セシールの雨傘を初めて聴いたのは、飯島真理がリン・ミンメイの声を出している人から、シンガー・ソングライターの飯島真理になった頃だった。
音楽番組では真理ちゃんと呼ばれていて、アレンジャーの清水信之さんとはツーカーの仲の様だった。
マリンなんだけどな、と思ったけれど、彼女がマリンと自分を名乗ったのはファーストアルバムで、それは放送された頃よりずっと前で、私はそれを知っているけれどきっと今は違うのかも知れない。詳しい人達とスタジオに入っている人達は、ああ、それはもう前で今は真理ちゃんなんだよ。と、柔らかくて都会的でシャープでお洒落だけど、君はココまでね。と切れそうな厳しさで突き放されそうだった。
この曲については、兎に角飯島真理本人がとても興奮してラジオで話していた。
ディレクションを取ってくれた方が外国の人である。
男性である。
兎に角、ここが不満なんだけどな、と思っていた事をどんどんどんどん言ってくれる。
この曲を初めて聴いた時、（作曲は飯島真理本人、詩が出来てアレンジが重要。アレンジこそが重要）、ああ此れで良かったと思った。
初めて会う人にディレクションを渡すなんて、と思ったけれど、任せて良かった。
バージョン2を聴いた時、私はセシールの雨傘は本当はこういう楽曲だったんだ、と思った。
と、ラジオでも雑誌でも語っていた。
ラジオの方でセシールの雨傘のバージョン1でもう完璧なのに、と最初はバージョン2をその人が持って来た時、不満だった。此れで良いのに、って思ったんです。
と言っていた。
あれ、飯島真理はこっちじゃないのか、とがっかりした瞬間だった。
私はKIMONO STREOを通しで聴いた瞬間から、バージョン2のセシールの雨傘ばかりを繰り返し聴いていた。
当時、アナログレコードのプレイヤーでもリピート機能は付いていたのだけれど、センサーが曲間の無音溝（みぞ）を認識するだけなので、遅いのだ。
1回目の演奏が終わり、単純な低い音がレコードプレイヤーの奥、少し下の辺りでする。
それからカクン、と単純な乾いた高い音がして針が上がり、又セシールの雨傘の前の無音溝を見つけて（実は二、三回必ず何故か針は迷うのだ。誰だろう、このバカな機能に喜んでいるのは、と当時いつも私は黙りこくって怒っていた） 、セシールの雨傘の最初のシンセサイザーの高い音とドラムの音が始まるまでが、長・い・の・だ。
なので結局、プレイヤーの蓋を空けて、（大切なアナログ盤に埃が落ち、針に埃が着くから、大変な暴挙なんだそうだ。煩いな）、曲が終わると同時に息を止めて素早く、まるで能楽の踊りのように針を手で上げ、曲前の溝に落とすを繰り返し、今では何と言うのだろう。パワー・プレイ？ ヘビー・ローテーション？ メモリー機能？ 兎に角私はセシールの雨傘バージョン2を500万回以上は繰り返し聴いていた。
晴れていても、曇っていても、毎日毎日、雨が降った日は走って帰って、または雨が降り出したらすぐに部屋に戻って、雨が止まない内にセシールの雨傘を聴いていた。
以前、当ブログで触れた時も皆さんは、私のこのセシールの雨傘への情熱に少し驚かれたのではないだろうか。
けれど、それ程、セシールの雨傘は名曲なのに。あまり知られていないので、ついセシールの雨傘について話し出すと止まらなくなるのだ。
昔、飯島真理は音楽大学の卒業生で、気が付いた時には、彼女は生意気だ。とデマが流れていた。
デビュー曲「ブルー・ベリー・ジャム」なんて当時東京にしかきっと無かったので、そんな事を歌う女の子は生意気で、音大出なのが生意気で、リン・ミンメイに本当はかなりよく似ていたのに、私はミンメイに似ていません。と最初からはっきり発言し、どうせブルー・ベリー・ジャムの世界そのまんまのファンシーで女の子らしい、クラシックだけの子のお遊びだろう？ という雰囲気に取り囲まれて、いえ違うんです。私はこの楽曲を、このアルバムを、と発言を続けていた。
やがてアルバム「midori」で、やっと第一曲目にピアノやブラスバンドの音を出すのを自分に許せるようになりました。音大だからやっぱりクラシックの音でしょう？ と言われるだろうと思って、仲々出来なくて。
というコメントを読んで、制服を着た私は少し泣きそうになったのを記憶している。
彼女を取り囲む雰囲気はもう、あの人は生意気で気が強いから、はいはいはいはい、という無言の嘲笑になっていたからだ。
やがて、彼女は国外に仕事場を移し、なんとセシールの雨傘のバージョン2を作ったその人と結婚してしまったのを、嬉しいような、済まないような、私がもっと声が大きければ、良く分からないけれど、私が、こう・・・、音楽のこういうのを何か言って、ああそうなの？知らなかったよ。スプーンおばさんの曲も良いよね、と、何ていうのか、ああやっと分かったよ！飯島真理のことが、名アレンジャーの清水さんの（全楽器を演奏可能な天才）お気に入りな訳も！ そうだよね！ と言って貰えたらいいのに、と雨の日だったのか、晴れ切っていたのか、夕方の明るい本屋の雑誌コーナーで黙りこくって立ち尽くしていたのが、きっと今も音楽について分かりもしないのに書いている理由のような気がする。
雨が好きな人が段々と少なくなって、如何してだろう？とはた、と周りを見ると、夏がどんどん大きくなって梅雨が少なくなり、突然の雨を憎悪する人の声ばかりが大きくなり、雨の音は暗くなるから、哀しくなるから、と嫌がるばかりの世界で、私は黙って窓の外を眺めたり、明るい曇り空の下からビル街に落ちる美しい線を、持った紙コップのココアが冷めるのも構わず、何時迄も眺めていたり。
