Throwback Thursday: “La Bouree (With Racketts),” Michael Praetorious

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For my next trick, I will now turn back into my six-year-old self hearing the rackett for the first time and laughing so hard I hyperventilate because I envision a flotilla of angry and obese ducks.  That is all.

…No really, guys.  That’s the entire post today.  I have no interesting backstory, no history about this piece, nothing.  It just makes me laugh.  Really, really, really hard.

Worldly Wednesday: “Farewell to Stromness,” Peter Maxwell Davies

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This has already been a tough week for me and a lot of people I know, so I thought I would share a piece that has helped me recenter myself when things get a bit much.  Davies wrote this for a play, “The Yellowcake Review,” which was a work of protest against a possible plan to build a uranium mine in Stromness, in the Orkney Islands of Scotland.

Stromness

Stromness

 

“I will not walk backward in life.”

– J.R.R. Tolkein

Termagant Tuesday: “Jolie Coquine,” Caravan Palace

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Let’s list the things I want and can’t have, because that’s fun and healthy:

  • longer legs
  • thousands of dollars in disposable income per month for clothes
  • a bi-monthly trip to Europe (Paris, Prague, Munich, London, Barcelona, and Rome – on rotation)
  • internal organs that regenerate every night so I can indulge my vices scot-free
  • feet that can handle four-inch heels without pain
  • a mint green Vespa (I can’t have this because I would absolutely get pasted onto the side of a bus)
  • be best friends with Stephen Fry, P.G. Wodehouse, Dorothy Parker, Fred Astaire, George Plimpton, and David Rakoff, and have them over for dinner weekly
  • lots of glamor and very little responsibility
  • a metabolism like a bullet train so I can finally have a fettucine alfredo-centric diet
  • fluency in the theories of particle physics and epistemology
  • a microwave that doesn’t sound like a Zamboni when it heats up my turkey meatballs (I could have this if I didn’t have a fundamental belief that home appliances should cost about $10)
  • a castle
  • be guest conductor of the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra
  • be able to play the shawm (my neighbors would kill me)
  • basically be the most interesting woman in the world.  With really long legs and undead friends and absolutely incredible clothes.

I can’t have any of that.  But I can listen to this song and daydream about it.  That’s something.

Modernism Monday: “Don’t Carry It All,” The Decembrists

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I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what we require of ourselves and what we require of others.  What can we reasonably expect from other people?  What can we reasonably expect from ourselves?    And are our standards different?  I’ve always been aware that my standards are a bit skewed for certain emotions, by which I mean that I think I expect other people to be happy and allow myself a bit more breathing room.  Whereas, when it comes to sadness, it’s the complete opposite.  It is sometimes – most times? – easier for me to bear my neighbor’s burden than to ask them to help me bear my own.

But once we figure out what ratios are healthy for us, then the trick is sticking to it.  As my mother likes to say, “people don’t change – they just stand more clearly revealed.”  We have all had friendships sour because the person never stopped leaning on us, never started carrying their own weight again.  And maybe we’ve lost friends because we’ve done the same to others.  Do we slough off those friendships?  Or do we keep them?  It’s hard.

In the midst of all of this weird back-and-forth, this constant assessment, is the central fundamental truth that the only thing about a relationship that you can rely on is that it will change.  The Rector at my church, Luis Leon, gave a brilliant sermon on Easter Sunday in which he said that there is no such thing as absolute security.  I think that’s right, and I would gently bend that statement to fit this blog post by asserting that there is no such thing as an immutable relationship.  The best we can do, really, is to offer up an educated guess and see what happens.

This is what “Don’t Carry It All” reminds me of.

“So raise a glass to turnings of the season
And watch it as it arcs towards the sun
And you must bear your neighbor’s burden within reason
And your labors will be borne when all is done.”

Sacred Sunday: “Surrexit Christus Hodie,” Samuel Scheidt, John Arnold

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Surrexit Christus Hodie!  It’s Easter!  Hooray!  I apologize for being so late posting today’s Tune-Up, faithful readers; I’ve been singing Easter service and doing post Easter service activities.

Easter is, obviously, all about the resurrection of Jesus.  This being a joyous occasion, Easter music is just about the best of all liturgical music in the calendar, and all hinges on the central theme of rebirth.  We sang a few versions of this today.  First, my choir sang this glorious anthem by early 17th century German composer Samuel Scheidt. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking forward to it all year.  The version we sang was much longer than this (there are a total of six verses) but the tempo and tone are very similar.

Surrexit Christus hodie

Humano pro solamine

Mortem qui passus pridie

Miserrimo pro homine.

Laudetur sancta trinitas,

Deo dicamus gratias.

