So today I spent another four hours dealing with my air conditioner problem. I’m one blog post away from making myself a stiff gin and tonic so forgive me for making this not only a delayed post but a short one. Forgive me, too, for this sweet but dippy video. I was absolutely set on having a recording of Bryn Terfel, the marvelous Welsh opera singer, and this was the only video that had that recording. (Though you do get to learn little interesting factoids about Wales, such as Wales is filled with “amazing Welsh spirit.” Better bet than Belgium for locating Welsh spirit, I suppose. Or England, for that matter. Though maybe England has “mediocre Welsh spirit.” …I sense I’m going off-topic.)
I figured this delightful Welsh hymn was appropriate, given I’m not, in fact, asking for a luxurious life. Just a habitable dwelling. Which will give me a happy heart. I’m guessing the G&T will deal with the honest and pure business. Let’s find out.
—
I don’t ask for a luxurious life,
the world’s gold or its fine pearls,
I ask for a happy heart,
an honest heart, a pure heart.
A pure heart full of goodness
Is fairer than the pretty lily,
None but a pure heart can sing,
Sing in the day and sing in the night.
If I wished for worldly wealth,
It would swiftly go to seed;
The riches of a virtuous, pure heart
Will bear eternal profit.
(Chorus)
Evening and morning, my wish
Rising to heaven on the wing of song
For God, for the sake of my Saviour,
To give me a pure heart.
There is nothing remarkable about today that I know of, certainly nothing that I feel compelled to dwell on. So I turned to the history books.
One entry for June 25 particularly caught me. (And no, it wasn’t the introduction of the fork to American dining in 1630. I’m not that predictable.)
Some guy named Wibbert was chosen as anti-pope Clemens III in 1080.
And I have no idea what that means. But I think it’s marvelous.
AND! Wibbert – sorry, Clemens – was from Ravenna! Italy! Sold! Hooray!
So here’s my favorite song by totally swingin’ Italian pianist Raphael Gualazzi. Lyrics below with slightly triply Google Translate translation. ITALIAN READERS I am so sorry for this terrible Italian.
—
Calda estate non si riesce a far più niente
che morire sotto il sole tra le gabole e la gente
e non so più dove andare ma non voglio questa gente
dove sei,dove sei,dove sei,dove sei
Mi rinfranco faccio un bagno dentro il sole
gioco a scopa nella scuola vuota come un capannone
mi distendo sopra un pianoforte forse sciolto e mi chiedo
dove sei, dove sei, dove sei, dove sei
Ah che bella questa estate questa gente,
tutto immagine e poi niente
e nessuno vuole dirmi
dove sei
faccio stragi ma se passo da perdente
prima o poi la stessa gente
mi telefona e mi dice dove sei
Sono stanco delle mie stesse parole
qui si fanno solo prove
non si sa chi diventare
per fortuna che ti ho visto
per fortuna almeno tu sei come sei
come sei,come sei,come sei
Ora basta questa estate,
questa gente non mi portano più a niente
ma che importa se mi dici dove sei
Pensa un po che mi travesto da pezzente
sparo lacrime abbronzanti
prevedendo per scoprire dove sei
Calda estate non riesco a far più niente
qui si muore con la gente che
non sa cosa vuol dire insieme a te
ti ho trovata sopra un panfilo lucente,
l’ammiraglio è inconcludente
ma che importa se tu sei vicino a me…
Hot summer, you can’t do anything who die in the sun between the Gabola and people I do not know where to go but I do not want these people Where are you, where are you, where are you, where are you I am heartened – take a bath in the sun Game of cards at the school as an empty hangar I lay on top of a piano maybe loose and I wonder Where are you, where are you, where are you, where are you
Oh what a beautiful this summer, these people, whole image and then nothing and nobody wants to tell me where are you massacres but if I step away from losing sooner or later the same people calls me and tells me where you are I’m tired of my own words here you are only testing no one knows who become luckily I saw you fortunately, at least you are as you are as you are, as you are, as you are Now just this summer, these people do not bring me anything but who cares if you tell me where you are
Just think that I disguise as beggar shot tears tanning expecting to find out where you are
Hot summer I can not do anything here you will die with the people who do not know what it’s like with you I found you on a yacht shiny Admiral is inconclusive but who cares if you’re near me …
Happy Summer, Tune-Up fans! Oh – yes, it’s true, I used to watch Carmen Sandiego. And yes, it’s true, a lot of my early musical tastes were created in the forge of the Carmen Sandiego cassette tape. It’s also true that this song always goes through my head every time summer rolls around and it’s just immorally hot in D.C. (It may be steamy but it’s still – a beautiful place. ((Doo doo doo n doo n dooooo…))
This song also reminds me of lying in my bunk at camp in Vermont and listening to this tape on loop for the entire time I was there. One morning I woke up early and looked out the window and saw baby ducks walking down the dock. That really has no bearing on this song, or really anything at all, but I got a sunburn on the hike yesterday, so I’m a little loopy.
The people: Four female friends and your Yankette.
The motivation: US v. Ghana, i.e. Grudge Match 2014, i.e. the first game the U.S. is playing in this year’s World Cup.
Dempsey’s early goal set the mood. Ghana’s late goal to tie the match set the bar into hyper drive. Then when Brooks, a sub – a substitute (could this get any better? Jesus, it was like Dan Gladden in the ’91 World Series) – scored the winning goal, I have never, ever heard cheering like that. Portia overturned the popcorn. Megan almost dropped her beer. Anahi, Leila and I threw our arms around each other. And the entire bar, in chorus: “USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!”
