As a small and select group of you will know, last week my acquaintance with the work of Jacques Brel was renewed and, subsequently, considerably deepened. So, with acknowledgement and thanks to my friend Shalom/William for the inspiration, I’m going to indulge this week in an in-depth look at perhaps the best-known work of perhaps the best-known chansonnier of the second half of the Twentieth Century – Jacques Brel’s Ne Me Quitte Pas.

If you look up ‘chanson’ in a French-English dictionary, you will find that it means ‘song’, and this is undoubtedly true. However, ‘chanson’ is also used to denote a particular kind of song. (Actually, several particular kinds, but, for our purposes, one will suffice.) The most succinct definition I have seen is ‘lyric-driven songs’; however, the rather fuller description Wikipedia gives of Brel’s work fleshes out that definition: ‘literate, thoughtful, and theatrical songs’.

So, let’s start with a look at the lyrics. Alongside the French, I offer what seems to me a faithful translation into English. But first, a brief diversion, which will, I promise, bring us back to Brel.

I’m currently reading Robert Alter’s The Art of Bible Translation, which is both insightful and entertaining. Alter slipped almost by accident (or perhaps was sucker-punched) into translating the entire Hebrew Bible into English, and he brought to the task not only what he describes as “a good competence” in Classical Hebrew but also his background as a literary critic. This second element gave him a perspective rather different from that of most translators of the Bible.

His own translation reflects his belief that the style of the Hebrew text is a very significant part of what shapes the meaning. The art of the translator, he therefore argues, is not to smooth out the language of the original, but to retain, as far as possible, its ‘feel’; not to clarify what is unclear in the Hebrew text, but to preserve that lack of clarity in the translation. In this way the translation sets the reader the same challenges of comprehension as the original Hebrew does, and gives the reader the same experience as the reader of the original Hebrew has.

Of course, Alter realizes that all this is impossible. The translator cannot honestly do more than strive to come as close to this as she is able.

Alter references the translation theorist Lawrence Venuti, who distinguished between ‘domesticating’ and ‘foreignizing’ translations. Each type has its place. In translating a contemporary French novel into English, the translator may wish to make the text as ‘comfortable’ as possible for an American readership.

In reading translated fiction, I often find myself forgetting that I am reading a translation; the English is so natural. However, as Alter points out, it is important to avoid creating the impression that the Bible was written in English the day before yesterday, and to keep the reader aware that the linguistic patterns and cultural context of the original are very different from ours.

The modern age has, of course, seen various ‘special interest’ translations – feminist Bibles, Black English Bibles and so on. So, for example, one modern version renders the first lines of the Shema rather differently from what many of us are used to.

The version many of us grew up with is: ‘Hear, O Israel. The Lord is our God. The Lord is one. And you shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart and with all your soul, and with all your might.’ This contemporary version offers the following: ‘Attention, Israel! God, our God! God the one and only! Love God, your God, with your whole heart: love him with all that’s in you, love him with all you’ve got!’ To my ear, at least, the domesticating translation jars.

Back to Ne Me Quitte Pas. Here are the lyrics, with what seems to me a foreignizing translation.

Ne Me Quitte Pas                    Don’t Leave Me
                            
Ne me quitte pas                      Don’t leave me.
Il faut oublier                             We must forget.
Tout peut s’oublier                     All can be forgotten
Qui s’enfuit déjà                        That has already passed away.
Oublier le temps                        Forget the time
Des malentendus                      Of misunderstandings
Et le temps perdu                      And the time lost
A savoir comment                     Trying to know ‘how’.
Oublier ces heures                    Forget those hours
Qui tuaient parfois                    That sometimes kill,
A coups de pourquoi                 With slaps of ‘Why?’,
Le cœur du bonheur                 The heart of happiness.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
                            
Moi je t’offrirai                           I will give to you
Des perles de pluie                    Pearls made of rain
Venues de pays                         From countries
Où il ne pleut pas                      Where it never rains.
Je creuserai la terre                   I will work the land
Jusqu’après ma mort                 All my life and beyond
Pour couvrir ton corps              To cover your body
D’or et de lumière                      With gold and with light.
Je ferai un domaine                   I will make a land
Où l’amour sera roi                    Where love will be king
Où l’amour sera loi                    Where love will be law
Où tu seras reine                       Where you will be queen.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
                            
