Weirdo turned pro.
Astonished that the growing disfavor over high fructose corn syrup has led to a sense that regular sugar soda pop is a healthful choice. And companies are marketing to nostalgia for sugar soda pop. Oh, I’ll choose sugar over corn syrup. But it’s saying: “Hey, remember when we used to sell you a different type of poison?”
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!
Girls in school seem to have taken on singing songs with great gusto. Tunefulness doesn’t really matter. That’s fine. And it’s a welcome change from singing like kittens, ring tones, or kewpie dolls. And it’s MUCH better from the decade-long tradition of most female vocalists relying on a male vocalist/rapper to cover the bridge or lend unhelpful “Yeah!” and “Uh-hunh” and “Worldwide!” while the female vocalist carries the heavy load. I hate that. Hated it. Hate it. Will continue to hate.
I understand the marketing aspects. These [“w/ …”] and [“feat. …”] songs appeal to gals and dude demographics. I’m asking the music industry: when the lady has a story to tell, if it’s not a conversation/duet with a dude, tell the dude to GTFO and let the lady do her thing.
Also, get rid of AutoTune. It sucks. In a soft moment I bought a post-Christmas discounted CD of Michael Bublé’s Christmas album, only to discover the songs had been soured by AutoTune. Just, stop it! And fuck you, producer David Foster, for your decades of purveying of cynical pap.
Hope young women continue to emulate strong singers like Adele. We don’t want them accustomed to sing two thirds of a song and then wait awkwardly for a man to chime in.
The brain fills with derision and why? and laughter at each campaign by Nike to make ducks, the mascot of the University or Oregon, look macho. As if to taunt everyone, the latest photos are enhanced by samurai plumage that hopefully won’t make it onto the field (these are scholars on the field, remember, and children are a precious resource). Two of the many redonkulous images previewing what the Ducks will be wearing at the Rose Bowl on January 2nd, 2012 against Wisconsin:
And the capper, hoo-boy. Bird species dorkus malorkus:
Doesn’t it look like the little “O” is an eye that follows you everywhere? Uncanny! Walk around the room, it knows where you are and what you’re doing. It KNOWS! View the full series on Nike’s Facebook page. The concept is “The Evolution of Speed”.
Two weeks ago I had a layover in the Minneapolis airport. Yes, THAT airport that tripped (tapped?) up Idaho Senator Larry Craig of the “wide stance” public sex scandal. Four years ago in the overworn, miserable “I’m not homosexual, I love Jesus, hard, but I am only truly happy doing homosexual things with homosexual men” trope.
ANY-hoo, I was taking care of business (I excrete gardenia petals and high-quality maple syrup, unlike you mortals) and an instrumental version of “The 12 Days of Christmas” was playing in the bathroom, LOUDLY. I’d never heard an instrumental version before, have you? ‘Cause it’s horrifying. Think of that song, without the lyrics, the repetitive rounds. “DUN dun dun da dun, DUN dun dun da dun…” And it built up to and went through all twelve rounds. Oy. Nightmarish. So far, I like the holidays and associate them with friends and family (and wistfulness, Christmas songs come in minor keys, too). But that moment was horrible, and for people who don’t have those associations with this holiday I salute you for enduring.
Didn’t get the camera phone in time for “12 Days of Christmas”, but here enjoy a few bars of “Jingle Bells” that followed, with the sounds of dreary travelers around.
December 24, 1986. My family had finished up giving our gifts to each other, the evening was open, and my girlfriend of a year and a half was over to give her present to me. She was excited and proud of it.
My parents that night had given me a CD player, a Very Big Deal. CDs were shimmering circles of beautiful, perfect music without the flaws, skips, nuisances of vinyl LPs and cassettes. CD players had been on the market a year or so, initially for about $2,000. Ever owning the technology seemed out of reach. Yet there we were, my younger brother and I, we each got CD players. This exceeded any concept we had for this Christmas, and we had greedy imaginations.
A new CD player in my happening teen bachelor bedroom, but no music to play on it. What to do? Wait until the next day? Christmas Day. Stores closed. Sorry, bub. TWO days before you can do boo with it.
Sweetheart to the rescue.
