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Novembre, by Umpah-Pah

This is a song by the (great) Girona band Umpah-Pah, released in 1994 on the album Bordell. It’s about the Girona fairs (also known as the Fires de Sant Narcís), the annual festivals held in the city at the end of October and the beginning of November (disclaimer: seen from the perspective of young people).

The lyrics are somewhat untranslatable, filled with popular expressions, slang, and references that only locals would understand. However, below there is an approximation. For instance, the “archangel” refers to a sculpture at the top of Girona Cathedral, and “Girona is immortal” comes from a famous local folk legend, which became a sort of motto for the city.

Novembre, by Umpah-pah
[original in Catalan]

Riuràs per força
entre olors de pixum,
enmig de crits d’alcohol i ampolles,
d’una nyonya gris.

És nit de sants,
nit de fred i guspires,
nit de dol, xim-xim,
Ding-dong, ding-Dong!
Nits de sants,
de morts i difunts.

Són nits de porles,
nits barrufant el seny,
de plom, canons d’encàrrec,
principiants a mesells.

Nits de foc,
nits de fang i castanyes,
nits de farts,
nits de boira i desguàs.
Nits de bars de merda en un sac.

Ram rampataplam!
Quin aviram!
Ram rampataplam!
Novembre sant, em cous.

Cent trons que esmolen l’eina,
estriparan el cel, cels.
Cent manyocs, tots fills de gleva,
ben junts per cremar els déus, déus.

Enmig de pluja,
preludis de l’hivern.
Nits de cor agre,
de gaites i esbufecs.
Cinc nits d’autista,
d’antics amics
Cinc nits, cinc tous.

Ei noi! No cal que espantis mosques.
Ei! Girona fa olor a sants.
Ei noi! Guaita l’arcàngel.
Ei! GIRONA ÉS IMMORTAL!
Ei noi! GIRONA ÉS IMMORTAL!

Dos cops, no tres,
com ens deia el frare.
Amb dos cops n’hi ha prou
Dos cops, no tres,
tanta tifa embafa.
Amb dos cops n’hi ha prou.
You’ll laugh forcefully
amidst the smell of pee,
amongst shouts of alcohol and bottles,
a grey drowsiness.

It’s a night of saints,
a night of cold and sparks,
a night of mourning, drizzling rain,
Ding-dong, ding-dong!
Nights of saints, of the dead and departed.

They are nights of comas,
nights losing common sense,
of lead, hired cannons,
novices becoming cowards.

Nights of fire,
nights of mud and chestnuts, nights of gluttons,
nights of fog and drainage. Nights of shitty bars in a sack.

Ram rampataplam!
What a bunch of birds!
Ram rampataplam!
Holy November, you’re killing me.

A hundred thunders sharpening tools,
will tear the sky, skies.
A hundred bundles, all offspring of soil,
together to burn the gods, gods.

Amidst the rain,
preludes of winter.
Nights of sour heart,
of bagpipes and puffing.
Five autistic nights,
of old friends.
Five nights, five mounds.

Hey boy! No need to scare away flies.
Hey! Girona smells like saints. Hey boy! Look at the archangel. Hey!
GIRONA IS IMMORTAL!
Hey boy! GIRONA IS IMMORTAL!

Twice, not thrice,
as the friar told us.
Twice is enough.
Twice, not thrice, so much crap is nauseating.
Twice is enough.