Christmas in Dixie

Make that WHITE Christmas in Dixie. It started snowing here in Mentone, Alabama, at about 7 this morning. Been falling steadily ever since. We have probably 3 inches on the ground now and could get another few. It's beautiful and makes for a perfect Christmas Day. Ransom and I just took the dog Shelton for a long walk and all three of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. This is how Christmas should be.

Have a wonderful day, y'all.

Charlie, Jolyn, Shelton, Ransom, and Walter

It's beginning to look a lot . . .

Yeah, it is. We're going down South for Christmas so I decided not to do much decorating. No 14-foot tree as in some years past; no glass and crystal second tree; no 34 candles, one in every window.

But the Moravian Star seemed a necessity, as did the Santa Face. Then Ransom and I talked about the candles and he said they looked fine in the old part of the house, so 19 of them went up. And there was this wreath lying around in the basement and all these strings of unused lights -- and so it went up. And of course the ornaments hung every year above the dining room table . . . they had to make an appearance, right?

Finally, I made my annual trek to Authentiques and bought a few new things there and, well, it IS beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

The trip to the store was sandwiched between my first visit to the Big Apple Circus and my annual hearing of all six Brandenburg concertos. Enough said about the circus. As for the Bach, it was a wonderful afternoon, as always. Ransom and colleagues played beautifully to an appreciative and packed house. Don't know exactly how these pieces came to mean Christmas at the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center, but they do, and I'm glad for it.

But back to the decorations. The Moravian Star symbolizes Ransom's time at the North Carolina School of the Arts and came from a shop in Old Salem. The city of Winston-Salem was founded by Moravians in 1766 and uses these stars as their official Christmas street decoration. The star was originally designed in Germany in the 1830s, probably to teach kids geometry.

The Santa Face is far less historic, though it does carry the weight of time in my family. My parents bought it for my brother's first Christmas. That makes it 65 years old this year. Yes, it's tacky as all get-out, but it means a lot to me. I've known it my entire life.

The trip to Authentiques produced this bakelite reindeer that reminded me of the later plastic ones we had as kids. This one is likely from the 30s. The other ornaments are new, but I love them just as much; there's a carp, a zeppelin, a large purple globe and, pictured below, a spaceship.

It's a time of wonder and whimsy, even for this crusty old curmudgeon. Merry Christmas everybody!

Putting my money where my rant is

We are all bombarded, often daily, with requests for donations; I find it hard to decide who to support, especially since my main giving goes monthly to Bank of America and American Express to pay interest charges. That, and the fact that our house is under water . . . well, there's just not a lot of discretionary income.

I support public radio, though I think of that as a payment for service rendered rather than a donation. I have often given to the Names Project, keepers of the AIDS Memorial Quilt. Likewise I give to the local animal shelter, the local volunteer fire department and the Woodbridge Land Trust, which works to conserve and preserve the natural resources around my home.

I have just decided to make an annual $600 pledge to the Trevor Project, whose mission is “to end suicide among LGBTQ youth by providing life-saving and life-affirming resources including a nationwide, 24/7 crisis intervention lifeline, digital community and advocacy/educational programs that create a safe, supportive and positive environment for everyone.” Their vision is “a future where the possibilities, opportunities and dreams are the same for all youth, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity.”

This is a group I can march with, be proud to belong to and perhaps even do some volunteer work for. Our nation’s most important natural resource is not oil or coal or even water; it is our children. They need our love and support and the LGBTQ youth need our protection from the hate-filled, bible-quoting homophobes out there.

Please consider joining me in supporting these hard working folks.

Check out The Trevor Project and watch some videos at the It Gets Better site while you're at it.  And think about spending some Christmas cash where it can do some good.

What A Diff'rence a Hall Makes

Woolsey Hall on Yale's Campus, New Haven, CT

I went to two concerts over the weekend; Friday night was the Yale Jazz Ensemble and Yale Concert Band's tribute to Cole Porter and Glenn Miller and Sunday afternoon was the Hartford Symphony's third subscription concert of the season. The two experiences could hardly have been more different.

