Trollied Tuesday on the telly

Spectacular drunkenness, like all vocations, requires a certain artistry. One could say the same about broadcasting, I suppose. In any case, broadcasting while blootered is one of those things that, when done properly, enters the realm of the sublime.

The Guardian's Organ Grinder has a run-down with some fine anecdotes and footage (the audio of Lt Cmdr Thomas Woodroofe's glorious "the fleet's lit up" broadcast is well worth a listen if you haven't heard it before.)

Here's a personal favourite that was missed from the Organ Grinder list: Serge Gainsbourg meeting the young Whitney Houston on French television. ("Sometimes ee's a beet drunk you know.") It has everything you could want from the human drama: comedy, farce, passion, romance and the tragedy of his eventual rejection.

You see, for the public drunkard going on telly while trollied is the ultimate performance; one that subverts the established order of things reveals profound truths about the artist and life itself. As the following vignette about Brendan Behan following one especially paralytic appearance demonstrates:

Meanwhile the writer was congratulated on the street for his performance long after the event. "Good on yer, you was properly pissed on TV last night," opined one literary buff, while another claimed he had understood every mumble Behan had made, but "hadn't a clue what that bugger Muggeridge was on about".

Ceci n'est pas une relique

Jacques Brel's pipe and other knickknacks associated with the great man are going under the hammer at Southeby's of Paris. The main attraction is the manuscript for Amsterdam, which is expected to fetch €50,000-70,000. The Economist lists some of the other items on sale.

In a remarkably comprehensive sale of Brel's manuscripts, recordings, photographs and personal belongings, which include his pilots' licence, his wallet, and his pipe. Sotheby's refuses to identify the seller, but it is clearly an intimate of Brel's who believed that his reputation would last a lot longer than that of an ephemeral pop singer.

In the current economic climate it might be a smart investment; like wine or maybe a form of cultural gold. A few of these YouTube clips will remind those of you who need reminding why this is so, even if such a comparatively humble item as a concert poster will set you back a thousand euros or so. (Than again, the euro might well be about to collapse, so those with dollars or - better - Swiss francs to hand might pick up a bargain that way).

But it's not the economics of the thing that fascinate so much as the question of why one would want to buy up Brel's personal effects. There is a particular pleasure in imagining oneself smoking his pipe, hoping that the tobacco will transfer - by a sort of spiritual osmosis - some of his qualities to oneself. It's nonsense of course, though one might pick up a sympathetic cancer by so doing, I suppose.

It's a curious thing, if you think about it, this desire to collect souvenirs of the great men of the past. There something of the gathering of relics to it; as if, to get to the French meaning of the word, the souvenirs themselves carried memories - and maybe other qualities too.

As an example of what I mean consider the other pre-eminent French language songwriter of the last century. Here's an excellent Vanity Fair article about plans to turn Serge Gainsbourg's house into a museum – something I would most certainly want to visit. It's understandable that his daughter, Charlotte, should want to keep the house exactly as it was at the time of his death (memory again) but there is something of magical (or at least the would-be magical) about it too - especially in the fans leaving votive offerings, like bottles of pastis, or plaintive messages on the walls of the house. It is reminiscent of the Middle Ages and the cult of the saints. "We miss you Serge – life is such a bore" is a prayer of sorts, after all, a plea for intercession against the tedium of life.

Now, I like the idea of a lecherous Jewish alcoholic as a Medieval saint. In fact one could extend the analogy. Jeanne Moureau's comment: "Even if you play Serge's songs in the middle of Africa, where nobody understands the words, they'll be caught" is the same principle behind the use of Latin in the Mass. Of course, we live in a post-Reformation age and the message works in the vernacular too. Here's a rare English language performance by Serge, I strongly urge you to listen to it, it'll take you on to another plane of existence altogether; the words may lack the debauched majesty of the original ("Me surexcitent/Tes petits seins de Bakélite/Qui s'agitent"), but the spirit survives the translation.

