Activity, Art, Music, Opera, Pop Culture

2011 Carmen: Opera! Acting! Singing! Thank you!

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Got this book for Christmas. Doesn’t cover ‘Carmen’, but I’ll be reading it in 2012.People who know or like opera may want to avert their eyes, I’m about to fling ignorance around like water off a wet dog.

I had only seen three operas. In the late 70s or early 80s I saw a family friend in the female lead of Pirates of Penzance. In the 90s I saw another friend in Candide. Around 1990 PBS aired all of Wagner’s Ring cycle done by the New York Metropolitan Opera. I made it through the first show, and part of the second, then interest waned. A foreign language! Subtitles? German? Even as a fan of Norse myths it was too slow, too much work.

Julia Roberts about to bug the shit out of me.So, in the dark I remained. Yet, I knew enough to get PISSED at Pretty Woman during the scene where the prostitute (Julia Roberts) is told by her aristocrat Wall Street tycoon john (Richard Gere) that people either get, nay FEEL, opera or they don’t. And only the first time. After that, they may LIKE opera, but they have a never-to-be-remedied manqué soul or something like that. Sure as shit, arriviste Julia Roberts weeps at the opera. Her first time. Ah! See? Heart of gold! What if it were a bad production, Richard Gere, and she were turned off by that? Eh? Even though I didn’t know opera, I knew enough to think: “Stop! In the name of Art! Fuuuck YOOOUUU, Pretty Woman!”

I didn’t (and still mostly don’t) like musicals. And operas amplified what I didn’t like about musicals. As a story conveyance device, they were terrible. Rarely showing anything. Flooding the audience with repetitive wordy words, in a foreign language, and not offering much wisdom. Do operas even try have a message? Modern operas, maybe. There’s a new one about Nixon going to China. Watching Pat Nixon sing songs might be funny. Otherwise, whatever.

But during 2011, something clicked, and I got interested (though still intimidated). I finally got that operas were not meant to be didactic, they were pageants for humans to stand in defiance of nature’s amoral flow. That flow will always prevail, but the demiurge to create a moment and marker was important. Melodrama was inherent. We, as humans, would never win, but identity is conflict, and maybe we would find something of ourselves in that temporary stand. And then the catharsis thing and watching people we empathize with suffer as scapegoats for the expiation of our sins (“Die before me Carmen, so that I may mourn the zesty side of me that yet dreams!”) and on and on.

I also got interested in the biography, glamor, and drama of Maria Callas. To be a strong opera performer, compelled to master that moment before a crowd, demands a strong ego. The appeal of the diva will probably be a necessity for holding MY attention. I doubt male vocalists will have that hold for me.

Asking for guidance on Facebook, one friend affirmed Callas was a good start (I already had been listening to her in Norma). Another friend suggested Carmen as the opera to get to know. Snorkeling gear on loan from Parnassus, I leaned off the edge of the boat and flopped in. Read a plot synopsis, then a couple. Read that Bizet wrote “Toreador” in a contemptuous pique of needing to throw a sure-fire hit to the rabble. Problem is, that kind of apocryphal story is told about a LOT of artists, to the modern day. It creates an artificial bond between the artist, the purveyor of the bogus story, and the listener: “Only WE get [insert name of artist]. The swine out there who think [insert name of popular work by artist] is awesome don’t know how low the artist regarded THEIR kind of taste.”

Bought a studio recording of Callas in Carmen. It became a soundtrack for writing. Much of the score was familiar, of course. Visions of The Bad News Bears during the overture. I’m down with that, though. It’s a good movie.

At the end of this year, I caught a production of Carmen on its opening night and truly enjoyed it. The theater was only half full, motivating a shift to better seats during an intermission. Pavlovian conditioning also brought me to scribble writing ideas during the show.

Voices were good, music done well. I don’t have a discerning ear about opera so I can’t get too analytical there. Some of the acting was dull, especially the body language. But the biomechanics of singing opera capably AND being a nimble performer may be impossible. How many divas wear gowns/muumuus so vast you end up marveling they can ambulate their massive torsos around on anything not a downward slope?

