YOU MUST LOVE YOURSELF TO THE DEPTH – Julos Beaucarne and the art of reforesting the soul through love, friendship and persuasion

Singer, ecologist, poet and humanist, to other galaxies

Having settled in Tourinnes-la-Grosse for his whole life, in that place of peace he will express himself in a multitude of forms, juggling with words and love of neighbor. He loved to call himself an anarchist in the depths of his bones. He creatively proposed unexplored avenues of art. Poet, singer and actor, known for his storytelling activity, Julos Beaucarne was born in June 1936. After a stint as an actor, he recorded his first single in 1964 and first 33 three years later.

IN MEMORY OF ROSE In memory of rose. In Rose’s memory, we have never seen a gardener die. If nothing, a break cannot be enough for you. Madam, let time stretch and without cursing it, be patient, let yourself slide in the light wind patience, be patient. If love flies away, blame yourself. You ran away from school for a king’s bed. If her white sail is only fog. Do not hang yourself from the branch when it gets dark. Do not hang yourself on the branch as soon as it gets dark, that from rose’s memory. We have never seen a gardener die if only a break. Cannot be enough for you. Madam, let time stretch and without cursing it, be patient, let yourself slide in the light wind. Patience, be patient. Keep it deep, deep inside you. A void, a place behind the parties to lay your head in the evening wind. Cradle those old dreams. Even if it is dark, rock those old dreams even if it is dark, because in rose’s memory we have never seen a gardener die. If nothing, a break cannot be enough for you. Lady, let the time stretch, and without cursing it, wait, let yourself slide in the light wind. Patience, be patient.

He preached love in his songs, in his poems and in his lyrics, even on the day his wife was kill by a deranged man they had welcomed into their home. Julos Beaucarne set to music poems by Max Elskamp, among other things giving life to the song Je ne songeais pas à Rose by Victor Hugo, and Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange by Paul Verlaine. After the murder of his wife, he traveled extensively, strengthening his ties with the culture of French-speaking singers.

I MADE A FIRE I made a fire, the azure having abandoned me, a fire to be its friend, a fire to bring me into the winter night. A fire to live better. A fire to live better. I gave him what the day had given me, the forests, the bushes, the wheat fields, the vines, the nests and their birds, the houses and their keys, the insects, the flowers, the furs, the festivals. I lived by the sound of the crackling flames, by the scent of their heat. I was like a boat sinking in closed water, like a dead man. I had only one element. I made a fire, the azure having abandoned me, a fire to be its friend, a fire to bring me into the winter night. A fire to live better.

In his lyrics, you find violent police violence, the looting of world wealth, the murder of a Congolese independence leader and the Chilean singer Victor Jara. Competing in the tenderness of words, there are many of his texts where he advocates a positive vision of life. His albums are montages of songs, recited poems, humorous monologues that correspond to a specific atmosphere in which the songs reflect a particular mood. Among them, Julos Beaucarne produced 2002’s Chansons d’amour, involving a concert held on a farm near the village of Tourinnes-la-Grosse.

LETTER TO KISSINGER I want to tell you, Kissinger, the story of a friend of mine. His name will not tell you anything, he was a singer in Chile. It was happening in a big stadium, we had brought a table. My friend who was called Jara. Was brought close to there. He was made to put his left hand on the table, and an officer with a single blow with an ax the fingers of the left cut off. With another blow, he severed the fingers of the dexter and Jara fell, all his blood spurting out. Six thousand prisoners were screaming. The officer put down the axe. Maybe his name was Kissinger. He stomped on Victor Jara. “Sung!” he said, “You are less proud!” Raising the empty hands of the fingers, which pinched yesterday the guitar Jara, got up slowly. “Let’s make the commander happy!” He sang the anthem of Popular Unity, taken up by the six thousand voices of the prisoners of this hell. A burst of submachine gun then killed my friend. Whoever pointed his gun may have been called Kissinger. This story that I told, Kissinger, did not take place in forty-two but yesterday, in September seventy-three.

He loved to define his shows as a mirror of life, occasions where to find joy and sadness, beautiful and terrible things. He was an extremely prolific singer, halfway between poetry and song. Julos Beaucarne rejected fame and had his own publishing house of records and books, continuing to live in his village in Wallonia. In 2006, he presented a show with his new songs, a book, as well as a new website. He was a broad-hearted rebel, citizen of the universe who held high the colors of tolerance, justice and love.

IT BEGINS ONCE UPON A TIME It begins once upon a time. The fairy you knew leaves without turning her beautiful head. His blue eyes turned black. The Earth has set its black flag. Farewell beauty. My life of honey has become vinegary. Even Provence tastes like winter. Our two little ones in the driveway are chasing you, my driveway like a disintegrated shooting star. Your beautiful body has rolled over there in countries that we do not know. And your soft voice and your deep voice is already just a memory. The wind has swept away your life my beautiful. Imbeciles, you will live a long time with your hatreds, your outbursts. Your knives slung over your shoulder. Beware if you have a thin heart, they do not support those who live in the light. A little girl who died in a candlestick in a candlestick by misfortune. I rock you in my soul. You are my mother and my child my lover and I wait for you at the very end of my ditties. Even if it sounds too polite to me, I would like to say thank you for each of your caresses. I am still flabbergasted. My body full of you lives only under your fine princess fingers. There is no prince here below. I know that one day, like you. I will take the opposite route. I would like to lie down very close to you, in the cool to live off the rest of my death.

Growing up in the countryside of Ecaussines, he has always remained faithful to his origins; in fact, he sometimes sang in the Walloon patois. Living in a post-industrial era, Julos Beaucarne was an apostle of ecology and love between men. In the 2000s, he also tried his hand at sculpture with salvaged objects, creating a set of post-industrial pagodas from reels of construction sites at the Wahenges farm. He died in Beauvechain in September 2021 and chose to be burie in Tourinnes-la-Grosse, where he lived.

TO YOU MY BEAUTIFUL MEN IS A SONG IN FRENCH Those who make us men are the mothers; they go before us like light from the heavens. To mothers do you not owe being on earth? So, have mercy on mothers, handsome men, may clouds not kill men. A child of seven runs in the pasture, and over the woods sails his kite. Did you not know these early games? So, have mercy, fine men, and children, that the clouds do not kill men. While combing her hair, the young bride at the bottom of her mirror seeks a gentle face. Was not someone looking for you the same one day ago? So have pity, fine men, on the spouses whom the clouds do not kill men. When one gets old and life reaches, its strike one should always think of happy memories. You too are getting old; your era is ending. Therefore, my handsome men have pity on the old. Those clouds do not kill men.

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