Jacques Brel – Brel

Brel's final album contains precious few light songs (Les Remparts De Varsovie, Knokke-Le-Zoute, Le Lion), and those still touch serious subjects -- respectively unfaithful wives, the loneliness of self-proclaimed womanisers, the game and its dangers.
The bulk, however, is made of moody songs dealing with loss, sorrow, the aching of loved ones and Death -- always Death. Even the one song where Death is the expected conclusion to a good life, the flamboyant Mourir, Brel finds a way to make depressing and so incisive in its accuracy it baffles:

Mourir, cela n'est rien
Mourir? La belle affaire!
Mais vieillir!...

Regardless of the relevance and poignancy of the material on display in all twelve songs, it is impossible not to focus on three in particular, perhaps because they are most obviously personal to the singer.

Les F... is an open letter, on disco-flavoured beats, no less, to Flemish fundamentalists who resented Brel, a part-Flemish lad, for singing in French, which they saw and, in many cases, still see as the "language of the enemy." Most usually dismiss the song because of the music; it does stick out like a sore thumb in that regards, yet it perfectly illustrates the grotesque of hating someone because of the language they sing in. For anyone who understands the linguistic tensions in Belgium (granted, that is not many), the vitriolic response to the previous assaults of narrow-minded detractors is very powerful indeed, including some choice lines that will leave an impression --

Nazi durant les guerres
Et catholiques entre elles
Vous oscillez sans cesse
Du fusil au missel

Orly is quite possibly the artist's finest. The one that truly sees Brel access the pantheon of poetry (just to be clear, Jim Morrison is not there). It is the simple observation of a couple bidding farewell at a crowded airport, put into words and musical arrangements that will tear one's heart to shreds, whether one understands French or not -- so impressive is the interpretation.
The story goes that Jacques Brel, witnessing the scene before his very eyes, was reminded of a split-up of his own, which fuelled the song. Strong bouts of nostalgia guaranteed.
Worth noting the line:

Et nom de Dieu! c'est triste, Orly, le dimanche, avec ou sans Bécaud

A reference to Gilbert Bécaud's Un Dimanche à Orly, a lighthearted and completely forgotten track, and a stark contrast with this one, which is anything but lighthearted and is as unforgettable as they get.

According to the legend, Scottish piper Donald Ban MacCrimmon knew he would soon die in battle. Since he also knew he was the best piper alive, he wrote his own lament.
Brel, staring at Death firmly in the eyes wrote Les Marquises.

Il parle de la Mort
Comme tu parles d'un fruit
Il regarde la mer
comme tu regardes un puits

His condition was so severe at the time, and made it so painful for him to sing that after he did the first take, he notoriously asked the recording guy, probably in near-agony, "Was it good?" to which the studio bloke answered, "Let us do another one." Brel then asked again: "Is this one good?"
You can judge it for yourself: it is the version on this album. He only ever sang it once.

It is said a million copies of this album were presold, in 1977. Ages before releases were hyped up on social media and records leaked on the Internet, it shows how important this one was even then. Brel had some good, powerful songs throughout his career, but this, this is the definitive album. The songs that cannot be topped. The stuff of legends. The sort of things that forever made a ket from Brussels Le Grand Jacques. It illustrates why Brel was voted the greatest Belgian in History in a poll held thirty years after his death (however relevant the sometimes less-than-relevant neighbouring countries might think that is).

Merci, Monsieur Brel.