SIDETRACK! Ladies need to know that when high school women date college guys, it incurs resentment among high school men. We hate that situation. It renders us weak. We are forced to confront the possibility we have no mating appeal to a female peer of intelligence and self-esteem. To a lesser degree, this also applies to dating a peer outside of the high school. The resentment manifests as jibes about unsavory and anatomically impossible deeds. 25 years later, it occurs to me only now that at this phase of my life when dating a college gal I WAS THAT PERSON (she had graduated the high school the year before). Good golly, I hope that didn’t lead to any aspersions about my sluttiness thrown at someone above my station. Gals are classier than dudes, though. Right? RIGHT? *Whew*
On the radio in 1986, they bragged about how with their high-tech CD deck they could play an entire album without having to pause to flip the disc over. They would dedicate an entire HOUR to let listeners admire a full album played with perfect CD clarity. What? Are we living in Star Trek? CRAZY! Albums were intelligently designed by pop culture gods to only be played one half at a time, in 22 minute bursts before needing to be flipped or followed by a disc suspended above it. Wanted to make out? Turn on the radio and deal with ad interruptions (ever get intimate during a radio spot for acne medication? Seksi time!), or a cassette that could run 30-45 minutes per side before going *click* whirrrrr to auto reverse or stop entirely which demanded a break from whatever was going on (usually homework, Ma, we were good students) to restart, flip (or pull out & replace), then play.
Sweetheart handed over her wrapped square box that was album-sized. Which LPs? Opened the box. It was the 3 CD set: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band: Live 1975/85. Wha? How? Whoah. WOW!
I didn’t know Springsteen’s music well. Had listened to Born in the U.S.A. a lot. Chortled as Reagan tried to co-opt the title song for his ’84 presidential campaign. Listened to Nebraska a lot. The most melancholy album I had in a collection dominated by Prince, The Police, Air Supply, and ABBA (though given Air Supply songs were all about dreary apologies, maybe they were more depressing). But, THREE CDs? Now? Wasn’t this boxed set, like, $75? How?
She simply did it. Full-time student, and spent most evenings working at a local radio station calling people asking them to rate prospective hit songs. Several friends were at the same job. I did a few shifts. Had some fun aspects, barely above minimum wage. And it meant dealing with getting hit on by sad sack radio d.j.s and managers who thought this little crew of clever young lasses held answers to fill their psycho-emotional chasms.
A $75 CD set meant a lot of work hours, when funds were tight. Having three CDs – where a few hours before having any seemed impossible – was a lot to take in. Considering the amount of time at work that translated to for her bowled me over even more.
The inaugural track we played was “Fire”, a song I had sung to her before imitating Robin Williams imitating Elmer Fudd singing it. Yes, I was a catch. “Born to Run” promo video for the box set is below. No obligation to watch. The cut from Springsteen’s wife at the time, Julianne Phillips, to the backup singer who became Springsteen’s next (and still current) wife Patti Scialfa makes me wonder if the the editor knew a transition was happening. If your time is limited, save it for the second video at the end:
In following years, I collected a lot of music. When I needed scratch, I sold a lot of the CDs. But even when I had stopped listening to Live 1975/85 for months or years, I could never part with it. The music was good, the moment of its gifting even grander. And it has paid dividends each decade.
Many friends are surprised that I don’t know much about Tom Waits. He’s an interesting actor. I bought & liked his album Bone Machine when Peter Gabriel touted it and the single “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” when hosting 120 Minutes on MTV. I watched him perform a few times on Late Night with David Letterman. But Bruce Springsteen’s cover of Waits’ “Jersey Girl” and the affection and enthusiasm in the crowd reaction first put Waits on my cultural radar. A proud song. Great. So, while not a Waits aficionado, I have never changed the music player when a Waits song comes on. Here he tells a charming, seedy story then gets to “Jersey Girl”:
He’s like a neighbor I’ve chatted amiably with a few times . Maybe we’ll hang out some day. And for that prospect — the assurance of great art nearby ready to encounter when needing a sense of triumph or wail or growl (or all three) — I have a magnificent present from 1986 to thank. Still grateful. Still awed that even in 2011, $75 means a lot of money and time, yet that gift has trounced more expensive gifts that did not hit the mark so well.
“Jersey Girl” and “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” are the only Waits karaoke songs I could do, but they would be done with feeling. And that is better than no Waits songs.
Cheers. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you and yours.
How doth the proud plump peacock
lift its belly from the ground?
Stretching ornate plumes and hopes
when a wind assist is found.
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).
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.
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.