I've translated two songs by French immigrant rap groups: "Le Bruit et L'Odeur" ("The Sound and the Odor") by Zebda and "Catalogué" ("Profiled") by Sniper.

A few cultural explanations: Zebda is the Arabic word for "butter," which, in French, is "beure." "Beur" is the word for Arab in French ghetto slang (verlan), which is based on the inversion of the syllables of a word. So, "arabe" becomes "beure." Etcetera.

The title of the song has two references: first to a speech by Jacques Chirac, the president of France, in which he decribes the "Sound and the Odor" of the immigrants in public housing; the second reference is to Shakespeare's line "the sound and the fury" (Henry IV, The Tempest, Lear, Hamlet?--I don't remember which), which in French translates to "Le Bruit et la Fureur." Get it!? It's also the title of a Faulkner novel narrated from the point of view of a mentally retarded man-child.

Look for news articles on line in google for more background on last fall's riots in the French ghettos.

Read the lyrics to the song (we'll hear it in class) and think about how it expresses or goes beyond Bennoune and Hargreave's articles.

Without further ado, here's my translation of "Le Bruit et l'Odeur":

If I fall to the ground
It’s not Voltaire’s fault.
With my nose in the system,
There was no Dolto.
If there are no more angels
In the sky and on the earth
Why must one die in the ghetto?
Rather than to come from people who has suffered too much
I like to better work out a proposition
Which is not to let these gentlemen who
Legislate, the take of charge of assigning
Me ancestors.
It would have been nice to be born
On the left bank of the Garonne
Conversing with the accent storks.
They are not miles from that Gascon ghetto
To make it just a train stop.
One can die on one’s face,
And make all these wars,
And defend such a pretty flag,
But one always needs more.
Still, there is an homage to make
To those fallen in Montécassino.
Noise and odor
Noise and odor
Noise of the jackhammer {x4}
Fear is an assassin
But, it’s true, I blame
Those who pop the kids
Who don’t even have grass on the field.
I am a dreamer.
And yet, friend, I analyze.
I am a scholar and I say to you:
I am Serbo-Croatian and Moslem.
There’s the rub.
A Polish republican priest
And secular.
And if someone regrets
Not being black,
I have but one answer for that guy:
You’ve got good luck.
Equality, my brothers, exists only in dreams.
But still I won’t give up
If fear is an arm which raises us,
It decimates us.
I am afraid for the end of days.
She loves Noah,
But still must win her round.
She loves Boli, but never abolished anything forever.{x2}
Refrain{x4}
Who built this road?
Who built this city,
Does not live in it?
To those who complain about noise,
To those who condemn the odor,
I present myself.
I am called Larbi, Mamadou, Juan, and, make room, Guido, Henri,
Chinese Ali. I am not made of glass.
A voice told me Marathon seeks the light of
the gulf. I drew a combat against "the good bargain."
I’ve drooled over the fear I’ve read in the eyes
Of those who have three times nothing and who believe it invaluable.
When I understood the law, I understood my defeat.
“Integrate,” it said to me; “It’s a done deal.”
Refrain {x4}
The noise of the jackhammer in your ears
You finish your life, the bees buzz. {x2}
Refrain {x4}
Jacques Chirac: “How do you see the French worker, who works with his wife, and who together earn approximately 15 000 FF, and who sees piled up next door in his housing project, a family, with a father, three or four wives, and a score of kids, and who earns 50 000FF in welfare without actually working? If you add to that the noise and the odor, eh, well the French worker next dooe, he goes insane. And it is not racist to say that. We do not have anymore the means of honouring the repatriation of families, and it is finally necessary to begin the debate which is essential in our country, which is a true moral debate, to know if it is natural that foreigners can profit as well as the French from a social security in which they do not take part since they do not pay taxes.”
Noise and odor, noise and odor.

Another song, "Profiled" by the group Sniper.

{Refrain: x2} (Black Renegat) One is profiled, guilty each time, thrown
to the side, booked or picked in the lineup. Supposed young
person and on the wrong path. Eh, give 'em the law.
(Aketo) Yeah, I have the look, typically ghetto.
One will not spit in soup, they cringe at our lean. Our heads are sour because
from abroad one is suspicious. It is this mentality of dead loss who in the
country prevails. Very often, I felt in the glance of people Of
mistrust in my regard, brushed aside and it pisses me off.
With that, the paranoia invades you with what at the bottom of you
will lead that to sleep after that. You become unsociable, all the
time you feel taken pure target. You've had enough of being suspected.
Impossible, to found a dialogue to add some more, the media
profile us, dirty us and screw our health. One always shows the bad
sides, In films it is deceived for what one makes us pass, I am
médusé! Don't push me! I am not a purse snatcher.
Jersey, sneakers, cap but in the right path.
{Refrain, x2}
(Black Renegat) Look, it's serious, they judge us by our
appearance. For them ghetto kids rhyme only with delinquency.
All that for a color, an origin which does not reflect their France,
That makes me flip when I think of it. Now to know what pushes them
them to put all to us in the same bag? Why when I cross an old woman
she clutches to her bag? Why when I seek a job see the doors
being closed? Why one treats me like a robber though I did't still
steal anything? Is it my tennis shoes that do that? I don't
believe it. Is this my head which does not pass? I don't know. There
many questions which I cannot answer. But I will not remain there
stagnating. They don't count. (Aketo) Fuck a bunch of prejudices. (Black Renegat) I advance, I do not move back.
(Aketo) Me, there's no one but God who can judge me. (Black Renegat) I don't give a fuck if they like me. (Aketo) Or that they feel disturbed,
here is also my home and take my word, I am not close to moving.
{with the Refrain, x2}
(Tunisiano: in Maghrebi Arabic and no transcription)...
{with the Refrain, AD lib}