November 30, 2008

Commodore 64

A thank-you to Michael Prager for, in today's Boston Globe, considering this to be one of the "sixty-four websites on Boston life that you should know." I know, I know—I write for the Globe, I get mentioned in the Globe—but honest, there's no conspiracy. (Being from Chicago, I prefer my nepotism to involve cash.)

Anyway, lots of fun stuff there. (Bradley's Almanac was already on our radar, but Under 21 was new to me. Maybe I can finally upgrade my current pop-niche classification skills from disastrous to merely mildly incompetent.)

November 28, 2008

That's the moment I woke up, thank the Lord

HIstory is often presented as situational lessons, but I think a more interesting way to look at it is as a set of uncovered patterns—events and ideas shaping the mechanism of collective and individual journeys such that we follow certain paths without even realizing it, our lives hurtling down unseen rails. Today's itinerary: Saint Augustine to Nadia Boulanger to musical iconoclasm.

Augustine first, from Book X of the Confessions:
The delights of the ear drew and held me much more powerfully, but thou [God] didst unbind and liberate me. In those melodies which thy words inspire when sung with a sweet and trained voice, I still find repose; yet not so as to cling to them, but always so as to be able to free myself as I wish. But it is because of the words which are their life that they gain entry into me and strive for a place of proper honor in my heart; and I can hardly assign them a fitting one. Sometimes, I seem to myself to give them more respect than is fitting, when I see that our minds are more devoutly and earnestly inflamed in piety by the holy words when they are sung than when they are not. And I recognize that all the diverse affections of our spirits have their appropriate measures in the voice and song, to which they are stimulated by I know not what secret correlation. But the pleasures of my flesh—to which the mind ought never to be surrendered nor by them enervated—often beguile me while physical sense does not attend on reason, to follow her patiently, but having once gained entry to help the reason, it strives to run on before her and be her leader. Thus in these things I sin unknowingly, but I come to know it afterward.
In other words, music is just a little too pleasurable to us in this world to be totally, um, kosher, even if the intent is theologically virtuous. I once speculated that this sort of moralizing in the Confessions had something to do with the distrust of temporality in the Plotinian philosophy that was Augustine's waystation on the road to conversion—and, after all, music is the most temporal art form there is.

But Augustine goes on, and in the process, shifts the playing field a little:
On the other hand, when I avoid very earnestly this kind of deception, I err out of too great austerity. Sometimes I go to the point of wishing that all the melodies of the pleasant songs to which David’s Psalter is adapted should be banished both from my ears and from those of the Church itself. In this mood, the safer way seemed to me the one I remember was once related to me concerning Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria, who required the readers of the psalm to use so slight an inflection of the voice that it was more like speaking than singing.

However, when I call to mind the tears I shed at the songs of thy Church at the outset of my recovered faith, and how even now I am moved, not by the singing but by what is sung (when they are sung with a clear and skillfully modulated voice), I then come to acknowledge the great utility of this custom. Thus I vacillate between dangerous pleasure and healthful exercise.
Augustine is getting a little tricky here. He's gearing up to make a point about virtuosity, but you almost don't notice that he's really talking about two forms: musical and verbal. That's because the inherent virtue of verbal virtuosity is assumed. (Sprechstimme is "safer" than singing?) And if you get the sense that Augustine is about to start separating the intellectual wheat from the chaff, you're right:
I am inclined—though I pronounce no irrevocable opinion on the subject—to approve of the use of singing in the church, so that by the delights of the ear the weaker minds may be stimulated to a devotional mood. Yet when it happens that I am more moved by the singing than by what is sung, I confess myself to have sinned wickedly, and then I would rather not have heard the singing. See now what a condition I am in! Weep with me, and weep for me, those of you who can so control your inward feelings that good results always come forth. As for you who do not act this way at all, such things do not concern you. But do thou, O Lord, my God, give ear; look and see, and have mercy upon me; and heal me—thou, in whose sight I am become an enigma to myself; this itself is my weakness.
According to Augustine, music plays on "weaker minds," or in Augustine's case, on that part of his mind that is still weak. But then again, Augustine's primary weakness is that he is "an enigma to myself"—apparently, what troubles him about musical pleasure is that he can't get a handle on it, he's not sure how it works or why it happens. It's not only music itself that's too shifty for his taste, it's musical pleasure as well.

