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.
This is one of my top twenty all-time favorite songs of any genre. It’s got a wacky time-signature (7/8 – to 8/8? Is that right?), an upbeat and focused sound, and it sparks my imagination and lets it run riot. I’ll be running riot around D.C. crossing errands off my to-do list today, so you can bet I’ll have this in the ‘phones.
The First Funk Friday after the first day of spring calls for this breezy, warm-weather track from the great band The Apples that hails from Tel Aviv, Israel. I listen to this and I see myself throwing around a frisbee on the Mall, grilling at a friend’s place, inviting my crew to my roof deck, playing boozy croquet in the park – really doing anything that involves good friends, warm sun, cold drinks, and solid tunes. Spring, you ol’ so-and-so.
EVERYONE! Wonderful news! We made it! We made it through the winter! Today is the first day of spring! I don’t think I’ve so keenly anticipated the vernal equinox in my entire life. Imagine how the poor sods who lived through winters in the 14th century felt when it came time for spring. No wonder this piece is so happy.
Landini (c. 1325 – 1397) lived through some pretty monumental things. He survived the Black Death, initial and successive outbreaks of which killed about half the population of Europe. He survived the so-called Little Ice Age, which made warm summers unpredictable and caused so much rainfall that crops failed. He survived the Hundred Years War between England and France, lived through the near collapse of the Catholic church as an institution, and the rise of the Ming Dynasty and attendant isolation of China.
Somewhere in there, amidst all that unhappy uncertainty, he wrote this little tune about the return of spring. I can imagine it might have taken a little bit of faith.
—
Ecco la primavera,
Che’l cor fa rallegrare,
Temp’è d’annamorare
E star con lieta cera.
Noi vegiam l’aria e’l tempo
Che pur chiam’ allegria
In questo vago tempo
Ogni cosa vagheça.
L’erbe con gran frescheça
E fior’ coprono i prati,
E gli albori adornati
Sono in simil manera.
Ecco la primavera
Che’l cor fa rallegrare
Temp’è d’annamorare
E star con lieta cera.
Spring has come apace To waken hearts to gladness; Time for lovers’ madness And to wear a happy face.
The elements together Are beckoning to mirth; In this delightful weather, Delight pervades the earth.
The grass in fresh rebirth Helps meadows come a-flower, And every branch and bower, Is decked with kindred grace.
Spring has come apace To waken hearts to gladness; Time for lovers’ madness And to wear a happy face.
First of all, it’s important for my erudite international readership to know that one of my very best friends refers to Haydn as “H-Man.” This did play a small role in convincing me to post this piece today. Not an enormous role, mind you, but still. A small one. I’ve also been feeling relatively braced with life in general these days, and in these moments of rare contentment, I turn to this masterpiece by Brahms. It runs the gamut of emotions and starts out proud but not arrogant, and calm but not sedate. It is also important to recognize that Claudio Abbado is at the baton in this, my favorite recording.
Brahms, a native of Hamburg, Germany, lived from 1833 to 1897 and is one of the most important composers of the “classical” period. He composed during an interesting period during music history, when Western classical music was evolving away from the structure of Bach and Mozart towards the freer harmonic modernism championed by Franz Liszt and Richard Wagner. Brahms always sounds like he has a foot in both camps. His melodies and embellishments are as flowery and delightful as any of the true Romantic composers, but he doesn’t go on for six and a half hours. One of my favorite life quotes is actually from Brahms: “It is not hard to compose, but what is fabulously hard is to leave the superfluous notes under the table.” I think he left only the very best notes in this piece. By the end of it, you feel like you’ve run a marathon, graduated from medical school, completed astronaut training, and cleaned your kitchen. You know – done something really major.
The weather is warming up, the days are getting longer, the breeze smells like new growth instead of mud and road salt – ah, je me languis d’être à Paris! (Not like that’s anything new, of course. Hi there, Sidney Bechet!) Here is a delightful gypsy jazz track from Stephane Wrembel used in the movie “Midnight in Paris.” Wrembel is a modern French jazz guitarist for whom Django Reinhardt has clearly been a strong influence.
I have a cold. I can’t believe this. I never get sick, and I’m starting the week with a cold. Obnoxious to the max. For some reason, this album always makes me feel better when I’m sick and is just generally great for all times, so I recommend buying the entire thing pronto. Can you imagine a cooler duo than Bobby McFerrin and Yo-Yo Ma? Exactly. You can’t. It’s not possible. Now excuse me while I blow my nose for the 700th time.
There is a big protest right now at the White House on climate change. I am painfully and gratefully aware that, in my country, I have the right of peaceful assembly and freedom of speech. In my country, were I to join the protest, the police would protect me – not shoot me. This hymn is from my country’s revolution that was fought to create and enshrine these rights in law. I am filled with thoughts of Ukraine today.
If I had to pick just one style of music to listen for the rest of my life, bluegrass would make the short list, and the Stanley Brothers would definitely be one of the groups I’d pick. I particularly love this song a) because the lyrics are a riot (below), and Ralph’s voice is so smooth.
Ralph and Carter Stanley were born in the Clinch Mountains of Virginia in the 1920s (if the name Clinch Mountains means anything to you like it did to me, it’s probably because there’s a bluegrass song called Clinch Mountain Backstep that the the Holy Modal Rounders covered. But I digress.). They were a pretty popular bluegrass group for their time up to Carter’s death in 1966. Ralph continued to play and got a prominent spot in the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack. You know that a cappella song, “O Death?” That, my friend, is Ralph Carter. He won a Grammy for that song – Best Male Country Performance – in 2002, and, I’m happy to report, is still picking his banjo today.
—
Down the road here from me there’s an old holler tree
Where you lay down a dollar or two.
Go on around the bend, when you come back again,
There’s a jug full of that good old mountain dew
They call it that good old mountan dew,
And them that refuse it are few.
I’ll hush up my mug if you’ll fill up my jug
With that good old mountain dew.
Now Mr. [Franklin] Roosevelt told ’em just how he felt
When he heard that the dry law’d gone through:
If your liquor’s too red, it will swell up your head.
Better stick to that good old mountain dew
They call it that good old mountan dew,
And them that refuse it are few.
I’ll hush up my mug if you’ll fill up my jug
With that good old mountain dew.
The preacher rode by with head high, stood high,
Said that his wife had been down with the flu
He thought that I ought to sell him a quart
Of my good old mountain dew.
They call it that good old mountan dew,
And them that refuse it are few.
I’ll hush up my mug if you’ll fill up my jug
With that good old mountain dew.
Well my uncle Snort, he is sawed off and short,
He measures four feet two,
But he thinks he’s a giant when you give him a pint
Of that good old mountain dew.
They call it that good old mountan dew,
And them that refuse it are few.
I’ll hush up my mug if you’ll fill up my jug
With that good old mountain dew.
The Daily Tune-Up 