I knew the opera was in French, but was worried I wouldn’t be able to follow the lyrics. Yet it was doubtful Eugene was THAT full of people fluent or conversant in French. Don’t get me wrong, a college town and all, but STILL – THOUSANDS of people paying money to hear and comprehend French sung operatically? Translated lyrics were projected above the stage. Ah! Bien merçi!

José was in good voice, mostly. Body language sluggish. Carmen was lusty and unapologetic and lived large. Escamillo was funny and preening and bold. Micaëla was lovely with a great voice and the performer seems destined for ascension.

Four acts in ‘Carmen’. Act one was okay. Got swept up in Act two. Laughed in Act three. Admired the countdown of ‘Carmen’ getting sacrificed for our benefit in Act four. Was impressed that I never caught any illuminated rectangles from cellphones or cameras in the audience the entire time. Also, there were no patronizing announcements asking people to turn off their cellphones. People just KNEW and … no phones rang during the show. A good experience both inward and a mass commisseration. Felt entertained, moved, and optimistic about being a human being.

Yes, I realize if this page is setup right the video played automatically, causing music to come out of your speakers as soon as you got here like a webpage from 1997. Kickin’ it old school. To compensate, check out this charming performance of “Habanera” by Callas below … and YOU get to control the playback. You’re welcome!

Activity, Art, Music, Pop Culture

Another fine Prince concert.

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My third (and fourth) Prince concert one right after the other. The first was in the Tacoma Dome in Washington. No opening act, two solid hours of hits. No tracks from new albums that he’s selling. A cover of “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was a highlight. Prince and Michael Jackson had some mild back and forths over the 80s and 90s. Who knew Prince would end up the normal(ish) one?

Then got word of one of Prince’s common after-party shows which go late into the evening/morning. Got to the club in Seattle about 1:00 a.m. A house band was playing (and doing well). Then about an hour of a d.j. Then Prince’s band took the stage and worked the crowd for 45 minutes until Prince finally arrived. The only Prince “hit” played was “Musicology”, everything else was covers or jams. They were really good, including legendary saxophonist Maceo Parker. Prince didn’t take his sunglasses off the while time and left after an hour. About half the show I was dancing in place next to a young hippie dude with long strangly hair who felt obliged to loudly show how much he felt the groove by going “Woooo!” several times and doing a excited lean forward, lean back rocking twice every 4/4 measure in a way only done by demonstrative hippies and the mentally infirm with excited or anxious. Met up with a colleague from work, who sagely and kindly got a bottle of water for herself, for me, and her lifelong friend who is very funny.

Prince left about 3:50. Crowd inferred he wasn’t coming back when his band also packed up. Got in the car at 4:00 and drove 25 minutes to get back to the hotel in Tacoma.

During the big show, Prince asked “Do any of you remember the 80s?” It got a big roar. That decade would have been much better without that son of a bitch Reagan. Anyway, Prince seemed more interested and curious about the more free-form music after-party concert. Must be a slight drag being a jukebox, but he’s really good at it.

“When Doves Cry” and enough lens flares to be in the new ‘Star Trek’ movie.

“Purple Rain” showered us all in … strips of gold tinsel and purple crepe paper.

Prince has left the building.

At the club, NO PHOTOS OR VIDEOS WERE ALLOWED OF ANY KIND. Signs posted all over, announcements made from the stage, policy mentioned by bouncers at the pat-down. Didn’t keep assholes on two occasions from trying to take photos by holding their brightly illuminated rectangles high into the air above everyone’s heads for several seconds. It could not have been made handier of the security guards, who within a few seconds had their flashlights triangulate to pinpoint the sloppy guerilla photographer and bounce the person out. There ARE sneakier ways to take photos without holding a bright lamp over your head, kids.

Prince residue/holy relic. My dog suspects I have a treat for her in my hand (she was to be disappointed).

Art, Pop Culture, Writing

Gore Vidal on writing & moral judgment

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While on a plane, I watched an old CSPAN-2 Book TV episode of “In Depth” with Gore Vidal. It’s three hours, and I’ve watched it several times. Many layers of “nerrrrrd” to unpack, but do not be fooled – the amount of pop culture junk food I binge on would destroy the liver and kidneys of a typical person.