Now, Augustine is indulging in a kind of meta-version of what's called praeteritio—bringing something up by saying how you're not going to bring it up. (Example: I'd never stoop so low as to point out that Matthew's blog posts can often be too long.) Augustine is exorcising virtuosity by applying it. He tap-dances around the line between speech and song with such dexterity that by the time he reaches his summation—See now what a condition I am in!—we don't even notice that the seeming self-deprecation is actually an assertion of intellectual authority. It's OK if weak minds respond to singing, but when Augustine responds to it? He's "sinned wickedly." But, of course, he recognizes his sin, which at once sets him above the rabble while playing on our own vanity to support him. Those of us without such fault, weep for him. "As for those of you who do not act this way at all"—you can almost see Augustine working the audience, daring anyone to raise their hand. In admitting that he hasn't always practiced what he is now preaching, Augustine's preaching is more effective, not less. And the fact that his argument against virtuosity is, in fact, supremely virtuosic, well, somehow that ends up in his corner, too. Only a virtuoso can recognize such subtly pernicious virtuosity. Knowing enough to avoid what he knows: that's Augustine's main intellectual strategy throughout the entirety of the Confessions.

So where does Nadia Boulanger figure in all this? Via this old chestnut, which I have seen attributed to her more often than not—
To study, music, we must learn the rules; to create music, we must break them
—the holy-writ justification for every species counterpoint class since. But it's also a Hollywood-level cliché in composer biographies. Many composers are known for breaking with the past—but such composers always come pre-packaged with the necessary mastery of the past they broke with. Beethoven, we are often reminded, studied with Haydn and Albrechtsberger. Berlioz and Debussy both picked up their Prix de Rome. Schoenberg wrote theory textbooks. The leading contemporary example is John Adams: while the poetic impetus for his rejection of atonality may vary—hearing a Hendrix song blasting across Harvard yard? reading Silence? listening to Götterdämmerung while driving across California?—his thoroughly hexachordally combinatorial Harvard education remains a constant biographical presence.

Is this trope a hangover from Augustine? Probably. I mean, your average born-a-saint, stayed-a-saint, died-a-saint story? Boring. Sinner-turned-saint? Thanks to Augustine, a probable best-seller. An asserted virtue comes with more dramatic impact if it's the result of apostasy. The narrative even has a permanent place in the shaping of world history—remember the old Vulcan proverb that only Nixon could go to China. (I seem to recall an opera about that as well.)

Like Augustine said, "Grant me chastity, but not yet." At times in the Confessions, you almost get the sense that Augustine is going out of his way to maintain his sinful life, the better to eventually make a rhetorical example of his conversion in the telling. (Augustine as Nicely-Nicely Johnson.) Interestingly, the composer-biography version of that—Elliott Carter moving his ultra-modernist inclinations to the back burner while mastering Boulangerian neo-Classicism, George Gershwin sounding out both Boulanger and Ravel for lessons in Paris (both, recognizing the limits of Augustinian emulation, turned him down)—usually result in far less vehement rejection of past ways. (Carter, for example, has always extolled Boulanger—while, of course, deriding the conservative nature of his own Harvard education.) Some composers really want to learn the rules before they break them.

But most don't. The Boulanger prescription continues to be challenged (usually by students) and defended (usually by teachers). And yet the two-step seems to have a place on the dance card generation after generation. Maybe some people just take a while to decide what they want to do. Maybe some people just can't get energized about a new path unless they're simultaneously rejecting an old one. But maybe two millennia of redemption narratives have imperceptibly eroded the pathways of civilization into Augustinian channels. Make me a maverick—but not yet.

November 26, 2008


Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the US, which means, based on the day's most prevalent activity, giving thanks for being omnivorous. It also means, as usual, I'll make my yearly appeal for you to send the equivalent of your weekly coffee/burrito/gummi bear/ramen/"medicinal" marajuana budget to some organization that will help spread the virtues of said omnivorousness. (The local favorite here at Soho the Dog HQ is The Greater Boston Food Bank.) Not reading this until Friday? No problem—they can use the cash all year round.