最後に出て来る地下鉄に降りる階段は、私の住む街にしか今でも存在し無い煉瓦色の地下鉄の入り口で、
映画に行く時は必ず薄手のセーターで、
パンフレットはもうあまり売られなくなったけれど、丸めて細い英字新聞の花と一緒に胸に充てて持ったり、
コーヒーを飲みに行った時もパンフレットは丸められた後が着いているかを気にしていたり、
夏を呼ぶ驟雨が青くグレイにビルに降り頻る中、
私は今も時々花柄の傘を差して、
何処にも流れていないけれど、必ずビルの壁に反響し続けているセシールの雨傘という楽曲世界を歩いている。
セシールの雨傘 バージョン2
作詞 松本 隆
作曲 飯島 真理
編曲 Max Middleton
(マックス・ミドルトン）
I first heard “Cécile’s Umbrella” around the time Mari Iijima transitioned from being the voice of Lynn Minmay to becoming the singer-songwriter Mari Iijima.
On music shows, she was called “Mari-chan,” and she seemed to be on very friendly terms with arranger Nobuyuki Shimizu.
I thought to myself, “But she’s Marin, isn’t she?” However, she had introduced herself as “Marin” on her first album—which was released long before the show aired—and while I knew that, I figured things might be different now.
On music shows, she was called “Mari-chan,” and she seemed to be on very friendly terms with arranger Nobuyuki Shimizu.
I thought to myself, “But she’s Marin, isn’t she?” However, she had introduced herself as “Marin” on her first album—which was released long before the show aired—and while I knew that, I figured things might be different now.
The people in the studio who knew the details seemed to be saying, “Oh, that was a long time ago; now she’s just ‘Mari-chan.’” It was soft, sophisticated, sharp, and stylish, but at the same time, I felt like I was being pushed away with a sternness that seemed ready to snap: “That’s as far as you go.”
As for this song, Mari Iijima herself was incredibly excited about it and talked about it on the radio.
The person who directed it was a foreigner.
A man.
Anyway, he kept voicing exactly the things I’d been thinking, “This is what I’m not happy with.”
When I first heard this song (composed by Mari Iijima herself—the lyrics were done, so the arrangement was crucial; the arrangement was what mattered most), I thought, “Ah, this is exactly right.”
I thought, “Handing over the direction to someone I’ve never met before?” but I’m glad I left it to him.
As for this song, Mari Iijima herself was incredibly excited about it and talked about it on the radio.
The person who directed it was a foreigner.
A man.
Anyway, he kept voicing exactly the things I’d been thinking, “This is what I’m not happy with.”
