Dear Dominik

Decider

To them Howards End was a house; they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. ... Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? ~ E.M. Forster, Howards End

Funny that I should run across that paragraph while considering the sale of my home. E.M. Forster is an author I have been meaning to read, but it was happy accident that I read a collection of his novels at this time. I had taken part in a ReadMob (a sedentary flashmob) at the Arch, and I grabbed a book at random off my office bookshelves, legacy of a departing secretary.

I'm always counseling people that important decisions can't be made by listing out the pros and cons - you have to weight them with appropriate emotional value. But I find this advice hard to follow myself. For example: although I love the bike trails at SIUE, for the past year I've been riding closer to home, to save driving time. It seemed reasonable to cut down on travel and give myself more free time. But I missed the heart of the matter: I love the trails at SIUE. Shady, private - walled in by towering shrubs - silent except for birdsong, chuckling rivulets in the ravines and the occasional chattering cyclists; the air even smells different in the cool, secret woods. My farmland rides are not without beauty, but they don't satisfy my soul.

I tried to tell myself it didn't make a difference. That's the mistake.

I'm not the only one who likes the SIUE bike trails

I have tried many times over the years to make rational decisions, only to find that the deciding factor isn't rational at all. "But it was Grandma's!" outweighs almost any logical argument you can come up with. But there have been times when I was so torn between conflicting emotions that I went through the "pros and cons" exercise. When I found myself trying to manipulate one column or the other, the answer became clear.

I don't know what I'll do about downsizing my life, or where I'll end up living. I have really deep roots here. But ... mountains! But ... Home. And so it goes. When I tried to discuss it with the heiress, we both got uncomfortably emotional and had to hang up.

Harriet Vane, in Dorothy Sayers' Gaudy Night, asks how we are to know which motivations are of overmastering importance. "We can only know that," replies Miss de Vine, " when they have overmastered us."

 

Taking the Fifth

It will be generally agreed that Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are satisfied by it. ~ E.M. Forster, Howards End

Wow, I feel like a real reviewer: I attended two performances of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in the same weekend, and am now able to compare and contrast the two, highlighting the strengths of the orchestra and different vantage points and so on.

It was the last orchestral concert of the season (they're doing Led Zeppelin this weekend, and Gershwin is coming up). I had been hoarding my Friday night ticket all season ... and then, inexplicably, I won tickets to the Sunday performance on Facebook. It was a sweepstakes: tell us which is your favorite of the many movies that incorporate Beethoven's Fifth, and five lucky winners would get pairs of tickets. I don't have a B.5 favorite movie (although Breakfast Club was mentioned, I only think of "Sunshine of Your Love" in that movie), but I commented that Beethoven's Fifth is my favorite PDQ Bach routine. And won. 

It was worth the repeat.

***

But first, a word about Rachmaninoff. Pianist Stephen Hough has been playing his way through the Rachmaninoff concerti in the SLSO "Rach Fest," which concluded this weekend. On Friday night he played Concerto No. 1 in F# minor;  on Sunday he played Concerto No. 3 in D minor. According to blog posts and such, Hough has been pretty unruffled by the Rach Fest. In person, he seems to delight in the physicality of playing. He rocks his head to and fro, smiling slightly. He's not particularly theatrical - no flourishes or grand gestures - but his hands and his posture are a joy to watch, supple and light. Friday night I watched his face from Orchestra Right; on Sunday, from the left balcony, I only had eyes for his hands.

I liked the Third much better than the First, and so did the audience. Hough came out Sunday for an encore because we didn't want to let him go. (Unlike some other encores I have heard recently, this one was just long enough - a shot glass of an encore, not a tumbler.) The First was too sentimental, too much like soap opera theme music - at least in the first movement.  The program notes tell me that he wrote it as a teenager, then revised it some 25 years later. I would like to believe that the "youthfulness and impetuosity of the Concerto No. 1" - which the composer chose not to tone down, and which are said to be its strengths - are what I liked about it. Basically I liked the piano playing and wished the strings would go away.

Not so the Third. Clearly an audience favorite, it showed off the pianist's virtuosity. In fact, other than the timpanist - who bounced on the balls of his feet - I pretty much forgot the orchestra was there.

Except for this: all the principal woodwinds changed hands at intermission. Last time we went to a Beethoven concert, I noticed a different guy was playing principal bassoon in the second half of the concert, so I kept an eye on him this time. Sure enough, Andrew Gott, who played first on the Rachmaninoff (and the opening Glinka), yielded to principal bassoonist Andrew Cuneo for the Beethoven. Second and contra held their places. But here came Mark Sparks to play first flute as well, although two women had held the flute section in the first half. Same with the oboes: the principal didn't take the stage until Beethoven. Ron suggested they had a job-share arrangement, but I really don't think the union would go for that. I haven't found musicians to be any more open to sharing the wealth than anyone else.

***

Beethoven's Fifth is sort of cliche because of the familiar four-note motif; but Ron and I agreed we'd never heard it performed live before. Which in my case means I'd never heard it all the way through before. My niece, who accompanied me on Friday, said she knew every note, so "it must be Dad's favorite." I didn't know every note, but it was all very satisfyingly Beethovenian. 

Huh. I wrote the above before looking at the program notes, where I find:

" ... writers and scholars are fond of claiming that current-day audiences, with ears desensitized by over-familiarity and cliche, appreciate but little of the shocking originality contained in Beethoven's famous symphony. This is rubbish--an academic delusion utterly divorced from the exhilarating reality of hearing music so immediate of its impact and so consuming of its listeners' attention. If anything the symphony's effect on a new listener is amplified by the incredible discovery of what comes after the ubiquitous first eight notes."

