No More Clapping Hands

By JOHN MOODY/VANCOUVER

If you are the parent of a preschooler, suffice it to say that Raffi, in the throes of middle age, is shaking his sillies out. If you have no children, or live with them on the moon, it might be easier to explain that the most popular children's singer in the English-speaking world has chucked a multimillion-dollar career, ended his 16-year marriage and stopped eating nearly everything that tastes good, all in order to carry out an uncompromising and very grown-up mission: to alarm the rest of humankind into taking better care of Our Dear, Dear Mother. Mother Earth, that is.

If it were merely Placido Domingo announcing that henceforth he wished to be regarded as a rap singer, folks might understand. But this is Raffi, the Canadian folk singer who has mesmerized more preschoolers than anyone else since that piper from Hamelin. His defection from the marketplace of kids' music is comparable to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's departure from the Lakers -- he leaves behind similar, smaller shadows, but none to take his place.

His full name is Raffi Cavoukian, but during his 14 years as a troubadour to the nursery-rhyme set he achieved the type of international renown that allows people to become known only by their first name. With his throaty voice, chocolate-sweet eyes and zippy rhythms, he provided intelligent amusement to millions of boys and girls who might otherwise be transported to the Saturday- morning cartoon swampland of death rays and superheroes. In the process, he was amply rewarded: his 10 albums sold 6 million copies, and he was awarded Canada's highest civilian decoration.

Strumming out rollicking melodies on an inexpensive guitar, he educated as well as entertained. When he sang about a giraffe named Joshua pining to leave the zoo, children learned to wonder about the feelings of animals. Thanks a Lot offered gratitude to a generic deity for the everyday goodness of life. His paeans to the peanut-butter sandwich, the horn on the bus, tooth brushing and bathtime were comforting confirmation to millions of squirming dissidents that while each of them is unique, their frustrations and fears are not.

Why, then, when he was doing so much good for so many, did he turn his back on the generation of tomorrow? For something he considers even more important. His latest album, Evergreen Everblue, is not merely inappropriate for toddlers; it is a warning screech of apocalypse. Its cover portrays a haunted Raffi with death's-head stare, his beard spiked with acid-laden pine trees. Instead of warmly promising, as one of his favorite children's songs did, that Everything Grows, the new Raffi howls piercingly, "Why are we poisoning our children? What's the matter with us?"

Raffi now refuses to play for children. He calls himself an eco-troubadour. Sitting on the terrace of his modest Vancouver apartment, he sighs over the resentment his act of conscience has created. "I know some parents feel I've abandoned their children. But I've come to realize that unless I do my utmost to stop the destruction of the earth, there'll be no world for those young people to grow up in."

; Raffi is not the first star to become politicized. But there is something frantic and indiscriminate about his activism. Along with environmentalism, Raffi is lending his name across the countercultural spectrum: he supports aggressive feminism, Native American land claims and animal rights. He believes oil companies should shut down their refineries not soon, but tomorrow, and devote their profits to developing solar energy. No executive of any company should earn more than $1 million a year. "Would that be enough? If not, why not?"

Resisting contemporary wisdom is nothing new; Raffi has always been an outsider. Born in Cairo to Armenian parents, he moved with his family to Toronto when he was 10, facing the challenge of a new world and an unfamiliar language. He dropped out of the University of Toronto because what he wanted to learn was not offered there. "I'm interested in how life is, how the universe is, and how I'm a part of it," he says.

Like a million other hippies, Raffi strummed ballads by Dylan, Guthrie and Seeger, plus a few that he had written, in local coffeehouses. His wife Debi Pike taught kindergarten. For a while, the going was tough -- until Raffi found a way to merge what they both did.

The bearded balladeer began turning up at kindergartens and day-care centers, and Blowin' in the Wind was replaced by songs such as Five Little Ducks. Childless himself, he had no idea how to woo his audience. "I thought you were supposed to attract their attention," he says, screwing his thumbs into his ears. "Hey, kid, watch this!" But with Debi's help, he made a discovery. "I realized you don't have to impress children," he said. "They make up their minds very quickly whether they like you or not."

They liked Raffi. He surprised and delighted without being cutesy. He sang "Baa baa white sheep" because, he says, "I never knew why it had to be black." In Down by the Bay, kids for a magical moment could imagine a moose kissing a goose and llamas eating their pajamas. They listened to him sing "I wonder if I'm growing?" and believed his promise that, eventually, they would. Raffi's dynamic with children was rooted in trust. He never patronized.

In 1976, in a house with a soundproof basement, he recorded 19 Singable Songs for the Very Young. He borrowed $4,000 to have the records pressed and sold them from his Toyota station wagon. His concerts for children became local legends, with scalpers selling tickets for $300 apiece. "I'd play to 1,200 children in the public library; then that night I'd go to the coffeehouse to play, and there'd be 30 people. I got the message."

Success, and its evil twin self-doubt, moved in around 1980. Each of his children's albums sold more than 200,000 copies, and he and Debi had a huge new house in Toronto. The cafe revolutionary was practicing yoga, reading Gandhi and worrying about playing Russian roulette with nature. "I was scared. I bought organic fruits and vegetables, and I started drinking bottled water because I was concerned about the purity of what we ate."

In 1988 he took a sabbatical. "It was a time of emptying," he says. "I had to hear my inner music." He produced a series of watercolor nudes in the style of Picasso. He also read feminist literature and decided that patriarchal society was rooted in violence. The process did not produce inner peace. He separated from Debi, entered therapy and moved to Vancouver, hub of Canada's counterculture. "My life as I knew it had come undone," he says quietly. "Singing for children was out of the question."

Finding his new audience has proved difficult. He forced his new distributor, MCA, to sell his tapes and CDs without longboxes, because they contained unnecessary packaging. But retailers argue that abandoning the longbox makes shoplifting easier and requires refitting store fixtures. So many major chains have refused to stock Evergreen Everblue. He is also upset that this album was not reviewed as adult music.

He hopes to get a break early next year, when his music will be featured in the animated film FernGully: The Last Rainforest, starring Robin Williams and Christian Slater. His song It's Raining Like Magic accomplishes what Evergreen Everblue did not: it worships the world's wonder without being starchy.

Spirit rejuvenated, Raffi, 43, is experiencing the indignities of middle age. He suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome, a hernia, bursitis and high cholesterol. To cleanse his system of impurities, he eats only brown rice and fruit. For the hernia, he sleeps with a magnet on his stomach.

Strolling the calm paths of Stanley Park, he muses about the perils of celebrity. "The hysteria around public figures is unhealthy," he says. "The inner landscape of their personalities is barren." A mother approaches, dragging along a shy three-year-old. "Are you the famous children's singer Raffi?" she gushes. "I was," he answers. Gently, he declines to sing or / sign an autograph. As the irked mother huffs off, he blows a kiss to her child, who smiles knowingly.

The proud-prowed tugboats ply their course along the inlet, and Raffi remarks how much he likes them. Reminded that they depend on fossil fuels, he smiles ruefully. "I know, I know," says the man in the child. Then the child in the man, who has given pleasure to millions of others, asks, "Ah, when will I understand it all?"