Fricative frisson

For the British, France stands in a very special relationship, offering across the physically tiny but conceptually enormous Strait of Dover an image that is the same in essentials but vastly and gloriously different in details.  This has been true ever since the late seventeenth century, when the two powers began struggling in earnest for dominance first in Europe and later in the new colonies; France has continually rubbed up against England and provided a healthy Darwinian competition politically, economically and culturally.  It is rather sad, then, that the anglophone faction - strengthened now by the rise of America - should be so dominant.  Today Anglo-American words, concepts and values are swamping the world. 
 
So it is good to see that the Gallic response has been to fight on, even if the battle is unequal and the struggle doomed to be quixotic.  Thus there are the famous Franglais laws attempting - in vain, of course - to stem the flow of undigested anglicisms.  French art and literature is encouraged with such a multitude of prizes, grants, bursaries and awards, that to the outsider it sometimes seems hard to be an artist and not have one.  Indigenous cinema has developed an identity and flourishing sub-culture of its own in a way that puts the British quite to shame.  And France has also retained a very distinct popular vocal tradition.

The francophile scholar would doubtless want to trace the latter back through Rameau and Jannequin to the fourteenth century chansonnier Guillaume de Machaut; but most people would see the torch passing from a singer like Edith Piaf to Jacques Brel, Serge Gainsbourg and Yves Montand.
 
For the foreigner, there are three notable characteristics of these songs. First, there is the obvious one of mood: the prevalent tone seems to be one of world-weariness, a by-product perhaps of the abiding sense of superiority the French feel, natural in a civilisation which is ancient and has therefore seen it all before.  The second feature is more technical; the rhythms employed are very fluid - unlike the more rigid and four-square patterns of songs in English - so that these chansons lie somewhere between speech and song, and gain greatly in intimacy as a result. Lastly, there is the crucial matter of the uvular fricative.
 
This is the quintessentially French 'r'-sound.   Neither powerfully rolled like the Spanish, nor subtly vestigial like the English, the French 'r' is perhaps the defining timbre of the language.  And it is noticeable how singers - particular those mentioned above - seem to relish its rich roulades, exaggerating the soft roar at the backs of their throats.
 
For the linguistically maladroit British, this sound has always been the shibboleth, the unpronounceable password to that other, conjunct culture.  It was therefore one of the proudest moments of my life when, sitting deep within the enveloping darkness of a language laboratory somewhere, I suddenly heard myself say 'C'est risible' with a generous and nearly correct uvular fricative. A francophone may still have found my pronunciation risible, but it sent a shiver of pleasure down my spine.  Because I realised that, as far as French was concerned, now we were really talking.

(28.12.91)

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