Um, yeah. I turned to the program notes to find the progression of movements, because I didn't get bored and sleepy anywhere in this symphony. Was there no Andante movement? Yes, there was, but it's Andante con moto, and I musta been juiced on the "moto" part. Captivated from start to finish, I declared the Fifth my current favorite Beethoven symphony. Considering how I feel about the Ninth, that's saying a lot. 

I don't know why the principal woodwinds were held in reserve until the Beethoven, but Cuneo's bassoon was deft and inspiring. His song was prominent throughout the four movements, and unspeakably lovely. Too bad the horns fell apart as they reprised his lines in the last movement on Friday night. (On Sunday, they wobbled but recovered at the same spot.) The symphony is a showcase for so much talent and joy!

Afterward, for my niece, I played the PDQ Bach piece - in which the horns fall apart in the first movement. We laughed and decided it must be a wickedly difficult horn part.

***

Rafael Fruhbeck de Burgos was scheduled to conduct, but because of illness or something he couldn't make it, and Peter Oundjian took the podium for the weekend. Slender, smiling, with a full head of gray hair, he reminds me of my late boss Big Dog. His black suit jacket - not a frock coat with tails - had a split in the center back seam through which we could see purple satin. My niece and I tried to decide whether this was a vent built in by the tailor, or whether the seam had split and we were looking at the lining. It must have been the former, because he wore the same jacket on Sunday, and again we watched an incongruous streak of purple flashing at center stage as the conductor's arms moved about. 

Okay, picking on the guy's purple lining isn't fair, since I did appreciate his interpretations, his timing and dynamic nuances. I had read - on the symphony blog, maybe? - that Oundjian and pianist Stephen Hough are familiar collaborators, and I enjoyed watching the dynamic between them, the little nods of "I'm ready" and "Back to you, Maestro." I thought the sound was a little muddy on Friday night - not the clarity I expect from the SLSO - but we were tucked back under the boxes, which makes a difference. On Sunday, from the balcony, my heart soared on wings of sound. 

Property

I've got ripplin' waters to wake me
To the mornin',  my woman and love
And tall pine trees a-pointin' up easily
To heaven above
Blue spruce flamin' on the grate in the evening
Takes the chill away fine
Cut the telephone line and the story's the same.
~ Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, "Ripplin' Waters"

It could be a witch's cottage - a little 1930s house at the top of a rickety staircase, a fieldstone retaining wall,  tiny rooms and a little fireplace. There are no neighbors; just the mountainside and a road leading half a mile down to the Kanawha River in Charleston, W.Va. It has become the foundation of my fantasy life.

Becaue I fell in love with the Kanawha Valley on a recent road trip, I decided to investigate real estate in the area. There are crappier homes for sale - mobile homes and abandoned shacks - but this one has everything I want. Or it lacks everything I want: neighbors. The asking price is considerably lower than the equity I have in my current home, so I could buy it outright, assuming I could sell my house.

That's the sticking point: sell this house?! This house was the project of a lifetime. With our daughter, it's the unifying feature of my life with Dale. We spent our vacations on home repairs, renovations, deck building, gardening. Our wedding gift from my parents was two pecan trees. This is MY home, MY land. If you put your ear to the ground you can hear my heartbeat; and if you squint just right, you can see my little girl playing, watching ants and singing songs to herself.

But I'm afraid that's the hoarder mentality that comes from trying to stockpile Stuff. Used to be I just wanted to live in the mountains; a cave would do. I still want to live in the mountains, but ... <arrgghh> How did it come to this? I can't bear to leave stuff behind, even to fulfill a lifetime dream? That's crazy. This is not who I am.

Property doesn't really "belong" to anyone, in my personal utopia. This is Earth, and we are all here to share in its riches, regardless of who holds the deed to this patch of ground and the structures on it - e.g., the bank, the county assessor or me. I am happy to have all this beauty and know that I'm not trespassing when I flop on the ground (and flatten a mole hill). This house and acre of land keep me happy. But I go to great lengths to maintain a way of life that is becoming less sustainable and less rewarding. I end up serving the property (the mortgage) instead of being sustained by it.

I believe this is the typical American story, and the reason for midlife and even late-life crises, when people suddenly walk out of the life they've built and test their wings on something new. I didn't mean to build a prison for myself. I don't really require all that much living space. 

***

Yeah, it's all about downsizing: finding a lifestyle that doesn't keep me perpetually in debt, perpetually working 60 hours a week. It could be done here, paring back on the job or the commute while keeping the framework of the life I've built here. Then again ... why? Why live in the Midwest if I love the mountains? 

So, there's this little house on a mountainside above the Kanawha River. I would have to learn to pronounce "Kanawha." CAN-a wha? Kan-AH-wa? Dunno. Also I am told I'd have to learn to play banjo, if I move to West Virginia. Maybe. I am comfortable here, which is the best reason I can think of for moving. I don't want to be a hobbit, preferring to stay home in my comfortable burrow rather than having adventures. (We listened to The Hobbit on audiobooks as we drove through Ohio, but turned it off when we got to the mountains.)

I bet I could see the stars and the Super Moon as well from the Kanawha Valley as I do from the farmlands of Illinois. 

And speaking of the Super Moon: I found it necessary to unfriend a fellow on a social site when he blasphemed the Goddess Luna for a disappointing show the other night. Disgusting. Go watch Spielberg if you think the moon isn't spectacular enough. It was a night when you could feel the magic on your skin, the moonlight icy hot, the wet Earth soft under bare feet releasing stirring aromas, the air still and anticipatory. I went out shortly after moonrise and again later, when the moon was at her fullest; then watched her progress across the sky from my bedroom window. 

The tides of human bodies are affected by the moon, and my tide is turning.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.
~ NAN (No Attribution Necessary) 

 

Ghost Tour

Never pass up an opportunity to hear a first-class storyteller talking about something he's passionate about.

