Joe Dassin - Les Champs-Élysées

An American’s Intimate Affair with a Parisian Anthem

1. My feet remain firmly planted in the land of Motown, where the echoes of Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder still reverberate through the alleys and bars. My French? Sufferable by only the most liberal of definitions. My connection to Paris? A long and lost weekend, no more than a vivid dream now. Yet, every time I hear Joe Dassin’s Les Champs-Élysées I’m teleported to those Parisian streets in a younger, leaner version of myself, and damn if it isn’t an intimate rendezvous every time.

   You can’t escape the past in Paris, and yet what’s so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn’t seem to burden.

   -Allen Ginsberg

   

   From the Young Man Abroad files

   Dassin bottled up the essence of Paris like so many perfumers have attempted and poured it into three minutes of flawless charm. Les Champs-Élysées isn’t a song; it’s an invocation, a love letter to a boulevard that stretches beyond the physical, reaching into the ethereal hearts of anyone who’s ever strolled its path. As a man who’s shuffled through Parisian streets with a headful of impossible and improbable dreams - many of which didn’t belong to me - this song hits close to home in an almost inexplicable way.

   

2. Lyrically, Dassin doesn’t need you to understand every word to get the point across. In fact, I’ve never read the lyrics to Les Champs-Élysées and I never will. I do not feel the pull as I normally would. The feeling in and of itself transcends linguistic understanding. I’m not alone in this matter.

   I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it.

   -Red, The Shawshank Redemption

   The repeated “aux Champs-Élysées” becomes a chant, a familiar refrain that hugs you as if you were a foreigner on holiday the night of France’s victory in the 1998 World Cup. You are immediately a friend to all and for heaven’s sake, let the champagne flow. For the moment, you’re French and there’s nothing you can do about it. You might catch a word or two — “midi,” “minuit,” “pluie,” “soleil” — and suddenly you’re right there under the Parisian sky, come rain or shine, noon or midnight. You will forever be here in a warm, inviting embrace.

   

   Paris Les Champs Elysées la Nuit, by Robert Ricart

3. Dassin, perhaps unintentionally, crafted a tune that feels like a jazz standard in its bones. The melody? Smooth as a Dexter Gordon sax solo. The instrumentation? Pure and simple, yet rich with quintessential French flavor. There’s a light, almost bossa nova rhythm to it, a gentle sway that makes you want to grab your lover by the hand and dance in the middle of the street. And you should. You always should. The guitars strum a breezy, nonchalant accompaniment, jazz guitarists riffing in the background, who know better than to steal the spotlight but remain content to add delightful punctuation. The horns, subtly layered, add a bright, celebratory note, reminiscent of a brass section punctuating a particularly soulful improvisation. Even the accordion — yes, that cliché of French music — finds its place, weaving in and out like a familiar face in a crowded Paris café. Dassin’s voice is well-aged bourbon: smooth, warm, with just the right amount of grit. He sings with an ease that makes you believe he’s lived every word, strolled every street, kissed every girl. It’s this authenticity, this effortless charm, that draws you in. That conversational quality to his delivery, his casual intimacy that feels like he’s singing just for you as he recounts his love affair with the city makes you a willing accomplice.

   In many ways, Les Champs-Élysées is a jazz song in disguise. It captures the spirit of improvisation, the ebb and flow of emotion, and the connection between the artist and the listener. It invites you to lose yourself in its melody, to let go of trouble, and simply be. In the end, that’s what the finest music does — it transcends language, culture, time, and space. It becomes a part of you, a thread in the tapestry of your life.