WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME…:
Claire Booth & Jâms
Coleman
International Concert Series 2024-25
Thursday, 3 October 2024
Picture Gallery, Founder’s Building with Claire Booth Soprano
Jâms Coleman Piano
Estimated finish time: 9 15pm
There will be a short interval during this evening’s performance.
Please no flash photography or visual/audio recording throughout the event.
For news about our future events, please visit royalholloway.ac.uk/music/events
EVENT
PROGRAMME
Charles Ives (1874 – 1954) ‘Very Pleasant’ from Memories
Zoë Martlew ( b. 1968 ) Hotel Babylon
George Gershwin ( 1898 – 1937) ‘The Man I Love’ and ‘I Got Rhythm’ from Songbook
Francis Poulenc ( 1899 – 1963)
Banalités, FP107
1. Chanson d’Orkenise
2. Hótel
3. Fagnes de Wallonie
4. Voyage à Paris
5. Sanglots
John Woolrich (b. 19 54)
Stendhal’s Observation
Arnold Schoenberg (1874 – 1951)
‘Galathea’
‘Der genügsame Liebhaber’ from Brettl-Lieder
TEXTS AND TRANSLATIONS
Charles Ives (1874 – 1954)
‘Very Pleasant’ from Memories
We’re sitting in the opera house; We’re waiting for the curtain to arise
George Gershwin (1898 – 1937)
‘Somebody Loves Me’
(arr. Earl Wind)
George Gershwin
‘Embraceable You’, from Girl
Crazy (arr. Earl Wind)
Thomas Adès (b. 1971 ) Life Story, Op. 8
Kurt Weill (1900 – 1950)
Nannas Lied
Der Abschiedsbrief
Francis Poulenc ( 1899 – 1963)
La dame de Monte Carlo
With wonders for our eyes; We’re feeling pretty gay, And well we may, “O, Jimmy, look!” I say, “The band is tuning up And soon will start to play.” We whistle and we hum, Beat time with the drum. We’re sitting in the opera house; We’re waiting for the curtain to arise
With wonders for our eyes, A feeling of expectancy, A certain kind of ecstasy, Expectancy and ecstasy… Sh’s’s’s. “Curtain!”
Zoë Martlew (b. 1968)
Hotel Babylon
Hotel Babylon received its world premiere on 25 th July 2024
The 20 minute work takes as its starting point Schoenberg’s early 20th century cabaret songs. With the composer’s 150th anniversary in 2024, Claire has devised “Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome..”, a classical cabaret program of which Martlew’s commission is the central component.
George Gershwin (1898 – 1937)
‘The Man I Love’
Someday he'll come along
The man I love
And he'll be big and strong
The man I love
And when he comes my way I'll do my best to make him stay
He'll look at me and smile I'll understand
And in a little while He'll take my hand
And though it seems absurd
I know we both won't say a word
Maybe I shall meet him Sunday
Maybe Monday, maybe not Still I'm sure to meet him one day Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day
He'll build a little home
Just meant for two
From which I'll never roam Who would, would you And so, all else above I'm waiting for the man I love
He'll build a little home
Just meant for two From which I'll never roam Who would, would you And so, all else above I'm waiting for the man I love
George Gershwin (1898 – 1937) ‘I Got Rhythm’
I got rhythm, I got music, I got my man Who could ask for anything more?
I got daises in green pastures, I got my man Who could ask for anything more?
Old man trouble, I don't mind him
You won't find him 'round my
door
I got starlight, I got sweet dreams
I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
Who could ask for anything more?
Days can be sunny, with never a sigh
Don't need what money can buy
Birds in the trees sing their day full of song
Why shouldn't we sing along?
I'm chipper all the day, happy with my lot
How do I get that way
Look at what I've got
I got rhythm and I got music, I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
I've got daises in my very green pastures
I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
Old man trouble, I don't mind him
You'll never find him 'round my door
I got starlight and do I have sweet
dreams
I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
In fact, who wants anything more?
I got rhythm, I got music, I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
I got daises and in green pastures, I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
Old man trouble, I don't mind him
You won't find him 'round my door
I got starlight, I got sweet dreams I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
Who could ask for anything more?
Francis Poulenc (1899 – 1963)
Banalités, FP107
1. Chanson d’Orkenise
Par les portes d’Orkenise
Veut entrer un charretier.