Ne me quitte pas                       Don’t leave me.
Je t’inventerai                            I will invent, for you,
Des mots insensés                   Fanciful words
Que tu comprendras                That you’ll understand.
Je te parlerai                             I will tell you
De ces amants-là                     About those lovers
Qui ont vu deux fois                 Who have twice seen
Leurs cœurs s’embraser          Their hearts set ablaze.
Je te raconterai                        I will tell you
L’histoire de ce roi                   The story of the king
Mort de n’avoir pas                  Who died of not having
Pu te rencontrer                       Ever met you.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
                            
On a vu souvent                      We’ve often seen
Rejaillir le feu                           Fire flowing again
De l’ancien volcan                   From an ancient volcano
Qu’on croyait trop vieux          Considered too old.
Il est paraît-il                            It’s said that there are
Des terres brûlées                   Fire-scorched lands
Donnant plus de blé                That yield more wheat
Qu’un meilleur avril                  Than the best April.
Et quand vient le soir               And when evening comes
Pour qu’un ciel flamboie          With a burning sky,
Le rouge et le noir                   The red and the black –
Ne s’épousent-ils pas              Are they not joined together?
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
                            
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Je n’vais plus pleurer               I won’t cry anymore.
Je n’vais plus parler                 I won’t talk anymore.
Je me cacherai là                    I will hide over there
A te regarder                           To watch you
Danser et sourire                     Dance and smile,
Et à t’écouter                           And to hear you
Chanter et puis rire                 Sing and then laugh.
Laisse-moi devenir                  Let me become
L’ombre de ton ombre             The shadow of your shadow,
L’ombre de ta main                 The shadow of your hand,
L’ombre de ton chien              The shadow of your dog.
Mais                                         But
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas                     Don’t leave me.
Ne me quitte pas.                    Don’t leave me.

‘Literate, thoughtful, and theatrical songs.’ How true. Let’s take a closer look at what is going on here.

In the very first line, the singer makes a blunt plea – Don’t leave me – without offering any reason why his lover should not leave. As the song progresses, this plea is repeated again and again in an act of ultimately humiliating begging.

In asking to gloss over their problems, he sweeps aside everything that has been in their relationship – All can be forgotten. He then makes a series of fanciful, unrealistic promises, stressing the lengths he will go to for her – I will work the land all my life and beyond to cover your body with gold and with light.

Then follows a promise of things he will say, a series of empty fairy tales – The story of the king who died of not having ever met you, and then a series of powerful images drawn from nature, suggesting that their love can be revived. It’s said that there are fire-scorched lands that yield more wheat than the best April. However, even some of these images are only hearsay – It’s said that… – and thefinal image is couched as a question, with a suggestion of uncertainty – Are they not joined together?

It is true that these same sentiments, expressed by someone at the very beginning of a love affair, could appear attractive (even if we also smiled wryly at their innocent super-optimism, and of the prospective lover’s eagerness to do everything, and expect nothing in return). However, for a man standing in the wreck of a relationship, they seem pathetic.

In the last verse, the singer desperately promises to make himself invisible, realising that his lover does not want to see him or hear him anymore – I will hide over there to watch you…Let me become the shadow of your shadow…your hand…your dog. Your dog! How humiliating is that! Finally, the begging refrain is repeated – Don’t leave me.

At no point in the song does he describe a healthy or realistic relationship.

The time has come to listen to Brel performing the song – a more complete and accurate word than ‘singing’, I think. (The English subtitles here are a slightly less successful translation than the version I gave above, but they’ll do.)

In a 1966 interview, Brel said that Ne me quitte pas was not a love song, but rather “a hymn to the cowardice of men”, and the degree to which they were willing to humiliate themselves. He knew, he said, that it would give pleasure to women who assumed it was a love song, and he understood that. (I’m not sure he would be able to get away with last sentiment 50 years on!)