His statement in this excerpt struck me, as I’d been on a fiction writing jag that’s probably not for public consumption, a spin off from my main project very much about creatively processing some ideas rolling around trying to figure out where my thoughts are:

“Generally, I find one writes to find out what one thinks. I find that if I don’t write, I don’t think. I just sensate.”

As posted before, I am worried about Vidal dying soon. His interview above was 11 years ago.

Art, Parenting, Poetry, Writing

“Woman’s Work” by Julia Alvarez

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Thanks to Fanny C. for recommending a book of poetry: Rebel Angels, 25 Poets of the New Formalism. I’ve been making slow progress, but have stopped and lurched backward to re-read this poem several times. It’s not sophisticated, but it’s stuck.

Julia AlvarezWoman’s Work
by Julia Alvarez

Who says a woman’s work isn’t high art?
She’d challenge as she scrubbed the bathroom tiles.
Keep house as if the address were your heart.

We’d clean the whole upstairs before we’d start
downstairs. I’d sigh, hearing my friends outside.
Doing her woman’s work was a hard art

to practice when the summer sun would bar
the floor I swept till she was satisfied.
She kept me prisoner in her housebound heart.

She’d shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts,
cut lacy lattices for all her pies.
Her woman’s work was nothing less than art.

And I, her masterpiece since I was smart,
was primed, praised, polished, scolded and advised
to keep a house much better than my heart.

I did not want to be her counterpart!
I struck out. . .but became my mother’s child:
a woman working at home on her art,
housekeeping paper as if it were her heart.

For my part, didn’t grow up with a Mom who was so fastidious, or LIVED so much through housework. My parents (split home-ish-ness, but consolidating everyone for simplicity’s sake) put an emphasis on us kids doing chores and housekeeping so we would not be totally useless when we left the nest. Seems obvious and common, but how many people/roommates have we known who moved away from home with little or no household skills?

The poem is a manifesto, but my place in life is not summed up in the last stanza, though in time it may be. While sputtering in my writing projects, I see my 8 y/o daughter taking an interest in writing story ideas or phrases in a journal she has, she’s made several observations over the years about seeing me write, and both kids sometimes ask about the state of my writing projects.

I wonder if I’m role modeling for her. If she’ll see my taking spare moments to write as an acceptable norm, a habit for her to build on. If my life is an intermediary step for any greater successes she may have. That’s fine with me. I’d be proud to see it.

Activity, Art, Music, Parenting, Pop Culture, Religion, Writing

‘Hugo’, musicals, summing up Christ, James Joyce

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Went with the family to watch Hugo, a movie we all enjoyed. Nice to watch a kids film that didn’t feel obliged to make rapid fire jokes with pop cultural references to get an easy laugh of recognition without requiring any wit (HATE that!). Hugo is about art, cinema (ekphrasis alert!), orphans, inspiration. As portrayed in the film, all Parisians have British accents. Good to know! Will British ribbing of the French ever cease? Sascha Baron Cohen does a good job as a demi-villain, too. Oscar nomination for Best Picture seems likely.

Although, for less than a second, during a tumult in a Paris train station, JAMES JOYCE makes an appearance in a café! For this dormant Joycean, a pleasing touch.

On the way back home in the car, the kids insisted on listening to The Book of Mormon soundtrack. I am very proud when they start singing along. I skipped playing the song “Hasa Diga Ebowai” which has lyrics like “Fuck you god, in the ass, mouth, and cunt. Fuck you in the eye.” (with a bouncy melody!). They asked why I skipped it (which they’ve heard before).

My 11 y/o son: “Is it because of the bad words?” I said: “Yes, and it’s because your Mom is in the car and I don’t want to shock her.” That turned into a sarcastic flurry with me asking the kids in the back seat things like: “So, you’re telling me you kids continue to make good decisions about what words to use, and when, and don’t feel the need to say dirty words at every single opportunity?” When the joshing subsided, I STILL did not play the song. In role modeling that authority often involves erratic rules, my children are learning important life lessons.