Miraculous timing landed us in the Washington metropolitan area in time to join a 9 p.m. Ghost Tour in Alexandria's Old Town. Hometown of both George Washington and Robert E. Lee, Alexandria has a rich and mystical history that is tied to pivotal events in the life of this country, from its prominence as a tobacco port in colonial times to its occupation by Federal forces during the Civil War War of Northern Aggression. Just to walk the brick sidewalks and see the homes of legendary figures of American history is magical enough; throw in some tragic deaths in mysterious circumstances, piracy and romance and revenge, and you've got your audience spellbound.

We were able to secure a private tour with Al, whose Revolutionary costume displayed fine calves (alas, not pictured here) in the tradition of "putting one's best foot forward." With lantern in hand, he took us first to Market Square, where he built for our imaginations the stalls and wares - and blushing young ladies - of a busy 18th-century marketplace. And of course a bounder who seemed to be wealthy and charming but untrustworthy; young ladies who walked out with him were later found foully murdered <gasp>. 

Delighting in the story, my inner teenager (who is skeptical and resistant to tricky teaching methods) realized that we were in fact absorbing a great deal of actual history - the founding of the town, the ways of life that grew up around its seaport and plantations - brought to life in humrous tales. You have to pay close attention to Al because he's often setting you up for an elaborate joke. For example, we peered into an old-time ice cellar, and were told that dead bodies were stored on ice until they could be buried; and the re-use of that ice resulted in the invention of pink lemonade. Ewwww! Gross! And guaranteed to appeal to 12-year-old boys.

The girls in the audience were more likely to swoon over the romantic tale of the stranger who died in Room 8 over Gadsby's tavern - see, that window up there to the left of the doorway? Founded circa 1785, Gadsby's has entertained statesmen including Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Madison and Monroe - guys they name streets after! In Alexandria, BTW, the streets were named for royalty, from King, Queen and Prince to Duke and ... Cameron? Yes, Cameron, the Scottish peerage of Lord Fairfax. (See, despite myself I learned stuff.) Anyway, a mysterious man giving no name brought his bride to Gadsby's, where she died in Room 8; but sometimes a traveler will find the candle lighted in the room, or glimpse a dark-haired woman in period costume at the back of the ballroom before she vanishes again. 

Plenty of architectural details were sprinkled among the stories - such as the second-story mirrors that allowed inhabitants to see who was at the front door; and the country's narrowest house, built by closing off a narrow alley to deter its use by drunken sailors. World's narrowest home, barely 11 feet wide? Weird. Closing off an alley to keep sailors from using it for bodily functions? Memorable.

The following day, our B&B hostess listened to our tales and then asked if there were REALLY ghost stories and supernatural sightings in Alexandria. I answered, "It's hard to say," but the truth is: OF COURSE there are! People have lived and died in Alexandria for centuries. Some of them are famous, some obscure; some died in mysterious or gruesome ways; some were fiercely partisan, the stuff of legends like the 30 Confederate graves that were moved in the middle of the night to a different churchyard. These are the raw materials of ghost stories. The stories change and evolve in the telling; but the tall tales and embellishments bring the ghosts of Washington and Jefferson, Hamilton and Lee and their contemporaries, to life. 

This isn't what I want to do

"Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." ~ Thomas A. Edison

Chocolate tasting! It was another event with the Liberal Boomer Group, at Kakao in Maplewood. We were to bring our own wine, and would learn what chocolates paired well with our favorite wines. I don't really drink wine (it makes me hot and sleepy). Still,  I thought it was a sound idea.

Brian the Chocolatier promised us a geography and chemistry lesson in the making of chocolate, but first he gave us a quick history of his business. He had worked for two decades in corporate communications, but really wanted to do something different. "I knew I wanted to work with my hands," he said, "and I love cooking." One day, a neighbor lady asked him to help her sell a bunch of chocolate making equipment she had in her basement.

He held up fingers as he told us: "First, I bought the equipment; then I rented a space; then I quit my job; THEN I learned how to make chocolate." Yay risk taking! I was wholeheartedly on his side by this time.

He showed us photos of cacao trees, told us where they grow (in a fairly narrow band around the equator), explained the pods and their contents which look nothing like chocolate.

From the weird filling of these pods come the cocoa beans, which don't turn chocolate-colored until they're roasted. As he displayed a photo of a Mexican street filled with roasting beans, I asked if that was real - I mean, they were just spread all over the street - but yes, it was real.

According to Brian, very few places in the world roast and process chocolate. The growers in these equatorial areas have no idea what our concept of chocolate is. The beans are shipped off to be roasted, then ground up like a very coarse coffee. I think he said the Mayans drank this ground cacao steeped in water and swore it came from the gods ... WITHOUT SUGAR! We tasted some ground cocoa. It was bitter. 

So sugar has become part of the processing. He told us what percentages are "dark chocolate." The talk of chocolate percentages reminded me of the carats in gold, and he does treat his chocolates like precious gems. Which, believe me, they are. After one bite Sara pronounced, wide-eyed, "I'm never eating M&Ms again!"

It seems that at some point the cocoa/sugar mixture becomes too crumbly to work with, so you have to add mik to hold it together ... voila, milk chocolate. And vanilla enhances the flavor. And if you mix this up but omit the cocoa, you get white chocolate. 

***

So that was my lesson in chocolate, which I do not intend to put to any practical use. Instead, I educated my palate. 

"What is a truffle?" asked Brian. "It's a fungus that grows underground. Dogs and pigs dig for it. It's very rare, highly prized, exquisitely tasty, and it looks like a dirty rock. That's NOT what we mean when we use the word 'truffle.'" It seems a chocolate truffle has a soft, flavored center and a hard coating called a ganache. When it is rolled in ground-up cocoa, it looks like a dirty rock ... and it is rare, exquisite and highly prized. Thus the name "truffle."