The Glenn Miller part of Friday night's concert is something that Director Tom Duffy has done several times before, and done brilliantly. He recreates an original Glenn Miller radio broadcast from 1944, from the same space that Miller used. The first half of the concert featured famed New York cabaret singer Steve Ross, backed up by the concert band. It had the makings of a great evening.

It wasn't. It was in Woolsey Hall. Therein lies the problem.

As has every concert I have ever attended at Woolsey, it started late. 17 minutes late. 17 minutes of sitting in the stuffy, uncomfortable, wooden-seated, terrible sight-lined Woolsey Hall. When it did start I remembered immediately the main reason I hate this space: it has perhaps the worst acoustics of any performing arts space in America. Even when Mr. Ross was playing solo piano and singing into the microphone, he could not be understood. Many in the audience, me included, know a lot of Cole Porter songs by heart; the songs I did not know, I still do not know. Words were indecipherable.

Ross's performance was good, not great. I'd give him a B+. The arrangements were less successful; in many cases they served to further muddle the sound, though whether arrangements exist that can sound good in Woolsey is open to question. I'd give them a C+. The acoustics? An F. Absolutely.

Yale knows how bad the acoustics are here. Ask any musician forced to play in this barn. Ask the New Haven Symphony, which presents concerts here as well. In the interest of full disclosure, I must add that Woolsey is home to the fabulous Newberry Memorial Organ; it sounds fantastic in this cavernous space. It is the ONLY thing that does. And the Yale organists are probably the only people on the planet who want to preserve Woolsey as is.

I didn't stay for the Miller. 95 minutes after the supposed starting time of the concert the intermission still dragged on; why this was so, I don't know. I do not blame Duffy or his people; I blame again Woolsey Hall; the backstage area is so tiny that set changes are incredibly difficult. There are no wings to speak of, no fly space at all. Because I had heard this show twice before, I split.

Two days later I drove to Hartford to hear a brilliant concert (Tchaikovsky's beloved piano concerto, Barber's Medea and Mozart's 40^th Symphony). I parked my car at eight minutes before three and was in my seat four minutes later; there was no mad crush at the door, no long line waiting to pick up tickets, no confusion as people try to decipher a bizarre seat numbering system – all problems endemic to Woolsey. The Belding Theatre, part of the Bushnell Center for the Performing Arts, is a 900 seat, two-level theatre with superb sight-lines and warm, rich acoustics.

The Hartford Symphony is an excellent ensemble which rarely fails to impress. Sunday's performance featured a wunderkind, CT high-school junior Alex Beyer absolutely nailing the Tchaikovsky. The Barber was equally exciting but the most nuanced and ultimately rewarding playing came during the Mozart. It was a great concert in a comfortable and appealing space. I should also add the the Hartford Symphony does a great job of taking care of its patrons; one example: automatic phone reminders of possible traffic delays or unusual start times. Oh, and they start on time, given that “on time” has come to mean “within 5-8 minutes of the posted time” in every venue in America.

In all ways these two concert experiences were as different as night and day. I am glad I live in the New Haven area; I just wish New Haven and Yale would take the arts as seriously as Hartford does.

Belding Theatre, Bushnell Performing Arts Center, Hartford, CT

Photo by Robert Benson

Barack I Hardly Knew Ye

Like most Americans of my political stripe I was thrilled when Barack Obama won the presidential election. I considered going to DC for the inauguration; it seemed fitting: I had been there for anti-war rallies, I had lived on the mall for three weeks in Resurrection City and I had marched and worked at the AIDS quilt displays. I wanted to be there in support of and witness to this historic change. I didn’t go, but I cried with joy as I watched the coverage.

Two years later I am only slightly less frustrated than I was under eight years of his predecessor, Dumbya. I’ve kept my mouth shut til now, but yesterday’s news that Obama is freezing federal salaries was the final straw. Like a straw, it was a tiny thing, hardly worth noticing, but it was enough to tip the balance (or break the back, if I’m to keep my triteness in order.)

Going after federal workers is just absurd. No one has ever entered federal service to get rich. One of the reasons the nation’s best people do NOT work for the government is that the salaries can’t compete with those in the private sector. To freeze these salaries is not only a slap in the face to people who believe in America enough to work for her, it is also a small, stupid gesture that represents a paltry 5% of the deficit.