Now, I also usually use this space to extol the virtues of my mom's stuffing, but for a little variety, here's a couple of recipes my grandmother used to win five-dollar prizes from the Chicago Tribune back when the estimable Mary Meade was their food editor.

Barbecue Beans

1 pound ground beef
1 medium-sized onion, chopped
2 tablespoons shortening
1 large can pork and beans
1 cup chili sauce
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon pepper

Brown meat and onion in shortening [I would consider the shortening optional—M.G.]. Add remaining ingredients. Turn mixture into a casserole and bake in a moderate oven, 350 degrees, for 30 minutes.
(Chicago Tribune, January 4, 1947)

(Russian Dessert)

¾ pound cream cheese
½ cup butter
½ cup rich sour cream
½ cup sugar
1 cup almonds, chopped
¾ cup candied orange peel
1/3 cup seedless raisins

Cream butter and cream cheese until fluffy. Add remaining ingredients and mix until smooth. Pack in a mold and chill overnight. Unmold and serve with plain [whipped] cream or preserves.
(Chicago Tribune, June 15, 1948)

Note that the traditional mold for a paskha is a pyramid, but my grandmother was Irish, not Russian, and it's nowhere near Easter, so we won't stand on ceremony. The beans have long been a Guerrieri/Knop family gathering staple. A few years ago, it was dubbed "beefy beans" by my brother-in-law Mike, and the name stuck. Family lore also has my grandmother sending in the exact same bean recipe a few years later and winning another five bucks. I couldn't find evidence of this in the Tribune archives, but honestly, it wasn't all that straightforward finding these two recipes there, and I knew where to look. So we'll leave it at se è non vero, è ben trovato for this year.

November 25, 2008

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain

Reviewing the Borromeo Quartet.
Boston Globe, Novermber 27, 2008.

No, I'm not sure why it's dated the 27th. But it's up on the Web, so here it is.

Linkin' Portrait

Odd, pointless, and completely random: it seems that someone in the state of Nebraska's Office of the Chief Information Officer doesn't like Aaron Copland. Or, more likely, Aaron Copland was in the wrong place at the wrong time on a February night in 2007. According to WikiScanner, a slew of vandalism to Copland's Wikipedia article originated from an IP address in said office. Most of the edits are along the lines of changing Copland's name to "Cheesehead," and asserting that his parents owned a booger shop. One prank is unexpectedly poetic, though, changing
He was awarded a Guggenheim fellowship in 1925
He was eaten by a Guggenheim fellowship in 1925
Many an artist has been similarly consumed by high expectations.

They say he wandered very far

Reviewing the Boston Philharmonic.
Boston Globe, November 25, 2008.

November 24, 2008

Refrigerator car

I don’t get to spend as much time in train stations as I like—ah, the romance of travel—but last week I had occasion to pass through South Station, the main commuter-rail/Amtrak hub in Boston. And there’s an odd bit of sound design that’s been built into the place.

If you’re reasonably old, you remember the kinds of schedule boards they used to have in train stations, the ones where locations and numbers are printed on tiles that spin around whenever the sign is updated. They’re like giant versions of pre-LED digital alarm clocks. (The technical name for them is a “split-flap” display.) South Station still has a couple of those boards, but they’re not in use, having been replaced by a giant digital LED board.

But this is what’s weird—there’s a speaker mounted near the board, and every time it (silently) updates, the speaker pipes in the clacking sound of the rotating tiles on an old-fashioned board. (It turns out the Globe reported on this feature back in 2006—as far as I know, it's still unique.) If you grew up with the old boards, you hear the sound, you look up to see what’s changed. But we’re now into generations that will be mystified as to why board updates are announced with this strange rattle of percussion. (There weren't that many of the old generations, actually—split-flap signs didn't become common until the 1950s.)

There is, I imagine, an entire category of sounds like this, technically obsolete but still hanging on (for another example, I can set my mobile phone ringtone to a recording of an old-time telephone bell). I wonder if these sounds will become the aural equivalent of particularly obscure sayings or turns of phrase, where the colloquial meaning still remains widely intelligible even as the literal meaning becomes increasingly baffling.