When I first heard this song (composed by Mari Iijima herself—the lyrics were done, so the arrangement was crucial; the arrangement was what mattered most), I thought, “Ah, this is exactly right.”
I thought, “Handing over the direction to someone I’ve never met before?” but I’m glad I left it to him.
When I heard Version 2, I thought, “So this is what ‘Cécile’s Umbrella’ was really meant to be.”
That’s what she said on the radio and in magazines.
On the radio, she mentioned that Version 1 of “Cécile’s Umbrella” was already perfect, so when that person first brought Version 2, she was dissatisfied. “This is good enough,” she thought.
That’s what she said.
That was the moment I was disappointed, thinking, “Wait, isn’t Mari Iijima supposed to be on this one?”
From the moment I listened to *KIMONO STREO* from start to finish, I kept playing Version 2 of “Cécile’s Umbrella” over and over.
Back then, even analog record players had a repeat function, but since the sensor only recognized the silent gaps between tracks, it was slow.
After the first playthrough ended, a simple low-pitched sound would come from deep inside the record player, slightly below the surface.
Then there would be a “click”—a simple, dry, high-pitched sound—and the needle would lift, searching for the silent gap before “Cécile’s Umbrella” again (actually, for some reason, the needle would always get lost two or three times. “Who on earth is happy about this stupid feature?” I used to think to myself, silently seething with anger back then), and the wait until the high synthesizer notes and drumbeat at the beginning of “Cécile’s Umbrella” start is lo·ng.
So in the end, I’d open the player’s lid—(apparently a terrible act of recklessness, since dust falls on my precious analog records and gets on the needle. What a hassle)—and the moment the song ended, I’d hold my breath and quickly, as if performing a Noh dance, lift the needle with my hand and drop it into the groove before the song started, repeating this over and over. What do they call that nowadays? Power play? Heavy rotation? A memory function? Anyway, I must have listened to “Cécile’s Umbrella Version 2” on repeat over 5 million times.
Whether it was sunny or cloudy, day in and day out—on rainy days, I’d run home, or as soon as it started raining, I’d rush back to my room to listen to “Cécile’s Umbrella” before the rain stopped.
When I mentioned this on this blog before, I wonder if you were all a little surprised by my passion for “Cécile’s Umbrella.”
But that’s just how great a song “Cécile’s Umbrella” is. Since it’s not very well known, once I start talking about it, I just can’t stop.
That’s what she said on the radio and in magazines.
On the radio, she mentioned that Version 1 of “Cécile’s Umbrella” was already perfect, so when that person first brought Version 2, she was dissatisfied. “This is good enough,” she thought.
That’s what she said.
That was the moment I was disappointed, thinking, “Wait, isn’t Mari Iijima supposed to be on this one?”
From the moment I listened to *KIMONO STREO* from start to finish, I kept playing Version 2 of “Cécile’s Umbrella” over and over.
Back then, even analog record players had a repeat function, but since the sensor only recognized the silent gaps between tracks, it was slow.
After the first playthrough ended, a simple low-pitched sound would come from deep inside the record player, slightly below the surface.
Then there would be a “click”—a simple, dry, high-pitched sound—and the needle would lift, searching for the silent gap before “Cécile’s Umbrella” again (actually, for some reason, the needle would always get lost two or three times. “Who on earth is happy about this stupid feature?” I used to think to myself, silently seething with anger back then), and the wait until the high synthesizer notes and drumbeat at the beginning of “Cécile’s Umbrella” start is lo·ng.
So in the end, I’d open the player’s lid—(apparently a terrible act of recklessness, since dust falls on my precious analog records and gets on the needle. What a hassle)—and the moment the song ended, I’d hold my breath and quickly, as if performing a Noh dance, lift the needle with my hand and drop it into the groove before the song started, repeating this over and over. What do they call that nowadays? Power play? Heavy rotation? A memory function? Anyway, I must have listened to “Cécile’s Umbrella Version 2” on repeat over 5 million times.
Whether it was sunny or cloudy, day in and day out—on rainy days, I’d run home, or as soon as it started raining, I’d rush back to my room to listen to “Cécile’s Umbrella” before the rain stopped.
When I mentioned this on this blog before, I wonder if you were all a little surprised by my passion for “Cécile’s Umbrella.”