And so, dear reader, we come to a domesticating ‘translation’. In fairness, this is not a translation but an adaptation. However, I think it speaks volumes about the distance between mainstream American popular music and chanson. Rod McKuen wrote new words to the tune of Ne Me Quitte Pas as If You Go Away. In that changed title, we already see much of the shift that McKuen made in the tone and meaning of the song. Here the lover’s going away is seen as a possibility, rather than something to be denied – If rather than Don’t.

Here are all of the lyrics:

If You Go Away

If you go away on this summer day
Then you might as well take the sun away;
All the birds that flew in a summer sky
When our love was new and our hearts were high;
When the day was young and the night was long
And the moon stood still for the night birds’ song.
If you go away,
If you go away,
If you go away.

But if you stay, I’ll make you a day
Like no day has been or will be again.
We’ll sail on the sun; we’ll ride on the rain;
We’ll talk to the trees and worship the wind.
Then, if you go, I’ll understand.
Leave me just enough love to hold in my hand.
If you go away,
If you go away,
If you go away.

If you go away, as I know you will,
You must tell the world to stop turning till
You return again, if you ever do.
For what good is life without loving you?
And I tell you now, as you turn to go,
I’ll be dying slowly till the next hello.
If you go away,
If you go away,
If you go away.

But if you stay, I’ll make you a night
Like no night has been or will be again.
We’ll sail on your smile, we’ll ride on your touch
I’ll talk to your eyes that I love so much.
But if you go, I won’t cry,
For the good is gone from the word ‘goodbye’.
If you go away,
If you go away,
If you go away.

If you go away, as I know you must,
There’ll be nothing left in the world to trust.
Just an empty room, full of empty space,
Like the empty look I see on your face.
I’d have been the shadow of your dog
If I thought it might have kept me by your side
If you go away,
If you go away,
If you go away.


The major differences between the original and McKuen’s adaptation are clear to see. First, rather than the whole of their prior relationship being swept aside, it is here recalled in loving detail in the first verse – When our love was new and our hearts were high. Then, in the second verse, instead of the future being imagined as fairy tale, as in Brel’s song, and being what the singer will do for the lover, it is realistically (in a romantic context) described, as an equal partnership – We’ll sail on the sun; we’ll ride on the rain.

As the song progresses, the possibility of the lover leaving becomes stronger and stronger – as I know you will…as I know you must…as you turn to go. The singer can visualise the leaving, and can talk about what life will be like after that event. For Brel’s singer, the situation is unimaginable, a measure of his cowardice. McKuen’s singer is braver, even though the prospect is bleak –  I’ll be dying slowly till the next hello. However, even in this bleakness, McKuen’s singer can imagine a reuniting – the next hello.

In addition, McKuen’s singer, unlike Brel’s, realises how pathetic wishing to be the shadow of the lover’s dog is – I’d have been the shadow of your dog, if I thought it might have kept me by your side.

Finally, McKuen has the line If you go away appear three times at the end of each verse, which fits the rhythm of the song. Brel adds a fourth Ne me quitte pas each time, spilling over the rhythm, as if he cannot stop begging even after the verse has finished, It is a further measure of his lack of self-control.

So, McKuen’s singer is smarter, more realistic, more self-aware, more dignified than Brel’s. Here is Shirley Bassey’s rendition of If You Go Away. Apart from the willing suspension of disbelief required to imagine that anyone would walk out on Shirley Bassey in her prime, notice the strength of the character she portrays.

Hers is a cover version that McKuen very much admired, and it is not difficult to see why the song attracted not only Bassey, but also, among so many others, Dusty Springfield, Frank Sinatra, Neil Diamond, Julio Iglesias, Barbra Streisand, Glen Campbell, Scott Walker, Ray Charles. If You Go Away is much recorded. The singer is invited to inhabit a very sympathetic persona.

Yet Brel’s is the more gripping character, because the song is so merciless a portrayal of weakness, that has lost none of its power and immediacy in the intervening 60 years. Chansons: ‘Literate, thoughtful, and theatrical songs.’ Indeed!

Meanwhile, in Portugal, someone is starting to hone his skills in preparation for a possible future in chanson (or maybe even fado).

If you’re under 50, then 10 points if you recognize the source of the above quote. If you’re in your 70s, you lose 30 points if you don’t recognize that it is a Simon and Garfunkel song.