Par les portes d’Orkenise
Veut sortir un va-nu-pieds.
Et les gardes de la ville
Courant sus au va-nu-pieds:
‘Qu’ emportes -tu de la ville?’
‘J’y laisse mon coeur entier.’
Et les gardes de la ville
Courant sus au charretier:
‘Qu’apportes-tu dans la ville?’
‘Mon coeur pour me marier!’
Que de coeurs, dans Orkenise!
Les gardes riaient, riaient.
Va-nu-pieds la route est grise,
L’amour grise, ô charretier.
Les beaux gardes de la ville
Tricotaient superbement;
Puis les portes de la ville
Se fermèrent lentement.
Through the gates of Orkenise
A waggoner wants to enter.
Through the gates of Orkenise
A vagabond wants to leave.
And the sentries guarding the town
Rush up to the vagabond:
'What are you taking from the town?'
'I'm leaving my whole heart behind.'
And the sentries guarding the
town
Rush up to the waggoner:
'What are you carrying into the town?'
'My heart in order to marry.'
So many hearts in Orkenise!
The sentries laughed and laughed: Vagabond, the road's not merry, Love makes you merry, O waggoner!
The handsome sentries guarding the town
Knitted vaingloriously;
The gates of the town then Slowly closed.
2. Hótel
Ma chambre a la forme d’une cage
Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre
Mais moi qui veux fumer pour faire des mirages
J’allume au feu du jour ma cigarette
Je ne veux pas travailler je veux fumer
My room is shaped like a cage
The sun slips its arm through the window
But I who want to smoke to make
mirages
I light my cigarette on daylight's fire
I do not want to work I want to smoke
3. Fagnes de Wallonie
Tant de tristesses
plénières Prirent mon coeur aux fagnes désolées
Quand las j’ai reposé dans les sapinières
Le poids des kilomètres pendant que râlait le vent d’ouest
J’avais quitté le joli bois
Les écureuils y sont restés
Ma pipe essayait de faire des nuages
Au ciel
Qui restait pur obstinément
Je n’ai confié aucun secret sinon une chanson énigmatique
Aux tourbières humides
Les bruyères fleurant le miel
Attiraient les abeilles
Et mes pieds endoloris
Foulaient les myrtilles et les airelles
Tendrement mariée
Nord
Nord
La vie s’y tord
En arbres forts
Et tors
La vie y mord
La mort
À belles dents
Quand bruit le vent
So much utter sadness
Seized my heart in the desolate upland moss-hags
When weary I set down in the fir plantation
The weight of kilometres to the roar
Of the west wind
I had left the pretty wood
The squirrels stayed there
My pipe tried to make clouds
In the sky
Which stubbornly stayed clear
I confided no secret but an enigmatic song
To the dank peat -bogs
The honey-fragrant heather
Attracted the bees
And my sore feet
Crushed bilberries and whortleberries
Tenderly united
North
North
Life is gnarled there
In strong trees
And twisted
Life there bites
Death
Voraciously
When the wind howls
4. Voyage à Paris
Ah! la charmante chose
Quitter un pays morose
Pour Paris
Paris joli
Qu’un jour
Dut créer l’Amour
Oh! how delightful
To leave a dismal
Place for Paris
Charming Paris
That one day
Love must have made
Oh! how delightful
To leave a dismal
Place for Paris
5. Sanglots
Notre amour est réglé par les calmes étoiles
Or nous savons qu’en nous beaucoup d’hommes respirent
Qui vinrent de très loin et sont un sous nos fronts
C’est la chanson des rêveurs
Qui s’étaient arraché le coeur
Et le portaient dans la main droite
Souviens-t’en cher orgueil de tous ces souvenirs
Des marins qui chantaient comme des conquérants
Des gouffres de Thulé des tendres cieux d’Ophir
Des malades maudits de ceux qui fuient leur ombre
Et du retour joyeux des heureux émigrants
De ce coeur il coulait du sang
Et le rêveur allait pensant
A sa blessure délicate
Tu ne briseras pas la chaîne de ces causes
Et douloureuse et nous disait
Qui sont les effets d’autres causes
Mon pauvre coeur mon coeur brisé
Pareil au coeur de tous les hommes
Voici voici nos mains que la vie fit esclaves
Est mort d’amour ou c’est tout comme
Est mort d’amour et le voici Ainsi vont toutes choses,
