At 21 (and a half) I discovered a lot of wonderful things. Single malt whisky. The Drum writers of the ’50s.
And her music . You know, dear reader, that age when one’s heart is not yet hard enough to be adult. Still marshmallow-soft, even if it starts to develop that tough crust on the outside.
ALSO READ: ‘When I am gone, I’m gone’ – Yvonne Chaka Chaka on legacy ahead of LALBall Africa Music Awards honour One night I was sitting on an older friend’s carpet when she shook the vinyl LP out of its cover. “This is special,” she said and carefully placed the needle on the record. Her mesmerising, almost hoarse voice came crystal clear over the speakers: C’est le temps de l’amour Le temps des copains Et de l’aventure Quand le temps va et vient On ne pense à rien Malgré six injuries I didn’t have the faintest idea what that meant, but I was hooked for the rest of my life.
It made me wonder if life could get any better. At 57, I can confess: life never gets better. But Francoise Hardy’s music has walked with me through the bitter as well as the sweet over the decades.
At first, it was the voice and the bittersweet melody that drew me in. But it was the poetic melancholy of her lyrics that captured me forever. And now Francoise Hardy is dead.
Tuesday at 80. “Mom is gone,” her son, Thomas Dutronc, wrote on social media. Rolling Stones superstar Mick Jagger once called her the “ideal woman”.
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