Serge, The Prophetic.
(VIDEO: L’Hôtel Particulier by Serge Gainsbourg, 1971)
My life has allowed me a strange window onto French society. I’m living in one of France’s last colonial outposts, and have been engaging in business with a 65% French commercial population for almost 4 years now. Like in many cultures, I find their paradoxes most interesting. As a general observation, I’ve found French nationals, living in Morocco, to be extremely expressive, critical, sharp-humored and culturally xenophobic. This isn’t perfectly accurate of course, even for the tiny cross section I’ve encountered; they’re not frightened by other cultures, per say, it’s just that mentality of never fully embracing the merits of the English-speaking world.
That said, the French, at least in Morocco, can certainly be a self-critical bunch. Twice in the last month I’ve been told, “Oh, no. I love France! It’s a wonderful country. There’s just too many French people there!”
The only real common denominator, save for their narrow definition of how the French accent ‘should’ sound, is an almost 100% universal adoration of Mr. Serge Gainsbourg. I hate to resort to cliches, but I’m afraid this one is true.
Mr. Serge Gainsbourg, understandably an icon in any self-respecting circle, is almost regarded as a prophet for contemporary French patriotism. But however leftfield for the greater French masses to essentially canonize a gawky, oft-perverse Sephardic Jew, in asking about his idolatry, I’m always given the same response:
“He’s the true poet of France.”
