Between sets I decided to open a conversation with the woman who had offered me her temporary footstool. She was dressed entirely in black with her long blond hair held back in a ponytail. I placed her in her early twenties.
“Are you familiar with this band?” I asked in French.
“No, this is my first time here,” she said in English.
If anything gets my goat, it’s being smacked in the face with an English response to a perfectly good, grammatically correct French sentence. I knew this woman for ten seconds, and I was already steaming. “Tell me,” I said in my surliest French, “why would you respond to me in English?”
“Because I don’t speak French,” the girl in black said. “I’m Canadian.”
I felt my face flush in the dark. Oh, boy, how do I get out of this? “I’m so sorry. I thought you were French.”
“No, I’m just here for a few weeks—language school.”
“I see.” Now I was trying to act like a human being again. “And then what?”
“I’d like to stay in France for as long as my money will hold out. As a matter of fact, I’m looking for a job right now.”
“Uh-oh. That’s going to be tough with a Canadian passport.”
“I also have an British passport.”
“That’s a different story.”
“Plus, I’m fluent in Spanish. I lived in Guatemala for a couple of years. I thought that might help.”
I was beginning to like this young Canadian. The French phrase came to mind: Elle est bien dans sa peau (she is happy or comfortable with herself). There was a self-confidence about her that was endearing.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ve been in correspondence with the director of personnel at L’Ecole des Roches, one of the most prestigious boarding schools in France. They’re just one hundred kilometers west of Paris. At first I thought that I might land a job there myself as an English teacher, but with an American passport, it’s nearly impossible. Maybe they could use someone who is fluent in both English and Spanish. Would something like that interest you?”
“You bet.”
“Are you online?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Why don’t you give me your email address, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sara.”
“Okay, Sara. My name is Allen. This may be a long shot, but we’ll give it a try. How does that sound?”
“Sounds perfect.”
I wondered if Sara was at all nervous about exchanging email addresses with an old guy from the States. From what I could see in the dim light, she seemed to be at ease and genuinely thankful for the help. The test would come when I sent her my first email message. Would it bounce?
The band was starting its second set. This time they paid tribute to some of the French standards: “La Mer” (“The Sea”) and “Un homme et une Femme” (“A Man and a Woman”). There were times when they were so far out on the fringe that I had to strain to recognize any resemblance to the chord changes I knew.
Finally, the last note of the last song was played, and Frank Nicolas announced that le boeuf would begin after a five-minute break.
“I’ve been dreaming about this moment for a long time,” I said to Sara, “but these guys are so hot. I just hope I don’t make a complete fool out of myself.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” Sara said. “Go for it.”
“Right, easy enough for you to say—sitting there smugly with your arms folded.”
“Just soaking up the atmosphere,” Sara said with a smile.
I exhumed my cornet from under my chair, smiled weakly at Sara, and picked my way through the crowd to the foot of the stage. I found an open chair and sat down to unpack my instrument. The original quartet had kicked off the first number of the jam, the Miles Davis tune “All Blues.” A pianist and a trombone player had joined the group, and they were both sensational. I was beginning to think there wasn’t one average player in all of France. At the end of the song, Frank Nicolas looked at me and gave me a nod, the sign for me to join the group.
“How about ‘The Nearness of You’ in F?” I asked.
Frank smiled. “No, we do jazz standards.”
I knew what Frank meant. The 1940 Hoagy Carmichael melody, “The Nearness of You,” has certainly been covered by jazz singers, but a pure bebop jazz musician is looking for something a little more recent and, often, more complex—something from, say, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane, or Thelonious Monk. The problem was I was more of a George Gershwin, Rogers and Hart kind of a singer.
“How about ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’?”
“No.”
“‘There Will Never Be Another You’?”
“Can’t do it.”
I knew I was calling for titles that were not bebop jazz standards, but the 1940s big band tunes were all I knew.
“Would ‘My Funny Valentine’ work?” I asked meekly as a last resort.
Frank’s eyes brightened. “We do that,” he said. “What key?”
“E flat.”
“Good.”
I set the tempo as a slow ballad, and the band started vamping on a figure that sounded more like a Latin bebop version of “Yes, We’ve Got No Bananas” than the laid-back swoon tune I was accustomed to.
With my cornet under my arm, I stepped up to the microphone and started singing. Nothing was there. I could feel my voice resonating, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I stopped singing. An American in the front row said, “We can hear you.”
I listened to two more measures of vamp and opened my mouth to sing again. Still nothing. I was beginning to sweat. I checked the microphone; it was switched on. When I looked at Frank in desperation, he walked up to the microphone and tapped on the head. Then he looked at the sound booth at the back of the room and pointed at the monitor that was stationed at my feet. “Un, deux, trois,” he said into the mic. The monitor sprang to life.
There is one thing I have learned in all my years of singing. It does not matter if the audience can hear you perfectly. If you cannot hear yourself, you are lost. Your brain needs the feedback to register how you are doing—to make subtle adjustments as necessary. Singing without a monitor is like a pilot trying to fly in the clouds without the benefit of instruments. The plane would be in a spiraling nosedive in an instant.
