Mix Tape: Chanson

I first heard of Thomas Fersen from a hip language school teacher in 2007, who used his song Zaza in a lesson one day. E and I were instantly hooked, for good reason. Found out after, that he is also one of our friend's favorite French artists, who gave us some of his stuff to listen to.

Fast forward to 2011. I ask the librarian in the music section for recommendations of French artists. I told her I liked rock, and that I enjoy Thomas Fersen. "Well, he's not Rock," she informed me, "that's Chanson."

I thought Rock was a pretty large and generous umbrella term for anything that wasn't rap, classical, or polka. Apparently it's not the same in France. Chanson is the word for 'song,' but apparently a genre all its own as well. I'm not exactly sure what it includes other than the little bit Wikipedia is giving me, but my early estimations tell me the emphasis is on, first and foremost and if not completely, the lyrics. Each song, in some way, is an ode to the French language itself. It's one reason the French are known for taking so much pride in the beauty of their language.

I like this, even if it is sort of the extreme opposite of the majority of my musical tastes. Above all, I like instrumental music with no lyrics whatsoever. When there are lyrics, I rarely listen to them, at least never at first, and I typically tend to treat the voice as just one more instrument in the mix. The music I like depends mostly on unusual instrumentation, soaring harmonies, gimmicky dynamics (slow builds and dramatic stops), and the like. To make a song rest entirely on its lyrics and then melody? This comes closer to just plain poetry. And doing it well takes some serious skill, more skill than it takes to make a good crescendo.

There's a line of songwriters falling into this cherished tradition, and relatively speaking, Fersen is a newcomer. But I've heard him already called a master and one of the best, and I'm only just beginning to fully appreciate why.

I'm choosing this song "Monsieur" for how easily it gets stuck in my head. It's actually a bit morbid, about a murderer or assassin, but you can't understand French and I can't really either, so that doesn't matter, right? You can still enjoy the flawless rhythm of the words and pleasant sound of the rhymes. It's a little tale told by "un peu jardinier qui fait la cuisine," the lowly gardener who cooks.

But as I was saying, it gets stuck in your head. One day the kid and I were walking through Giverny--Claude Monet's little village--he on my shoulders, and I was whistling this song loudly (a habit I haven't yet kicked). He kept hitting my head and told me not to whistle, that we were busy walking and I couldn't whistle here, but I couldn't help it, I kept going. I whistled in the train. He told me no whistling. I whistled in the kitchen. He told me no whistling.

And so, I dare you to listen to this song just once and not whistle for the rest of the day. And when you and I can finally speak French fluently, we can get together and talk with even more appreciation about how wonderful this fellow is at what he does. Because it's not about that melody you'll be whistling, it's about the lyrics. Ironic, I guess.

Thomas Fersen - "Monsieur"

Famous Dance Moves

It's been determined that with the dance moves I typically employ, I belong on a children's cartoon. The resemblance, I'm afraid, is uncanny.
Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Needy Little Creatures

My wife is preparing a foot soak. I told her that sounded amazing, thinking about joining. I guess it's been one of those days.

Like the way we bolted out of Pizza Hut tonight--yes, Pizza Hut, first time in ten years or so, it's bizarre how being an expat makes the former least desirable options feel now like the only options--and slammed the car doors on two wailing little boys, speeding out of the parking lot towards home, laughing deliriously mostly to keep ourselves from crying, saying nothing to each other except, "This is our life. Look at our life," in puzzled disbelief over and over again.

Don't worry guys, I'm not soaking my feet, but as I watch, they're only aching more.

No, I'm writing instead, and I've typed this with one hand. After plenty more wailing, he's fallen asleep with his strong fist clutching my collar, stretching my t-shirt. Needy little creatures.

This is my life.

Mix Tape: Risking Disaster...and Escaping

I love the band Lake because their influences are so unexpected and they pull it off so effortlessly and charmingly.

I'm not sure there's a better example than this song, "Roger Miller" off of their newest Giving and Receiving. Not my favorite Lake song, but the most surprising of all.

Seriously, what genre is this? It's the sleazy jazz you'd hear in the elevator of the lounge. It's the dance music you'd hear in the lounge, but kids aren't dancing to it, forty-year-olds are. White forty-year-olds. Most likely wearing velour and showing chest hair. Is it 70's? 80's? When was the last time you heard a synth solo that awful? But those horns, is this the Lawrence Welk Show? What's going on? Where are we? How old am I? Is this a time machine? When did this album come out?

And then, of course, what in the world is she singing about? Hemingway? Roger Miller? What?

It's a barrage of questions, and most importantly, why do I feel like dancing? And why is the urge so uncontrollable? Why won't my hips stop swiveling, especially when I've never known how to swivel them before? Why am I smiling? Why do I never want this song to end? Am I really actually enjoying this?

