French is my second language, and I find it much easier to read and speak than to hear. That’s because all the silent letters make any words spoken quickly hard to discern if it’s not your native tongue. There are too many options to sort through quickly in your mind.
When I was in Paris several years ago, it was much easier to read signs and menus, and even order food and taxi cabs, than to comprehend what people were saying in the Métro. (It really is true, though, that French people appreciate when Americans try to speak the language. They just smile politely when you butcher it.)
The other challenge « en français » is that the plethora of short vowels and nasal sounds makes the language hard to sing. As my lyric-soprano wife likes to say, “There’s just no way to make ‘/ɛ̃/’ sound pretty.” Ditto, /ɑ̃/, /ɔ̃/, and /œ̃/. (If you don’t know the international phonetic alphabet, just blow your nose to imitate a duck, and you’ll approximate those sounds.)
The saving grace in French music—particularly classical songs and opera—is that short vowels can be lengthened, emphasized, and given specific rhythmic weight to fit the musical phrasing. Additionally, for two back-to-back nasal sounds, the first syllable can be lengthened, and the second can stay short, as in the famous Christmas carol:
“Il Est Né Le Divin Enfant”
(“He Is Born, the Divine Child”)
The ending syllable in “divin” normally would be short and nasal, but that would give you three duck quacks in a row (i.e., “in,” “en,” and “fant”). Therefore, French music allows the singer to pronounce the word “divin” as “diveen” to minimize the quacking.
Merci beaucoup.
All that said, I was captivated by the beauty and passion of “Maison” (“Home”) as sung by “Lucie,” a 15-year-old year old French singer who gained popularity for her performances on The Voice Kids France. It was written and composed by the aptly named Emilio Piano, whose score is exquisite. Below is the approximate English translation, though I may have missed an idiom or two. C’est la vie.
Enjoy!
Home
Where do we go?
When we no longer have a home?
Flowers grow from under the concrete
Mom, tell me
Where do we go?
Will we really know one day?
Or are we just faking it, all the time?
Where does our heart go when it gets lost?
In its doubts and winters?
Why is every day the same?
Will we end up seeing what we have put together?
Mom, tell me
Over yonder
From the storm, there is
Love, love, love
When heaven opens up
Everything becomes calm again
And all is well
Where does it go?
Happiness, that fragile thread,
When it wobbles and breaks?
Mom, tell me
Where does it go?
Why does the world seem so big,
When we become just a bit bigger than before?
What happens to dreams that are lost?
And memories that we forget?
Will I always have questions?
Maybe I’ll make them into songs.
Mom, tell me
Over yonder
From the storm, there is
Love, love, love
When heaven opens up
Everything becomes calm again
And all is well
