Charles Aznavour – La Bohème

La Bohème is a song written by French songwriter Jacques Plante and  Charles Aznavour. The original version of this song was written by Gipo Farassino a Piemont singer who wrote the song “Porta Pila.”

The song was first recorded by Aznavour in 1965. It is Aznavour’s signature song, as well as one of the most popular French-language songs and a staple of French chanson. It became an international hit song in 1965 and was in the TOP 10 charts of Argentina (No 3), Rio de Janeiro (No 5), France (No 1), Brazil, and other countries.

The song is about: a painter recalls his young age Montmartre, he remembers his artistic life, the early years when he was hungry but happy. According to Aznavour, this song is a farewell to the last days of bohemian Montmartre. He also recorded Italian, Spanish, English, and German versions, as well as a rare Portuguese recording. It is performed at virtually every one of his concerts.

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Charles Aznavour - La Bohème

Charles Aznavour - La Boheme - BW - HQ Audio04:05

La Bohème este povestea tinereții unui pictor în Montmartre, care își aduce aminte de viața lui artistică și de momentele când era flămând, dar fericit. Aznavour a spus, că acesta ar fi un cântec de adio, al vieții boeme care a fost odată în Montmartre.
Piesă lansată în 1965 de pe albumul Monsieur Carnaval.

Charles Aznavour, născut Shahnour Vaghinag Aznavourian în Paris la 22 mai 1924, din părinți armenieni. A decedat la 1 Octombrie 2018 în Mouriès, France.

La 24 August 2017 a primit cea de 2,618-a stea pe Hollywood Walk of Fame. Ultimul lui concert a avut loc la 19 Septembrie 2018 în Osaka.

Versuri:
Je vous parle d’un temps,
Que les moins de vingt ans,
Ne peuvent pas connaître,
Montmartre en ce temps là,
Accrochait ses lilas,
Jusque sous nos fenêtres,
Et si l’humble garni,
Qui nous servait de lit,
Ne payait pas de mine,
C’est là qu’on s’est connu,
Moi qui criait famine et toi,
Qui posait nue,

La Bohème, la Bohème,
Ca voulait dire, on est heureux,
La Bohème, la Bohème,
Nous ne mangions,
Qu’un jour sur deux.

Dans les cafés voisins,
Nous étions quelques uns,
Qui attendions la gloire,
Et bien que miséreux,
Avec le ventre creux,
Nous ne cessions d’y croire,
Et quand quelques bistrots,
Contre un bon repas chaud,
Nous prenaient une toile,
Nous récitions des vers,
Grouppés autour du poêle,
En oubliant l’hiver.

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