Arrachez donc le vôtre aussi
Et rien ne sera libre jusqu’à la fin des temps
Laissons tout aux morts
Et cachons nos sanglots
Our love is governed by the calm stars
Now we know that in us many men have their being Who came from afar and are one beneath our brows
It is the song of the dreamers Who tore out their hearts And carried them in their right hands
Remember dear pride all these memories
The sailors who sang like conquerors
The chasms of Thule the gentle Ophir skies
The accursed sick those who flee their shadows
And the joyous return of happy emigrants
This heart ran with blood
And the dreamer kept thinking
Of his delicate wound
You shall not break the chain of these causes
Of his painful wound and said to us
Which are the effects of other causes
My poor heart my broken heart
Like the hearts of all men
Here here are our hands that life enslaved
Has died of love or so it seems Has died of love and here it is Such is the fate of all things
So tear out yours too
And nothing will be free till the end of time
Let us leave all to the dead
And conceal our sobs
Original text by Guillaume Apollinaire (1880 – 1918) English translations by Richard Stokes
John Woolrich (b. 1954) Stendhal’s Observation
Arnold Schoenberg (1874 – 1951)
‘Galathea’ (‘Ah, how I’m burning with desire’)
Ach, wie brenn’ ich vor Verlangen, Galathea, schönes Kind, Dir zu küssen deine Wangen, Weil sie so entzückend sind.
Wonne die mir widerfahre, Galathea, schönes Kind, Dir zu küssen deine Haare, Weil sie so verlockend sind.
Nimmer wehr’ mir bis ich ende,
Galathea, schönes Kind, Dir zu küssen deine Hände, Weil sie so verlockend sind.
Ach, du ahnst nicht, wie ich glühe, Galathea, schönes Kind, Dir zu küssen deine Knie, Weil sie so verlockend sind.
Und was tät ich nicht, du Süße, Galathea, schönes Kind, Dir zu küssen deine Füße, Weil sie so verlockend sind.
Aber deinen Mund enthülle, Mädchen, meinen Küßen nie, Denn in seiner Reize Fülle, Küßt ihn nur die Phantasie.
Ah, how I’m burning with desire, Galathea, lovely child, Just to kiss your cheeks, Because they’re so enchanting.
The rapture that I feel, Galathea, lovely child, Just to kiss your tresses, Because they’re so enticing.
Never resist me, till I’ve finished, Galathea, lovely child, Kissing your hands, Because they’re so enticing.
Ah, you do not sense how I burn, Galathea, lovely child, To kiss your knees,
Because they’re so enticing.
And what wouldn’t I do, my sweet, Galathea, lovely child, To kiss your feet, Because they’re so enticing.
But never expose your lips, Sweet girl, to my kisses, For the fullness of their charms Can only be kissed in fantasy.
Original text by Frank Wedekind (1864 – 1918) English translation by Richard Stokes
‘Der
genügsame Liebhaber’ (‘The contended suitor’)
Meine Freundin hat eine schwarze Katze, Mit weichem knisterndem Sammetfell, Und ich, ich hab’ eine blitzblanke Glatze, Blitzblank und glatt und silberhell.
Meine Freundin gehört zu den üppigen Frauen, Sie liegt auf dem Divan das ganze Jahr, Beschäftigt das Fell ihrer Katze zu krauen, Mein Gott, ihr behagt halt das sammtweiche Haar.
Und komm’ ich am Abend die Freundin besuchen, So liegt die Mieze im Schoße bei ihr,
Und nascht mit ihr von dem Honigkuchen, Und schauert wenn ich leise ihr Haar berühr’.
Und will ich mal zärtlich tun mit dem Schatze, Und daß sie mir auch einmal ‘Eitschi’ macht, Dann stülp’ ich die Katze auf meine Glatze, Dann streichelt die Freundin die Katze und lacht.
My girlfriend has a black cat With soft, rustling, velvet fur, And I, I have a shining bald pate, Shining and smooth and silvery.
My girlfriend’s one of those voluptuous women, She lies on the sofa all year round, Busily stroking her cat’s fur, My God, how she loves that soft, velvet fur.
And when in the evening I visit my girlfriend, Her pussy-cat’s always on her lap, Nibbling with her the gingerbread, And trembling whenever I stroke its fur.