More importantly, what it says to me is that Obama has been sucked into DC Think, that unique mindset that keeps otherwise smart people from seeing reality. Considering the way he’s going, it’s highly unlikely he will be reelected, so why doesn’t he just tell the truth:

-       - we’re out of money because we’re fighting two ill-advised, hugely expensive wars

-       - we’re out of money because we worship it more than anything else and so allow business and individuals to make more and more of it while sharing less and less

-       - we’re out of money because we’ve become a nation of selfish, impatient consumers who care about little other than our own happiness

-       - we’re out of money because generations of law makers have not had the integrity and guts to do the right thing

I don’t have the answers. I voted for Obama because he’s smarter than I and I hoped HE would have the answers. I think he does; he just seems to lack the guts to tell us and the political savvy to lead us. If I’m right, it can only bode disaster for the country. I think we might just need to adjust to the new reality. There will be less and less money for most of us, fewer and fewer resources for all of us. Welcome to the third world.

One man's pain . . .

is another man's pleasure. So it was regarding Elling the new, and late, Broadway show at the Barrymore Theatre. It opened last Sunday night; it closed this Sunday afternoon. Christopher Isherwood's review in the NY Times called the show “a puzzling fizzle,” and the two lead characters “overbearing and charmless.” Other reviews were kinder, but the consensus seems to be that this show, very small in its original London run, suffered from being in the 1,100 seat Barrymore.

I had read about it while it was still in previews; it piqued my interest because it starred Denis O'Hare, winner of a well-deserved Tony for his brilliant portrayal of Mason Marzac, the money manager who falls in love with baseball in Take Me Out. That Elling also starred Brendan Fraser, in his Broadway debut, was a plus; Jennifer Coolidge (Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, Legally Blonde) and Richard Easton (The Coast of Utopia, Henry IV) were also in the cast. It all sounded good to me, so when Ransom said he wanted to go, I got tickets.

We had a delightful time. It's not a great show and it takes a while to find its footing, but it has a lot to offer. Fraser well fits his role of the big-hearted, galumphing dope and Coolidge is a hoot in four roles, the best of which is a cigarette smoking, boozy, pregnant neighbor who falls for the odd Kjell Bjarne (Fraser). Easton, who I enjoyed in The Invention of Love, is here a bit stiff, but mostly pulls off the role of the blocked poet.

It's O'Hare though who once again shines like the searchlights that used to brighten Broadway and Hollywood premieres. He is simply marvelous and says as much with his body as he does with his mouth. Seeing him made our trip to New York absolutely worth it and I think it's a real shame that the producers of this little show didn't give it more time to find an audience. Certainly the folks we saw it with roared their approval.

As a special bonus, Denis O'Hare addressed the standing crowd at the curtain call, thanking us for coming and asking us to sing Happy Birthday to his co-star Brendan Fraser. It was an unorthodox but perfectly lovely way to end the afternoon; no pain at all, just pleasure.

Thanksgiving Day, 2010

Even I, cynic that I am, realize I have much to be thankful for:

Ransom

Cassie and Tasha

Friends

Fall in Connecticut

A stable job

A beautiful house

Mozart, Beethoven and the rest

Living in a blue state

Have a great day everybody!

Veteran's Day, 10 Days Later

Taps at Arlington National Cemetery

I've just caught up with several podcasts from Bob Edwards Weekend, including his Veteran's Day broadcast. If you don't know his show, I highly recommend checking it out. Virtually every episode is worth listening to; even when a subject comes up that I don't care about I learn a lot and enjoy my time if I trust Edward's judgement.

The Veteran's Day show focused on the dignified transfer, the arrival at Dover Air Force Base of each and every American soldier killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. There were segments on the actual transfer of the case; the experience of the press photographer; the military personnel who attend to the body and prepare it for shipment home; the reaction of the families who choose to attend; and, of course, the stories of the fallen. It was a sobering piece and I teared up several times. All these lost youth! For what?

Most Americans, no matter what their position on the wars, seem to “support our troops”. In that, I am like most Americans, but I have a real hard time with it. As an Army brat it was hard to oppose the war in Vietnam when I was a young man – but I did. As the son of career soldier it was hard to say I would not serve if drafted – but say it I did. I am totally opposed to our current two wars and am convinced that when they end we will have accomplished nothing good. As in Vietnam, where over 55,000 Americans died in vain, several thousand will have uselessly died in Afghanistan and Iraq.

