Histoire de Melody Nelson - Serge Gainsbourg

When Serge Gainsbourg died on 2 March 1991, the news resulted in Paris coming to a standstill. Police blocked off the streets around his home at the Rue de Verneuil as thousands flocked, in much the same way that John Lennon's fans had gathered at the Dakota building. There was nothing on the TV but Gainsbourg all day long; the radio a continous rotation of Serge's prodigious backcatalogue. People in tears. Flags were flown at half-mast. French President Francious Mitterrand said of him, "He was our Baudelaire, our Apollinaire... He elevated the song to the level of art."

Gainsbourg is best known to the world at large for the song Je t'aime... moi non plus, and beyond that, the general audience knows little else about the man. But Gainsbourg was (and remains) part of the French culture; Gitane-smoking, louche, the epitome of French cool. A singer, songwriter, soundtrack composer, novelist, photographer, actor, artist, director, screenwriter and a drunk. He was dedicated to cigarettes, alcohol and sex. Over three decades, his musical output encompassed classical, chanson, jazz, pop, reggae, disco, rap... His lyrics were astonishing exercises in Franglais double and triple entendres and rythmic word percussion. His subject matter covered literature, coprophagy, sexual obsession, incest, farting, philosophy, Nazi death camps and cabbage heads.

Since his death his musical legacy and reknown has grown in the past fifteen years or so. Jarvis Cocker (who incidentally wrote the lyrics for Charlotte Gainsbourg's solo album in the 'Serge-style'), Franz Ferdinand, Michael Stipe, Portishead, Beckand Nick Cave all owe (and freely acknowledge) a debt to Gainsbourg's years-ahead-of-his-time style. And anyone who owns an album by the French duo, Air should know that Gainsbourg created that style of music way back in the early seventies.

Which brings us to Histoire de Melody Nelson, Gainsbourg's finest and most 'complete' work. I only discovered Gainsbourg's work in the last few years, following our first trip to Paris. I'd immersed myself in a lot of Parisian culture when I realised that my first novel would indeed be set there. So that meant Piaf, Pere Lachaise, Pigalle and Moulin Rouge. And it had to mean Gainsbourg. It seemed incredible that I was arriving at such a 'complete' artiste in my thirties. How had I missed out on someone like this for so long?

There's a lot to get through and the Best of... package Initials S.G. is a good starting point for a potted history that takes in the early Be-bop jazz style, the classic Bardot collaborations (Bonnie and Clyde being one of the greatest three minutes of pop ever committed to tape), a smattering of Melody Nelson and some of the later, less impressive reggae diversions.

But if you want a crash course in French cool, Histoire de Melody Nelson is the first and last stop. There are a lot of arguably 'cool' albums: Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, Velvet Underground's Warhol album, Tom Waits Rain Dogs, Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers, Sinatra's Songs for Swingin' Lovers... but ...Melody Nelson outcools them all.

A loose (and louche) sort of concept album, its Lolita-esque storyline involves the middle-aged Gainsbourg losing control of his 1910 Rolls Royce and colliding with English teenage nymphet Melody Nelson, and the subsequent seduction and romance that ensues. Although I've since discovered an English translation of the superb (and decidedly kinky) lyrics, which are written with a novelist's grasp of narrative, language and allusion, it's inevitably the music that leaves an indelible mark on a non-French speaking listener.

And what music it is! While Serge mutters close to the microphone about sex, aesthetics, death and obsession, a thick and rubbery funk bass guitar rumbles beneath it all, creating rhythmic tension and melody, along with a scraping, staccato, almost punk-ish electric guitar, piano rolls, lush strings and choir. While much of the early seventies output of many progressive rock outfits now sounds dated, Gainsbourg's use of funk and deep orchestrated string and choral arrangements which accentuate the rhythm and salacious atmosphere make ...Melody Nelson sound like an album made in the nineties rather than the seventies. An organ that fades in and out on the track, L’Hotel Particulier creates a spacey trip-hop effect that pre-dates the synthesizer, and will make any new listeners instantly think of Air's Moon Safari.

In L’Hotel Particulier (Special Hotel) , Gainsborug slyly describes the hotel where he and Melody consummate their relationship: “While up there a mirror reflects us, Slowly I intertwine Melody.” After that En Melody (In Melody) it's clear what's transpiring—not only because of its title, but due to the vocals by a squealing Melody (vocalized by Jane Birkin, the girl on the cover and Gainsbourg's muse and long term love).

Despite selling little more than 15,000 copies on its release, it was a highly influential album, and remains so to this day. The cover also bears a mention. Mainly, because it's a gorgeous, iconic bit of pop art, but also beacuse there are stories behind it. Jane Birkin in a short red wig and a pair of patched bell-bottom jeans. The monkey she's holding was buried with Serge and the jeans are open purely because Birkin was at the time four months pregnant with Charlotte (who has gone on to become a respected actress and musician).

On our second visit to Paris there were a couple of trips I had to make. By this time I was a fully paid-up fan of Gainsbourg, and the city seemed different to me because of it in a way that only great writers and movie makers can transform people and places for you through their art.

We visited Montparnasse cemetary where Gainsbourg's body was laid to rest. It's a beautiful place and home to Baudelaire and De Beauvoir and Sartre. Serge's grave is hidden beneath a mound of metro tickets, fluffy toys, wine bottles and cigarettes. We weren't the only one's there; a man had come from the same metro station as us and sat opposite the grave, studying it carefully for some time. Being English we didn't linger as long. But by the time we left, an older couple had arrived and left something on the grave themselves.

We also visited 5 Rue de Verneuil, Serge Gainsbourg's modest two-storey home until his death. It's situated in a repsectable street in the St Germain area, a stones-throw from the Seine, and it's the kind of place where the shops sell old masters and antiques. A few years ago, the residents of the street paid to have the walls of Gainsbourg's home white-washed after his fans travelled from all over the world to cover it with slogans and graffiti. That same night someone arrived, spray-painted a new slogan, and it began all over again. The residents gave in.

It took a little while to find, and it is in a very high-class area and the shops do sell very expensive wares. So it's all the more fascinating to find hidden there a section of wall covered in colours, caricatures, graffiti, poetry, metaphysical debates and phallic images. This more than the grave in Montparnasse felt more like the Serge I'd discovered at this late point in my life.

In retrospect I should have contributed something to the wall as I had when we visited Abbey Road a few years previous (No one I think is in my tree seemed apt at the time). But I didn't. That English reserve again. Graffiti in an expensive area - how could I? I probably will if we visit again.
Apparently, hidden amongst the scrawl is a message that seems to sum Gainsbourg up perfectly. It reads, "Serge is not dead. He's in heaven, fucking."
That seems about right.