And if I become amorous with my love, So that she might call me ‘honeybun’, I lift the cat onto my bald pate –And my girlfriend strokes the cat and laughs.
Original text by Hugo Salus (1866 – 1929) English translations by Richard Stokes
George Gershwin (1898 – 1937) ‘Somebody Loves Me’ (arr. Earl Wind)
When this world began It was Heaven's plan There should be a girl for ev'ry single man
To my great regret Someone has upset Heaven's pretty progamme For we've never met I'm clutching at straws Just because I may meet him/her yet
Somebody loves me I wonder who I wonder who he/she can be
Somebody loves me I wish I knew Who can he/she be worries me
For ev'ry boy who passes me I shout, " Hey, maybe
You were meant to be my loving baby. "
Somebody loves me, I wonder who
Maybe it's you
George Gershwin
‘Embraceable You’, from Girl
Crazy (arr. Earl Wind)
Dozens of girls would storm up I had to lock my door
Somehow I couldn't warm up To one before
What was it that controlled me
What kept my love life lean
My intuition told me
You'd come on the scene
Lady listen to the rhythm of my heartbeat
And you'll get just what I mean
Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you
Embrace me, you irreplaceable you
Just one look at you my heart grew tipsy in me
You and you alone bring out the gypsy in me
I love all the many charms about you
Above all I want my arms about Don't be a naughty baby
Come to papa come to papa do My sweet embraceable you
Thomas Adès (b. 1971)
Life Story , Op. 8
This setting was made in April 1993 for the Mary Wiegold song-book. It reflects all the double-edges of the poem: comic and tragic, relaxed and formal, seedy and tender, with a toe-stubbing punchline.
Programme Note by Thomas Adès
Kurt Weill (1900 – 1950) Nannas Lied
Meine Herren, mit siebzehn Jahren
kam ich auf den Liebesmarkt und ich habe viel erfahren. Böses gab es viel, doch das war das Spiel. Aber manches hab ich doch verargt.
Schließlich bin ich ja auch ein Mensch.
Gott sei Dank geht alles schnell vorüber, auch die Liebe und der Kummer sogar.
Wo sind die Tränen von gestern abend?
Wo ist der Schnee vom vergangenen Jahr?
Freilich geht man mit den Jahren leichter auf den Liebesmarkt und umarmt sie dort in Scharen. Aber das Gefühl wird erstaunlich kühl, wenn man damit allzuwenig kargt.
Schließlich geht ja jeder Vorrat zu Ende.
Gott sei Dank geht alles schnell vorüber, auch die Liebe und der Kummer sogar.
Wo sind die Tränen von gestern abend?
Wo ist der Schnee vom vergangenen Jahr?
Und auch wenn man gut das Handeln lernte auf der Liebesmess':
Lust in Kleingeld zu verwandeln
wird doch niemals leicht.
Nun, es wird erreicht. Doch man wird auch älter unterdes.
Schließlich bleibt man ja nicht immer siebzehn.
Gott sei Dank geht alles schnell vorüber, auch die Liebe und der Kummer sogar.
Wo sind die Tränen von gestern abend?
Wo ist der Schnee vom vergangenen Jahr?
Gentlemen, with seventeen years of age under my belt I came up on the Love Market, and I have learned much. Much of it gave evil, yet that was the game, but, I have a lot to be blamed for. (When all is said and done, I'm only a human being, too.)
Thanks be to God that it all goes by so quickly, the love as well as the grief, too. Where are the tears of yesterday evening?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
As one goes through the years
it is easier in the Love Market, to be sure, and you embrace the multitudes there.
But feelings become astonishingly cool when one doesn't ration them. (When all is said and done, each reserve must come to an end.)
Thanks be to God that it all goes by so quickly, the love as well as the grief, too. Where are the tears of yesterday evening?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
And even when one learns the trade really well in the Fairground of Love: to change desire into small change is never easy. Now, it is achieved. Yet meanwhile, one grows older, as well.
(When all is said and done, one can't stay seventeen forever.)
Thanks be to God that it all goes by so quickly, the love as well as the grief, too. Where are the tears of yesterday evening?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
Original text by Bertolt Brecht (1895 – 1956) English translation by Sean Phillip Mabrey
Kurt Weill (1900 – 1950)
Der Abschiedsbrief
(‘The Farewell Letter’)
Zwei Stunden sitz ich schon im Caffee Bauer.
