Times are tough and the news is bad. But music – which softens morals, as everyone knows – consoles us for a moment. Enough to salute his muse, Euterpe, who invented the flute according to Greek mythology. We need his harmonies.
She must sing well in French from time to time for our part of the country. On real melodies and texts with inspiring lyrics, which are sometimes sorely lacking on the airwaves. So we put records into a stereo or tune in online, searching for the rhythms and words that help lift us up or anchor us to the ground. Sometimes capturing tunes from yesterday. Although the good old days are still a myth, of course.
As the holidays approach, many will rock traditional tunes just to warm up together by the fire. Since Wednesday, others have been listening on repeat America cries Or Heads up of the Cowboys Fringants, in honor of the singer Karl Tremblay, who died far too young. This group has affected several generations. Between three antics, he spoke of belonging, married the roots to current rhythms, sang of pain, pride, celebration and freedom. Taking over from Quebec singers before him, who knew how to accompany their people through their doubts, their defeats and their dreams.
So, this month, songs by Félix Leclerc help me cope with the excesses of the times. An old CD taken from my discotheque conquered my ears. Why Felix? For his deep voice, for his poetry of simplicity, for his homage to nature, to love and to the common people, with their misery, their yokes and their daily joys. He is a bit like the grandfather of the Cowboys Fringants, with his generosity and his love of his people. Like them, he offered a memorable concert on the plains of Abraham, I saw the wolf, the fox, the lion, on August 13, 1974, alongside Gilles Vigneault and Robert Charlebois. Almost half a century before that of the group which in turn excited the crowds in Quebec last summer.
I listen to an album of Félix’s old songs from pre-modernity, preceding his sovereignist commitments and the October crisis, because they seem to me to be the antipodes of our life at 100 km/h. The lark, not yet angry, denounced the injustices, but hardly called for profound upheavals in his Quebec of the Great Darkness. Without having any illusions about human nature. “The pleasure of one is to see the other break his neck,” he intoned in a timeless verse. Titles like Me, my shoes, That morning, Little happinesst
Son of a father who was a farmer and storyteller, Félix Leclerc loved the earth under his feet, ripe wheat and life-saving poetry. During his tours in France, the troubadour was welcomed like a king. For his authenticity, like the Cowboys decades after him. The Quebec bard from the woods and fields changed the course of French-speaking song in the mid-20th century.e century. Georges Brassens was inspired by his shows to in turn celebrate the cherished freedom. Charles Trenet pushed the magic note in his wake. He had children at home. Karl Tremblay sang neo-trad. To a rock tune like Robert Charlebois. On a poetic-rough vein à la Richard Desjardins. Composers and lyricists pass their hands over time. Swing your company!
We still find kings, fairies and princesses in Felix’s songs. Like in the castles of the old motherland. The cord with her was cut on our shores during the time of her monarchy, but the rich folklore perpetuated the oral tradition during the childhood of the bard of Bozo. Its repertoire has accents coming from so far away that it links back to ancient generations whose traces capsize us. The Cowboys Fringants learned, from him and others, this collective need to maintain links with a past that was too quickly vanished. The dear and vibrant voices still sing to us on those mornings. Even when, on stage, they were silent.