Il n'y a pas de mystère

It's a sunny day here in da Burgh, sunny but cold, below freezing in fact. But, honestly, I'm not complaining. Sunny, cold days in Pittsburgh are all-too-rare, as too often here it is cold in the winter but not sunny at all. Instead, it's gray, unremittingly gray, in sky and in spirit. And it can be wet in the fall and the spring and, in fact, throughout the year. But during the winter, when that frozen water falls from the sky, it does so in a dry, powdery form, a snow that is great for skiing and snow-shoeing. In theory.

In reality, there rarely seems to be enough of it. Oh, it snows. And snows. And snows! But it often doesn't accumulate until January and February, and even then, it snows and snows and snows (did I mention that?), but the amount received is out of proportion to what falls from the sky.

Difficult to explain--and I've had four winters of trying. Essentially, it drizzles non-stop during the winter. It's just that the drizzle is in the form of snow. Follow me?

I often describe a Pittsburgh winter--which usually starts in November and lasts until early April--as being akin to living in the bottom of an old, deep, abandoned well. And instead of rescuers dropping a rope down the well to secure your release, some jokester insists on sprinkling a large box of instant potato flakes overhead, just to give you that snowglobe effect. Jokey as that may be, no one's laughing. Especially not me.

Why I live here is indeed a mystery, but until a new career path reveals itself or the man of my dreams whisks me away to parts unknown, this is where I am. Have kitty litter, shovel, and ice-scraper, will travel.

* * *

A sunny, cold day in Pittsburgh does allow me to do what I do best: Dream of other places. And when I dream of anywhere but here, I find myself feeling wistful for Montréal, a city I adore (which sounds kind of pretentious, "j'adore" and all that, but there you have it) and one where I've passed a lot of wonderful times over the last couple of years.

Admittedly, I have spent more spring, summer, and fall times in Montréal, not winter ones. Despite my physical and psychic groaning over the thought of another winter approaching, I would love to visit la Belle Province during Montréal's "Nuits Blanches" or Québec City's winter carnival, just to experience it and see, maybe just maybe, whether I could cope with a real Canadian winter and make the leap from here to there.

And never look back.

So what brought on that reverie, other than a lovely almost-winter's day? It was a revelation of another sort, the resolving of a musical mystery that has been forty some years in the making.

And the answer is "Les Montréalais" ("The Montrealers") by French-Canadian singer, musician, and actor, Louise Forestier.

Now what was the question?

By way of background, it's a question that was formed in the early- to mid-'70s, when I used to listen to Radio Canada International on my shortwave radio. Remember my posting and podcast about signature tunes and interval signals from a couple of months ago? Well, I promised a follow-up, and the discovery of this tune may be the inspiration I need to keep my word.

"Les Montréalais" was a piece that was used for a period of time as incidental music on the English-language broadcasts of RCI during the mid-'70s. The piece--an odd, wonderful mélange of acoustic and electro--was played at the end of the broadcast, between sign-on and signature tune (the first four notes of "O, Canada"). It's a piece that I have loved ever since I heard it, but until this last week, I never knew what is was called, who it was by, or whether it was even memorable to anyone else.

I've searched for it intermittently over the years. But how do you search for a sound, a song with no lyrics and limited vocals, something that you heard forty years ago? Even Canadian friends couldn't help with this one, especially since I couldn't describe it, sing it, or even hum it properly.

Recently, while browsing around the web and the various CBC/Radio-Canada sites and archives, I stumbled across the homepage for "Maple Leaf Mailbag," the question-and-answer program on Radio Canada International. There was a web form that invited questions, and on a whim, I thought, well, why not? What could it hurt? It's cheaper than the airfare from Pittsburgh to Montréal, that's for sure.

Within a week, I received a pleasant message from a friendly gentleman in Audience Relations saying that he would investigate. And just a couple of days ago, I received a follow-up message, with the mystery of forty-plus years finally resolved, the answer at last revealed, and the link to the YouTube video attached.

So please enjoy this little 2 minute-and-46-second blast from my past.

In the meanwhile, I'm going to be greedy and redouble my efforts to find another mystery song, one I used to hear on shortwave radio stations from Central Europe during the mid-'70s. It was a slice of Teutonic disco à la Silver Convention, featuring a breathy female vocal singing over and over again, "Fly high butterfly" (or "fly, fly, butterfly"?) with a male voice intoning dramatically in harmony, "Butterfly!"

And, no, it's not "Fly High Little Butterfly" by Arabesque.



What can I say that I haven't already said about my dodgy musical tastes? I can say this: My criteria for musical satisfaction often consists of the mood conveyed, nostalgia, and whether it has a good beat and is easy to dance to.

While it doesn't extend necessarily to Arabesque, hum a few more bars and don some costuming that makes you look like an exploding Christmas cracker, and you just never know . . .