When I was little, I wasn’t tall and there was war everywhere. The circumstances of life made me a solitary child in a desolate countryside, and later, a hallucinatory individual in a world of Martians. Regardless of the twists and turns, it results that imagination remains for me the most captivating brain function. Furthermore, I have always been driven to translate the emotions that move me into artistic language. That’s why I’ve constantly tried to draw, paint, write, play music, transform houses, create gardens, make films, stage shows—basically, organize the world according to my aesthetic sensitivity. And I quickly realized that I couldn’t create anything good unless driven by a passion, whether it be for love, friendship, rebellion, or something else.

Ultimately, this resulted in about twenty albums, each approximately 40 minutes long, amounting to roughly two hundred pieces of music featuring melodies and arrangements, bass lines and drum feels, band sounds and guitar, bugle, and double bass solos, as well as lyrics that were meant to convey meaning and sound like musical notes. And of course, a singer’s voice that had to blend seamlessly with the rest, like an instrument that speaks. The overall tone was one of lyrical irony, as serious matters quickly become pompous, and trivial things become tiresome over time. Only passion sustains life.

As for the words, I don't want to write about this or that. I feel compelled to do so when I explode with rage or love, rebellion or laughter, in response to events unfolding in the vast world and my personal universe. I want the words to tell a story, convey an emotion, resonate, and also to be like the syncopations of a jazz solo that swings with intensity. They can only be the expression of a desire for justice, love, harmony, and beauty. They must be sincere. Ideally, words, notes, and colors would stimulate and trigger progress toward goodness. It seems that in our society, the power of merchants drives us toward excess (which, as everyone knows, is the enemy of the good) and toward more (which makes us obese). Whiter, stronger, further, dumber—the products pile up, and we are overwhelmed by an avalanche of industrially manufactured and massively promoted sounds and images.

I don’t want to be a product; I want to create my art in my own way, passionately and authentically. My thing is a blend of music and lyrics. In this book, I can include only a few of the lyrics, but they are better understood than on the records because there are no loud guitars making noise. But I do enjoy the noise they make. I also like Mozart and Rachmaninoff, blues, and certain songs by Pills and Tabet, Mireille, and Jean Nohain. I also appreciate Jobim and Gilberto, Argentine tango, and of course, Jacques Higelin and Dr. John. Above all, I love the Doors and Santana. And blues, of course, introduced me to its cousin, Mr. Rock, with whom I’ve shared some good times since 1972, the time I met Micky and his magical guitar.

In my records, I like to mix these different sources of inspiration, and since I am just an analphabetik musician, it rrésults that my WORRRKK cannot be classiffied into any of the normââl cattégories recognized by Show bizeness, which does not like what I do at all. That's just as well because I don't like what it does either. In any case, I don’t do what I do to please anyone but for the joy of doing it. And if someone understands, it is an even greater joy, but success cannot be the driving force behind my endeavors, especially not the kind achieved through relentless promotion due to fraternizing with shrewd businessmen, skilled mainly at exploiting the gullibility of the masses. I am not one of those who pull out their revolver when they hear the word Culture. Culture is everything that embellishes, enriches, adds flavor, dignity, understanding, and ultimately yields results concerning the difficult problem of the harsh reality of life: We must die! Thus thought the man of Tautavel, who took 50,000 years of residence in the same cave to discover that meat cooked over fire was better than eating it raw straight from the beast. Meanwhile, around him, the coarse laughter of his peers, who placed good old habits above everything else and refused cooked food on the grounds that it was too intellectual, echoed. It seems that the future of the Past has vindicated this gastronomic ancestor.

As for whether I am right or wrong, I will tell you in two or three hundred years. Until then, long live Love and down with soft music.

Nino Ferrer

"Rueil" - 1974

Sometimes I am the descendant of an aristocratic family from northern Italy. I slam hotel doors and act disdainful in restaurants where service is not prompt. I live nonchalantly and often libertinely in a large, old, baroque house in the west of Paris. It’s a white house, reminiscent of Louisiana. There are clothes hanging on the terrace and the greatest disorder everywhere. Things lie around, the oldest and most unexpected. In the big Chinese cachepot near the door, there is garbage. No one knows why. Neither Kinou nor I, nor Lourdes, nor anyone else. Occasionally, we find brushes or other objects the dogs have stolen and chewed. Generally, it doesn’t bother me; I even find it amusing and charming, like the cobwebs on the living room ceiling. But sometimes it overwhelms me, and I panic at the accumulation of objects, materials, fabrics, carpets, clothes, paintings, furniture, and junk that suffocate me. And I must defend them against the dogs’ attempts to gnaw and soil them, against thieves and woodworms, against the tax authorities, fire, and time itself.

So, I spend whole days lying under the soft drapes of the white canopy bed that came from my great-uncle the General, once the Conservator of Castel Sant'Angelo. I look out the window at the leaves and branches of the chestnut tree, or just its branches, or its branches with snow, or perhaps nothing at all when it’s night.

Sometimes I am a superstar, approached and recognized, signing autographs, and I retreat to my Thelemachochâteau. I listen to music in front of the fire reflecting off the green marble tiles. As night falls, we light the candles (mostly black) in the Venetian sconces, whose oxidized mirrors have closed up.
The dogs are lying on a Beloutch rug, its bright red contrasting with the silk of the gilded walls. I drink delicate wines from Murano glasses engraved with my monogram, waiting for my guests who are young, beautiful, and often depraved. Some have something within that drives them to write or paint, and it shows on their faces, in their smiles and their eyes.
The young girls are beautiful. They often appear nude on the pages of magazines or under the spotlights of music halls. They run through the garden and shower the dogs with affection. The cat, Pompon, moves from one to another, drooling with bliss.
Kinou bursts in like a gust of wind, her scarlet heels pounding the floor. Her clothes are white or red, and her hair is the color of polished walnut, exuding a sense that her body is fresh, firm, matte, and scented with sandalwood.
And I watch her, and life slips through my fingers like water.

And sometimes I am a human being, hiding from my anxiety like the ostrich in the Fable, in the sands of the Saint Cucufa desert and in the grass of my tiled lawn, where strange little creatures can be observed with a loupe close to the surface. These creatures resemble rabbits, although they are insects, and they wander sadly on the grass stems, climbing up and down and crossing paths with solemnity. Sometimes a spider emerges from the rocky depths and collides with a line of these creatures. But nothing happens, and everyone calmly continues on their way.

The black Rolls and the Bentley are gradually covered with dead leaves, dust, and bird droppings. As for the Maserati, it is unusable because a very large spider has taken residence there, lurking under the seats or in the glove compartment. It weaves its webs behind the dashboard among the dials and wires, levers and pipes, thermostats, and heating vents. Thanks to these vents, it has a complex network of underground galleries that can quickly lead it to any part of the car: the cabin, the luggage compartment, or the engine room.
But since its presence was discovered, no one has entered the vehicle. And the spider wonders about the total and permanent disappearance of warmth and wind, music and food, vibrations and movement, the rumbling and the green glow that sometimes illuminated its webs and iridescent patterns.

Nino Ferrer