If I’d been born 20 years earlier, or maybe 30…or maybe even 40, if I’d allowed the curling blue smoke of a couple of dozen pre-breakfast Gauloises to lick the nostrils of my beaky turtle nose and embed the fuggy scent into a greasy hair-do that had never met the acquaintance of a comb (yet still looked sensational), if I’d fallen out of bed and into last week’s roll neck and last year’s trousers (‘Underwear? We don’ need no underwear‘), if I’d swallowed daily the equivalent of the English Channel in brandy without spilling a drop on the upholstery of my imported Mini Cooper, if I’d been invited to scuff my Chelsea boots along red carpets and into art house cinema nouvelle vague premiers, if I’d been the genius auteur of psychedelically-tinged native language chansons that proved to be culturally significant to the land of my birth, I reckon there was a fair-to-strong chance that Jane Birkin would’ve gone out with me. I really do. She might even have agreed to join me for some heavy breathing and aural sex on a groovy record I’d been curating, the airy spaces between the woody, staccato bass, and lights-dimmed-low keyboard motifs just perfect for our ménage a deux. Alas, those bastard sliding doors of history proved unkind. Je t’aime, Jane Birkin, je t’aime. Auld bug-eyed, hooked-nosed, garlic-breathed Serge must’ve been tres charismatique, non?
Serge Gainsbourg feat Jane Birkin – Je t’aime… Moi non plus
Plain Or Pan 