Serge Reggiani, age 46, entered the last year in the arena of show business as a bull. With the strength, the purity, the blindness of a bull. Today, tickled by the banderillas to success, and wounded by the spikes of the “system”, terrified by the nails in the coffin of the celebrity, it is falling in the toril of his private life, he wonders if he’s afraid.

His last 33 rounds has sold 200 000 copies. His new album comes out this week. His last 33 laps had been recorded in the euphoria of ignorance, in four sessions. His new album is in the works for six months.

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“I lost my innocence,” said Serge Reggiani. It is a terrible thing. I had to make progress. But I have been unable to make the progress he needed to make this progress : smoke less, eat less, do not drink anything. Unable to do that.”

So, to not disappoint those who have discovered or rediscovered after a twenty-five year career, to try to renew the miracle of the Wolves, to play the game again, Serge Reggiani, the tender “Wop” at the mouth of insomniac, has chosen anxiety as the other freedom. He first himself proposed the subjects of songs, applied his ideas to friends poets, he has discussed the orchestrations, he repeated, he tried to micro drafts of interpretation, he fought, he was angry, he enslaved a team of fervent, but exhausted, he almost give up, he started again, he fought against his nerves, against aphonia, against time. In short, it has worked.

hot Coals

“not being a singer,” said Serge Reggiani, I do not express well the concerns of people of my age. My drive is that of a man who has more than 20 years for a long time.”

This is true. Over the beaches, with time-to-time, life-giving, the acid humour of Boris Vian, Serge Reggiani takes us on a walk a little ostentatious to the realm of Maturity: “Since then, and I was going to say already, the child is done away… With you I sailed to the edge of my quarantine.” A little further, it discusses in great pomp to the island of Irony: “Madame Nostalgia, from the time that you radotes…”. Everywhere, of course, the lands are bathed by the river is very clear : “Me, I have the time and just amazes me, although it is almost autumn…”

This is a disc of half-season, hot coals under the ashes of the amours mortes, it is the drive of Narcissus looking in a mirror and exclaiming: “well, I took a hell of a shot man !” It is a disc revealing.

indeed, anywhere in the world, the song is done adult or even senile. The yéyé, which, according to Serge Reggiani, was “the hemostat, which was trying to stop it in young people the beautiful bleeding anxiety”, is death. His funeral international have been sumptuous. The “merchants” of the disc have sent the most beautiful crowns. It is hoped the new messiahs. In the meantime… ”

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According to the Cash Box (one of the bibles of the professionals of Pop Music), last week, the Beatles, with their song Hey Jude was no. 1 everywhere. From Denmark to Belgium, from Australia to Sweden, from Germany to England. However, the Beatles became big boys and deliver messages. When the same Beatles engage in the production record, they do not discover the four revolted, insolent that they would look like young brothers. They glory to the top of the charts Mary Hopkin. She is 18 years old, either, but she is chaperoned by her parents and condemns the miniskirt. She sings The Time of flowers, lymph markdowns melody of a funeral gypsy. Miss Hopkin, harmless rattle, reassuring maid, is adopted in all countries of the world. In Paris, it sells 400 discs per day, Lido Music.

Edith and Tino

again In France, to celebrate the fifth anniversary of his death, he unearths a disc posthumous Edith Piaf. We go out solemnly an album of Tino Rossi celebrating the bicentennial of Napoleon. It is a triumph of a Hundred thousand songs held by Frida Boccara. The music of this “tube” is signed Michel Magne, it is beautiful, awash of memories. The composer, interrogated, admits : “Indeed, the departure of the one Hundred thousand songs can be found in the st. Matthew Passion of johann Sebastian Bach. It is a meeting.”

Then, in this desert folk, neo-classic and nostalgic, rise, strong, tasty, victorious, the voice in their forties of Montand, Brel, Bécaud and, of course, Reggiani.

His glory new-born is fragile, however. He knows it. It was also discovered last month, during the broadcast RTL Non-Stop hosted by Philippe Bouvard. A reporter asked of the listeners in the street : “Reggiani, you know ? – Yes, replied a lady, he played the sequestered colorblind.” And another, a charming, asked : “Reggiani ? That is what it is, a new brand of pasta ?”

He laughed. As the laughing clowns, with the eyes under the rain and the mouth in the sun. As he laughs when he says : “is not this, my dear, that you are an actor cursed ?” He has never felt the curse weighing on him. Or at Yvetot in Normandy, france, which hosts a 7-year-old with his parents, Italian emigrants, nor in Paris, then, in front of the old prison of Saint-Lazare, where he lives, or his early days of appearing. A career almost always demanding to the cinema, Carrefour des enfants perdus (1943) Helmet of gold, passing through The Lovers of Verona, a dazzling career at the theatre with, as the Legion of honor, the creation of the Sequestered of Altona, Jean-Paul Sartre… today, a delicious demon de midi, the music-hall.

All or nothing

Serge Reggiani comes from touring, and seventy cities in three months, and then, on February 4, 1969, Bobino for six weeks, and then Belgium, then Italy, and then, he says : “Basta !”

Because, already, he takes his distances. With an indistinguishable mixture of rouerie superstitious and sincerity, he declares : “My success will not last much very long, because I will not do what it takes to feed it, maintain it. To find the balance, it would have to be satisfied with a little success. It is impossible. The gear, it’s all or nothing. For me, soon, I swear to you, this will be nothing. I still prefer to try difficult to exist as I will hear.”

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at the hearing, Serge Reggiani will not be a hostage of the celebrity. Him will he be better than the cigarette that enroue, a good meal that fatigue ? The pleasure of living ?


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