Folk Singing with the French Kids.

At Lorelei’s kindergarten, it is the first parent-teacher meeting after La Rentrée – the end of the long summer vacation in France.

“Does anyone speaks English, or play an instrument, or know any children’s songs?” asks Marie-Claire, my daughter’s institutrice.  My hand goes up all three times.  “We want to talk to you,” la Directrice says to me.

Marie-Claire has my attention.  An exotic beauty that would look indigenous in India, South America, Asia or anywhere in Europe, she explains that at Le Clos de Salle, my daughter’s school in Le Mesnil-le-Roi, they are trying to internationalize their program, and increase their students  exposure to  English—especially as it is sung and spoken.

I’m all for it.  I’ve noticed that while many of my French friends have had more school years of English than most Americans; they rarely find the courage to use what they have learned aloud.  I call it The Having to Know before You Learn disease—that irrational injunction that you have to be perfect the first time you open your mouth. In a French dictation exercise, for example, if you make three errors, you flunk; for the same performance in the US, you score 97% correct out of a hundred words. Certainly I want to give my own child every antidote possible against this well-known mania of National Education.  Perfection is not a destination, I explain to Lorelei; it is only a direction.

So on a Thursday morning a month later, I amble into Lorelei’s classroom with my guitar.  Around 30 curious and incredibly well-behaved four and five-year-olds are sitting in a circle of tiny wooden chairs in front of the backboard. I unpack my 60-year old Guild acoustic. I was a folk singer in the 70s-- professional only to the extent that I was occasionally paid in sandwiches and beer.  So I am happy to volunteer.  Maybe I can also subvert the school system with a little optimistic American folklore.

“What’s the first song you ever heard?”  I ask my wide-eyed audience. “Sur la Pont, D’Avignon,” “Frère Jacques,” “Au Clair de la Lune,” they offer tentatively.  

That’s right, and those are folk songs, I explain.  These are songs that have been sung for hundreds of years, and are part of a country’s tradition.  Here’s one from America.  I start strumming “The Blue Tail Fly.”   They gleefully jimmy-crack-corn along with me.

I hold up the first book I wrote, Folk Music in America. “I wrote this 37 years ago for children and today I’m going to show and tell you about the songs of my country,” I say in my fluent but precariously accented French. I may not have any great talent in either language or music, but I know no fear.

What songs do your parents sing you? I next ask.   “Fais Dodo,” “l’Enfant Do,” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” come back.  I congratulate them, splendid-- those are lullabies, something fathers and mothers have sung to their children since time began.  Voila one from the Louisiana territories, which used to be a French Colony, and I pluck away at Mississippi John Hurt’s version of “Ma Creole Belle.”

What animals sing songs?  Do elephants, tigers, or zebras sing songs?   After a brief, but seriously considered discussion, they decide that birds are the best performers.  Why do they sing to each other?  To attract each other in courtship.  Yes, they are French. And that’s where the love song comes in, say I, segueing into “Fair and Tender Ladies.”

What’s the first song you ever sang?”  is my final query. Again they cry out the titles of French juvenile standards, this time confident of their repertoires.  “No, no, no,” I correct them. “The first song you ever sang was ‘Waaa Wah Waaa: I’m hungry!’”

And that, my children, is what we call The Blues.  I wrap up the session with Jim Kweskin’s cautionary version of “Blues in the Bottle.”

Blues in the Bottle, Blues in the Bottle, where do you think you’re at—Pretty Mama?

First you kick my dog, now you sit on my hat!

I’m going to Chattanooga, goin’ ta Chattanooga, see my Ponies Run,

If I get a prize, Gonna give my baby some.

Going to Silly Putty, Goin’ to Silly Putty, sorry I can’t take you,

I can’t abide any children, goes around sniffing glue!

By this time the kids are shaking rattles, blowing horns, and clapping along with the chorus. The teachers find my presentation so pedagogic, they ask me to return.  Soon I have given mini-concerts to all the classes at La Maternelle.  Then, a few months later, came my big break.

I am invited to sing at the yearly tri-school Lenten Karnival.  This is a mammoth venue.  School kids from three districts parade in costumes.  This is a pretty pricy community, here in the Yvelines, west of Paris, so I walk up to the stadium yard to find hundreds of Spidermen, dragons, clowns, tramps and nearly two thirds of the girls dressed  as princesses.

They have built a four meter high Straw man out of boxes and chicken wire.  I’m impressed.  This ceremony must derive from Druid equinox rituals from the dawn of French civilization.  First they parade around this monolithic statue, and next—with the aid of the local fire brigade—light the figure on fire, and then cheer uproariously till this symbol of Winter’s passing has been  reduced to a pile of ashes.

This might be a hard act to follow, I’m thinking as I walk into the Stadium hall. A wall of kids munching snacks are chanting for Lorelei’s Papa, the Singing Cowboy.  I have worn my Harrison Ford “Raider’s” hat and my Texas Lucchesse riding boots for the occasion.  I have put together a 15 minute show of hits from Leadbelly, the Eagles, Niel Young, and a couple of my own compositions.

I continue my crusade for creativity.   Sing along with me.  I know The Académie Française wants you to use exactly the same French word every time in order to speak good French.  But English isn’t like that.   It you can find a new way to say something, we think you are quite articulate and witty.    Why Shakespeare himself—who many hold as the greatest writer in English— invented thousands of new words in his plays and poems.  Every time he could think of a new possibility or experience, he came up with a new expression.  So sing along with me—express yourself.

At the end of my performance, and the kids stopped clapping, Marie-Claire distributed a bunch of Post-its to the children, saying “Since we have a star visiting us today, you should ask him for his autograph.”

For the next 10 minutes I sign my name for the clamouring tots. I thank the headmistress profusely.  “I’ve always wanted to do this.  Now I can die happy.” During the next two weeks, parents would come up to me on the streets of Le Mesnil-Le-Roi and Maisons-Laffitte, saying “Hey, I know you—your signature is on our refrigerator door.”

My heart is full.  Its cockles are roasting.  I walk this tiny Gallic town with a dumb crazy grin. At this rate, next year I may be a hit with le Secondaire, maybe even —junior high school.  After that, it’s just a skip and jump to the City of Light.

Copyright 2007 Brian Van der Horst (www.bvdh.com).  All rights reserved.