if I told them what had happened. We had used each other to draw up an affection for something that was, for him, long gone, and that in my case never really existed to begin with. My inelegant guitar playing didn’t seem to bother him, perhaps because right then all that mattered was the pleasure of being two pseudo-Franco ex-Alexandrians, playing guitar together.


Like this article? Sign up for our Daily Digest to get Tablet Magazine’s new content in your inbox each morning.

1 2View as single page
Print Email
steve wise says:

An entertaining piece but I am wondering about a couple of things in the article. One, just how old was Mr. Moustaki when he visited Henry Miller in Brooklyn? I would have thought Mr. Miller left Brooklyn a long, long time ago, before Mr. Moustaki was even born. Miller often wrote about his Brooklyn days and if memory serves when he returned to America after living in Paris during the ’30′s it wasn’t to Brooklyn he returned but to California. Second, and this is kind of weird but is that a photograph of Albert Speer on the bookshelf behind Mr. Moustaki?

Henri Jakubowicz says:

Moustaki met Henry Miller in Santa Monica (not in Brooklyn), in 1970 and again a few years later.
On the bookshelf we see a photograph of the actor/singer Serge Reggiani, mentioned in the article.

Raffikki Maia says:

thank you for sharing this article. I have never heard of Moustaki, shame on me and I will now go and educate myself on an artist who lived and made art as it should be!

This excellent article is a perfect companion to Andre Aciman’s unforgettable book “Alibis, Essays On Elsewhere.” It is reassuring to see that the apple does not fall far from the tree, and that a young person can be transported by these icons of French culture–ces neiges d’antan.


Your comment may be no longer than 2,000 characters, approximately 400 words. HTML tags are not permitted, nor are more than two URLs per comment. We reserve the right to delete inappropriate comments.

Thank You!

Thank you for subscribing to the Tablet Magazine Daily Digest.
Please tell us about you.

My Grandfather’s Love Songs

A visit with Georges Moustaki, whose ballads are an epitaph for the French-speaking Jews of the Middle East

More on Tablet:

The Simple Math of an Iranian Nuclear Bomb

By Jeremy Bernstein — In an excerpt from ‘Nuclear Iran,’ calculating, with scientific precision, just how far Iran has come in its quest for the bomb