But when I bring this argument from the global to the local and experience the death of one young soldier and hear the family tell their story, my politics fly out the window and my antipathy catches in my throat. I can't imagine the pain of losing a 19 year-old child.

Coincidentally, I watched The Messenger last night, a film about the military unit that brings the terrible news of death to the next of kin. I cried during a burial scene, when I heard Taps, just as I did when it was played over my father's coffin as he was buried at Arlington. It's a mournful tune that always brings a shudder to my heart. Years ago I was at the Groton Naval Base picking up some medication for my mom. It was nearly the end of the day and I was anxious to start the hour-long trip home. As I was driving across base the car in front of me suddenly stopped, for no apparent reason. I was about to lay on the horn when the two soldiers in the car got out, stood at attention and saluted. I too got out and only then realized that the base flag was being lowered and you could just barely make out Taps over outdoor speakers. A moment later it was over; we got back in our cars and carried on. It was an amazing experience; I actually had a physical reaction as waves of memory crashed over me. I thought of all the Army bases I had lived on and all the times I had stopped what I was doing to face the flag as it was lowered at the end of the day. It made me miss that life, it made me miss my father and it made me proud to be a military kid.

The Army is involved in two conflicts right now; there's clearly another going on in my head.

Taps

Fading light dims the sight


And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright

From afar drawing nigh,


Falls the night.



Day is done, gone the sun


From the lakes, from the hills, from the skies


All is well, safely rest;


God is nigh.



Then goodnight, peaceful night;


Till the light of the dawn shineth bright.


God is near, do not fear,


Friend, goodnight.

How do you spell fabulous?

This week, at least in New Haven CT, it's spelled R-E-N-T, as in the Yale Dramatic Association's production of Jonathan Larson's 1994 Pulitzer Prize-winning musical. I attended last night's performance, the second in a deservedly sold-out run. The quality of the singing was, in all cases, excellent and the acting was nearly so; I have never seen a student performance at Yale where everyone in the cast was so good as in this low tech, high energy, fast moving show. The Dramat's productions are often good – last year's Carousel comes to mind – but this one is special.

It was an interesting experience for me in particular, because I didn't much like Rent when I saw it on Broadway. I went with Ransom; he hated it, leaving at intermission. I liked it enough to stay, but only just. I bought the OC album, hoping to understand why this show was such a sensation, but listening to the music without the visual only worsened my opinion. Last week I dug out the CD again, for the first time since that original listen, and again confirmed my view.

But last night . . . well, that was a wholly different story. Maybe it was the more intimate theatre, maybe it was this particular cast – the kid playing Mark was gorgeous, the woman playing Mimi fantastic, the one playing Maureen out of this world – maybe it was being with someone for whom blaring rock and roll is not a turnoff. Whatever, last night was terrific.

And that's the glory of live theatre. The show you see once is not the same show you will see later. Even during the run of the same production each performance will be different. My experience at Rent last night can never be duplicated. That's what people mean when they say there's something about live theatre: it's ethereal, momentary and, if you're lucky, magical.

Brief Encounter

Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center

I attended Ransom’s Chamber Music Society concert at Tully last night. It was a struggle because I had to work a full day – couldn’t leave early – and then dashed home to walk the dogs. I knew I would be late and in fact missed Ransom’s first performance (Jolivet Chant de Linos) and the second piece, (Martinů Duo No. 1 for Violin and Viola, "Three Madrigals”), but I managed to hear the last work before the interval and then the final two pieces:

Sheng Northern Lights for Cello and Piano (CMS Co-Commission, New York Premiere)
Ravel Sonatine for Flute, Cello, and Harp (arr. Carlos Salzedo)
Arensky Piano Trio No. 1 in d minor, Op. 32.

Ransom played the Ravel, a favorite of mine, beautifully, and I mostly liked the Sheng and truly loved the Arensky, a composer new to me.

But it’s the interval that I want to write about. I had slipped into the last row, not wanting to stumble over people getting to my ticketed seat. I was going to get up and move where I belonged, but, before I could, the stranger sitting next to me asked a question about the concert.

