On Saturday, at the artist's talk, I asked about choirs in the area. I do that almost everywhere, in hope. And that's how I found myself agreeing to sing with the town "chorale". It's not a choir but a kind of singalong. In unison, they said. Popular songs. I quailed. Songs such as Brassens and Brel, someone added. I cheered up.
On Monday I turned up at the appointed time of 3pm and the room was locked; in the theatre-hall the school were rehearsing their end-of-term play. I thought I had misunderstood which Monday, and wandered off, but some people arrived and dragged me back. By half-past three, most of the group had gathered and the director turned up with a keyboard. Eventually everything was set up, and we began with notices about the club meals and discussions of diaries and news of people who have moved away. At last, the songs. Nothing I recognised, though pleasant ditties. I had the dots for most pieces, which was helpful except when the general consensus diverged from what was written.
So now I have learned some new repertoire including a song about being Occitan. But where were the Brassens and Brel I was promised?
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