But then, we live in a post-Enlightenment age too. And yet the desire to collect relics and mementos doesn't translate well into the modern era - as the Catholic church's thwarted attempt to turn the remains of Cardinal Newman into an object of idolatry demonstrates. David T likes to think of it as a secular miracle, I'd rather see it as reminder that there is more mystery and wonder in our modern views of science and time than there is in a Medieval form of religion that dates back to a time when the living and the dead were seen as coexisting on the same plane. (It's hard to stress strongly enough that even today's most archaic Catholics would find that era a terrifying and alien place should they be transported back there).

Now the yearning for a process that turns a souvenir into a relic is clearly something hard-wired into the human soul - it long predates Christianity and will probably outlast it too, sympathetic magic as the Golden Bough described it if I remember correctly.

For all that, the desire to buy, sell and attach a value to mementos from the lives of secular-minded, sceptical singers who specialised in that most transient of artforms, the popular song is – I think – an echo of that. Admittedly it's only a distant echo – but perhaps Matthew Arnold was on to something with his religion of art idea; or it may just be that the most important human quality of all is the imagination and the way it allows us to respond to and understand the universe.

If Jacques Brel's pipe serves as a portal to the sublime then, no matter what it fetches at auction, it is beyond price.

Trollied Tuesday - Serge Gainsbourg

Why not start with one of the best adverts for drinking? It was a toss up between Serge and Winston Churchill.

I've plumped for Serge because while defeating Nazism has its merits, this video proves that drinking makes you more debonair, creative, erudite and attractive to the opposite sex, which is far more important in this context.

There is a ridiculous and vulgar phrase "beer goggles" for the process by which amateur drinkers increase the attractiveness of other people by distorting their own judgment through drink. For the true drinker it works the other way. By drinking they perform some mysterious form of alchemy by which they increase their own attractiveness to others. Despite looking, by his own admission, like someone had nailed a toad to the wall, Serge managed it with, among others, Ms Bardot. I think we can all agree this is worthy of the greatest admiration.

I'll leave you with the man's own words: "Je bois et je fume. L'alcool conserve les fruits; la fumée conserve la viande."

Just because

Something infective and joyous: Laisse Tomber Les Filles. France Gall, singing Serge Gainsbourg – and as readers of this blog should know, that's a combination that will bring a smile to the face. Groovy, bébé.

And for those of you who are in particular need of cheering up (not me, thanks. I'm fine), Quink has posted a story that has everything. (Larry David would approve).

UPDATE: here is what is, in retrospect, a rather unfortunate picture of the vacuum cleaner man in question.

Storming, et caetera

Since it's Bastille Day, I'd thought I'd mark it with this from the greatest Frenchman of all (de Gaulle, Descartes, Voltaire, Asterix and Molliere were also rans).

Apart from being a glorious example of Gainsbourg's ability to adopt different musical styles, his excursion into Freggae managed to upset both Bob Marley (for getting Marley's missus to sing songs such as this) and Jean-Marie Le Pen.

If you thought the fuss over the Sex Pistols's God Save the Queen was ridiculous, this version of La Marseillaise led to bomb threats at venues where Gainsbourg and his Jamaican backing group were singing. (Gainsbourg's Jewish background probably annoyed them even more).

At one show, the hall was packed with FN/ex-Algerian paratroopers. Gainsbourg faced them down by appearing on stage, alone, and singing a straight version of La Marsaillaise. They had no choice but to stand. At the end, according to some accounts I've read but aren't going to spend hours looking for on the net, he gave them the finger, making sure that he showed them his very expensive Cartier watch as he did so.

Never a fellow to mince his words.

Continental sophistication

In the post down below about Anna Karina, I neglected one of Serge Gainsbourg's other leading ladies: France Gall.

A glaring omission that, especially since it provides one of the earliest examples of Serge's supreme talents as provacateur. In this case, it involves getting a fresh faced, and genuinely innocent, according to most accounts, teenage girl to sing a song about a girl with a love of sucking lollipops, and, just to rub it in, produce a video like this.

France Gall was not amused when someone finally explained the joke to her.

Incidentally, the next someone starts moaning about the British attitude to sex – how sad it is we treat it as a joke or a bit of naughtiness, quite unlike the continentals, show them this. Then beat them over the head with the works of the Marquis de Sade since this position is usually adopted by joyless Puritans who hate sex and humour equally.

Incidentally, another version of this song is to be found here. Note how Serge struggles in vain to suppress a leer.