The band was still vamping.
I know enough about entertaining to know that an audience will feel anxious if the performer is unsure of himself. I wanted to let them know that I was all right. I placed my lips against the microphone and spoke to the audience in French. “I have been dreaming about this moment for a long time—the chance to play with real French jazzmen. Thank you for being a part of my dream.”
I heard a voice from the darkened audience say, “C’est gentil.” That’s sweet.
I took the microphone from the stand and started to sing. My voice leapt from the monitor; I could hear myself! The band was playing dense, rhythmic patterns behind me—driving me through the song with an electric energy that I had never felt before. The power of the band was churning under me—no, through me—like a runaway freight train. So this is what it’s like to play with the big boys, I thought to myself. I embraced the song. I was beginning to feel the familiar and welcomed heat in my chest.
After my vocal solo, the trombonist, guitarist, and pianist took a chorus. Their improvisations were as clean and inventive as any bebop solos I’ve ever heard. Frank sat out to give me, I thought, my day in the sun. Now, it was my turn to play a solo on my cornet. I started by playing close to the melody and then, little by little, began to reach higher and higher, culminating in a high C, which is rare for me—I prefer lingering on the staff in a register that is safer for me. With one screaming riff, I ripped the horn off my lips as I had seen Frank Nicolas do. I glanced at him standing in the shadow at the side of the stage and wondered if he caught the tribute. He laughed,
nodded, and shook his finger at me as a mock scolding.
At the end of my cornet solo, I picked up the microphone to sing the “head.” By this time my chest was on fire. A few times in my life, I have felt what many have called “being in the zone”—the feeling of being out of your body, just riding on the wave of divine inspiration. That is the way I felt on that final chorus. I felt like I could do anything, sing anything. And when I reached the end of the tune, I stopped before the last note, signaling the band that I wanted to improvise a scat arpeggio in a cappella. My voice rose and fell with ease, the preposterous syllables tumbling from my mouth like alphabet soup. And when I returned to the final word—“valentine”—the band was right there to stamp the ending with a soaring, fanciful bebop coda.
As the audience was applauding, Frank stepped onto the stage, took a cluster of keys from his pocket, and placed the keys on my chest like a medal for valor in the field of battle. I could not have been happier if he had presented me with the Légion d’Honneur. He put his other arm around my shoulder and spoke into my ear. “Bravo.” I think it may have been the sweetest sound I have ever heard. I immediately stepped down from the stage, knowing that anything I did after that would be anticlimactic. It was the legendary circus promoter, P.T. Barnum, who said, “Always leave them wanting more.” Good advice—especially since I had nothing more to give.
As I was winding my way back to my chair near the door, a handsome young man with dark brown eyes grabbed me by the wrist. “Chapeau—well done,” he said.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
The young man still held me by the wrist. “My name is Emmanuel,” he said. “Would you stay to hear me sing?”
“Of course.”
“I would like to know what you think.”
“I don’t know what I can offer,” I said, “but I would be happy to listen to you. It would be a treat.”
With that Emmanuel smiled and headed for the stage. I turned and walked to where Sara was seated.
“You were perfect,” she said. “I will never have your talent, but someday I would like to have your courage.”
“For my money, a young Canadian woman on her own in France is pretty courageous.”
“Maybe,” Sara said. “Anyway this courageous young lady has to head home. I have an early class tomorrow morning.” She looked at her watch and saw that it was just past midnight. “Make that this morning.”
“Have a good night,” I said. “It was a delight to meet you. I promise to check with my contact at Ecole des Roches. No idea if there is anything available, but it can’t hurt to try.”
“I really appreciate it.”
“Like the French say, ‘C’est normal.’”
Sara kissed me lightly on both cheeks and said goodbye.
I sat down just as Emmanuel was sitting on a stool on the stage. He was speaking into the microphone. “Bonsoir mesdames, bonsoir messieurs. I have become interested in singing free form—improvising without any melody in mind. Let’s see what happens.”
The pianist began by playing an airy modal scale with no hint of a melody. (Modal scales—any of seven patterns of notes over an octave using only the white keys—are as old as ancient Greece. They have a haunting, oriental quality.) The drummer picked up his brushes and rolled lightly on the big crash cymbal.
Emmanuel closed his eyes and began to sing. His tones were pure and accurate with no trace of misgivings. I could tell in an instant that he knew his instrument. There was no faltering to find a note, something that is so often heard among young singers. He sang with ease, one note leading to another in surprising combinations of rhythm and melody. He was a gifted singer.
At the end of his song, Emmanuel threaded his way to where I was sitting and sat down beside me.
“You are incredible,” I said with full conviction.
The young man smiled, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “Really?”
“Really.”
“What advice do you have for me?”
“Understand, any thoughts I have are just my ideas. They may not have any value for you.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“First, I think I would lose the stool. Try to allow your body to be as free as your voice—a supplement to your voice. It can help you tell the story.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“You might also think of your voice as an instrument. What would you sound like if you were a tenor sax or a trumpet or a guitar or a drum kit? If you don’t have it already, get Al Jarreau’s CD, Look to the Rainbow. He’s the best.”
