all that jazz…

Well, fresh from the “never thought that would happen” files, I seem to now be the new drummer for a French jazz combo! I had my first rehearsal with them last night and, aside from the novelty of counting off songs with “un, deux, trois, quatre”, it seems like music doesn’t need much in the way of translation.

The group is part of an “Open Doors” continuing education program at the Ecole municipale de musique, one of the many popular social programs made available to the community in France. It’s led by a kindly old cat (yep, I’m talking “jazz” here) of maybe 65 years, or so – a real sharp dresser with an artfully draped scarf, a wee, pointy goatee, and, yes, the requisite beret. He had a great way of alternately chiding and encouraging the players on their shortcomings and successes. Most of this was in French, though after one memorable dressing down of the two clarinetists, he paused long enough to glance at me and remark with a perfectly dismissive air, “I tell them they play like goats! Hahaha! Like goats!”

I love my new French jazz combo.

Can’t post without a picture, so here’s a lovely Kristanne enjoying the slopes up at Chamrousse. Yes, this has nothing to do with my new jazz combo, but you have to admit that it’s a refreshing break in the day.

A Postcard from Chamrousse

A Postcard from Chamrousse (Photo: Mark the Shark)

Your Mother’s Maiden Name in France

It almost goes without saying, but one of the best things about traveling to new places is the opportunity to identify and experience the small differences in everyday life, the things that make a place uniquely its own. Communications technologies and media are clearly having an unfortunate leveling effect on these differences, gradually erasing many of the quirks that bestow charm on a place. So, it’s always pleasant to stumble on subtle reminders of what makes France so, well, French.

Today, I created an account on our gas company’s website so I can keep tabs on exactly how much it costs to heat an apartment in the Alps (the answer is “un soupçon” when viewed by someone who payed PG&E bills in California during the Enron years and now wants to use French words he can’t really pronounce — for the rest of you, it’s “not much”). The standard web forms proceeded, one after the other, with prompts for account numbers, usernames, and passwords. Finally, when you get to the obligatory secret question they’ll use to help you recover a lost password, you’re presented with a series of options, the first of which is, “What was the first meal you cooked?”

Forget about my high school mascot and place of birth — I’m going with Top Ramen and Tuna Fish. Perhaps not the most French answer to a very French question, but to thine ownself be true as ole Billy the Shakes sez.. Continue reading