Sympathique

Pink Martini

I thoroughly enjoyed Paris - that which I saw. I had little time on my own or to tour, but took in the sights that were available as we walked or rode in cabs. I don't know how to speak French - it is always humbling that when I meet with folks in different countries that they can speak my language, but me not able speak theirs'. Where ever I walked, the novelty of this new place followed me. I wondered what it would have been like to have found a music store and been able to listen to old-time French songs - the kind that would have been played in a lounge with people sitting around small round tables, as they talked while glasses of red wine resting near their elbows bend below hands that held cigarettes as smoke rose above their heads. The Portland band Pink Martini plays music that sounds like it was made in Paris. Telling nonsensical stories that fit places far away from Oregon - maybe that is why the French are sympathetic to Pink Martini - Sympathique.

Ma chambre a la forme d'une cage
Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre
Les chasseurs à ma porte comme les p'tit soldats
Qui veulent me prendre

Je ne veux pas travailler
Je ne veux pas déjeuner
Je veux seulement oublier
Et puis je fume

Déjà j'ai connu le parfum de l'amour
Un million de roses n'embaumerait pas autant
Maintenant une seule fleur dans mes entourages
Me rend malade

Je ne suis pas fière de ça vie qui veut me tuer
C'est magnifique être sympatique
Mais je n'le connais jamais

Our pilot son once thought he would play in an orchestra - be a professional musician. When in middle school, he played the horn in a youth symphony that twice accompanied Pink Martini in concert - a fun introduction for us to the world of multilingual music.
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Translation of Sympathique
by Pink Martini

My room is shaped like a cage
The sun passes his arm through the window
Hunters at my door like p'tit soldiers
Who want to take me
 
I do not want to work
I do not want breakfast
I just want to forget
And then I smoke

Already I knew the fragrance of love
A million roses do not smell as sweet
Now a single flower in my entourages
Makes me sick  

I'm not proud of that life that wants to kill me
It is wonderful to be sympathetic
But I never understood it