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Worldly Wednesday: “La Vie Est Belle,” MC Solaar

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I was living abroad during September 11th and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, so it was easy to know what the world thought about these things.  I’d talk to my neighbors, the woman who worked at the coffee shop, my local friends.  It’s harder to keep your finger on the pulse of international public opinion when you’re in the States, and ten years of living on American soil again can leave one feeling oddly disconnected.  When I want to remember what it was like to watch my country from afar, I put on this song.

MC Solaar, a Senegal-born French rap and hip-hop artist, wrote and recorded this in 2003 about the U.S. invasion of Iraq.  (Interestingly, the album from which this song is taken wasn’t released in the U.S. until 2006.  But that’s neither here nor there.)  MC Solaar is known for his nuanced, interesting lyrics, which certainly why I love him so much, and I find the lyrics to this song so arresting.  The line “like in football, the goalie wants to shoot the ball” always stuck with me since I first heard it.

English translation follows after the French lyrics.  Apologies for the mistakes.

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La vie est belle
La vie est belle
La vie est belle

Seul dans ma chambre un jour normal
J’apprends dans les journaux que j’ suis dans l’axe du mal
Je lis entre les lignes et j’ comprends qu’on veut me killer
J’ ferme la serrure pour être un peu plus tranquille
Dehors c’est la guerre et j’ crois qu’elle vient vers moi
Malgré les manifs qui vivra la verra
Je mets des sacs de sables dans mon salon
Des salauds veulent me shooter
Comme au foot le stoppeur veut shooter le ballon
A la télé j’entends qu’ j’ suis l’ pire des mecs
Longue vie aux non violents, la propagande est impec
J’flippe: des troupes spéciales des B52
J’ regrette ce que j’ai fait, j’ crois qu’ j’aurais pu faire mieux
Mais l’erreur est humaine, j’avoue j’ai fais des erreurs
Prendre position c’est prendre une pluie de terreur
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci

Comme un oiseau sans ailes
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’la vie est belle

Comme un oiseau sans ailes
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle

Moi j’ suis un missile
J’ suis pas coupable
On m’ guide par satellite
Pour faire un travail impeccable
Toutes les technologies sont mises à mon service
Dans le but de chasser le mal
Et que j’agisse pour un monde peace
J’ suis dans un porte avion et fais c’ qu’on me demande
Ce soir je dois frapper un type qui est tout seul dans sa chambre
J’ suis un oiseau sans aile suppositoire de fer
500 km à faire et puis pour lui c’est l’enfer
Ca y est j’ suis parti j’ vole vers son domicile
Et je préserve la paix en commettant des homicides
J’ perce les nuages vers l’abscisse et l’ordonnée
Objectif mémorisé j’ connais les coordonnées
J’ suis de fer, nu de chair, arrive à l’improviste
Vole au dessus des manifs de ces millions de pacifistes
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci

Comme un oiseau sans aile
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle

Comme un oiseau sans aile
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle

Et sur la chaîne info j’apprends qu’un missile arrive
Il s’invite chez moi pourtant c’est pas mon convive
On bombarde ma ville mon quartier mon bâtiment
Ce soir tu vas mourir tel est mon ressentiment
Tranquille je range ma chambre et puis je vois les photos
De moi même, de mon ex, vacances au Colorado
des bivouacs en montagne avec nos sacs à dos
Là-haut donne des discours avec tous ces ados
Je vois mon père et puis ma mère sur des clichés loin de là haut
Moi qui les trouvais durs j’ fais la même à mes enfants
Ils dorment tranquillement, ils doivent compter des moutons
Ou bien faisaient des rêves quand il y a eu l’explosion
On a tué ma famille sans même la connaître
Moi, ma femme et mes enfants semblent ajouter aux pertes
Des missiles kill, dans le civil, kill
Des enfants dociles, le monde est hostile
J’ai rien fais, ils n’ont rien fait, ils n’avaient rien fait
Ils parlaient de bienfaits mais je ne vois que des méfaits
Non ce n’est pas du rap c’est, crever l’abcès
Que s’ils sont absents, c’est grâce à vos excès
J’appelle les synagogues, les mosquées et les temples
L’Eglise les chapelles, militant et militante
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci

Je vole vers le ciel mais j’ sais que la vie est belle
Je vole vers le ciel mais j’ sais que la vie est belle

Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci

Life is beautiful (x3)

Alone in my room, a normal day
I learn in the newspapers that I’m in the axis of evil
I read between the lines and I understand they want to kill me
I lock things up so I can be a little calmer

Outside, it’s war, and I believe it’s coming towards me
Despite the demonstrators who’ll live, who’ll see it
I put some sandbags in my living room
Some bastards want to shoot me
Like in football, the goalie wants to shoot the ball

On the TV I hear that I’m the worst of the guys
Long life to non-violents — the propaganda is flawless
I flip: some special B52 troops
I regret what I did, I believe I could’ve done better

But mistakes are human, I swear I’ve made mistakes
Taking a position is just asking for a rain of terror
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi
Let this never be again.

