“Ne pleure pas, Jeannette” is a version of the 15th-century French song "La pernette se lève." It tells the story of Jeannette, whose parents want her to marry into the gentry or royalty. She, however, is in love with Pierre. He is in prison. She vows to be hanged at the same time he is. In France, “Ne pleure pas, Jeannette” is a nursery rhyme. Versions have been recorded by Les Compagnons De La Chanson and French children’s TV favourite Dorothée.
“Aux marches du palais” is also French and has been sung by (again) Les Compagnons De La Chanson, Marie Laforêt, Nana Mouskouri, Yves Montand and more. It is first known from the 18th century, and may have roots in the 17th. It recounts the Cinderella-like tale of a girl who is love with a shoemaker. He is going to make her beautiful shoes which, in turn, will help make her beauty celebrated. She will go the palace.
These two songs open and close Kevin Fowley’s À Feu Doux. He is resident in Ireland. His mother is French, his father Irish. When he was a child, living in either of his parent’s countries, “Ne pleure pas, Jeannette,” “Aux marches du palais” and À Feu Doux’s other two, similarly venerable, tracks “Á la Claire fontaine” and “Le coq est mort,” were sung to him as lullabies by his mother.
Reinterpreting – and recontextualising – songs embedded in a country’s culture is central to folk music but Kevin Fowley’s choice to head down so particular a path is a surprise. Before À Feu Doux, his previous recordings (the 2018 Oh, Mongrel mini album) were singer-songwriter offerings loosely in the area of John Martyn and Michael Chapman – his voice retains a Martyn-esque burr on À Feu Doux. Or, from a French perspective, it is tonally similar to Georges Brassens.
On À Feu Doux, Fowley is accompanied by Ross Chaney, who handles subtle contributions from synthesiser and samples. Caimin Gilmore appears on double bass. Both have also played with the similarly questing John Francis Flynn, which hints towards the level of intensity projected here. Each lengthy song seems at first to be free-flowing, with Fowley’s guitar floating like that of John Martyn. But repeated listening reveals structure; a cyclic shape to each track. Arrangement-wise, there's a kinship with Ryley Walker. The sound is live. Unfilled space can be sensed. As can the subliminal political message that Europe’s music is not constrained by borders. Emotive, enthralling and quite wonderful.
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