We DID listen to the song “Man Up”, which has the line “Christ, he manned up.” Son asked what that was about. After a few seconds to compose my thoughts, I summarized the story of Jesus Christ’s passion, the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension in neutral language in about a minute and a half! Yes, I am bragging about that, have EARNED it, and…

… NAILED IT!

Art, Parenting, Pop Culture

The Wiggles, greatest band ever?

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On a two hour road trip this weekend, we played through three Wiggles albums for the first time in years. Fun was had by all, nostalgia was had by three (two parents and son – our daughter born three years later grew up with non-Wiggles music).

The Wiggles are a four-person music-for-kiddies group formed in Australia. Three of the four were early childhood educators, and it shows in their songs. Not brilliant music, but they make an effort to sing about healthful eating, safety lessons, other cultures, and silly things.

Around 2001, we bought a Wiggles videotape and watched it over and over. As our son danced with happiness, and I often danced with him, we adults made short back stories as grown-up minds are wont to do during kid shows. The leader, Greg (yellow shirt), was an affable dork on the surface who subtly but effectively rebuffed any attempt by other Wiggles to take the lead. Anthony (originally green shirt, then blue, and the first Captain Feathersword ’til they found another actor) was a lothario, a permanent beta who WANTED to take charge but couldn’t stop carousing enough at night to pull a coup together during the day. Murray (red shirt) was even dorkier than Greg, and just wanted everyone to get along. Jeff (purple shirt) was a political prisoner held against his will. These backstories/coping mechanisms kept us amused for years.

We took our son to see The Wiggles when he was about two. Great energy in the theater full of toddlers and happy parents. Murray even made it up to the balcony to say hi and delight the kids.

Greg had to leave after several rampantly successful years with shows in many countries, including choice placement on the Disney Channel and huge tours. He had a cardiac problem. He was replaced, but we didn’t track The Wiggles past that point.

But enough of my yakkin’, let’s boogie.

“Hot Potato” is The Wiggles version of “Satisfaction”. If they didn’t perform this song dutifully for their fans, riots may erupt. Video features the friendly pirate Captain Feathersword (he’s the pirate with the feather sword) and “Paul” a chef-looking dude who must be a mate of theirs in real life:

Found an early version, with Anthony in green, that’s much sloppier. This is like finding a lost Stones demo. Watch it for an example of how Anthony seems to be struggling relative to the others.

Less fun (because they’re all sitting) but a better tune is “Fruit Salad”. To continue the Stones analogy, it’s their “Honky Tonk Women”.

Close to my favorite song is “Shaky Shaky”. Video quality here is shoddy (alas, friendly pirated media!) but it’s an Elvis nod. When watching the Disney Channel was a daily occurrence in our home, I noted Disney aired this bit on Elvis’ birthday and the anniversary of his death. Clip is enhanced by the sounds of a toddler in the room:

Yes, I did want to be a Wiggle, and eight or nine years ago would have been ready to don a colored shirt and hit the ground running. Though I’ve fallen out of practice, if called I will serve. Hope you are taking it easy, Greg. And good work. Beauty, mate!

Activity, Art, Pop Culture

‘Breaking Dawn, Part One’ undeadly dull

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This is the head of character Jasper Cullen. It is ridiculous and makes me laugh.Dragged my spouse to the latest Twilight movie: Breaking Dawn, Part One. She’s read all the books. I only read the birth scene in the final book. It was weirder than de Sade.

The Twilight phenomenon seems to have petered out. Or the Twi-Hard Moms have moved along. Early on, seeing middle-aged women swoon and slobber over this teen-oriented series was annoying. By annoying, I mean made me jealous. Hopefully these same women were granting a pass to their partners/dudes swooning/slobbering over attractive female celebrities. Doubtful? Sure.

Also had trouble getting through my own teen (okay, also twentyish) romantic melodrama PTSDs. Due to about $150,000 spent on Scientology training (I now am Tom Cruise’s official toothbrusher) and extensive re-re-reading of The Secret (vision board iPad app allows me to manifest things while on the road, BAM!) I am now well past projecting onto the Twilight saga and can regard it dispassionately.