Time for our first truffle tasting. Brian described his hand-dipped truffles as "Lego-sized," and insisted we use two bites to eat them. "Take a bite," he said. "Let it rest on your tongue and fill your mouth with flavor." This was a chai tea truffle, and I was in heaven with that first bite. I was glad I didn't have wine to muddy the flavor. 

I don't know what the second truffle was because as he was telling us about it, my BlackBerry was buzzing. I had to go back to work.

***

But here's the thing: before becoming a chocolatier, Brian used to work where I do. His moment of epiphany came not from the client work or the long hours, but from the realization that this was not what he wanted to do. A job posting that dovetailed exactly with his resume, at a firm where he had good friends, attracted his attention and he gave it serious consideration, but in the end it wasn't what he wanted.

Brian is my new hero. He is building up quite a good business and reputation, winning awards and kudos in all the local foodie media with flavor combinations like lavender-vanilla and Turkish coffee with cardamom. But besides that, he stopped doing the expected thing, took a leap into the unknown and gave himself a chance to be happy.

***

That job I had to go back to? Read the title of this post.

Joyful jitters

So throw off your stupid cloak
Embrace all that you fear
For joy will conquer all despair
In my Blakean year
~ Patti Smith, "My Blakean Year"

In my Bachean year:  I started Lent with the St. Matthew Passion, followed by the Mass in B Minor on Palm Sunday. Two weeks later, the City Choir of Washington D.C. performed Bach's Magnificat, and my presence was a moral imperative: road trip! I packed up my tame bassoonist and we crossed the country in her Prius. 

The choir was also singing other works by other composers - Mozart, Charles Villiers Stanford, Luciano Beriot - but until I opened my program I hadn't realized that they were ALL settings of the Magnificat. It was an all-Magnificat concert!

***

As I understand it, music director Robert Shafer was a founder and the conductor of another choir in the city for many years. I knew he was a renowned choral director, but that's about it. Anyway, the story goes that he was dismissed by the Board one fine day, with a six-month noncompete agreement. Six months and one day later, 80 members of the choir walked out and formed the City Choir of Washington, and hired him. I expected great things of this choir, and I was not disappointed.

My notes from the Mozart read "nice dynamic range; crisp consonants, great attacks; don't like the soprano." (Reading this last observation, my companion mouthed, "I do!") The sound was really impressive and beautifully blended. I found it odd that the instrumentalists stood during the Mozart, but maybe that was because they had to clear out for the Stanford, which was accompanied "only" by organ.

The Stanford was too short for me. It felt like a choir anthem in church, and in fact it is half of the composer's Evening Service in G major (followed by the Nunc Dimittis, I believe). Instead of separate movements there is one unified piece, the soprano soloist gliding atop a  wave of familiar, comfortable harmonies from the choir. Assistant Conductor Brian Bartoldus at the podium drew from the choir a rich tapestry of sound that supported without overwhelming. But long before I was ready for it, the lilting song paused for breath; and at the downbeat, all vocal meanderings converged and crescendoed into the "Gloria Patri." It felt like time to stand up and shake out your wrinkles and greet your neighbor.

***

From our perch in the balcony of the National Presbyterian Church - a dramatic white building with soaring carillon tower - we had a tremendous view of both choir and organist. (The other instrumentalists were a little crowded in front of the choir, and huddled behind music stands anyway, so I can't claim much of a view there.) Our choir connection had recommended watching the organist, Bill Neill, and especially his footwork on the pedals. I did this for a while, and later summed it up for the bassoonist: "Sometimes he would pick up a foot and put it on another pedal." This led to a really cool story about an organist in another place and time, who followed the Old World tradition of improvising accompaniment on a given stanza of every hymn. He once put the melody in the feet and visibly danced around the console. I don't doubt that Mr. Neill - organist and harpsichordist of the National Symphony and National Philharmonic - can do this, but I didn't see it. 

... Probably because during the Berio I became smitten with the percussionist, who was playing both xylophone (in front of him) and timpani (behind him). And occasionally helping out with the high-hat cymbal when the snare drummer was busy elsewhere. He was turning all kinds of pages on all kinds of music stands, armed with various mallets and busier than a one-armed paperhanger.

***

Speaking of Old World traditions, we were informed by Maestro Shafer that after the intermission, it's traditional to repeat the piece played just before the intermission.* A choir member had complained bitterly that the Berio - both modern and unpleasant, it seemed - would be performed twice, but I never took this seriously. I thought they were performing it in two different concerts or something. But she meant it: they performed it twice in this concert; and Shafer introduced it so elaborately that a cold dread curled up in my belly and set up housekeeping. "It isn't as PRETTY as the Stanford," he confessed, and I - who had loved the Stanford - swallowed painfully. He explained that it had never been recorded, and he'd had it for years but kept feeling like the time wasn't right, but now he was ready. And that they would perform it again after the intermission. My niece whispered, "I may take a REALLY long intermission, if I don't like it."

"Prepare for dissonance," suggested the bassoonist, as the baton swung into action. And what I heard was not PRETTY, like the Stanford; but I wouldn't call it dissonance, exactly. It started with a vocal duet, soprano and mezzo-soprano (and sometime during this duet I realized that I really DID like the soprano). But the vocals were eerie, inhuman, like the call of the grey seal on the rocks, or possibly siren songs. Underneath, a very different rhythmic line was established by the woodwinds and eventually the choir contributed some precise, unpretty chanting.

It was hard to listen to, and at intermission I asked, "Why does it have to be so CREEPY?" This line got the same reaction it gets after Tim Burton movies - none - but my companion did remind me that the second time through, it would be more familiar. I thought of Mark's assertion that no one likes anything until the second time. And I hadn't really hated the piece, just didn't understand it.