The words are from a 14th century Bohemian carol.  What do these latin lyrics mean?  This piece grew up to be that gem in the Easter crown, “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today,” whose tune was written by John Arnold about a hundred years later in 1749.

 

Whatever religious tradition you follow, wherever in the world you are, I hope you have a joyous day today.

Salubrious Saturday: “The Final Countdown,” Europe

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This seemed to be an appropriate (if a bit delightfully sacrilegious) song for the day before Easter.  Holy Week itself has always had a bit of a “final countdown” feel to it, but it wasn’t until last year while I was getting vested to sing the Palm Sunday service that a friend of mine commented that the run up to Easter always put her in the mind of “that Europe song – you know the one?”  And I, being a total goober who can recall obscure Monteverdi motets on command but not, like, I don’t know, anything more recent and normal, was like, “the what song?”  Upon hearing her sing the synth riff, the lyrics of the song came back to me, and I have to admit that I laughed so hard I started crying.  This, mind you, comes from a baptized, confirmed, tithing, choir-singing Episcopalian.  Never mind that the words really don’t make any sense in any sort of context, nor, for that matter, does the video (marshland?  a church spire?  trains?  what?)

So, while you’re decorating the Easter eggs, glazing the ham, breaking out all of your festive pastels, and relishing the thought of diving back into whatever it was you gave up for Lent*, I encourage you to share the day with the bouffant boys of Europe.

*I gave up cursing.  It has been excruciatingly difficult.  And, yes, while it was meaningful and now I am more aware of cursing, which is great, oh man – I’m going to be cursing like a happy little sailor while I cook Easter dinner Sunday afternoon.

Funk Friday: “! (The Song Formerly Known As),” Regurgitator

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So, like everyone, I have a number of circles of friends.  Some of them overlap, some of them don’t.  Within each circle is a person or set of people that know me really well.  And these people form their own special little subgroup – the sanctum sanctorum, if you will (or even if you won’t.  This is my blog.  Get you own, you crank).  These are people I tell everything to, who let me be crass and laugh at my dumb jokes, and don’t wig out when it’s a Friday night and I all want to do is hang out with them in our PJ’s and enjoy some microwavable chicken pot stickers and crap $3 wine from Trader Joe’s and ask questions like, “how weird would it be if humans evolved to not need noses anymore?”  People who would be down to join me if I said “I’d rather dance in ugly pants in the comfort of a lounge room in suburbia.”  Parties are where your people are.  So thank you, sanctum sanctorum.  You know who you are, and man, “things don’t get no better – better like you and me.”

Throwback Thursday: “Szeroka Woda,” Henryk Gorecki

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Gorecki was a modern Polish composer who is probably best known for his Symphony of Sorrowful Songs.  This piece is my favorite of his.  It is a very simple arrangement of a Polish folk song about undying love.

Broad waters on the Vistula,

Now I’ll tell you my thoughts.

As it was yesterday, so it is today:

I must be with you through the ages.

Worldly Wednesday: “Stimela,” Hugh Masekela

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This is such a sucker-punch of a song.  You don’t even need to understand the words (which are below, never fear, faithful readers) to know it’s about something fairly wretched involving a train.  This song portrays the life of black African migrant workers working in South African mineral mines. Some melancholy songs are more mellow than sad.  Not this one, not by a long shot.  This is sad, resigned, longing, resentful, and angry, all at the same time.  By the time harmony spreads out at 2:31, you’ve already committed yourself to listening to the whole thing, maybe even again a second time, even though it’s a tough haul.

Masekela wrote this song in 1974, about halfway through the lifespan of the apartheid regime in South Africa.

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There is a train that comes from Namibia and Malawi
there is a train that comes from Zambia and Zimbabwe,
There is a train that comes from Angola and Mozambique,
From Lesotho, from Botswana, from Zwaziland,
From all the hinterland of Southern and Central Africa.
This train carries young and old, African men
Who are conscripted to come and work on contract
In the golden mineral mines of Johannesburg
And its surrounding metropolis, sixteen hours or more a day
For almost no pay.
Deep, deep, deep down in the belly of the earth
When they are digging and drilling that shiny mighty evasive stone,
Or when they dish that mish mesh mush food
into their iron plates with the iron shovel.
Or when they sit in their stinking, funky, filthy,
Flea-ridden barracks and hostels.
They think about the loved ones they may never see again. Because they might have already been forcibly removed
From where they last left them
Or wantonly murdered in the dead of night
By roving and marauding gangs of no particular origin,
We are told. They think about their lands, their herds
That were taken away from them
With a gun, bomb, teargas and the cannon.
And when they hear that Choo-Choo train
They always curse, curse the coal train,
The coal train that brought them to Johannesburg.