November 20, 2008

Zip! Toscanini leads the greatest of bands

The big time-sink news this week was that Google has begun to digitize the Life magazine photo archive. Will this result in anything actually productive? Well, it does allow us to catch a diva in a little white lie....

From Anna Moffo's New York Times obituary:
Ms. Moffo caused a scandal in Italy when she appeared to be nude in a scene in the film "Una Storia d'Amore." In later years she insisted that she had not been totally unclothed.
Oh, really? Link NSFW, unless you've fallen through a wormhole into Alma Mahler's house. Which reminds me—Alma Mahler!

Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees

Ah, memes—the selfish genes of the digital genome. The current entry:

The rules:
1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog. I was tagged by Lisa Hirsch and Dick Strawser.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
5. If you don't have 7 blog friends, or if someone else already took dibs, then tag some unsuspecting strangers.

Given that the very fabric of the blogosphere is held together by over-sharing, I think seven unknown random facts is a pretty ambitious request. But here goes:

1. I know way more about T. E. Lawrence than I'll ever have any chance to use.

2. I once played one of the Three Slaves in a production of Die Zauberflöte that left in all the dialogue for the Three Slaves. I think the director regretted it.

3. I can raise one eyebrow. I taught myself to do this because my dad can do it. He still does it better than me.

4. Instruments I have played in public at one time or another, all badly:
  • Harp
  • Double bass
  • Alto saxophone
  • Xylophone
  • Guitar (in character, as Friedrich von Trapp)
5. I once dropped Lucy Shelton on the floor while swing dancing.

6. On a family trip to Washington, D.C., I was the only one who took the Pentagon tour.

7. I cut my own hair.

Tag seven people? Man, this meme is a lot of work. OK—Kyle, Molly, Darcy, Hester, Mark, Andrew, and Richard: you're it.

November 14, 2008

Always look on the bright side of life

Some cold-war era cheerful absurdity as I psych myself up for a long working weekend: Bill Haley and the Comets with their 1954 last-male-survivor-of-a-nuclear-blast masterpiece "Thirteen Women (and Only One Man in Town)." (Amazingly, "Rock Around the Clock" was originally released as the B-side to "Thirteen Women.")

As a footnote, a 1966 film made by freakbeat band The Renegades to promote their cover of "Thirteen Women."

November 12, 2008

We can hardly stand the wait

If you're one of those that enjoys the stately passing of the seasons, likes to take the time to appreciate each unique moment, believes in each day having its own dignity, &c.—in other words, if you're like me, and think that a certain December holiday's backwards creep into more and more of the calendar is an abomination, you might remember to send a fruitcake to the good officers at the Boston Police Department, who share your pain.
At about 4:04 am, on Saturday, November 8, 2008, officers from Area C-6 (South Boston) responded to a radio call for loud music in the area of 5 Shepton Terrace. On arrival, officers spoke to several residents who stated that one of the tenants was playing his music much too loud. As officers approached the location in question, officers could hear Christmas music being played at an unnecessarily loud level. When the tenant answered the door, officers instructed him to lower the music due to calls made to 9-1-1. Officers further advised the tenant that people were having difficulty sleeping due the loud Christmas music. With the music turned down, officers left the location. However, a short time later, officers were called back to the same address for the same reason (noise complaint). Upon arrival, officers were able to hear the loud Christmas music. When officers knocked on the door, the tenant answered the door and began swearing at the officers.
November 8, mind you. He can't even make the Russian old calendar/new calendar argument.

Maybe there's actually a rhythmic lesson here. If you're right in the groove (carols on December 25th), it's OK; if you're sufficiently behind the beat (Christmas in July), it's a pleasant syncopation. But forty-seven three-hundred-sixty-fifths of a beat early? Throws everything off.

November 11, 2008

The Remembrance Ceremony

The last Christmas party at our home was that of 1916. Then in 1917 Walker was training at Camp Dix and we all went out with his mother and spent Christmas Day at an inn near by to which he could come. There was rumor everywhere that his regiment was to embark for overseas in a few days, although he really did not sail until May. We all did our best to make it gay in that hotel dining-room, the rain falling dismally. We were so proud of our young khaki-uniformed lieutenant! My Polly played and played, rags, anything and everything, on the old hotel piano. We did not know it was to be our last happy Christmas together, but war had already given to joy a kind of yearning anguish.