***

Theological digression:  the Magnificat is the Virgin Mary's song after she's been told that she will bear the Son of God. "My soul magnifies the Lord," she sings; "from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed." From Bach to Mozart to Stanford, we hear this interpreted as joy that cannot be contained, that bursts into effervescence and swelling crescendoes, trumpet voluntaries and the auditory equivalent of the lame leaping for joy. But ... but.

My mother once remarked, "I don't remember ever being exactly thrilled to find out I was pregnant." She was disgusted by some soppy "miracle of birth" spewings she'd heard from friends, not implying anything about my own arrival in her life. <pause> I don't think. Anyway. So ... what if Mary is singing to give herself courage? Less "Wow, how cool is this?!" and more "Holy crap, what am I going to do?!" Which, to be fair, is probably how anyone would feel upon learning they'd been impregnated by an incubus. You'd have to tell yourself, well, he's a really GOOD incubus, he is mighty and his name is holy, and I am TOTALLY unworthy and what on earth did he choose ME for?

The phrase, "And I am scared shitless," was evidently eradicated from early manuscripts.

But of all the male composers who set this familiar text to music, maybe Berio got it right. He has given us confusion and warring emotions, a pounding chant like a racing heartbeat, sonorous and melodious but unworldly vocals. Maybe it's so creepy because the circumstances are pretty scary. Awe-inspiring, yes. Terrifying, ditto. And then it finally all resolves into the "Gloria Patri," with a more traditional harmonic structure that settles over the audience like peace and acceptance. 

I am waiting in a silent prayer
I am frightened by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone
Must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now
Be with me now
~ Amy Grant, "Breath of Heaven (Mary's Song)" 

***

It can't have been fun to sing, but it was a very effective and moving piece for the audience to hear. I wish it HAD been recorded so I could listen again and again, and start to hear how the pieces fit together. 

But then the poor long-suffering choir, which had so valiantly performed this difficult piece TWICE, finally made it to the Bach Magnificat. My sister wondered whether she would hear the piece differently after the Berio - whether, in fact, the depth of the Berio would make the Bach seem all polished surface with no guts. 

No worries. One of the beauties of music is that it is temporal, and vanishes when replaced by other sounds. Another is that everyone hears it differently and reacts differently. But the greatest beauty of Bach's Magnificat in D is ... Bach.

I remember when Boston's first album was a big hit, back in 1976-77. One of my friends complained that every song on the album sounded alike. "But I like that song," I said, "so that's fine with me." (Fourteen million airings of "that song" later, I hate the damn thing.) As I listen to Bach's Magnificat again and again, I hear precursors of the melodies and effects he used later in the B Minor Mass and the St. Matthew Passion, and I wonder if part of what I love is the familiarity. But just about the time you get complacent in the aria "Quia respexit humilitatem" ("For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden"), the choir startles you out of your reverie with the positively mischievous "Omnes, omnes generationes." The trick of stopping and then restarting the tune, followed by a finale-type progression on the strings, is so insouciant I could hear it as soundtrack for cartoons.

It was completely satisfying, invigorating. The choir said afterward that, exhausted as they were from rehearsals and performances, and as technically challenging as the piece is, they'd gladly sing the Bach again right then. I'm sure I speak for the entire audience when I say we'd gladly have heard it performed again. This is a Mary who throws back her head and CROWS, filling the air with her jubilation. 

Jubilation is fun. And Bach even ends it with a joke, a musical pun: as the "Gloria Patri" reaches "as it was in the beginning," the music reverts to the opening musical setting: the wildly exultant "Magnificat."

======

*After eighteen seconds of googling "repeating music after intermission" I am unable to verify this tradition, but I did turn up the intermission music for Monty Python and the Holy Grail, so it wasn't a complete waste.

Tradition!

To us and our good fortune
Be happy, be healthy, long life!
And if our good fortune never comes, here's to whatever comes:
Drink l'chaim, to life!
~ "Fiddler on the Roof"

I was late. I made it to the balcony before the doors closed, but as I dashed up the darkened aisle looking for an usher, the fiddler began playing.

 ***

Years ago my daughter came home from the video shoppe with two musicals and asked me which she should watch first. They were "The King and I" and "Fiddler on the Roof." I whimpered, and tried to come up with an honest answer that wouldn't bias her. Couldn't do it. "The King and I," I recommended. "It's a good show. But it's not like Fiddler. Fiddler is ... special." She wanted me to explain, but I couldn't.

Now I find myself trying to explain to my colleagues at work who have never seen it. ("There are people who haven't seen Fiddler on the Roof?!" exclaimed Biker Chick, aghast.) It's not like other musicals. "Fiddler" is to most other musicals as literature is to romance novellas. The latter can be fun, may include unusual plot twists and witty dialogue, may even introduce a controversial subject, but essentially they follow a tried-and-true structure with a foregone conclusion. They make you feel good; but for the most part, they don't require much of the audience. 

The emotional investment in "Fiddler" is enormous, and I have been trying to understand why. One man said to me that he had avoided the show as he avoided other performances he mentally classified as "ethnic" - so evidently he thinks this show is about a bunch of Jews being mistreated, and it doesn't appeal because he's not Jewish. Errr. <clears throat> Really great literature -- really great art of any kind -- is about love and sorrow and celebration and spiritual connections. "Fiddler on the Roof" is about a way of life coming to an end, young people rebelling, resilience and hope and the support of loved ones. The story could be told in any "ethnic" community on earth. But it might not be as funny. 

Last weekend I was looking for a movie to watch. I browsed through lists on Rotten Tomatoes of the Top Movies of 2011, 2010, etc. I kept bumping into Jewish themes, including the movie Sholem Aleichem: Laughing in the Darkness. ("Fiddler on the Roof" is based on the stories of Sholem Aleichem.) The coincidence was strong, not only because I had just purchased a ticket to see Fiddler at the start of Pesach, but also because I had just sent a wedding gift to my cousin's daughter. The wedding took place in Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel. 