I was struck both by the question and by a stranger’s willingness to ask. He wanted to know who it was that joined the musicians on stage to take a bow. I answered that it was the composer. He then asked another question; I answered that one and fielded one from his wife. It was then my turn and we spent the next twenty minutes talking about music, my life, their lives, the rich cultural mosaic that is New York, pre-conceived notions of what it means to work on Wall Street and several other things beside.

It was a lovely interlude. I learned that they had moved to New York from the Midwest within the past year and were thrilled by all the opportunities the city offered them. It was exciting to hear them talk about drinking in New York’s culture and diversity and I fondly remembered my first years in the city and the excitement I felt.

I rarely talk with strangers and in fact usually take a seat with empties on either side. So last night was a stretch for me and, as with physical stretching, it felt good.

Thank you, newbie New York cultural hounds; you made an excellent concert even more enjoyable.

An Evening of Rock and Roll and Tears

I don't remember exactly how I celebrated my 33rd birthday. I was working in Lynchburg, Virginia, as one of the Assistant Managers of Charley's Restaurant. Likely I ate dinner there, drank too much and went home. I now know where I wish I had been.

I wish I had been in New York's Central Park for the first concert by Simon and Garfunkel in eleven years. They were at the top of their form and had managed to bury the hatchet well enough to give an exceptional concert for the half million fans who jammed the park that night.

I wasn't there, but last night I watched the video from that concert and was instantly transported back to the 60s and 70s, listening to songs that are a big part of the soundtrack of my life. I've written before about how important music is to me and last night Simon and Garfunkel formed part one of an intense musical evening.

I choked up a bit when they sang The Sounds of Silence and Bridge Over Troubled Water and sat amazed by the band as they closed with a kick-ass Late in the Evening, a Paul Simon song, one of many they did together. Simon and Garfunkel only released five albums but I know each of those albums word for word and cherish virtually every song on them. I Am a Rock has particular meaning in my life and For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her still makes me shiver. 

Part two of my musical evening was spent with the family and friends of George Harrison as I watched The Concert for George, performed on November 29, 2002, the first anniversary of his death. Recorded at Royal Albert Hall and led by Eric Clapton, it is one of the very best concerts I have ever seen on video. From an absolutely stunning opener by Anouska Shankar (Ravi's daughter) to an emotionally overwhelming My Sweet Lord and Wah Wah, it is a perfect concert and a loving tribute to the man known as "the quiet Beatle." Jeff Lynne, Ringo Starr, Tom Petty and others add to the festivities and Billy Preston's vocals on My Sweet Lord are simply killer.

Perhaps the most mesmerizing presence on stage though is Dhani Harrison, George's son and a guitarist in his own right. He mainly plays back-up until the aforementioned My Sweet Lord and Wah Wah, when the energy and emotion of the night seem to take hold of him and release his passion. It is really something to see and had me in full-out tears.

Like Simon and Garfunkel, the Beatles are a key part of my musical upbringing and George's contributions, while not as epic as John and Paul's, are not to be ignored. Consider: he wrote Here Comes the Sun, Something, Tax Man, I Need You, If I Needed Someone, and Within You, Without You, as well as Photograph with and for Ringo. And he wrote While My Guitar Gently Weeps, maybe his best, and certainly one of the Beatles' best. It is played here in a scorching version that features three of the original players: Ringo on drums, Paul on piano and vocals and Eric Clapton on guitar, recreating one of the most iconic sounds of all Beatles records.

It was a great concert and a wonderful way to spend a Monday night. After hearing Pat Metheny live on Saturday night I've had a generous share of guitar music these last few days and am happier for it.

LLR!

Campaign Comments

We've all heard by now that the number of vicious attack ads has reached new heights this campaign season. I have very little experience with these ads and I'll tell you why: Tivo and NPR. I watch nothing live on TV. Nothing. Anything I want to watch I record on Tivo and then watch with remote in hand so I can zip through commercials. I simply do not watch commercials. Ever. No insipid hair product commercials, no buy-this-new-pharmaceutical-or-die commercials, no clothing store commercials and no campaign ads. None. Ever. I prescribe this for everyone. Toxic electronica is just as bad for you as toxic air or food. Stay away from it.