After last week’s blog, a friend complimented me on how I connected the various strands of the blog together. I explained that it was all pure chance. I just stand here at the top of the hill, kick the ball once, and watch. What rocks it bounces off, what ruts it gets stuck in, what windows it smashes, on its bumpy descent – all that feels completely out of my control.

In one of my increasingly common serendipitous moments, having decided what I wanted to write about this week (a real no-brainer), I cast about for a suitably attention-grabbing title, and The Sound of Silence almost immediately presented itself. As part of my warm-up, I ran through the lyrics.

In a pre-internet age, this would, of course, have been a nightmare, because we only have the song on vinyl/LP, and we no longer have a deck/record player. (I am growing increasingly sensitive to the wide range of ages among my audience.) I can picture myself struggling like Himesh Patel, playing the lead in Yesterday, desperately trying to drag the lyrics of She’s Leaving Home from the recesses of his mind.

However, in yet another of the multiple daily reminders of the wonders of the web, I can google the lyrics instantly. (Mind you, if there were no internet, there would probably be no digital media, and we would still have a record deck and I would be able to play The Sound of Silence.)

Looking through the lyrics, I was immediately struck by the lines: ‘People talking without speaking, People hearing without listening’. Simply by switching the two verbs in the second line, I realized that I had, in a nutshell, the predicament Bernice and I currently find ourselves. I can, at the moment, talk, but only in a whisper that does not really qualify as speaking. Bernice, in perfect symmetry, listens, but because, at the moment, she is suffering with blocked ears, she can’t actually hear me. I’m not sure we’ve ever been a Simon and Garfunkel song before (and anyone who mentions Old Friends can leave now).

All of which is incidental, and, we hope, temporary. Bernice has an appointment to have her ears syringed soon by my throat doctor, and, by the time you read this, I should have had my throat examined by Bernice’s ear syringer, and I hope he will provide the solution to our problem. (I’ve always found it curious that one specialism covers what seem to me to be three very separate parts of my body arbitrarily lumped together – I can’t imagine specialism in toenails, spleen and neck. I know, intellectually, that E, N and T are all connected by a single canal system, but it doesn’t feel like that in my head. Just a thought!)

Editor’s Note: He didn’t (provide a solution). My vocal cords are only closing partially (an improvement on a month ago), so I can still only whisper. If they were not closing at all, the doc would know what to do, but, on the other hand, my position would then be more serious. What he has done is refer me to the top woman in Jerusalem, so I face another four weeks of whispering until my appointment with her. I am, at least, now officially allowed to talk, but only in short sentences and not in a loud voice.

This top woman is the Director of Hadassah Hospital’s Voice and Swallowing Outpatients Department. My brother Martin usefully pointed out that having a team devoted to swallowing outpatients should certainly reduce waiting times.

The real topic this week (reached in under 600 words) is the sound of silence: the silence that descended on our house at 1AM last Thursday, when Micha’el, Tslil and Tao drove off to the airport. Not just the silence: rather, the silences.

There is, first and foremost, the silence created by the absence of a two-year-old who is constantly on the go, and who is perfectly capable of engaging non-stop in an intelligent conversation even if he only offers one word each time it is his turn to speak. Excitingly, while he was here, he started putting words together in rudimentary sentences, such as “Caught ball”, and compound phrases such as “Big red truck!”. We fully expect that, by the time we fly to Portugal and see him again (planned for October), we won’t be able to get a word in edgeways.

Editor’s Note: Indeed, since arriving back home, he has. apparently, graduated to three-word sentences such as “Put it there”.

Then there is the silence left in the evenings, instead of the not-quite-discernible murmured conversation heard as Micha’el and Tslil catch up with their closest friends in the back garden.

Or the sheer joy of listening to Tslil, Micha’el, and Bernice each constantly enriching their own unique bond with Tao. Three very distinct voices and styles, wrapping Tao in love and security.

