Happy 55th Anniversary to Barbra Streisand’s eighth studio album Je m'appelle Barbra, originally released in October 1966.
In 1966, the late French entertainer Maurice Chevalier described Barbra Streisand with three words: “new,” “impulsive,” “staggering.” These adjectives were contained in the sleeve notes he wrote exclusively for Streisand’s eighth studio record, Je m’appelle Barbra—it bore no connection to her fifth offering, My Name Is Barbra (1965).
Streisand’s quirky predilection for denominating albums after herself lent credence to Chevalier’s assessment of both her eccentricity and artistic prowess. That someone of his pedigree agreed to dash off such a glowing notice for the young Brooklynite spoke to the distinctiveness of her journey from aspiring hopeful to bona fide sensation.
Having charmed the New York City nightclub scene and Broadway audiences within the first few years of the 1960s, Streisand looked to cast a similar enchantment on the recording industry. With The Barbra Streisand Album—issued February 23, 1963 on the Columbia label—she did just that. The collection, a mélange of American standards, jazz numbers and stage musical bijoux, was imparted in that singular Streisand style which resonated with the public, young and old.
By mid-1965, Streisand evinced that she wasn’t merely a singer or an actress, she was the multi-hyphenate standard. In the midst of a harried schedule—albums, a groundbreaking television special and another beguiling Broadway turn via Funny Girl—a fresh challenge loomed on the horizon. The subject of drafting a long player in a language other than English was broached by Nat Shapiro in conjunction with Ettore Stratta.
Shapiro was a leading A&R figure at Columbia Records stateside, while Stratta was a producer-A&R manager at Disques CBS, the French branch of the larger Columbia imprint. The two men understood the value in expanding on Streisand’s mounting popularity in the European markets, but it was up to the lady herself whether to take up the concept. It turns out that Streisand was quite receptive to the idea; Stratta soon facilitated a meeting with hotshot arranger-composer Michel Legrand.
The chemistry between Streisand and Legrand was instant—they began to brainstorm. This led the vocalist to make her own preparations; she not only started to study the language of love, she embarked on gathering pieces from various French songwriters that struck her fancy. The latter tactic was a testament to what set her apart from other interpreters: her control over and awareness of what she sang.
On November 16, 1965, Streisand entered Columbia Studios (with Legrand arranging and Stratta producing) to craft Barbra Streisand: En Français, a lush four-track extended play. Out of the eight compositions put down, four made the cut: “Non, c’est rien” (No, It’s Nothing), “Les enfants qui pleurent” (Children Who Cry), “Et la mer” (And the Sea) and “Le mur” (The Wall). Written by Armand Canfora, Joseph Baselli, Michel Jourdan, Eddy Marnay, Charles Dumont and Michel Vaucaire correspondingly, Streisand took to the works of these scribes with her expected grace and poise.
Most notable in this quartet is “Le mur,” a bold statement about injustices relating to the Berlin Wall in Germany, that Dumont and Vaucaire penned solely for the legendary Édith Piaf. Her death in 1963 threw the fate of “Le mur” into question until the two writers learned that Streisand was curating material for her French EP; eventually, this gem had made its way to the singer whose fiery delivery of it ensured the song’s permanence within her canon.
Just prior to the reveal of Barbra Streisand: En Français overseas in February of 1966, Streisand maintained her breakneck pace by assembling her seventh album Color Me Barbra (1966) and filming its companion broadcast special of the same name concurrently. Each was assigned for public release later that March; the program was Streisand’s initial entrance into color television. Strikingly, sessions unrelated to Color Me Barbra—with Legrand and Stratta in tow—commenced on January 13, 1966.
Seemingly possessed by the (then) modern French pop method, Streisand could not stop drawing on her remaining cache of selections gathered for Barbra Streisand: En Français; this second session bore six more sides. What linked these specific November and January studio bouts is that she wasn’t only recording in French—there were parallel English and French-English variants too. Nestled alongside the other eight entries on Color Me Barbra were “Non, c’est rien” and “C’est si bon” (It Is So Good). The former track had already manifested on her import-only EP, but “C’est si bon” was taken from that January convocation. The inclusion of both songs on that LP pointed to Streisand’s eagerness to construct a set exclusively for her growing reserve of French compositions.
More studio visits ensued throughout the spring, summer and fall of 1966 with Streisand generating additional inventory for what was rumored to be a double album, Je m’appelle Barbra; this occurred even as she made her acclaimed West End debut with Funny Girl and fielded separate concert commitments. The cherry atop this period of ever-escalating career activity? Streisand and her first husband Elliot Gould were expecting a child. Jason Gould was born on December 29, 1966—just two months after Je m’appelle Barbra arrived in stores that October.
The finalized iteration of Je m’appelle Barbra—for clarity’s sake—is as follows: “Free Again” (Non, c’est rien), “Autumn Leaves” (Les feuilles mortes), “What Now My Love?” (Et Maintenant), “Ma première chanson” (My First Song), “Clopin-Clopant” (Limping), “Le mur,” “I Wish You Love” (Que reste-t-il de nos amours), “Speak to Me of Love” (Parlez-moi d’amour), “Love and Learn” (Qui es-tu?), “Once Upon a Summertime (La valse des lilas), “Martina,” “I’ve Been Here.”