But that’s just how great a song “Cécile’s Umbrella” is. Since it’s not very well known, once I start talking about it, I just can’t stop.
Back in the day, Mari Iijima was a music college graduate, and before she knew it, a rumor had spread that she was “cheeky.”
Her debut song, “Blueberry Jam,” was probably only available in Tokyo at the time, so people assumed that a girl singing about such things must be cocky—and that being a music college graduate made her even more so.
Her debut song, “Blueberry Jam,” was probably only available in Tokyo at the time, so people assumed that a girl singing about such things must be cocky—and that being a music college graduate made her even more so.
Even though she actually bore a striking resemblance to Lynn Minmay, she stated clearly from the very beginning, “I don’t look like Minmay.” Surrounded by an atmosphere that suggested, “Isn’t this just a fanciful, girly little game for a girl who only knows classical music—just like the world of ‘Blueberry Jam’?” she kept insisting, “No, that’s not it. I kept insisting, “This song, this album…”
Eventually, with the album *midori*, I finally allowed myself to include piano and brass band sounds in the very first track. I’d been hesitating because I knew people would say, “You’re from a music conservatory, so it’s gotta be classical, right?”
Eventually, with the album *midori*, I finally allowed myself to include piano and brass band sounds in the very first track. I’d been hesitating because I knew people would say, “You’re from a music conservatory, so it’s gotta be classical, right?”
I remember reading that comment while I was still in my school uniform, and I almost started crying.
The atmosphere surrounding her had turned into silent mockery—as if to say, “She’s so cocky and strong-willed, so just go along with her, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Eventually, she moved her workplace overseas and—believe it or not—ended up marrying the very person who created Version 2 of “Cécile’s Umbrella.”
I felt both happy and guilty about it. I don’t know exactly why, but if only I’d spoken up more—if only I’d said something like, “Oh, really? I didn’t know that,” or “This kind of music is great, isn’t it?” “Aunt Spoon’s songs are great, too,” I thought—how should I put it? “Ah, I finally get it! That’s why Mari Iijima is the favorite of the great arranger Mr. Shimizu (that genius who can play every instrument)!” “That’s right!” I wished someone would say that to me. Whether it was a rainy day or a clear one, I stood there silently in the brightly lit magazine section of a bookstore that evening, and I feel that’s probably the reason I’m still writing about music even though I don’t really understand it at all.
Fewer and fewer people seem to like rain these days. I wonder why? I looked around suddenly and realized that summers are getting longer and the rainy season shorter, and the voices of people who hate sudden showers are getting louder and louder.
Fewer and fewer people seem to like rain these days. I wonder why? I looked around suddenly and realized that summers are getting longer and the rainy season shorter, and the voices of people who hate sudden showers are getting louder and louder.
In a world where people only complain that the sound of rain makes things feel gloomy and sad, I’d stand silently gazing out the window, or stare for hours at the beautiful lines falling from the bright, overcast sky onto the cityscape—not caring that the cocoa in my paper cup was getting cold.
The subway stairs that appear at the end are the brick-colored subway entrance that still exists only in the city where I live.
When I went to the movies, I always wore a light sweater,
and even though movie programs aren’t sold much anymore, I’d roll one up and hold it against my chest along with a slender English-language newspaper,
and even when I went out for coffee, I’d worry about whether the program still bore the crease from being rolled up.
The subway stairs that appear at the end are the brick-colored subway entrance that still exists only in the city where I live.
When I went to the movies, I always wore a light sweater,
and even though movie programs aren’t sold much anymore, I’d roll one up and hold it against my chest along with a slender English-language newspaper,
and even when I went out for coffee, I’d worry about whether the program still bore the crease from being rolled up.
Amid the summer showers that frequently fall on the blue-gray buildings,
I still occasionally carry a floral-patterned umbrella,
and though it doesn’t flow anywhere,
I still occasionally carry a floral-patterned umbrella,
and though it doesn’t flow anywhere,
I walk through the musical world of “Cécile’s Umbrella,” which continues to echo off the walls of the buildings.
Cécile's Umbrella, Version 2
Lyrics by Takashi Matsumoto
Music by Mari Iijima
Arranged by Max Middleton
(Max Middleton)
Lyrics by Takashi Matsumoto
Music by Mari Iijima
Arranged by Max Middleton
(Max Middleton)
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