“I know of Al Jarreau, but I don’t have that CD. I will look for it.”
“There is something else that might help.”
“What’s that?”
“From time to time you might try to make a musical reference to a piece that is known to the audience. Not only does it demonstrate your depth of musical knowledge, but it also lets the audience share a joke with you. The reference could be anything—a jazz standard, a children’s song, a classical piece—anything. For example, sometimes I’ll use the octave jumps in ‘On the Trail’ from Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite or a two-measure reference to ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’ Even a reference to the French national anthem could work.”
“Cool.” (The French actually use the word “cool,” a legacy from dubbed versions of the American TV series “Happy Days.”)
“But I really want to stress that these are just ideas. You are a wonderful singer. I think your own instincts will serve you beautifully. Just keep learning and having fun.”
Emmanuel thanked me. Then we exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye.
When I left Jam Action that night, it was just past 1:00 a.m. I was feeling pretty high. For me, it had been the perfect night, the fulfillment of a personal dream. I had played with a brilliant French jazz band. And, along the way, I had touched, however slightly, the lives of two outstanding young people, Sara and Emmanuel. It doesn’t get any better than that.
As soon as I got home, I went to my laptop and sent off a message to Jean-Paul, the personnel director at L’Ecole des Roches. Two days later Jean-Paul said that he might have a spot for Sara as an English teacher for students whose first language was Spanish. It actually sounded like it might work. A day later I received a call from the president of the prestigious boarding school. He wanted my assessment of Sara. I told him that although I had only met her once, I thought by virtue of her poise, intelligence, and experience, she surely warranted an interview. That meager recommendation must have been enough because that very day Sara told me that she was flying to Paris for an interview. At that point I knew she would land the job. Two weeks later, settled in at L’Ecole des Roches, Sara sent me this email message:
Bonjour Allen!
Wow, this school is beautiful! The campus is a great place to jog, and the staff is energetic and very friendly. I am living in La Prairie with sixty girls between fourteen and eighteen. So far, so good.
My experience up to now has been very privileged, to say the least. On Saturday, my first day, all the boarders and housemasters went to Rouen, the town where Jeanne d’Arc was burned at the stake (as I’m sure you know). Of course, the kids were not interested in seeing the eleventh-century cathedral, so we spent most of the time at the annual winter fair riding roller coasters.
On Tuesday, I was one of the lucky six profs who got to chaperone the kids to Euro Disney! I was the biggest kid there. I saw Mickey and Minnie, the Christmas parade, and rode every single ride (except the lame ones, of course).
Yesterday, Thursday, we had another school trip to Versailles. Although I wouldn’t tell the French, I was not all that impressed with the opulent palace. I think I was expecting something more Renaissance, but the Château itself is much more bureaucratic looking and quite plain really. Excessive use of gold paint and busy English décor is not my favorite, but it was worth seeing.
Tod
ay, Friday, I had my first English class. The students were well behaved and excited to have a native English speaker. The young ones are going to be easier to teach than the older students. My role here is still confusing for me and perhaps for some of the students as well. I am not used to the kids calling me Mademoiselle.
I haven’t worked on my French this week at all, which is a bit disappointing. So many kids and profs want to practice speaking English with me. For some reason I have begun feeling a bit shy about speaking French. I hope it doesn’t last long.
I will write more soon. I just wanted to send you a note of first impressions and thank you once again for making this all possible.
Allen, you’re the best.
Talk to you soon, Sara
CHAPTER 12
In the Shadow of Renoir
IN 1971 I VISITED PARIS FOR THE FIRST TIME. I climbed over 1,500 steps to the top of the Eiffel Tower (today, the last section is only accessible by elevator). I stood under the Arc de Triomphe, strolled along the Left Bank of the Seine River, and marveled at the Gothic architecture of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame. But of all the glories of Paris—and there are thousands—nothing was any more enchanting for me than the thirty-two- by twenty-five-inch painting, Étude, Torse, Effet de Soleil (Study, Torso, Effect of Sun) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, now exhibited in the Musée d’Orsay. Although Renoir entitled the painting a “study,” it was exhibited at the Second Impressionist Exposition in 1876, heralding the importance that Renoir attached to the work.
The image of that sensual portrait—the nude torso of a rounded woman with long auburn hair, her body dappled by the shadow of leaves in the morning sun—has settled in my consciousness and stayed there as rooted as the opening refrain of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The woman’s head is tilted slightly to her right, her full lips are softly closed, and her downward gaze is quiet and wistful and completely at peace. Although lesser known, it is by far my favorite impressionist painting.
So it was with that image in my head, the Nude in the Sun (as it is often listed in the States), that I signed up for a painting class in Pérols. I did not have the temerity to think of myself as an American Renoir—he casts a shadow that curls around the planet. I thought of myself more as a house painter with a couple of four-inch-wide brushes and a flare for color.
Pardon My French Page 19
