Cute sin? Guilty pleasure ? Rather an unforgivable lack of taste for colleagues and friends laughing at my tenderness for Serge Lama – “sin”, “guilty” “fault”, everything is branded with the hot iron of Christian resipiscence … “Lama? You’re sick ? [rires gras] And why not Sardou while we’re at it? ” The comparison between the interpreter of I am sick And the one of Love sickness, two diagnoses established in 1973, aimed at locking the first in the camp of reaction – having worn Napoleon’s cocked hat for a musical does not however make you a Bonapartist – and Beauferie.
At that time, the end of the 1970s, the Carpentier couple reigned over the French variety on television. In the male stable of stars with long hair and pie shovel collars stood out a dark and fiery fellow when he waved his cup like a medieval squire bowl. Bursts of stentor, sweat, thunderous laughter or Calimero mine: Serge Lama had an incredible ability to switch from the gaudriole to the most tearful melodrama, between the Maurice Chevalier of Prosper (Yop la boom) and Damia of Dark sunday. Everything seemed tragicomedy in this emulator of Jacques Brel, even more theatrical than his model.
The fascination for this character with voice and excess led to the discovery of I am sick, album with a deceptive portrait in red and black, similar to those that were drawn for those who preached the revolution. On the basis of two songs that no one could escape (they remain radio “gold” of nostalgia), dual like the masks of the Greek theater.
Drama side, farce side
Side drama, opening, I am sick, depressive monument with his piano that got tied around his neck, his heart-breaking melody due to Alice Dona and childhood à la Dickens – the unfortunate man feels like “Orphan in a dormitory” and remembers his mother abandoning him with her despair. The disarray does not prevent a boastfulness in the last verse, with an mise en abyme announcing the success to come: “I’ll die alone with me / Near my radio like a silly kid / Listening to my own voice singing / I’m sick, completely sick”.
On the farce side, this same (?) Character, who had been left at the point of death, goes to console himself, on the B side of the 33-rpm album (like the 45-rpm), with the P’tites Femmes de Pigalle. Boulevard performer with his “happy cuckold” to an irresistible popular ballroom tune signed Jacques Datin. The new leagues of virtue would undoubtedly fall today on what is not a praise of prostitution, but a bitter revenge on adultery. The album ends in an uninhibited banter with the horns of Game is lacking and women are rare, whose refrain evokes the eighty hunters of the famous air to drink.
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