My other weapon in my war against incivility is NPR. It's the only station I ever listen to and that means no ads there either. I hear “Morning Edition” on my way to work, “All Things Considered” on the way home and music in between. No screaming djs, no endless sales people, no attack ads.

I hear that people hate these ads but the fact is, they work. If they didn't, they wouldn't exist. So people who complain about them are being disingenuous; they can choose not to be exposed. I did.

Some of them come in the mail and I have seen them. Linda McMahon is running for the Senate here in CT. Her opponent is Richard Blumenthal, the current CT Attorney General. He's been a good AG and would likely have gotten my vote. Then the McMahon attack ads arrived and convinced me: Blumenthal will definitely get my vote. Her first mailings said nothing – nada, zero, zip – about her plans or beliefs. All she could do was rail against Blumenthal. Sorry lady, you lost me immediately. If you don't believe in yourself, why the hell should I believe in you?

Finally, as most of the polls indicate that the Republicans are going to do well in two weeks, I thought I'd share this, in case there's anyone out there who hasn't seen it. I've seen it several places online but don't know who to credit. A bit long, but worth your time.

Don't forget to vote!

A Day in the Life of Joe Republican

Joe gets up at 6 a.m. and fills his coffeepot with water to prepare his morning coffee. The water is clean and good because some tree-hugging liberal fought for minimum water-quality standards. With his first swallow of water, he takes his daily medication. His medications are safe to take because some stupid commie liberal fought to ensure their safety and that they work as advertised. All but $10 of his medications are paid for by his employer's medical plan because some liberal union workers fought their employers for paid medical insurance - now Joe gets it too.

He prepares his morning breakfast, bacon and eggs. Joe's bacon is safe to eat because some girly-man liberal fought for laws to regulate the meat packing industry.

In the morning shower, Joe reaches for his shampoo. His bottle is properly labeled with each ingredient and its amount in the total contents because some crybaby liberal fought for Joe's right to know what he was putting on his body and how much it contained.

Joe dresses, walks outside and takes a deep breath. The air he breathes is clean because some environmentalist wacko liberal fought for the laws to stop industries from polluting our air.

He walks on the government-provided sidewalk to the subway station for his government-subsidized ride to work. It saves him considerable money in parking and transportation fees because some fancy-pants liberal fought for affordable public transportation, which gives everyone the opportunity to be a contributor. Joe begins his work day. He has a good job with excellent pay, medical benefits, retirement, paid holidays and vacations because some lazy liberal union members fought and died for these working standards.

If Joe is hurt on the job or becomes unemployed, he'll get worker compensation or an unemployment check because some stupid liberal didn't think he should lose his home because of his temporary misfortune.

It is noontime and Joe needs to make a bank deposit so he can pay some bills. His deposit is federally insured by the FSLIC because some godless liberal wanted to protect Joe's money from unscrupulous bankers who ruined the banking system before the Great Depression.

Joe has a Fannie Mae-underwritten mortgage and a below-market federal student loan because some elitist liberal decided that Joe and the government would be better off if he were educated and earned more money over his lifetime. His federally-subsidized student loans allowed him to attend a state-funded university.

Joe is home from work. He plans to visit his father this evening at his farm in the country. He gets in his car for the drive. His car is among the safest in the world because some America-hating liberal fought for car safety standards to go along with the tax-payer funded roads.

He arrives at his boyhood home. His was the third generation to live in the house financed by Farmers' Home Administration because bankers didn't want to make rural loans. The house didn't have electricity until some big-government liberal stuck his nose where it didn't belong and demanded rural electrification.

He is happy to see his father, who is now retired. His father lives on Social Security and a union pension because some wine-drinking, cheese-eating liberal made sure he could take care of himself so Joe wouldn't have to.

Joe gets back in his car for the ride home, and turns on a radio talk show. The radio host is saying that liberals are bad and conservatives are good. He doesn't mention that his beloved Republicans have fought against every protection and benefit Joe enjoys throughout his day. Joe agrees: "We don't need those big-government liberals ruining our lives! After all, I'm a self-made man who believes everyone should take care of himself, just as I have."