Next time I make granola, (following the wonderful recipe shared years ago by our good friends Bobbie and Joe), it is going to be a very quiet process. This is in contrast to last time, when Tao added all of the ingredients according to my instructions. I, of course, had to be generous with the nuts and seeds, because Tao, like his grandpa, has to taste everything as he goes along. If anything, Tao granola tastes even better than my usual batch (even if it does take twice as long to make, and three times as long to clear up the counter-top and sweep the floor). The granola is one lingering trace that he has left behind for me.

Above even all of that is the silence left when we are not sitting around the dinner table with our four children and our grandson. Hearing our seven voices (or, rather, their six voices and my hiss) in inter-weaving harmony has been the greatest pleasure of their trip, for me.

Bernice and I spent Thursday packing away the toys and books that we had taken down from the wardrobes, or bought specially (in the hope that they will be a good investment for the future – no pressure). We also packed up and put aside items we had borrowed (thank you, Metanel for the Lego, Gan Horim for the wheelbarrow and Hagit for the mattress.)

This involved a fair bit of dismantling, squeezing into boxes and retrieving marbles and pieces of Lego from behind sofas. When we had finished, we sat down and surveyed the vast, empty expanses of our salon. (It’s true what they say about bringing in the goat!)

Incidentally, our best buy, without a doubt, was a balance trike or bimba (no pedals) that folds down quickly and simply, is light but extremely sturdy, and cost only 60 shekels. At home, Tao spends a lot of time on his quad bike (pardon the oxymoron) and we wanted him to have a substitute here, which certainly got very good use.

It was, for us, a great visit, and the ease with which Tao settled in was wonderful and very reassuring to see. Unfortunately, a couple of weeks after they arrived, the municipality closed off and started digging up the little playground just at the top of our street, which Tao visited daily. The renovation is still not finished, so we had to find another suitable park further away.

Even that I miss. And so, we hang in abeyance, wistfully awaiting the next invasion. Meanwhile, I have to start practising speaking laconically, so here goes.

Bye.

I nearly fell of the path into the wadi on my walk yesterday. Let me tell you how that happened. But, be warned, this is a long, tortuous and fairly pointless explanation, which takes us past some of the icons of twentieth century entertainment.

The more erudite of my readers will already have guessed that two of those icons are Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, because they will have recognized this week’s title as a quote (the most famous quote) from To Have and Have Not. This is, in fact, a complete red herring, although I welcome any excuse to watch again that iconic scene.

There is, of course, the added frisson of knowing that we are watching the first moments of what was to become the real-life love of Bogart and Bacall. With benefit of 20/20 hindsight, we are confident that we can see the chemistry on the screen.

Falsely referencing the film also gives me an excuse to casually let drop two pieces of trivia about that scene. It was not originally in the script co-written by William Faulkner, nor in the Ernest Hemingway novel on which the film is, very loosely, based. The author of those lines was Howard Hawks, the film’s director, who wrote them as a screen test for debut actress Lauren Bacall.

Her performance in the screen test not only won her the part, but also compelled Hughes to insist Faulkner work the scene into the film. No mean achievement: Hawks made the only film ever adapted by a Nobel Prize winner from the novel of a Nobel Prize winner, and then he himself penned the film’s most memorable lines.

The other piece of trivia, which I find touching but you might think is a little saccharine, is that thirteen years later, at Bogart’s funeral, Bacall placed a whistle in his coffin.

However, as I said, this post has nothing to do with any of that. I must apologise for misleading you there. I should, in fact, have added two words to the title; it would then read: You Just Put Your Lips Together and…blow…and…draw.

The even more erudite of my readers may realise that ‘draw’ here is, in a particular context, the correct technical term for ‘suck’, so that the quote means You Just…Blow and Suck. And what is that context? Playing the harmonica.

And who, I ask you, is the twentieth-century icon of harmonica playing (or as he insisted on calling it, mouth-organ playing)? Well, your answer to that question will tell me a lot about you. If you say: ‘I don’t know any twentieth-century harmonica icons’, then you are either not British or American, or you are British and under 55, or you are American and under 85. If, on the other hand, you say: ‘Why, Larry Adler, of course!’, then you are the reverse…or a harmonicafficianado.

Which brings me back to my walk, and my narrow escape from tumbling into the wadi. I was striding along, listening to a typically quirky and fascinating edition of the Revisionist History podcast that I recommended last week. when I heard Malcolm Gladwell say:

“Larry Adler was the greatest harmonica player in the world. Your grandparents would know who he was.”