My nephew was killed on the 18th of the following September, 1918, at Saint-Mihiel. Reconnoitring to assure the safety of his men, he leaped a fence to join three fellow officers. A shell tore them to pieces. This was in the early afternoon. Walker was taken to a field hospital and died at eleven that night.

—Walter Damrosch, My Musical Life (1923)

Damrosch's nephew was Walker Blaine Beale, grandson of former Secretary of State James G. Blaine. Damrosch spent the summer of 1918 in France as a war worker under the auspices of the YMCA, conducting orchestral concerts as an outgrowth of his presidency of the American Friends of Musicians in France, and, at the instigation of General Charles Dawes, advising General Pershing on the development of Army bands.

November 10, 2008

Don't quit your day job

Music news from the multiply-employed:

Physicist/composer Paul Sutton hears a particularly important song newly recorded.

A nice profile of Israeli organist/composer/trash collector Roman Krasnovsky.

Over the weekend, musician/trainer Enzo Calzaghe saw his best pupil, his son Joe, win quite possibly his last fight, a unanimous decision against Roy Jones Jr. to retain the Ring Light Heavyweight title and improve to 46-0 as a professional boxer.

And R.I.P. to the legendary singer/activist Miriam Makeba, who passed away yesterday after suffering a heart attack at the end of a concert performance. Here she is in Stockholm in 1966, singing "When I've Passed On." (With the incomparable Sivuca on accordion.)

November 08, 2008

Tiny Bubbles

For the record: the New York City Opera-Gerard Mortier saga, in relation to the Dow Jones Industrial Average. (Click to enlarge.)

November 07, 2008

To shave-a da face

No real post today, as I'm too tired from wrestling Critic-at-Large Moe into tonsorial submission. However, those in the Boston area can see yours truly wrestle a live accordion tonight, part of a recital by soprano Rebekah Alexander to benefit the HOPE Initiative. The show begins at 8:00 PM at Boston University's Marsh Chapel; suggested donation is $10 to $20.

Seriously—an hour-and-a-half to give that dog a haircut. What is this, Samson et Dalila?

November 06, 2008

November 04, 2008

The Audacity of Hatiḳṿah

Reviewing the Boston Modern Orchestra Project's "Israel at 60" concert.
Boston Globe, November 4, 2008.

Early voting

Reviewing the Sarasa Ensemble.
Boston Globe, November 4, 2008.

Fellow cats, mesh your gears / Won't you lend your politic ears?

A couple of pies waiting at home for my lovely wife, spending the day doing last-minute get-out-the-vote canvassing in New Hampshire. The one on the left is supposed to have the Obama logo in the center, but it's somewhat obscured due to my filling it with way too many blueberries, which overflowed the vents. (Insert your own joke about liberal profligacy here.) On the right: a sour cream pumpkin pie. I may be an elitist, but not too much of one for The Joy of Cooking: those pie recipes never let me down.

Wash down the past two years' electioneering follies with this purplish and thus bi-partisan concoction. The scotch gives it a vague sort of toasty, pancake-y vibe; hence the name.

Morning in America

1½ oz. blueberry juice
½ oz. Cointreau
½ oz. scotch whisky
Champagne, chilled

Shake the first three ingredients with ice and strain into a champagne flute. Top off with champagne. (I like a relatively sweet, vanilla-overtoned scotch; if your single-malts are on the peaty side, maybe try some Johnnie Walker Black instead. If you're working with blueberry juice cocktail, perhaps add a touch of lemon juice if it's too sweet.)

And, whatever your persuasion, get out and vote! Even if you cynically doubt its actual efficacy, you'll at least be a player in one of the largest regularly scheduled productions of street theater ever conceived.

One more thing: let's not forget... the farmer:

November 02, 2008

Joe the Plumber

Josef Haydn the Plumber
As it turns out, "Joe's" real name is Franz, he's not a licensed plumber, and he isn't even registered to vote. However, he would pay no taxes at all under either candidate's plan, since he's been dead since 1809.

Still, as is seemingly customary in such situations, he is being pursued for a possible record deal.