"Fiddler on the Roof" revolves around weddings.

***

At intermission, an old lady asked me, "Is this the same show as years ago? It seems like they've added stuff." I gulped, "Oh, no, this is the show." For me, the performance didn't last long enough. Even though I had to stand through the first two numbers ("Tradition!" and "Matchmaker, Matchmaker"); even though there is NO leg room in the balcony of the Peabody Opera House - I mean, less legroom than your average coach seat on an airplane; even though the performance time including intermission ran three full hours, it was too short. I felt like Tevye barely had time to deliver a line or two before they were launching into the next, beloved song. 

I've seen a lot of performances of "Fiddler on the Roof," from the Muny Opera to Jerseyville High School. (High schools and colleges love this show because you get to use a lot of girls.) I've learned to watch for Fyedka, and he didn't disappoint. He stood out from the other gentiles like a unicorn in a herd of donkeys. I wish he had had more chances to sing: when he took "L'chaim" down into the Russian dance, his voice rang out like a trumpet.

Golde and her daughters were exactly as I wanted them to be. In fact, Chava pretty much stole the show with her broken, choked, "Papa?" as she tried to get him to acknowledge her. The man who played the legs of Fruma Sara seemed to be having a lot of fun -- and must have really good balance -- as he kicked and danced around with the old ghost on his shoulders. 

And Tevye ... was perfect. At the very beginning I felt like his accent was awfully American, but it became more Yiddish as the show went on. Or maybe there isn't any real difference between American and Yiddish. Billy Crystal, Mel Brooks. They have American accents. It's just when they come out with those hilarious Yiddish locutions that I think of it as a Yiddish accent, I think. One of my favorite moments was when Tevye was washing up (just before "Sabbath Prayer"). Golde was scolding him so he asked her, "Can't you see I'm praying?!" and started mumbling a singsong chant. All of that was normal, but this Tevye, played by John Preece, brought the scene alive with physical comedy as he raised his eyes to heaven, still chanting, while jabbing an arm vigorously toward his wife as if to say, "You see the burdens I must bear?" 

His collapse onto the milk cart before singing "Chavaleh (Little Bird)" was especially poignant. But I've always identified with Chava, the daughter who breaks the rules and marries outside the faith, breaking her parents' hearts.

***

I decided to walk the 10 blocks back to my car under the Paschal full moon, although the usher didn't think it was safe. "There are a lot of homeless people across the street," she said. I thought, what do homeless people want with me? My mind was on the people of Anatevka leaving their homes, heading out into the unknown; people whose idea of riches is real wooden floors and a yard full of poultry, "as if to say here lives a wealthy man." 

Poverty is a reality in this world -- across the street from the Peabody as well as in remote Russian villages. I marvel at how much wealth I have (and waste), and I worry that this way of life -- like the village of Anetevka -- is doomed to vanish. Not only because of the appalling economic mess we're in, but because America is a young country that is following a well-worn path of corruption to its maturity. As conditions become unbearable for the majority, can civil disobedience and a breakdown in societal structures be far behind? How much will I have to bribe my local sheriff to help me defend my home? How long before someone wealthier and more powerful than I decides to kick me out because I'm old, white, female or the wrong religion? 

You might say that each of us is a fiddler on the roof, trying to scratch out a simple tune without breaking his neck.

Next year in Jerusalem.

 

 

It's personal

Listen: Some things are too important to talk about.

I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest in a theater when I was nineteen (and still a firefly). Luckily I was with a friend who was close enough that we didn't need to talk. We repaired to a nearby bar and stared into our beers, unable to articulate the enormity of what we were feeling. I felt as heavy as that hydrotherapy console that the chief throws through the window - and pretty much as if I had been hurled through the window myself. 

Like that.

***

I often hear people chatter about how music is "intensely personal," but I'd never quite made sense of that aphorism until one evening when I attended the pre-concert notes given by SLSO Music Director David Robertson. He was talking about a piece I knew and loved, but he was highlighting things I'd never noticed and spinning off into an entirely different direction. My heart cried, "You're wrong!" - but then he said that other people would hear other things, and that was the beauty of music.

It's true. I can never get anyone to hear what I hear, even when I play a recording and say, "Listen! There!" They just don't experience it the way I do. I appreciate hearing their points of view, and they add new texture to the tonal fabric being woven in my head, but we do not hear the same things the same way. What I hear echoes in my memory and my longing, who I am and who I wish I were. 

***

I heard the St. Louis Symphony and Chorus perform Bach's Mass in B Minor today.

Moving? Lots of things are moving. A Sousa march can get ya goin'. When Santana and Rob Thomas strike up "Smooth," you can't sit still. There are songs that make you cry, make you bounce, soothe troubled feelings. (For soothing, I recommend the instrumental at the end of "Layla.")

This was bigger than that. This was opening and emptying your heart, giving 100%, wringing out everything that's good in you and offering it up in roaring flames and the most honest, terrible joy. And then ... peace. 

Dona nobis pacem.

***

There are those who don't get it, who aren't haunted by the Leipzig Kapellmeister and his intricate tapestries of sound. I want to grab them by the ears and pump each part in separately. There! Hear that? Here it comes again in the altos! Now, wait for it ... the basses are going to knock down the walls!  

I thought I was ready. I even sang various choruses as I drove to St. Louis, pumping myself up. But the impossibly sweet trumpet call announcing "Gloria in excelsis Deo" had me grabbing for Kleenex. It's that personal.