I was a bit surprised at that, but then I decided that Gladwell’s target audience are probably in their 30s, and Adler shone in the 40s, 50s and 60s, so maybe the ‘grandparent’ reference wasn’t so outrageous. But then Gladwell continued:

“I have to admit I’d never heard of him…”

That statement shocked me so much that I almost lost my footing. How could he possibly not have heard of Larry Adler? Everybody knows Larry Adler!

Back home, I first googled Malcolm Gladwell to discover that he is 63 years old. Even making allowances for the fact that he grew up in small-town Canada, his self-professed ignorance made me feel 80 years old.

I then started WhatsApping assorted friends and relations of various ages and of British and American origin. I started with a couple of Americans, one in his early sixties and the other in her early seventies, both people of culture and sophistication and lovers of good music. Neither of them had any idea who Larry Adler was. I followed with a Brit in his 40s, and drew a similar blank. (He tentatively wondered whether Adler had played J. R. Ewing in Dallas.)

At this point, I was starting to wonder whether I was losing touch with reality, or whether Malcolm Gladwell had got together with a group of my family and friends to play an elaborate trick on me. Imagine my relief when I turned in desperation to Bernice and her reaction was identical to mine.

Further enquiries led me to the conclusion mentioned earlier, that the only people who know of Larry Adler are British and over 55, or American and over 85.

‘Why?’, I asked myself. ‘Why this age difference?’ I knew that Adler had spent a lot of time in Britain, but plenty of American celebrities in the 50s and 60s toured in Britain. And then I did a little research and discovered the obvious answer. But before I share it with you, let’s go back and trace Adler’s career from its beginnings.

I read online that he told the story of how, at the age of two, he went off alone, and was discovered by his parents standing on a pool table in a neighbourhood saloon singing a popular song of the time. However, as Adler himself pointed out in an interview: ‘Raconteur is a very polite word for liar,’ and at least some of his wonderful stories probably need to be taken with a pinch of salt.

What is well documented is that Adler taught himself harmonica as a child. At the age of 14, he ran away from his home in Baltimore, with $25 that he had saved from winning music contests. He arrived in New York, where he sneaked into a theatre to audition for Rudy Vallée. This led to vaudeville work, and eventually, to a career in film. In 1934, he played Rhapsody in Blue for George Gershwin, who commented: ‘The goddam thing sounds as if I wrote it for you!’ If you listen to Adler playing it, you can see what Gershwin meant.

The same year, he was hired to perform in London, where he became an overnight star. British audiences seemed more receptive to the harmonica, and, reportedly, harmonica sales in Britain spiked as his fame grew. His repertoire always included popular and classical music. (In his debut competition, as a 13-year-old, while other kids were playing folk music, he performed a Beethoven minuet. He won the competition, of course.)

Between 1936 and 1954, he premiered music written for him by half-a-dozen classical composers, including Vaughan Williams’ Romance in D flat for harmonica, piano and string orchestra, Milhaud’s Suite Anglaise and Malcolm Arnold’s Harmonica Concerto.

In the 1940s, Adler toured in the States and internationally with Paul Draper, a tap dancer. Draper was clearly no slouch, as you can see here, and their show was a great success. During the Second World War, he played for the troops, travelling with Jack Benny and other big names.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to the reveal. Suddenly, in 1948, Adler and Draper found all their usual bookings cancelled. The reason, as you may have guessed, was that they had both been accused of being communists.

Adler was called to testify before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, and, when he refused to co-operate (he claims that he was given a list of 12 names to ‘expose’), he was blacklisted. He sued, and the case resulted in a hung jury.

Then and there, Adler turned his back on the USA, and, although he returned later to perform there, he never lived there again, making his home in London, where his celebrity continued to grow.

As well as being a wonderful interpreter of others’ music, Adler was also a prolific composer – although, since he did not read music, he was unable to write any of it down. He began a new career as a composer of film music, starting, in 1954, with the English (very English) comedy about rival vintage-car drivers taking part in the London-to-Brighton rally, Genevieve. The film was a huge hit in Britain, and the music was nominated for an Oscar. Please have a listen: it’s a delightful piece in its own right, and Adler plays it with gusto and virtuosity.

