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Je ne regrette rien.

Yes, I know. To all the kind people out there who know me well, don't bother to remind me. I've heard the news. Rammstein is touring the United States for the first time in ten years.

Tickets for the Liebe Ist Fur Alle Da (Love Is for Everyone) tour are available here. The Chicago show is not sold out. I know. When the pre-sale began, I was on the site. I clicked on the tickets I wanted to buy, and then I watched the timer for purchasing the tickets count down to zero as I hung my head and cried. (Okay, not really. But almost. Ohne dich!)

It isn't just that I'm a mother now and I'm too old to run off to rock concerts on random Tuesday nights. For f*** sake, lead-singer-and-fantasy-lover-of-myself Till Lindemann has a bajillion kids, is pushing 50, will soon qualify for senior citizen discounts, and is still rocking the f*** out with the most obscene show of pyrotechnics ever performed in the history of the world. I firmly maintain that I am not too old, but I might have to admit that I'm too responsible now. I just have to remind myself that I have something better than the freedom to blow money and crowd surf to dance metal. I have a sweet, healthy, beautiful baby girl. And this Rammstein album did have a little something to do with bringing her into the world. (More on that later.)

One of the songs on Liebe, "Frühling in Paris," has a chorus that is half in French. When I first heard Till sing "Oh non, rien de rien. Oh non, je ne regrette rien" ("Oh no, nothing at all. Oh no, I regret nothing") I thought it sounded familiar, but I couldn't place where I had heard those lines.

Then the Literary Lab's Notes from Underground Anthology came out, and I read Anne R. Allen's contribution "The Golden Age," which references those very lines from a song popularized by French singer Edith Piaf in the 1960s.

Fate conspired to teach me more about Edith Piaf last Wednesday morning, when the local library had baby time. Mr. G and I took our little bundle of joy on her first trip to the library and read her silly children's books about Saint Patrick's Day and Zen panda bears. Then we wandered past the DVD shelf and noticed a film about Edith Piaf's life, La Vie en Rose starring Marion Cotillard. We took it home and watched it while dancing, nursing, and rocking the baby. (We're becoming babytasking experts.) Cotillard gives an incredible performance worth seeing if you haven't. Anyway, it's a horrific, tragic rags-to-riches-and-addiction story. This poor woman had such a rough life that she ended up looking older than Nux Gallica's great-grandparents by the age of 40, and at the end of her life she still blew up the music charts with the song "Non, je ne regrette rien."

We were so inspired that we got a greatest hits collection of Edith Piaf songs, which Gallica seems to like as much as her former favorite, Bob Marley. The final lines of "Non" are beautiful, and I sing them to my daughter:
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Car ma vie, car mes joies
Aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi

No, nothing at all
No, I regret nothing
Because my life, my joys
Today, they begin with you.
And it might sound crazy, but I realize that I would rather be here in my living room, dancing to a fifty-year-old recording with my baby in my arms than jumping a train to Chicago to see a German metal show with exploding dolls and flame throwers. No contest.


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