The point is, in anyone else's hands, this is a disaster waiting to happen. Nobody would even attempt such a thing. Nobody would want to. These are genres best left in the decade they came from.

But here comes smart, sweet, charming, understated Lake, redeeming all things, making all things danceable, all things bright, all things irresistible.

Lake: "Roger Miller" from Giving and Receiving

Go

There are some moments where you say, "No, stop growing!!"

And there are others where you say, "Go ahead. Grow and keep growing. Because this is the most wonderful thing I've watched in a long time."
The kid knows how to fly a kite on his own now, apparently. He runs fast, holds tight, stares upward and giggles.

The (not as) New Guy, 4

For the first time since that dreaded first experience in the post office, today I was served by the same man who mumbled his way through helping me back then.

I understood (most of) what he said. And I opened my mouth and actually responded. And he understood me. And my knees didn't shake and my hands didn't get sweaty. And I could pay in exact change because I understood the numbers he said. And when I forgot to get the receipt I needed, I turned around and went back in without any pep talks, asked for it, and got it.

It was almost as if I was going to the post office in my homeland. That felt pretty good, you know.

Toolman

The kid has taken to yelling, "SCREW YOU!" at both his mother and me.

Thankfully, it is still always in the context of chasing us with his drill. So it's nice to be able to laugh about it with a clear conscience.

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And with that, though I was for some reason trying to avoid it, I will now start yet another new blog category: fatherhood.

Summer

I've been living with the impression that summer is summer, Paris or Pennsylvania.

But as I was laying with the kid just now at bedtime, I realized there are no fireflies in Paris, Pennsylvania's state insect.

And for just a moment I felt a calm, warm and humid summer night in my parents' backyard, fireflies steadily flashing, just after dark, bare feet, stars appearing, neighbors talking on decks in the distance, birds, bats, breeze.

That transported me several years prior to taking a night-time swim with my dad while the pool was still there, when the water felt warm because the air was cool.

And then I traveled to Maple Street, charcoal grill smouldering after a satisfying meal, still sitting around the patio table we painted robin's egg blue and put in the grass, still laughing with friends after the sun had set.

No, summer is not summer, Paris or Pennsylvania.

Paris has its perks, like the way it stays light until after ten PM.

But it doesn't have backyards, fireflies, pools, patio tables, or charcoal grills. That feels like saying it doesn't have summer at all.

Norwegians don't like snails.

I've been learning French next to this guy, part of the reason I giggle so much in class. Turns out he's a talented videographer, keeping his skills polished by extravagantly documenting his first taste of escargot. I don't understand Norwegian either, but I think it's a fun and giggly watch anyway. Then again, I guess by now I'm pretty used to watching things I don't understand at all.

Escargots from LtgMedia

I've requested an English subtitled version. Will keep you posted.

We tried telling him tonight that eating them served at a restaurant is sure to be better than this boxed, frozen, French-equivalent-to-Wal-Mart-brand travesty. Maybe I can get in on part two of this adventure with a taste at that snail restaurant shown in the video.

Mix Tape: Song for a Walk

Here is the start of a new series/blog category which includes songs to add to a mix tape. I'm too lazy/busy/preoccupied/distracted to create mixes for my friends who are interested. So, each time I come across a song that stays on repeat for a little while, I'll talk about it here. It's up to you to compile the mix, though. I realize that's not much fun, especially because it doesn't involve custom-made-artwork-and-packaging, but you can take it or leave it. Man, this makes me sound like a jerk. What I meant to say was: this is all just a writing exercise about songs I like.

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There is room in my heart for Iron and Wine. I first heard his debut record on a fun little trip down to Indianapolis with Jared. He knew Sam Beam was about to blow up I think, bought the CD at the store we visited, and because I was with him on this trip I got the inside scoop and was a step ahead of the hipsters. I knew pretty instantly how great that record was--it's really all in the feeling of it--and so I bought it for myself shortly thereafter. That record is still full of all sorts of vivid feelings.

There's a lot to love about the guy. Voice, guitar plucking, lyrics, sense of humor, beard, artwork, southern accent, film professor, father, and his nice and perfectly slow cover of The Postal Service's 'Such Great Heights.' (If you click on that Postal Service link and have never heard of or listened to them, you should know that they existed long before Owl City did.)

Let's talk about this song first. It's "Walking Far From Home" from the new album Kiss Each Other Clean.

I don't know what it is about this chord progression and melody, but it hooked me immediately and I was riveted. The variations on a theme keep it fresh and powerful all the way through, including those falsetto harmonies laced through the background, but especially that distorted bass at 3:00. But seriously, ask my wife, this melody got stuck in my brain and I've been whistling it for days on end.

