the voltage running through her skin

Last night I was listening to music while playing Meerca Chase when a familiar voice shuffled onto Itunes – “Un, Deux, Trois...” Ah yes, I thought, the French tape. Because I was in the middle of a good game I refused to stop to change tracks and was forced to listen as it played out in its entirety. By which time, of course, I had been hooked once more.

At some point last year, at the full height of our shared Francophilia and academic procrastination, my brother and I convinced our parents to buy us a Learn to Speak French tape from Borders. The one we eventually chose was called Rush Hour Express French and was produced by a company called Berlitz. I liked the image that title conjured up, one of myself conversing fluently and rapidly on a speeding train in Paris with the other commuters on the way to work. The package contained one disc which consisted of 5 tracks, 10 to 15 minutes apiece: in whole, one glorious hour of simple beginner’s French.

I’ve noticed that all instructional language tapes have a special hook in their teaching methods that is meant to set them apart from the rest. In the case of Rush Hour Express French, the hook is musical. Every few minutes the characters will interrupt their regular (albeit unrelentingly chirpy and proper) conversation to burst into song, just like people on Broadway. These songs are short and reasonably catchy and, like advertisement jingles, are meant to get stuck in your head, forcing you to assimilate the lyrics whether you want to or not. The phrases that each song is devoted to range from the pleasantly everyday (“It’s nice to meet you!”) to the slightly more cringe-worthy (“Dance with me! Feel the beat! Feel the heat!” (as if anyone would ever dance with someone who said that, French or no)). I’ve memorised quite a few songs by now and can recite them by heart.

“Look at my life in colour,” goes one. “Regardez la vie en couleur. The colours of my life.”

“Why would you ever have to say that? In what possible situation?” my brother asks whenever it comes on. It’s true; I too find it rather bizarre. It’s in the second track of the disc, so within 15 minutes of beginning to learn French, this obscure and fanciful sentence is drilled into your head by a French chanteuse (Marion Cotillard, I always imagine). They play this song about 3 or 4 times, and all this before the truly important stuff like the days of the week, “How much is that”, “Help! Rapist!”, “Where is the toilet”, etc.

“I think it could come in handy for me or you one day,” I tell him. “At least the first part, ‘Look at my life in ___’. ‘Regardez la vie en shambles’, for example. ‘Regardez la vie en jail’.” But deep inside I wonder at the strange thinking that apparently goes on at Berlitz. I could be wrong – perhaps real French people actually do go around talking like that, in cheerful over-medicated inanity, with the same woozy voice as Ron from Potter Puppet Pals. “Look at my life in colour. The goblins are magical. I too think the flowers are delectable! Alas, the colours of my life!” Seems unlikely.

The best thing about these songs is their variation in musical genre. “How Do We Get There” features a distinctively country acoustic riff, and “Dance With Me” has a ‘80s disco vibe. But by far my favourite of this motley catalogue is what I have come to call The Phantom of the Proposition. It’s the simplest song, only one line – but what a line it is. The prelude starts off simply enough: “Where is the file?” ‘John’ asks. “Oh, the file is on the desk.” “Where is the pencil?” “The pencil is in the case.” “Where is my shoe?” “The shoe is under the bed.”

Then an army of French men, each with the gusto of Pavarotti, delivers the following in a majestic operatic tenor: “ON! IN!! UNDERRRRRR!!!” They sing these words with the forcefulness and passion normally reserved for renditions of the Star-Spangled Banner or other songs of supreme patriotism. As if their lives depend on it. They summon every ounce of pathos and heartbreak in their souls, presumably weeping bitterly throughout. I’m telling you, this song really made me sit up in my seat. Epic does not even come close. (I got to stop using that word. I managed to wean myself off awesome, now this word comes along. It just suddenly seems applicable to so many aspects of my life. Agamemnon would understand.)

Afterwards a fat lady sings out the French translation. But we have never been able to learn how to say on, in or under, because the laughter that follows the first line inevitably drowns out the second. By the time the tape ends, and Rebel Yell comes on (Billy Idol being right after Berlitz alphabetically) we are usually all but in tears.

Anyway, I’ve given up on the French and am moving on to Italian. I don’t care that it’s a dying language, I just want to be able to say “Mamma Mia!” all dramatic like the lady I heard at the Italian Cultural Institute. My Italian tape is amusing too, in a different way. I already know how to say homicidal maniac and radium. And did you know the Italian word for machine gun and bishop’s headgear is the same thing? Just think of all the punning possibilities!