REFRAIN: (x2)
Like a bird without wings
I fly towards heaven
But I know that life is beautiful

Me, I’m a missile
I can’t be blamed
They guide me via satellite
To do a flawless job
All the technologies are put at my service
In the goal of hunting evil
And so that I act for a world of peace

I’m in a carrier plane and I do what they ask me to
Tonight I need to hit a guy who’s all alone in his room
I’m a bird without a wing: a suppository of fire
500 km to go, and then it’s Hell for him

There it is, I’ve left, and I fly towards his home
And I preserve the country while committing homicides
I pierce the clouds towards the abscess and the ordered
My objective memorised, I know the coordinates

I’m made of fire, he’s made of flesh. I arrive at the improvised protest
I fly over the demonstrations of these millions of pacifists
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi
Let this never be again.

(REFRAIN)

And through the chain of information I learn that a missile is coming
It invites itself to my home, although I don’t welcome it
It bombards my city, my quarter, my building
“Tonight you’re going to die; such is my resentment.”

Calmly I tidy up my room and then I see the photos
Of myself, of my ex, of vacations in Colorado
Of walks in the mountains with our backpacks
There I had conversations with all these youths

I see my father and then my mother on black-and-white plates
I, who found them difficult — I did the same to my children
They sleep peacefully… they must have been counting sheep
Or maybe having dreams, when there was an explosion

They killed my family without even knowing them
Me, my wife and my kids seem to be added to the casualties
The missiles kill — in the civilisation, kill —
docile babies; the world is hostile.

I didn’t do anything, the babies didn’t do anything, and they wouldn’t have done anything.
They talk about benefits but all I see are misdeeds
… that is, to burst the abscess.
If only they weren’t around! It’s all thanks to your excess.

I call upon the synagogues, the mosques and the temples
The Church, the chapels, military men and women
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi
Let this never be again.

I fly towards heaven, but I know life is beautiful. (x2)

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi,
Let this never be again.

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.”

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.

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.

Sacred Sunday: “Agnus Dei,” William Byrd

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We sang this anthem in church today, so it’s fresh on my mind – and means we are back to regularly scheduled program of Renaissance polyphony. (I promise to change it up soon, Tuners.)

Beyond this being one of the three anthems I sang at Palm Sunday service today and therefore stuck in my craw, this is a magnificent example of Byrd’s use of harmony. Each individual line is gorgeous on its own: as in Bach’s music, each line goes on its own exploration, interacting with the others but not necessarily serving the melody alone. My favorite part begins at 2:15 at the “Dona nobis pacem.” You can hear the plea echoed within each line in a different way. It wraps you up in the community of all those who came before you asking for the same thing – Lord, give us peace. And because there is such a community of prayers, it gives one the feeling that there’s a chance that the prayer will be granted. That’s a pretty nice feeling.

The choir of Christ Church, Oxford, sings this recording.

Throwback Thursday: “The Hebrides (Fingal’s Cave): Overture,” Felix Mendelssohn

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Felix Mendelssohn, you magnificent bastard.  (I read your book!  …Wait.  (“Patton?”  Anyone?  Ok I’ll stop.))  Mendelssohn wrote this in 1830.  Let’s see what else was happening around that time, shall we?

  • The first railroad station in the United States opened (in Baltimore)
  • The Republic of Ecuador became a country
  • “Mary Had A Little Lamb” was published
  • Revolution broke out in Paris in opposition to the rule of Charles X
  • Charles Grey, the second Earl Grey (yes, like the tea), became Prime Minister of Great Britain
  • Great Britain, France, Austria, Prussia, and Russia recognized the new country of Belgium
  • Hector Berlioz premieres his “Symphony Fantastique”

And Mendelssohn wrote this gorgeous symphony, inspired by a trip he took to Scotland.

Mendelssohn was German and one of the early Romantic composers.  He definitely crams a lot of feeling into nine minutes.  I love the swelling major to minor at 4:28.  Gives me tingles every time.  Although I do deeply resent that he wrote this piece when he was 21.  Show-off.

Worldly Wednesday: “Sounds Like Gun (Kepei),” Bobby

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This awesome song, by an artist named Bobby, is from Sierra Leone, where hails another incredible human being: 15-year-old Kelvin Doe.  Kelvin is an inventor, a total autodidact, whose mental agility and curiosity are jaw-dropping.  Thanks to the work of a man named David Sengeh, a PhD student at MIT, kids like Kelvin in Sierra Leone, Kenya, and South Africa are getting mentored to develop their skills – all with an eye towards helping young minds around the world find solutions to their country’s problems.  People, Tune-Up fans – people are our biggest resource.

