The French Touch

France's most popular radio show is Music Hall de Paris. Last week, as they usually do, some 400 Frenchmen crowded into the 250-seat Rue Washington studio to watch the broadcast. They did not expect much. Every Frenchman knows that French radio is terrible (see cut). The only dependable thing about the 43 stations in Radio Diffusion Franc,aise is program quality. It is always poor.

At the Rue Washington studio, the decor is pinball-palace modern, badly beat up. The carpet is worn through, the stained orange velveteen seats are mostly out of whack. Cigaret butts smaller than a little fingernail mat the floor, and through the thick smoke appear big wall signs: "No Smoking." No self-respecting Frenchman would let such a challenge pass, and almost everybody (except babes in arms, of whom there were several) puffs away industriously.

The contrast to grim, nervous, precise, self-conscious U.S. broadcasts was amazing--and somehow delightful. From the relaxed, indifferent air of audience and performers, it seemed as if a broadcast warm-up was in progress. But the Music Hall was on the air--an hour and a half of singing, acting and comedy, almost completely ad lib.

Tired Business. The M.C., null Blanche, played straight man to Comic Pierre Cour. Cour, pince-nezed and Tat-tersall-vested, impersonated "Monsieur Albert," who poses in cafe society as a rich joyeux garc,on--but fools nobody, because he has forgotten to remove his bombazine bookkeeper's sleeves. Monsieur Albert heckled guest stars, mispronounced their names--a bit of business that is just as tired in France as in the U.S.

One of last week's guests was Marie Dubas, a top Parisian torchsinger whose hair, like that of many Frenchwomen, has turned red as she has approached middle age. She took off with a harrowing recitation of Kipling's My Son, then did three songs. The best: Mon Coco, Mon Coquin du Coin du Quai (My Sweetie, My Little Rascal from the Corner of the Wharf).

Between the acts, there was a Battle of Bands--two orchestras playing the same tune--one hot, one sweet. The orchestra's idea of le jazz hot was still in the wah-wah, funny-hat stage of the U.S. display bands of 1930. Maestros Alex Combelle and Andrea Leca were things of beauty in black ties and velvet jackets, but Combelle's gum-chewing guitarist wore a sweater with wide green and yellow horizontal stripes.

Such individualism is the show's chief virtue. And even with all its vices, it is cheap at the price. The whole business, including salaries for Blanche, Cour, six guest stars and 22 musicians, costs only 90,000 francs ($756).

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