Wenn Du nicht willst, dann sag mirs ins Gesicht.
Deswegen wird mir meine Milch nicht sauer.
Ich pfeif auf Dich, mein Schatz.
Na schön, denn nicht!
Du brauchst nicht denken, dass ich Dich entbehre.
Mit dem Verkehr mit mir, das ist jetzt aus.
Auch ich hab so etwas wie eine Ehre.
Lass Dich nicht blicken, Schatz, sonst fliegst Du raus!
Du bist der Erste nicht, der so verschwindet.
Das hab Ich nicht an Dir verdient, mein gutes Kind.
Du glaubst doch nicht, dass sich nicht noch ein andrer findet?
Es gibt noch welche, die bequemer für mich sind.
Ich hab das Grüne an aus Poppelien.
Das Loch drinn hast du auch hineingerissen.
Du weisst es reicht mir nur bis zu den Knien.
Ich hab auch noch ein angefangnes Kissen…
Das solltest Du am heilgen Abend kriegen.
Das ist nur aus und mir auch einerlei.
Es werden öfters andre darauf liegen,
Denn was vorbei ist, Schatz, das ist vorbei!
Du bist der Erst nicht, usw.
Ich bin nicht stolz.
Auch wär das nicht am Platze. Wenn Du was übrig hast, dann schick es schnell!
Mir gegenüber feixt ein Herr mit Glatze.
Das ist der Chef von Engelhorns Hotell!
Na Schluss. Das Visawie von gegenüber fragt ob ich wollte… denn er möchte schon…
Der hat Moneten, so ein alter Schieber.
Behalt Dein Geld und schlaf allein, mein Sohn.
Auch Du bist einer von die feinen Herrn.
Der Alte kommt, er nimmt mich zu sich mit.
Rutsch mir den Buckel lang und hab mich gern.
Von ganzem Kerzen Deine Erna Schmidt.
For two full hours now I’ve been sitting in the Café Bauer.
If you’re no longer interested, then tell me to my face!
My cream won’t turn sour just because of that.
To hell with you, my sweetheart. So what? Let’s call it quits.
You mustn’t think that I’ll miss you.
We are all washed up. Even I have what they call “honor.”
Don’t show up again, my darling, or I’ll throw you out.
You’re not the first one to disappear like that.
I don’t deserve that kind of treatment, sonny.
Do you actually think that I couldn’t replace you?
There are plenty of better fish in the sea.
I’m wearing the green poplin dress
the one that has a hole in it, thanks to you.
You know how revealing it is. Also, I still have a pillowcase that I started for you.
You were supposed to get it on Christmas Eve.
That’s all over now, and all the same to me.
Others will sleep on it more than once.
Because what’s over, sweetheart, is gone for good.
You’re not the first one, etc.
I’m not proud.
The situation doesn’t call for that. If you’ve got some money, send it fast.
A bald-headed man is sitting across from me and leering. That’s the boss from Engelhorn’s Hotel!
Well, what do you know! The gentleman across the table just asked if I would like to… because he’d very much like to…
He has cash, the old crook. Keep your money! And sleep by yourself, my boy!
You’re just like them all. The old fogey is coming over. He’s going to take me with him. So, bug off! Kiss my ass!
With all my heart, your friend, Erna Schmidt. Francis Poulenc (1899 – 1963) La dame de Monte Carlo
Quand on est morte entre les mortes, qu’on se traîne chez les vivants lorsque tout vous flanque à la porte
et la ferme d’un coup de vent, ne plus être jeune et aimée … derrière une porte fermée, il reste de se fiche à l’eau ou d’acheter un rigolo.
Oui, messieurs, voilà ce qui reste pour les lâches et les salauds.
Mais si la frousse de ce geste s’attache à vous comme un grelot, si l’on craint de s’ouvrir les veines, on peut toujours risquer la veine d’un voyage à Monte -Carlo.
Monte-Carlo! Monte -Carlo! J’ai fini ma journée.
Je veux dormir au fond de l’eau de la Mediterranée.
Monte-Carlo ! Monte -Carlo !
Après avoir vendu à votre âme et mis en gage des bijoux que jamais plus on ne réclame, la roulette est un beau joujou.
C’est joli de dire: “je joue”.