Kelvin’s story is here.  It’s ten minutes.  It’s worth it.  And if you want to know more about Sengeh’s campaign, go here.

 

Modernism Monday: “Three Piano Pieces, No. 1,” Arnold Schoenberg

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So, March 31st was a weird day in history.  Let’s review:

– 1774: The port of Boston, Massachusetts, closed pursuant to a decree from the British Parliament, known, handily, as the Boston Port Act.

– 1909: Construction began on the Titanic, and Serbia accepted Austrian control of Bosnia and Herzegovina (good one, guys).

– 1913: The Vienna Concert Society rioted during the performance of new music by, among others, Arnold Schoenberg.

Let’s hear why they might have rioted.

It’s pretty unfriendly music, by which I mean it has no melody, discernible rhythmic structure, or emotional base.  If someone asked you to hum a bit of this to help them remember how it goes, you’d be really hard pressed to do so.  It’s the musical equivalent of those modernist pieces of art in galleries that have caused millions of people to say out loud, “seriously?!  I could have painted that.”

And yet.

Schoenberg wrote this piece in 1909.  Only about twenty years prior, in 1888, Erik Satie wrote his delightful “Gymnopedies.”  In 1890, Claude Debussy wrote “Clair de Lune.”  All of a sudden, classical music took a sharp lefthand turn away from the easily digestible and towards the challenging and assertive.  Stravinsky wrote his famous “Firebird” (remember the piece from Fear Day – sorry – Valentine’s Day?) a year after Schoenberg wrote these three piano pieces.  All of a sudden it seemed that Western music was running away from its stolid four-square forebears as fast as possible.  And people hated it.  They walked out during opening premieres, they denounced modern composers in the press, they labeled the music degenerate.

And yet.

When I listen to Schoenberg, I hear the sounds of a world about to be thrown into the most unimaginable hell.  Five years and five months after this piece was written, the government of Austria-Hungary issued the so-called “July Ultimatum” and invaded Serbia in reaction to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie.  So began World War I.  The music and art produced around that time evokes horror, sadness, and loss.  I hear Schoenberg and I see Otto Dix.  No one should want to hear such music.

"Stormtroopers Advancing Under Gas," Otto Dix, 1924

“Stormtroopers Advancing Under Gas,” Otto Dix, 1924

And yet.

Still it persisted – in fact, it thrived.  Schoenberg and his contemporaries wrote music that did not dictate an appropriate emotional response.  The music is purposefully murky and vague.  It reflects back to the listener whatever emotions the listener brings to the piece.  In this way, and also from a purely technical music theory perspective, Schoenberg pushed the boundaries of music so far beyond the popular comfort zone that it helped pave the way for Gershwin and Copland, Bernstein and Arvo Pärt.

I used to have a really difficult relationship with Schoenberg, and sometimes I still do.  But I am grateful for the opportunity to be challenged, to be pushed as a lover of music, and to reflect on whatever emotions his compositions evoke.  Art should challenge, it should be difficult to deal with, we should wrestle with it.  What’s the point of life, otherwise?

REMIX WEEK! Worldly Wednesday: “Voodoo Child,” Jimi Hendrix meets Angelique Kidjo

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When I’m getting my head in the game for a big meeting, when I need to suit up, when I need to kick the tires and light the fires, I turn to this song.  Hendrix’s version is very sexy – that naked, shimmering guitar riff, the thumb of the bass drum, the crash of the chord at the entrance.  It has real swagger.  But after I heard Kidjo’s version, it sounds…vaguely pompous.  Like there wasn’t any doubt that the protagonist could make an island out of the pieces of the mountain.  Like he could always just do that.  Kidjo sings it like this comes from experience, from hard work, practice, and struggle.  That’s why this version gives me that extra boost – it’s a song of strength learned from difficulty.  It’s a “oh, you don’t even know what I can do” kind of song.  A “you think this is difficult?” song.  It’s a very human sort of voodoo.

 

Hendrix’s original version:

Sacred Sunday: “Ave Maria,” Josquin Des Prez

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I know, I know, I get it – “Great, another Renaissance polyphony piece, awesome, haven’t heard that in a while.”  Whatever.  Wrap your ears around this beauty and them come complaining.

Beyond the basics details of when and where he lived, not much is known about Des Prez (c1450 – 1521).  He was a Franco-Flemish composer who has about 370 compositions to his name, plus – allegedly – some graffiti on a wall in the Sistine Chapel.  I for one am dying to learn more about the man who wrote this triptych of a motet.  First, the canon of voices at the beginning; second, the unification of voices at 2:28; and third, the heart-breaking simplicity of the end – oh mother of God, remember me – at 4:00.  Three is a significant number in the Christian religion – the trinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – and I wonder whether that was the purpose behind splitting the piece into three segments.  Whatever the purpose, thank heavens he wrote it at all.