This movie was boring.

The director must have been chanting: “One more time, with less effort.” Poor actors.

Per usual with the series, any scene of characters enjoying themselves must be followed by a tenfold of regret. Not life as a series of ups and downs, but one iota of pleasure carries heavy shame and angst every time.

One night of sex? Aftermath: 100% pregnancy rate, bruises, brooding, apologies, locals yelling curses at you, lethal vampiric fetus a tumor consuming and breaking you from within.

Every night is a full moon. Either the whole story takes place during one evening OR the characters are catatonic for 27 consecutive days and emerge only on the 28th. Like Brigadoon, but slightly faster.

The birth scene is obscurely done. Dull disappointment.

Jacob, the teen werewolf, imprinting on an infant as a future mate? Oh, they kinda tried, but the audience laughed. There’s no way to win that. Dorky, disturbing, trying to make us swoon over something heinous. I laughed, too.

Looking for scenes of dog-punching? This movie’s got it, though confusingly edited.

Despite what the poster hints below, the vampires from Europe have essentially no presence in the film. Just as well, given Europeans are E-VIL in these movies. They have their cra-zazy adequate healthcare systems, respect for other nations, sense of place in human history. E-VIL. If you’re worried about American minds being exposed to European ideas in this movie, fret not.

Activity, Art, Music, Pop Culture

U2 and memories and Las Vegas trash

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The Alarm, (left to right) Other guys, Not-BonoAchtung Baby came out 20 years ago. An occasion for curmudgeonly reflection and latent proclamation of mental ossification. First, I welcome being a curmudgeon. Second, I think the junk music today is loads better than the junk music of the 80s and 90s. Third, this may be the best era ever for quality television. There is no way to watch all of it. We live in days of wonder.

I caught onto U2 late. I am not, and have never been, cool. There was a span of time in the early 80s I confused them with The Alarm, a Welsh band deliberately trying to muddle kids on just that point.

Got into them during The Unforgettable Fire, (yeah, yeah. Boy and October and all that. If Casey Kasem or Dick Clark wasn’t talking about ’em they didn’t exist – remember, me = not cool). Loved the doo-wop part in the background of “Pride (in the Name of Love)” – really, it’s there. Got The Joshua Tree and decreed it with millions of others as a Very Big Album imbued with shamanistic powers. It took many months before the sanctimony blockade was broken and some of us peeped to each other that “Bullet the Blue Sky” was really annoying and doofy.

Rattle and Hum came out, people cried hubris. The cowboy ensembles were redonkulous, but the songs and the Think Big, Sing Big, Feel Big, and Rehash Our Hit Song as a Gospel Piece to Show We’re Down had highs and lows, but by golly, they were trying. And Bono critiquing lyrics with B.B. King? On film? And Larry Mullen Jr. crying after sitting on Elvis’ motorcycle? That shit is just funny. Remember, United Kingdomers grow up with Monty Python running 24-7 (or do they go by metric time there?) so they communicate only through irony. Get it now? Yes, see? Ha ha. U2 was having a laugh.

Word got out U2 was recording with Brian Eno (Bowie fan: So, what’s new?) in Berlin (Bowie fan: Whaaaa? Are they doing the “oblique strategies” thing? I don’t know what’s real anymore.). They ended up doing most of the work in Dublin, but, oh, for a while there…

When the first track off Achtung Baby came out, “The Fly”, it sounded really dense. Then the video came out with Bono putting on large sunglasses and a new personna, The Fly – studied poseur and oily, louche behavior – that caused a one-two reaction: 1.) Bono is taking control of the mockery by surpassing it? 2.) is he making fun of Michael Hutchence from INXS?

This was a big deal, the album was even better, and their Zoo TV shows took their cues from the video above. A great artistic maneuver, taking control of public perception and bending it.

Bono and supermodel Christy Turlington, Dec. 1992 Vogue (logo in black leather).But 20 years later, Bono has still not ditched the shades and the distance.

