A mustache, a guitar, a foot on a chair, it was Brassens armed with his only poetry made up of pretty images and verses on his sometimes abused feet -
"deference kept to Paul Valéry"
.
He made agreements on his own words or on those of Hugo, Villon and Aragon.
His songs - work is a very solemn term for this baladin - place him in our memory halfway between Verlaine and Bruant.
Forty years after his death on October 29, 1981 - he was born in Sète on October 22, 1921, a century ago - he is always listened to and whistled with happiness.
A perky anarchism runs through his verses.
The gendarme is no more spared there than at the Guignol.
The saber and the bottle brush are willingly jostled, even if the word God is too present for him to be completely indifferent.
Politics, he does not care:
"Everyone does not care unanimously / Of your purifications, your collaborations."
As for women, we lower our voices so as not to be heard by the neofeminists, they are called
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