Of course, when the film was released in America, all mention of Adler was removed, and the Oscar nomination was in the name of the music arranger. As Adler later commented: ‘How fortunate that it did not win.’ Eventually, the Academy righted that wrong, and restored Adler’s name on the nomination.

Adler went from strength to strength in Britain, culminating with an album of Gershwin songs recorded with George Martin for Adler’s 80^th birthday in 1994. The album reached No 2 in the British charts, although that may have something to do with the format. Each track was sung by an invited guest, accompanied by and orchestra and Adler. The guests were: Chris de Burgh, Sting, Lisa Stansfield, Elton John, Carly Simon, Elvis Costello, Cher, Kate Bush, Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, Oleta Adams, Willard White, Sinéad O’Connor, Robert Palmer, Meat Loaf, Issy Van Randwyck. Adler promoted the album on tour, opening each concert with a performance of Rhapsody in Blue in which he played piano and harmonica simultaneously!

In 2001, Adler was one of a galaxy of stars who performed for Prince Philip’s 80th birthday. He counted Prince Philip as a friend, since he was a member of the Thursday Club, the dining and drinking luncheon club that featured in an episode of The Crown and that apparently counted among its members Arthur Koestler, Cecil Beaton, John Betjeman, the Kray twins, David Niven, Peter Ustinov and Kim Philby. Limitations of time prevent me giving the background of that extraordinarily motley crew. If you do not recognize the names, an hour’s googling is liable to raise your eyebrows.

So, if Larry Adler is someone you had never heard of before, consider your musical education now a little more rounded, and, as an encore, listen to him enoying himself playing Summertime with Itzhak Perlman.

I have to go now, to welcome back – for their last three days in Israel – the kids and Tao, who seems to have been enjoying himself up North.

The other day, a friend who had read last week’s post specifically made a point of asking me to “keep giving us the medical updates; they’re so funny.” I’ve been wrestling with this comment ever since, trying to decide whether I should feel flattered or insulted. On balance, I’ve decided that, if I have to suffer this string of health issues, at least let it be of some small benefit, bringing a smile to other’s people’s day.

I thought this week I would offer you a bouquet of vignettes, in no particular order. We will get back to my health, tangentially, later, but first:

One of the things that Micha’el and Tslil have discovered during their time here is that the interface of Portuguese and Israeli bureaucracies is the equivalent of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.

I looked up ‘marriage’ in the dictionary: ‘the legally or formally recognized union of two people as partners in a personal relationship’. While Micha’el and Tslil, in their own eyes, formalized their relationship in a wedding ceremony, this was not a ceremony legally or formally recognized in Israel. According to the Israeli authorities, they are not married.

Portugal is a very traditional, Catholic country, and various administrative and bureaucratic procedures will be much easier for Micha’el and Tslil, as well as for Tao, if they are married. They therefore intend to get married in a civil ceremony. This will be in Portugal, not least because civil wedding ceremonies conducted in Israel are not recognized in Israel. (But that’s a whole other story.)

To prove their eligibility to be married, they are required by the Portuguese authorities to provide evidence that they are not already married. When they approached the Israeli authorities to request such evidence, they were informed that Israel does not issue formal recognition of single status. Rereading the last sentence of the last-but-one paragraph, I realize that it has two possible interpretations:

According to the Israeli authorities, they are not ‘married’. In other words, there is no record of them having been through a marriage ceremony.

According to the Israeli authorities, they are ‘not married’. In other words, there is a record of them not having been through any marriage ceremony.

The Portuguese authorities require this second interpretation, but the Israeli authorities do not recognize this.

The kids are left having to try to convince the Israeli authorities to issue a formal statement, while simultaneously trying to convince the Portuguese authorities to waive the requirement for a formal statement. I have a hunch about how this will pan out in the end, but I am, for the moment, keeping my own counsel.

While the kids have wrestled with these, and other, admin issues, Tao has started to get adjusted to life in Ma’ale Adumim. He was initially overwhelmed by the volume of traffic here: ‘Bus! Truck! Car! Digger! Motorbike!’. (Those of you who know Ma’ale Adumim will realize that this indicates just how sleepy Penamacor is.)