***

I had never seen the B Minor Mass performed before, except from the chorus, which doesn't count. This was a fairly small orchestra, with continuo organ and harpsichord. I was glad to see that the various instrumental soloists stood for their showpieces. Concertmaster David Halen was first, standing to play obbligato to mezzo-soprano Kate Lindsey's "Laudamus te." I immediately collected Ms. Lindsey, who reminded me facially of Maggie Gyllenhaal. Then principal flutist Mark Sparks warbled and danced through "Domine Deus" - and I do mean he danced. Sometimes I thought he looked like the pied piper as he bent his knees and shifted his feet, swinging his flute into the phrases. But then Halen also had some footwork going on; when he stood and started swaying with his violin, I thought for a moment he was  the Fiddler on the Roof.

Speaking of which, I am planning to see Fiddler on the Roof onstage at the Fox on  Thursday. That's right, I haven't had enough emotional beatings this Lenten season. <grinning>

Last night I was watching A Room with a View, with Maggie Smith and Helena Bonham Carter, ca. 1985. After playing a rousing piano piece, Helena's character says her mother hates for her to play Beethoven because "she says it makes me peevish afterward." Yeah. I get that. I felt kinda peevish after the St. Matthew Passion, and again after the B Minor Mass. Like I've just been through something so important that I just have no patience with the trivialities of the ordinary world. 

But my soul doth magnify the Lord.

Mass Emotion

Powell Hall was jam-packed, and it wasn't a season opener or closer, where the Pretty People come out to show how much money they have. This crowd was not unpretty, just ... odd. Nerdy and awkward, aggressively retro (mohawks), some in costume (cosplay) ... very similar to the GenCon crowd. Gamers, in other words.

The event was called "Distant Worlds: Music of Final Fantasy," and like the Bugs Bunny special it came with its own conductor and crew. This time it came with its own composer as well: Nobuo Uematsu, who composed much of the music for the video games, was there in flip-flops and bandanna, bobbing and bowing, at the start of the concert.

I don't know anything about Final Fantasy except my kid says it's the best video game series ever made. She wanted to go to this concert, and I was honored to experience it with her, her husband and their friends. But I didn't expect ... the emotional attachment. Silly of me, when you think about it. Of course the music made them experience again the bond with the game, the frustration and triumph. Besides which I understand - from one of the people seated nearby - that the storyline is what makes Final Fantasy superior. And if you're bonding to a storyline, it's like hearing "Tara's Theme" from Gone with the Wind,  I imagine.

***

I was a row ahead of my companions, and didn't have any chance to ask Stupid Mom questions. But the girl next to me, whom I shall call Phoebe, was getting a pre-concert indoctrination from her companion, a large, sloppy guy I accidentally sort of kneed in the crotch as he tried to stand out of the way and I tried to squeeze past him. He (I've dubbed him Phred) told Phoebe that the storyline was what attracted him to the games - that you actually play out a novel-type story. I asked, "How many games are there? Ten? Eleven?" (Stupid Mom Question #1.) "Thirteen, actually," he said. "Well, 14, but XIV is online only, and I refuse to play it." Later I asked him what sort of purist he was, that he wouldn't play an online game. "It's not being a purist," he said. "I just know that if I start playing online MRPGs, I'll never stop. It's an addiction." 

But for now, the house lights were dimming and the composer was being introduced and so on. The ponytailed conductor, Arnie Roth, did some teasing and scene setting with talk of this game or that (like the first four Led Zep albums, they go by numbers), and the audience was eagerly receptive, with hoots and cheers and a physical sort of leaning-into-it attention. And when the first scene was projected onto the screen, orchestra playing, the pleased gasps and contented sighs were nearly universal.

Later I learned that this was the opening scene to my daughter's first Final Fantasy game, VII. From the crowd reaction, it's a favorite. I enjoyed the music, watching the performers as much as anything. I couldn't tell you if it was great music, but thankfully it was not the theme from Mario Bros. Also I was curious about the visuals and whether I would see any kind of plot development (I didn't). Now that I'm doing my homework and checking out the setting and plot on Wikipedia, I still don't get it. It all seems very complicated to me.

But the graphics were first rate, and I contented myself with trying to remember what R had told me about Final Fantasy. "The animation! You have to see!" sort of sprang to mind. Meanwhile I could watch the percussionists - the timpanist at one back corner, and the gongs-and-bells guy at the other were especially busy - and enjoy the crowd's reaction to the music.

Vocal soloist Susan Calloway, we were told, was actually the inspiration for one of the songs in the Final Fantasy series; after hearing her sing, Uematsu wrote a song for her. She has a fine voice, but I thought she was stretching for the high notes more than once - and the songs were a bit schlocky. Perfectly fine for video games and music credits, but not something I would ordinarily want to hear the symphony perform. In this setting, I enjoyed them just fine but couldn't wait to get to something more rhythmic and fun.

And there was plenty of rhythmic, fun stuff. The crowd went crazy when the Chocobo theme was introduced. Chocobo, it seems, is (or are) a giant chicken or chickens that human characters ride like horses. Or camels. Transportation, anyway. I found it puzzling that sometimes the Chocobo images were fully rendered, 3D drawings - and sometimes just a pixillated chicken shape following horizontal and vertical paths on a flat map gaming board. I'm told that later games had this full 3D rendering but the early ones were just video games like Zelda - and that they have been redone with new graphics since that time. Makes sense. I just didn't have the impression that the games were that old. Basically my daughter's entire life, I guess ... much has changed, technologically.

Composer Nobuo Uematsu came onstage to play one number on electronic keyboards, while the conductor - as part of the agreement - played violin. I liked watching Uematsu. I would say he shuffled onstage except that it was a high-speed shuffle - sort of a cross between a scuttle and a shuffle - his feet seeming to slide back and forth at high speed like a ... well, like an early Chocobo.

