As soon as I hear Brel, I have tears in my eyes, tears ruby red as blood, it makes pounding in my veins, crystal tears like purity in the rough that cause me every word, tears like rain nostalgia communicate me. He does not sing, he lives with his songs. Songs that make my head spin, that make me dance that make me fly. Sad, gay or disillusioned as soon as he opens his mouth, I see pearls, diamonds escape her lèvres.Qu'il evokes ordinary life and it becomes sacred, major feelings sung by him relative of precious trappings that only live in a dream world, in sumptuous chimeras. The banality of lives he depicts is in contact with his voice, a fresco ... This man is the only one to offer us worthy of a great master paintings. Amsterdam, its shallows, its sailors barf, thanks to its crude and elegant phrasing to its veracity, its mystery is cleared and all ugliness gives way to a large moving spectacle that shakes us the guts, we shook happiness . "These people" from the top of their fine assurance knocking on my door, I hear, I see, rigid and threatening. Brel sings and her voice upsets all my certainties. "Do not leave me" "when you have that love" how not to be overwhelmed with emotions so intense, extrasensory, they hurt! and bridge of euphoria both our senses on edge. We can listen to the replay endlessly with this alchemist, each among them as we revisit the first time. Brel is not dead, he still lives in the streets of his songs, the summer days when the shutters half open, the voice of the great Jacques rises for those who so loved. ,