Then there are the lyrics. I don't know what in the world they mean, and from the way I've heard Mr. Beam talk I'm not sure he does either, but I love the strong images he creates here. "I saw sinners making music and I dreamt of that sound" and "An old woman on a speed train, she was closing her eyes" and "Saw a car crash in the country where the prayers run like weeds along the road" and even the awkward "Naked dancers in the city how they spoke for us all, spoke for us all." I've always liked the idea of listing the things you see on a walk, and so I naturally love walking with him here. It seems as though he's taking a cue from his film background, as each one of these short phrases seems to set up a much bigger and longer scene that plays out in one's mind. This is good poetry.

But while we're on the subject, here's the thing. I'm not willing to herald him as the most talented singer-songwriters of our day like some people might try to do, and here's why. I guess it was probably his trick from the very start, but to me it didn't get noticeable until recently. The poor guy picks a lovely little chord progression or guitar riff, matches a nice melody, and lets those two things along with his pretty good lyricism try to carry the thing home. It didn't get obvious until 'Trapeze Swinger', but man oh man, who could mind that progression and that melody being repeated with those lyrics for over 9 minutes straight? Like it does here in 'Walking Far From Home,' it worked. Perfectly. Beautifully. Have you ever listened to a 9 minute repetitive song on repeat? I did. Just like I've been listening to this 5 minute repetitive song on repeat. When it works, it works.

But that formula wears thin eventually as it does on the rest of Kiss Each Other Clean. What starts with this engrossing opener goes on to hash and rehash old and familiar and recycled melodies. It's not just the formula that's tired, but we've heard a lot of these same vocal riffs before. It all gets dressed up in lots of different ways with a back-up band tinkering and experimenting and exploring genres that probably never should have been explored in the first place, all in hopes to cover up this little charade of repetitive song making. It's a shame, because we all want to love the man. What's more, we want to love this perfect album opener, and the other 9 songs tempt us to say it's worthless too.

All that being said, there is room in my heart for Iron and Wine. There's even more room in my heart for taking a walk with a song like this one.

Walking Wires

With all that's been going on around here, I haven't had much time for heavy reading, and thus I'm forced to retreat to the genre I prefer anyway: children's books. Namely, Caldecott Award Winners.

We stopped through Shakespeare and Company bookstore today for the first time. It's a famous, historic, English-speaking bookstore in the very center of Paris across the street from Notre Dame. I had heard about it, but was even more pleasantly surprised than I expected to be. Full of good books, of course, but also full of delightful little surprises everywhere you look, whether it's a quote on the wall, a unique mosaic floor, a typewriter at your disposal in a little hidden nook, or notes stuck to the walls left from other book-loving tourists. All this to say, you should really consider visiting next time you swing through Paris.
We didn't have a whole lot of time to linger, but I walked upstairs and immediately saw this book sitting in the children's section. I'm not much of an impulse buyer, but there was no questioning. The only thing that would have made me hesitate is the fact that it's not a hardcover.

The Man Who Walked Between the Towers is the story of Philippe Petit, the man who stretched a tight rope between the Twin Towers and danced and walked for close to an hour. If you've been around here for a while, you might remember this was the subject of my favorite film in 2008, Man on Wire.

I just finished reading it with the kid a bit ago. I was a bit taken aback that the perspective of these drawings evoked some of the same wonder--as well as that feeling in my gut I get from heights--that the film did. Maybe it helps that I already saw the film. Maybe it helps that I just saw again the towers of Notre Dame where Petit walked first. But when pages fold out to increase the height of the towers, you are gazing upward in awe along with the other New Yorkers down on the street. The colors and textures help, but the perspective! It's a pretty remarkable achievement, well deserving of the Caldecott medal. And like the film, I love how tastefully it becomes a tribute to the towers that are no longer there, without explicitly saying so. All that to say, the film and the book are the best companions I've seen since The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

I suppose if I continue to read it to the kid, there is going to have be plenty of clarifying commentary, like safety first and how to respect police officers...but for now I'm content to stare upward in amazement.

What? You still have not seen Man on Wire OR The Diving Bell and the Butterfly? I'm not so sure we can be friends.

Better Than Money

The baker was happier than we could have imagined.

"I can't do this. He is too cute. You know, when I held my son for the first time, I cried. It was too much. Millionaires, they have money, but they don't have kids. Me, I am a man of modest means, I don't have millions of dollars, but I have my children, and they are better than money. This boy, he is better than money. You are luckier than the millionaires."
He took a photo on his iPhone to show his wife. No free croissants, but he did quickly grab a bag and fill it with candy for the kid. If we had asked, he probably would have given us anything we wanted.