He has also had to cope with far more people at one time than he is used to. On Tuesday last week, we invited friends to hear Micha’el talk about their life, their plans, and his interest in water management. On Wednesday, we had our extended family over. As the last guests arrived, Tao was heard to say: ‘More?’.

Among the questions Micha’el was asked on both evenings was whether Tao is in any ‘framework’. I was, of course, unable to take part in the conversation, because I have to rest my voice. Had I been able to chip in, I would have said: ‘Yes! He is in the best possible framework – the nuclear family.’ Anyone who has spent any time seeing Tslil and Micha’el with Tao will understand what I mean.

My accumulated frustration over those two evenings at being unable to take a meaningful part in the conversation made me determined to find a way to change this. I managed to cobble together a kind of solution. I activated the Select to Speak functionality on my phone. This allows me to type a note on my phone, then select it, and have my device speak it aloud.

I haven’t yet tried this out in company, but it was very useful when we went to Kfar Saba last week. Bernice was driving, so I obviously couldn’t message her or show her notes on my phone. However, I was able to ‘play’ those notes to her.

Of course, this is not an ideal solution. Despite my carefully choosing a male voice not dissimilar to my own, my device insists on selecting a female voice. This leaves me feeling like a transgender whose wishes are being ignored.

What actually pains me more is that the voice has no sense of irony, no nuances of stress. All of my sparkling wit is blandly flattened.

Worst of all, repartee is impossible. When Bernice made a comment, I immediately thought of a riposte, typed it, activated the functionality and highlighted the text. My brilliant reply arrived about 40 seconds after Bernice’s comment. My wit suddenly had the turning circle of a transatlantic liner. This was not so much l’esprit de l’escalier as l’esprit de corpse.

Over Shabbat, of course, things were even more challenging. On several occasions, I resorted to miming. Now, our family are very fond of charades, and Bernice and I pride ourselves on being pretty good at miming, and, after almost 49 years of marriage, at guessing as well. However, it is one thing to mime ‘Dr Strangelove’, and quite another to mime ‘Adele and Martin went to an exhibition about the Czechoslovak Jewish teenage refugees who were brought to Britain after the war’.

This was, let us say, a quiet Shabbat, much given to reading and contemplation.

Indeed, Bernice and I are enjoying/suffering a respite from the kids. They went up to stay with Esther and Ma’ayan for a few days, and also to spend shabbat with Tslil’s family, camping on the Kinneret.

In all of these various groups, Tao has blossomed. He has been playing happily with his cousins, interacting with the various adults he has met for the first time, and moving effortlessly between English and Hebrew. It does not seem as though he will have a problem socialising as he gets older.

And finally*, for today, a recommendation. I know I am coming late to the party, and I also know that I have made this recommendation to several of you individually, but nevertheless…

On my morning walks, I have been listening to Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast Revisionist History. This podcast describes itself as ‘Malcolm Gladwell’s journey through the overlooked and the misunderstood. Every episode re-examines something from the past — an event, a person, an idea, even a song — and asks whether we got it right the first time. Because sometimes the past deserves a second chance.’

It is quirky, stimulating, amusing, fascinating. Gladwell convinces me that these are all subjects he is interested in (and the personal anecdotes that accompany many of the episodes certainly reinforce that impression).

The podcast also passes my two tests. First, despite the fact that Gladwell has a transatlantic accent (albeit Canadian), and despite the fact that I have been listening to an episode a day for six days in a row, neither the voice, nor the mannerisms, nor the structure, are yet grating on me at all. The subjects Gladwell selects are very wide-ranging (if, not unreasonably, US-centric), and the format and ‘take’ of each edition is very different.

The second test is that Gladwell can present a subject in which I have zero interest – Elvis Presley in performance, for example – and have me completely absorbed in his presentation. This is, for me, the mark of true communicators: they sweep you up in their enthusiasm.

*‘Finally’, of course, means except for the pictures. Tao has this week been learning chess with amateurs, as well as studying patisserie with a professional – his aunty ‘Es’.