In Paris "le Jazz" Is Still Jazz
Once upon a time, the French were the standard against which I measured all things elegant and tasteful. I don't think I was the sole employer of this scale. In the States there are things, and then there are French things, and the French things are always much better. You tell me who is the big man on campus: toast, or French toast?
And it seems there's no better way to give one's self an air of sophistication than to trade one's mundane English phrases for their French equivalents. What do we call a truly and exceptionally stylish outfit? "Chic!" Something we've already seen? "Déja vu."
I think it's "bizarre".
The technique can be employed to give cache to an establishment. Who wants to eat "at Bob's house" when you can eat "chez Bob"? It only follows then that France, the motherland of the "café" the "bistro" and the "boutique" should boast nothing but the highest end of "coffee shops," "restaurants," and "clothing stores," right?
Mais non!
The last time I checked, Starbucks wasn't the archetype of the cultivated "café". H&M (soon to be proclaimed the official label of France) doesn't constitute my preconceived notion of a classy "boutique", and forgive me fast food fans but in the way of a "bistro,'" the ubiquitous McDonald's (affectionately referred to here as "Mac Do") leaves something to be desired.
Yet there they are on every "carrefour" in Paris: bustling Gaps and Ben & Jerry's leaving me with the idea that perhaps it's time to find a new international standard for the "je ne sais quoi" (You see! It sounds so much better than "I don't know what.")
As far as I can tell, there is only one thing in France which remains unruined by the dervish of cultural-diffusion. Consistent and admirable delivery of "le jazz".
I can't honestly consider myself a true jazz buff. I am fairly confident, however, in my ability to recognize a creative, well executed phrase of jazz music. I don't remember the first time I sat up in bed to hear my father arrive home, the sound of his keys in the door, and the opening progressions of Miles Davis's "Sketches of Spain". Ever since those minor chords meandered their way into my room I've been hooked. Songs like "So What?" and "A Love Supreme" were the soundtrack to some of my deepest memories. I feel very protective of jazz, which awakened me to the world of music. So, though I'm not the most knowledgeable jazz critic, I am probably one of the hardest to please.
Disillusioned with the idea that French anything was better than American everything, I figured that Paris's jazz scene would be just another let down. Then, last Saturday, my faith in the French "savoir faire" was renewed. My friend Anne-Sarah (who is unflappably French and fashionable... in the best possible way) kidnapped me from a dinner party and together we stole away to the Swan Bar on Boulevard Montparnasse.
The Swan Bar, on its own, is not a terribly happening place. That night however, there was a live jazz concert courtesy of a young, unknown performer by the name of Benjamin Soucu. This made the Swan Bar very happening.
Anne-Sarah and I entered to the opening strains of "Summertime" and I was not in the mood to hear another wheezy, butchered version of my favorite standard. In French. Good thing I didn't have to. Accompanist by his side, armed only with his guitar and a Dylan-meets-Bill-Withers voice, the kid was good. Really, really good.
He followed his first song up with "Sunny" – another sacred standard for me. ("Summertime"? "Sunny"? It had snowed that morning in Paris. While the city's inhabitants seemed to be rejoicing, apparently I wasn't the only one with nostalgia for more temperate times. Were these songs intended as merely crowd pleasers or a protest against the unprecedented precipitation? After all, there's nothing like the bitter, frigid, depressing, bleak, etc... Paris cold to inspire the blues. Whatever the motivation, the Swan's customers certainly seemed to be feeling the music.) Audience members joined him on the choruses of a few more classics including "Lullaby of Birdland" and chilled out rendition of "Proud Mary."
The standards then faded into a series of original compositions with which I was truly impressed. It didn't even faze me that most of the lyrics were in another language. I'd never have guessed that a scruffy teenage Frenchie rumpled collar and plaid Chuck Taylors could deliver that kind of soulful, quality jazz music. I could have translated my heart out but in the end "le jazz" would still have been "jazz". I guess there are things, there are French things, and then there is good music. And good music needs no translation.