Ever heard of the Occitan language, the native tongue of the South of France? It is a language spoken by so few nowadays that even those who have vacationed multiple times in Nice, Cannes or anywhere else along the sun-kissed coast can be forgiven for answering “no.” Yet, turn back the clock just one hundred years, and any vacationer to those parts attempting to speak Standard French to a village winemaker, wood-carver or anyone else not in the upper classes, or accustomed to catering to tourists, would likely not get very far.
In the music world, however, things could not be more different. As I recently discovered via YouTube, an extensive back-catalogue of diverse Occitan music composed and recorded throughout the late 20th century exists, and even today, a new release in Occitan isn’t rare enough to raise any eyebrows. Much of it was spawned by a musical revival movement termed the “Nòva cançon”, whose adherents, including Jacmelina Conte and the still-active Claudi Martí, channeled much the same creative energy that is responsible for the offbeat yet indelible mark inked into the pages of American musical history by Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger and fellow front-runners of our own contemporary folk revival.
Was I surprised to discover all of this? Absolutely. But at the same time, not really. You see, the existence of the Nòva cançon is on the one hand paradoxical, as in almost all cases, the production of commercially-released media in a dying language, to say nothing of amateur poetry and folk songs, withers away long before words in it cease to be exchanged over rural general-store cash registers – yet the situation on the ground for Occitan is dire.
The reason the vibrancy of Occitan music is less surprising is the fact that the Nòva cançon artists, talented as they were, didn’t exactly have to start from scratch. Many have probably heard of the Troubadours, a guild of Southern French musicians who composed and sang in Occitan, and who, via the patronage of monarchs across Europe, set the standard for what was considered the height of musical art. They, much like the Knights Templar, continue to enjoy an outsized fascination in the minds of the public, probably because both groups’ reigns over their respective domains were cut short — the Templars abolished by the self-serving actions of an indebted king, and the Troubadours wiped out at the peak of their popularity by the Black Plague.
It was the album that first introduced me to this movement that probably captures that legendary sound more than most. “Cant e musica de provença XIIe – XXe” (meaning “Songs and Music of Provence, 12th-20th Centuries) by the group Mont-Jòia eschews modern twists in favor of historically-informed performances of ten troubadour and folk songs from the last 800 years. Band members Frances Dupont, Jan-Maria Carlotti, Patrice Conte, Patricia Conte and Patricia Favaro, with Patrice Conte taking the only vocal role in this album, use an eclectic array of instruments including three-stringed Turkish lutes, the tromba marina (a stringed instrument, in spite of its name), Iranian hammered dulcimers, and traditional European lutes which, whilst not necessarily authentic themselves, are used to create an unrestrained, powerful, almost proto-punkish sound that is a bit rough around the edges, and definitely brings to mind a village band from the Middle Ages. This is in contrast to many other recordings of medieval music, which aim for a more delicate “courtly” arrangement, and resembles the kind of “vulgar music” that medieval religious fundamentalists once railed against with vague overtures.
From the initial toleration of the Cathar Christians to the establishment of the Avignon Papacy, the denizens of the Occitan region have rarely been sticklers for Catholic strictures. A rebellious spirit such as this is obvious from the get-go in the album, with the first song being “Ai vist lo lop, lo rainard, lo lebre” (I saw a wolf, a fox and a hare). This upbeat folk tune, dating back to at least the 1300s and with versions known throughout the French-speaking world, is literally about a hard-working peasant who sees “a wolf, a fox and a hare” dancing around a tree, whilst complaining about how little his hard work counts for in the face of high costs. However, the animals are widely understood as metaphors for members of the social elite, and their “dancing” to be sexual in nature; the peasant is therefore angered at the lascivious display by the same people who would prescribe the most severe of penalties in a heartbeat if he were the one caught fornicating.
The other highlight of the album, in my opinion, is “A L’Entrada Del Temps Clar,” from the B-side, an equally old tune that can only be described as the troubadours’ 750-year-early answer to the hit song “Hey Ya” by OutKast. Not only is the refrain, “Hey-Ya!,” similar, but so is the theme, with the song making fun of a “loose” queen who has no intention of remaining loyal to her old crone of a king, and encouraging handsome young suitors to “hit the road” for the palace in the hopes of winning her heart. Given the estimated date of composition, it may even be referring to Eleanor of Aquitaine, who would go on to become Queen of England and, being regarded as “headstrong” in a good way, is unfairly demonised by the song.
The other tracks on the album are more obscure and harder to find context for, but all are worth their salt. “Rampaleda e Corsa de La Tarasca” might have been composed in the 15th century as a sort of theme song for the Festival of Tarrasque in the town of Tarascon, an offbeat carnival where an effigy of a monster is wheeled through the streets and practical jokes are played upon unsuspecting victims that still takes place today. My search for a backstory for the jolly instrumental “L’Esquiron et Lei Cocots” was completely fruitless, but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable to listen to.
In conclusion, the works of Mont-Jòia provide a fascinating snapshot of an otherwise long-dead genre of music in an otherwise practically dead language, whereas the more modern pop-oriented artists within the Nòva cançon scene are essentially creating an intriguing alternate history; if it wasn’t for the untimely demise of the Troubadours and the suppression of Occitan, its musical traditions may well have a far greater place in mainstream European pop without their intervention.
