On the Benefits of Being a Slacker

Having done my usual superficial and inept search for a translation of "Je Voulais Te Dire Que Je T'attends," I managed to find only slight variants of the same translation on several different websites. And now, as a result of my "lazy-faire" approach, I'm now faced with the same basic problem with each of them.

That problem being that literal translations of a song lyric seldom result in anything even remotely, well, lyrical. A problem which is compounded for me by the fact that, having fulfilled the language requirement for my B.A. by taking two years of college-level Spanish in one summer while holding down a full-time factory job which I got to via a 12-mile commute on a second-hand 3-speed bicycle (yes, sniff, I was shamefully abused in my youth), I have no means to personally ascertain the lyricism of a poem originally written in French.

I could, I suppose, make the assumption that because this lyric has been covered, over the years, by a number of reputable artists, their professional integrity might alone be taken to guarantee the quality of the original lyric. An assumption which, on the other hand, could put us in the same company as the literally hundreds of "artists" who have shamelessly cashed in on the completely inane lyrics of, say, "MacArthur Park."

A song which, not coincidentally, also stands as an embarrassingly obvious example of how a poorly-written lyric, especially in the pop-rock genre, may hide behind (or shamelessly dance to) a hard-driving bass or compelling paradiddle. (Thank you, Lars, for your service to the Pop/Rock Nation. But I do hope that Michael Kamen, rest his soul, rapped your knuckles for your performance that summer's eve in 1999 at the Berkeley Community Theater.)

Alternatively, I could simply ignore any questions about the quality of the original and, while at the very apex of that leap, assume that the translation at hand is at least competently literal. Then, following the tack of Ezra Pound in his transliteration of Li Po's "The River Merchant's Wife," simply poeticize what we've got. An idea which admittedly interests me and which I may eventually have a go at, if only as an exercise.

What stops me is that sense of an inherent lack of honesty in this approach, which gives me pause each time I contemplate it. And so, for now, I continue just to listen. Remaining, all the while, breathlessly transfixed by Laurel Masse's flowing mane of wild, red hair. After all, why would one not exploit this one small benefit of being a slacker. Otherwise, one is not truly a slacker, non?

LPK
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3.15.2013 (a)