Do I think we’ll win the World Cup? Who knows. But that was a pretty beautiful moment.
Yesterday was Father’s Day and I couldn’t very well post a song about my Dad during Shame Week, that’s just not nice. But I obviously want to acknowledge him. Happily, it took all of four seconds to hone in on the song that, to me, embodies what it has been like to have my Dad as, well, my Dad.
It. Is. So. Much. Fun. OMG.
When I was a little kid, I decreed – kids love to decree – that Saturday was forever to be known as “Dress Wild Day.” This meant that everyone had to wear outlandish outfits around the house or even outside (though I can’t remember if I tried that, or even wanted to). This was right around the age in which I realized that civilized life had rules, and some of those rules were okay, and some of those rules were fun to break. So, Dress Wild Day basically translated to Wear Your Underwear Over Your Pants day. Dad joined in without hesitation. We would walk around the house together with our underwear over our pants. Dad asks me from time to time whether Dress Wild rules are still in effect. I assure him they are.
Dad let me do his hair (putting barrettes in it, combing it thoroughly beforehand), pitched the wiffle ball to me in the backyard and gave me a high five when I clocked it through the kitchen window, quizzed me on the nationality of the composer playing on the record player during dinner (the usual choices were British, French, German, and Italian), got Abrams tank-shaped firecrackers for the 4th of July (they rolled around on the ground shooting sparks), and got to know who I was as a person so well that his teasing always made me laugh so hard I got a cramp.
Since I’ve become an adult, we have traveled through half a dozen countries together when we’re not having wit-offs about philosophy, and when he’s not scraping mysterious black goo off my kitchen floor with a spatula (sorry again about that, Dad). We also have text conversations that are so funny that I take screen-captures of them and send them to my friends, who will quote back to me things my Dad has said months or years later. Below are three of my favorite examples.
Me: Off to vote in the DC mayoral primary! Woohoo!
Dad: Cool. Vote no.
Me: Nuh-uh! I’m pro mayor! I’m really pro non-corrupt mayor. I have discerned there are, like, two choices for non-corrupt mayor.
Dad: Well hell. That changes everything. Vote “both.” Many people don’t know that’s an option. But it is. I published poli sci textbooks. I know.
Another favorite, from when I had a cold:
Dad: Feeling any better? I’m drinking gin; hope that helps.
Me: That just clinched it – I’m cured. Actually am feeling much better. Went in to work today, which is where I am now.
Dad: Don’t kid yourself: it’s the work that’s making you better. No better tonic than that work. Gin and work: mmmm.
Me: It’s what won the war.
Dad: We won!?! Gin all around!
And finally, after I made a bracelet that said “Pueri Sunt Amente”:
Dad: Wow. Most impressive.
Me: Know what it says?
Dad: “Boys are dumb?”
Me: Yep! I didn’t want it to be that obvious so I put it into Latin.”
Dad: “Excellent. Rigorously educated boys will at last have something useful to talk with you about. Carry on.”
So, in sum, the greatest gift Dad has ever given me is making me feel that who I really am is just awesome, and that what I’m interested in is worth being interested in. It has made me into a person who is really, really enthusiastic about life – a lot like those little kids are enthusiastic about yelling the chorus of that song. That little kid yelling those words is me, his only child, thinking about going to college in another country, the most pivotal decision I have made in my life to date, and James Taylor is my Dad saying, “kid, yell as loud as you want.”
Oh you totally knew this was coming. Like there is any other song I could post on Wednesday during Shame Week. (Happily I don’t own any Venga Boys. This entry could have taken way longer to come up with.) And don’t pretend like you don’t secretly love this song. It’s a great song! It’s also so terrible that I have never once wondered what it actually means. It just doesn’t make that much of a difference to me. It’s fun to yell “maaayaHEEE, maaayaHOOO” while bopping up and down at a house party, and that’s good enough for me.
This is such a bonkers piece in a way and I just love it. It’s so very Broadway, with some serious “West Side Story” throwbacks from around 1:55 to 2:15; it’s got a very Latin vibe to it; and its various rhythms give it a colorful brightness that other stolid versions just don’t have. It’s a good piece for today – Pentecost Sunday, the day that (according to the Bible) Jesus’s disciples received the Holy Spirit through wind and fire and baptized thousands of people. In effect, it’s the day the Christian church was born.
I’m sorry, Tune-Up fans – this week is bananas so I don’t have an inspiring (or even amusing) write-up for you today. But I wanted to at least give you something cheerful to listen to. I love Praetorius, as you’ve probably picked up, and the man who does these recordings, Eduardo Antonello, is a just amazing. Hey, Folger Consort: call him. From what I can tell, he is self-taught and a complete early music instrument savant. I am so grateful to musicians like him who are keeping gorgeous pieces like this alive and well.
I was going to hesitate to assert that this is the finest song one could listen to on Memorial Day, since it embodies the stereotypical Memorial Day activities of barbecuing and playing the clarinet, and then I realized that this my blog and I can assert whatever I damn well please. So: this is the finest song one can listen to on Memorial Day – barbecue, clarinet, etc. I will also assert that this is the finest version of this finest song. I do love Jim Cullum and his Happy Jazz Band, but you have to love Ray McKinley’s panache.
The Daily Tune-Up 