Side note: Henry Rollins Jr. has called Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. the worst rhythm section of any major band. Discuss.

I saw the Zoo TV tour in the Tacomadome in Spring 1992. I think the Pixies opened (?) but didn’t know the Pixies very well. They weren’t mainstream enough (me = not cool, though I respect the disdainful and wistful look you got on your face just now). The show itself was great. Huge flourishes, sensational, touching songs, big confidence and humor.

Drive back with my buddy was long. 6+ hours. We were exhausted. Risky driving on the road kind of groggy. A stop at AM/PM for provisions was a life-saver. Stayed up all night and went to class the next day punchy. A great 24 hours.

U2 was on the t.v. all the time about how t.v. is so pervasive in our culture. Bono smoking slender dark brown cigarettes, engaged in, using, bemoaning “Las Vegas trash” sensibilities. The phrase is short hand with my concert buddy for evoking the whole period.

Why was I in a years-long dating drought? All so clear now. Too late to rescue him, the dope.

Zooropa was a really good album, continued weirdness. Didn’t feel as big a statement, but it was fun to see the band stretching itself. Easy to suspect taking mushrooms or cocaine with Brian Eno in the studio, Daniel Lanois playing with Radio Shack kits to insert bleeps and blurps and to make Eno laugh. Who wouldn’t take up THAT opportunity?

Looking for pharmaceutical ads, found this awesomer image. Listen to any Coldplay or U2 song of the last 15 years while staring at this. It WORKS, right?POP Mart came out and U2 bored me for good. Save for the occasional uptempo single, their songs now sound like backing tracks for bucolic pharmaceutical commercials with kids frolicking in a pasture, or ads of people finding liberty granted them by a cell phone company boasting about its signal strength. Like Coldplay (sorry Linnae). Bought their album with the single “Vertigo” (the one in the iPod ads) in it as a final act of obedience/loyalty, then have stopped. One or two albums have come out since then. Mehhhh…

Listened to the whole album again the last few days. Doesn’t tug at me as it used to. Still like the Achtung Baby song “Ultraviolet (Light My Way)”, despite or because of lyrics: “When I was all messed up, and I had opera in my head/Your love was a lightbulb, hanging over my bed”. One of those naff things where he’s singing about a chick or Jesus or both (a bearded lady with messianic powers?). Video below is from a 2009-10 ish tour trying to sell a DVD. Still, a good performance:

By the way, I have a really funny joke about U2. Ask me to tell it to you sometime.

Art, Music, Pop Culture

“Can’t Get You Out of My Head” Transmission

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Web browsing led to a train of thought from U2 to The Alarm to Michael Hutchence to Kylie Minogue and ultimately to watching the video to her “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” from 10 (!) years ago:

A glamorous sheen, wit, fun choreography, confidence in presentation. Gay as hell.

She’s a knockout, of course, but something is off-putting. Her face at times looks masculine. Her lips in the second segment (white cowl – does it count as décolletage if it doesn’t really connect up until the floor?) are done up raw in a way that’s perhaps MEANT to be uncanny. Easy to imagine The Joker going “Hey, dial it down!”

[No, comic book villains do not regularly appear in my erotic imagination. Thanks for the concern.]

An example of pop culture with attractive women ostensibly paraded for straight-male admiration, but REALLY directed to tastemakers. Watching this video is like witnessing a meteor carefully composed and launched from a magical land called Art, then we in the hoi polloi cluster of breeders gape while it streaks above. We coarsely admire and think whatever base things we are meant to. The luminous missive is finally received in the distant land of Aesthetes where the denizens eagerly decode and coo over the embedded messages the mass of us in the valley could not detect.

I dutifully bought the single in 2001. No worries about helping subsidize secret semaphore between Art and Aesthetes, even though I don’t know what the hell these brilliant bursts of white light mean half the time. Purty lights!

Elbows behind back, flashing jazz hands is my favorite part.

Art, Writing

Pragmatism

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The want in your eyes said “Come find me.” There is no practical way in these practical times, but I will try. I said that I would try, in my honest glance back.