Cela vous met le feu aux joues et cela vous allume l’œil.
Sous les jolis voiles de deuil on porte un joli nom de veuve. Un titre donne de l’orgueil!
Et folie, et prête, et toute neuve, on prend sa carte au casino.
Voyez mes plumes et mes voiles, contemplez les strass de l’étoile qui mène à Monte -Carlo.
La chance est femme. Elle est jalouse de ces veuvages solennels. Sans doute ell’ m’a cru l’épouse d’un véritable colonel.
J’ai gagné, gagné sur le douze. Et puis les robes se décousent, la fourrure perd des cheveux.
On a beau répéter: “Je veux”, dès que la chance vous déteste, dès que votre cœur est nerveux, vous ne pouvez plus faire un geste, pousser un sou sur le tableau sans que la chance qui s’écarte change les chiffres et les cartes des tables de Monte -Carlo.
Les voyous, le buses, les gales ! Ils m’ont mise dehors … dehors … et ils m’accusent d’être sale, de porter malheur dans leurs salles, dans leurs sales salles en stuc. Moi qui aurais donné mon truc à l’œil, au prince, à la princesse, au Duc de Westminster, au Duc, parfaitement. Faut que ça cesse, qu’ils me criaient, votre boulot !
Votre boulot ? ...
Ma découverte.
J’en priverai les tables vertes. C’est bien fait pour Monte-Carlo, Monte-Carlo.
Et maintenant, moi qui vous parle, je n’avouerai pas les kilos que j’ai perdus, que j’ai perdus à Monte-Carle, Monte-Carle, ou Monte-Carlo.
Je suis une ombre de moi-même
les martingales, les systèmes et les croupiers qui ont le droit de taper de loin sur vos doigts quand on peut faucher une mise. Et la pension où l’on doit et toujours la même chemise que l’angoisse trempe dans l’eau. Ils peuvent courir. Pas si bête. Cette nuit je pique une tête dans la mer de Monte-Carlo, Monte-Carlo.
When you’re dead amongst the dead, when you’re withering in the land of the living, when everything kicks you out and the wind slams the door shut, when you’re no longer young and loved … when behind a closed door there’s nothing left but to drown or buy a pistol Yes, gentlemen, that’s what’s left for cowards and bastards. But if the thought of suicide makes you tremble like a leaf, if you baulk at slashing your veins, you can always take the gamble of a trip to Monte Carlo.
Monte Carlo! Monte Carlo! I’ve done with life. I want to sleep on the bed of the Med.
Monte Carlo! Monte Carlo!
Having sold your soul, and pawned your jewellery once and for all, roulette is a pretty plaything. It’s fun to say: ‘I gamble’. It makes your cheeks flush and lights up your eyes. Beneath your fine widow’s veil, you’ve a fine widow’s name. Such a title gives you pride! Crazy, prepared, and wholly restored,
you take out your card at the casino. Just look at my feathers and my veils, behold the bejewelled star, leading to Monte Carlo.
Luck is a woman. She’s jealous of these solemn widows. She no doubt took me for the wife of a real colonel. I won, won on the twelve. Dresses then become unstitched, fur loses its hair.
No matter how often you say: ‘I want’, once fortune hates you, once you’re highly strung, you can no longer make a move, push a coin on the board, without luck beating a retreat and changing numbers and cards on the tables at Monte Carlo.
The scoundrels! The fools! The scabs! They threw me out … threw me out …
They accuse me of being dirty, of bringing misfortune to their saloons, to their dirty stucco saloons— I, who would have told them my trick for free, to the Prince, the Princess, the Duke of Westminster, this must stop,
this has to stop, they screamed at me, this business of yours! This business? …
My discovery
I’ll deprive the green tables of it. Serves Monte Carlo right. Monte Carlo. And now, I who am talking to you, I shan’t admit how many kilos I’ve lost at Monte Carle, Monte Carle, or Monte Carlo. I am a shadow of myself … The martingales, the systems and the croupiers who have the right to rap your knuckles, when you’re about to pinch the stake.
And the money you owe at your digs, and always the same wet nightshirt drenched with anguish.
Let them pursue me. I’m not that stupid. Tonight I’ll hurl myself head first into the sea at Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo.
Original text by Jean Cocteau (1889 – 1963 ) English translation by Richard Stokes