Je t'aime... moi non plus
Remembering Jane Birkin and lost youth
So she’s gone. When, this morning, my wife told me that Jane Birkin had died at 76, my first comment was, “they are all dying, one after another.” Which sounds dumb, and in a sense it certainly is, but it’s also the realization that I’ve reached an age when all the people - actors, singers, assorted famous people - I grew with are now old enough to die.
I've reached an age where the most common topic of conversation with my wife is our retirement - or more specifically, our retirement money.
So, when something like Jane Birkin’s death blindsides me, I look back to the past, to my youth or, in this case, my childhood. And I remember that song. Let’s listen to it once more, for old times' sake.
Jane was good on the big screen - I particularly remember Kung Fu Master and Daddy Nostalgie - but my memory of her will always be linked to that song, those orgasmic gasps, and the house parties that my sister, eight years older than me, used to throw at our house.
As a clueless eight-year-old, I would wander around the living room, the lights dimmed for the occasion, among those couples, so young but to my eyes so much bigger than me, who danced close together, embraced on the sofa, and kissed in dark corners. And Jane in the background, agonizing on 45 on my sister’s portable record player - the mangiadischi, or “record-eater,” as it was called in Italian.
So here’s to Jane and those times - many light-years ago - that were as troubled as ours, but we like to think more innocent and carefree.
If you are wondering what a post like this has to do with Tokyo Calling, check out the categories on the right side of the website and you’ll see one devoted to music.
Ah, and in the past I even made a playlist!