***

Enthusiastic reception greeted many of the pieces, and I looked forward to stories afterward. I was not disappointed. The Susan Calloway solo before intermission (lightened afterward by the Chocobo medley) was met with whimpers and moans from many in the audience. If I have this right, it is "Suteki da ne" from FF X (we're not close enough friends that I can just call it X without the honorific), and it represents a completely shattering moment in the game: the end. [SPOILER ALERT] Again, if I have this right, the main male character is dreamed up by the people of the world, and as he builds a relationship with Yuna, the summoner, he teaches her to whistle so she can whistle him up when she needs him. At the end of the game, when you (and she) have won ... he vanishes, because 's just a dream, and Yuna frantically whistles to try to call him back.

R tells me that I came down with a load of laundry right after she had won the game, and she was crying. When I asked if she was okay, she nodded and finally choked out, "I beat the game!" Oddly enough, I didn't understand her dismay. She says that earlier she had galloped upstairs to tell me and Dad, "I'm gonna BEAT THIS GAME!" all pumped up and stuff, and we were supportive in that parental sort of "That's nice dear, wear a sweater" way.

And then, she won. And cried.

Courtney told a similar story about a big, macho friend of hers who stayed up all night playing. He's one of those loud, impatient, always-in-control people. But she caught him staring blankly at the TV screen in the morning, not making a sound, just staring hopelessly at it. She says she asked if he was okay, and he said mournfully, "I beat the game." Pulling himself together, he added angrily, "It's a REALLY SAD GAME, okay?!!!"

The first cosplay character we saw that night was dressed as Yuna, the summoner from FF X. 

***

I didn't have this kind of connection to the music, but I felt privileged to witness a whole subculture opening up to it. I heard people talking at intermission in the sort of shorthand you use with people who share your passions: "One-Winged Angel!" and "Omigod, Aerith's Theme." I couldn't remember one piece from another (in fact, I was looking at Friday's lineup in my program, and we were there Saturday for an entirely different show),  but I kept my mouth shut.

My knowledgeable neighbor Phred could be heard explaining that the music was composed on an electronic keyboard and produced as MIDI sound files, and was only recently orchestrated. Obviously the orchestrated version was the way to introduce the music - and maybe the games! - to Stupid Mom. I liked the music, was baffled by the images, but most of all I appreciated the passion of the audience.

So when there was a singalong on the encore, I sang "Sephiroth!" with everybody else. (Phoebe and I didn't understand what everyone was singing, and R&E were too far away to clue me in, but eventually it was spelled out in syllables on the screen.) Sephiroth is a bad guy, the one I saw Yuna chopping the head off of in one of the video sequences. "Oh, he was like a statue, but there was blood or something spurting out?" I asked. (Stupid Mom Question #Ilostcount.) Er, no. That was ... something else, or I misunderstood what I was seeing, or he's frozen but still alive - I don't know. FAIL.

Sephiroth

***

Afterward we adjourned to an impossibly hot bar across the street and had some remarkable beers. Eel ordered Moose Drool and was impressed. I forget what Rhan ordered, but she liked Moose Drool better. I had ordered a Schlafly Hefeweisen, but the bartender recommended a different brewery and so I ended up with a marvelous, light, extremely drinkable beer. Whose name I have forgotten. (All I can come up with is Sephiroth!)

And so came the crowning moment of the night. The young couples were explaining the games and the stories and the music to Stupid Mom, when one of the guys at the bar came over to ask, "What was with the opera? Who ever heard of an opera in a video game?" They explained that the main character in the opera is the target, so the hero has to play the role of the main character, and the action takes place during the opera. I snickered into my beer, knowing that someone else was as ignorant as I; so when he seemed satisfied, I asked, "What brought you to the show tonight?"

"I was PLAYING in it!" he replied, gesturing toward the bar (where there were instrument cases lined up, now that I noticed). "We're in the orchestra!"

Yard Guy: The Beginning

Yard Guy came on Tuesday for a consultation. First stop was the gutters. When I told him that I had gutter guards but I had taken them down, he started tatlking about a bid for a different type of gutter guards. He's a talker, and we spent way too much time on gutters, which were not my primary concern - although he chided me that water in the basement was a bad thing. Yeah. No shit.

Finally I got him to walk around the yard and see the places to avoid mowing, the branches that need to be picked up, the honeysuckle that is taking over the peonies, the overgrown shrubs and leaves and weeds. He really wanted to focus on short term: "First, let's get these leaves blown out of here - good thing you won't have neighbors complaining that I blew them into THEIR yard." I replied, "My neighbors are llamas."

Anyway, he wants to start by picking up debris, mowing and trimming: "Then let's see what we've got." He plans to charge me by the hour rather than a flat weekly rate or a per-job rate, which is a better deal for me. He said, "So if it takes me three hours ..." I said, "Stop. This yard takes three hours to cut when it's in GOOD shape, and that's just cutting, not trimming." 

I still wanted to talk about long-term projects like honeysuckle control and advanced shrub wrestling, but while he acknowledged I need help, he wasn't in a hurry to commit to a long-term program. Maybe he's right, and we need to start small. I'll be happy to get the grass cut. My tractor is out of commission again, and Gordon actually shook a finger at me, telling me I need to take better care of it. Mice had nested in it and chewed through wires. (I told him that was the cat's responsibility.) So until Kenny Small Engine Repair gets out here to overhaul the tractor again, my yard is in the hands of ...

YARD GUY!!! 

(He needs theme music.)

The REALLY great thing is that after all that buildup, he couldn't place Gordon. "Tall guy," I said. "Gray hair. Wolfman Jack beard. Town slut." Mmmm, said Yard Guy, mmmmaybe ... "He's a carpenter," I added. "Yes!" said Yard Guy. "A UNION carpenter! I know who you mean!"