That eclectic roster is split between six English entries, four French-English takes, and two French songs—all of them corralled from the multitude of sessions Streisand kicked off the previous November. Pieces like “Free Again,” “Le mur,” “Martina” and “I’ve Been Here” existed on Je m’appelle Barbra either as exact English versions of their French counterparts (“Free Again” for “Non, c’est rien”) or were lyrically reworked but retained the same music (“Le mur” for “I’ve Been Here”; “Martina” for “Les enfants qui pleurent”).
Robert Colby, Hal Sharper, Earl Shuman and Michel Legrand (spotlighting four of the English lyricists) had the delicate task of adapting these tunes from the aforementioned Canfora, Baselli, Jourdan, Dumont, Vaucaire and Marnay—these were only six of the French writers tapped for Je m’appelle Barbra. Stewarding these compositions was no simple ask, but Colby, Sharper, Shuman, Legrand and company met the moment.
In particular, Legrand, as the record’s primary arranger (with Ray Ellis co-arranging) sought to preserve the sonic make-up of these chansons and connect them with Streisand’s established dynamics. From the classical mien of “Autumn Leaves,” to the jazzy twist of “I Wish You Love” on over to the rushing symphonica of “Love and Learn,” Legrand and Ellis’ arrangements manage to conjure a rich, cinematic tonality. Stratta’s careful production touch ensures the right amount of space between the music and that iconic pitch perfect soprano. With her collaborative peers operating to her aesthetic specifications, Streisand settles in on Je m’appelle Barbra to sing impressively to scale and then some.
Though its bookends, “Le mur” and “I’ve Been Here,” are obvious showstoppers, “What Now My Love?” is arguably one of the main attractions on the record. A swinging uptempo composed of brass, percussion and assorted orchestral accoutrement, Streisand playfully pivots from French to English amid this gorgeous instrumentation with ease. It all comes down to her natural cognizance of how to color a song based on what its lyric requires. She takes that approach further as heard on “Clopin-Clopant,” “Speak to Me of Love,” and “Once Upon a Summertime.”
Streisand embodies whimsy, sensuousness, and melancholy on these three cuts respectively as evidence that her illustrative skills (vocally) are second to none. But there’s a discernible resonance to her performances on Je m’appelle Barbra that go beyond her considerable interpretive abilities. Was it owed to the narratives it employed? At first listen, no.
Excusing the mentioned socio-political stunner “Le mur,” topically, Streisand’s familiar touchstones of self-agency and romance are still in attendance on Je m’appelle Barbra. Then there are the ambient story songs—also not new to Streisand. All but one selection here sprang from the impassioned imaginations of French songwriters; consequently, there’s an unmistakable intensity running through Je m’appelle Barbra and “Martina” is one of its most vivid numbers. As with “Le mur,” a form of “Martina”—“Les enfants qui pleurent”—had done the rounds on Barbra Streisand: En Français.
Languages aside, the emotive link between “Martina” and “Les enfants qui pleurent” is the tale of a protagonist growing up in absence of love; Streisand’s delicate rendering of the script will pull at one’s heartstrings without fail. The lone original on Je m’appelle Barbra is done in this same affective vein: “Ma première chanson.” Streisand wrote its wistful melody (her first) and requested Eddy Marnay (one of the pensmiths featured on Je m’appelle Barbra) to supply her with equally plaintive lyrics; “Ma première chanson” is a triumph.
Je m’appelle Barbra soared into the Top 10 of the Billboard 200 and garnered positive reviews for Streisand. Sadly, its sales were softer than its predecessors. The only single put forward from the album in the United States, the double a-side “Free Again / I’ve Been Here,” barely cast a ripple at home. Internationally, Je m’appelle Barbra got a warmer sales reception in Europe, but was seen largely as a rare commercial misfire in America. The effort wouldn’t even certify gold domestically until 2002, when Columbia submitted it for an audit to the RIAA. Ignoring its modest returns, Je m’appelle Barbra’s impact lingered in other ways.
The record not only saw Streisand assume the duties of writing her own music—something she would do again with groundbreaking results—it marked the first of many partnerships between her and Legrand. Je m’appelle Barbra also pointed to Streisand’s predilection at balancing her more conventional provisions with exploratory fare as proven with her eighteenth album Classical Barbra. Recorded in 1973 (seven years after Je m’appelle Barbra) it was issued in February 1976 and, as its title implies, had Streisand fête traditional vocal pieces from European composers singing them in French, Occitan, German, Italian, Latin and English.
If one thought Streisand might have been chastened by Je m’appelle Barbra not becoming a blockbuster, they were sorely mistaken. What brought Streisand to prominence—and has made her an institution for six decades—is her uncompromising creative spirit. Nothing encapsulates that flair for the experimental and the lovably dramatic better than Je m’appelle Barbra, an affair cherished not only by discerning Streisand aficionados, but by the inimitable songstress herself.
*Writer’s Note: For additional information on the full cast of French and English songwriters on Je m’appelle Barbra, please visit Barbra-Archives for further details.
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