I’ve been in a Roxy Music mood of late, not sure why. I will
say that when I hear bands like Franz Ferdinand or even Echo & the
Bunnymen, I find myself thinking back to Roxy and the great sounds they created
from 1972-1982. No album in that span is bad, though Manifesto (1979) is the least of them (though that's the tour I saw them on); my favorite has always been—“for
purely personal reasons,” as Rob in Hi
Fidelity might say—Stranded (1973),
from which comes today’s song.
“A Song for Europe” was my introduction to Roxy Music, that and “Mother of Pearl” (which I’ll save for another time). I first heard both on
late night FM radio in 1973. And then, on The
Midnight Special, I believe, saw Roxy perform “Europe”—I remember Bryan
Ferry, with his expressive forelock, in a white tux.
The song, hearing it in those days when I was steeped in the
likes of Hermann Hesse and Albert Camus, spoke to me immediately of Weltschmerz. It could be said that Weltschmerz was rather unfashionable in
1973, at least among fourteen-year-olds, but I drank it up. And to hear it
given such an au courant presentation was remarkable. Ferry sings in English, then
Latin and French to convey the different eras of Europe. All doomed to look in
languishing retrospect on a previous l’age d’or.
Stranded, Roxy’s third
album, was their first album sans Eno. Only much later would I come to know the
LPs with Eno, and the LPs Eno himself created. Actually, my intro to Eno was
via John Cale’s Fear, but that’s
another story. Roxy without Eno was less aurally innovative, true, but Stranded has some of the band’s best
songwriting, and it's still early enough that Ferry hasn’t yet become a
contemporary lounge crooner. He started out by sending-up that kind of
romanticism—as here, where it's both ironic because so flamboyant and so
flamboyantly unironic—and ended up entrapped in it. It’s OK, don’t cry for him.
He seems to have had a grand old time.
A few years after I first heard this song, my older brother—who
was gainfully employed whereas I was just a kid in high school—went out and
acquired the Roxy albums then in existence, or at least three or four of them.
I immediately taped Stranded and it
became a key ingredient of my soundtrack in the summer of 1976. I remember
taking a walk pre-dawn to Old New Castle on my 17th birthday, to see the
sun rise on the Delaware. Full of romantic longings, no doubt. I remember “A
Song for Europe” was sounding through my head for most of that trek. “And here
by the Seine / Notre Dame casts a long, lonely shadow.” I would sometimes alter it to “I’m here by
the Seine / Not a dime” . . . where the long, lonely shadow is my own, stretched out on the pavement before me. Could you spare a coin for a fellow American down
on his luck?
Romantic vistas were hard to come by in New Castle,
Delaware, I can tell you. And yet the song’s mood has a way of making its
brooding sense of dark fatality overwhelm whatever might be around you. You
hear this song and become dissatisfied. It’s in those big crescendos—“Now, only
sorrow / No tomorrow” and “Nothing is there / For us to share / But
yester-dayyyy-yayyy.” And Andy Mackay’s
sax is nowhere more expressive.
Ah, yes, the wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees is left
this vault to brag of, as The Bard doth say. That’s a good feeling to know in
your teens; it prepares you for so much future disappointment. And I just love the way Ferry says “Ecce
momenta / Illa mirabilia.” But it’s the “jamais,
jamais, jamais” (never, never, never) that used to always floor us. We all knew
what Ferry was going for there, like some kind of glam Charles Aznavour pining
for lost youth. And then he goes whistling down the Seine at the end.
Tous ces moments
perdus dans l`enchantement
qui ne reviendront,
jamais.
Pas d’aujourd´hui
pour nous,
pour nous il n’y a rien
à partager
à partager
sauf le passé.
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