Instead of a regular Friday Random Ten, here are my ten favorite traditional carols, — in order of fondness — with Youtube videos. Sound quality varies.
1. O, du Fröhliche
2. Angels We Have Heard on High
3. The Holly and the Ivy
4. God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
5. Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming
6. O Come, Emmanuel
7. For Unto us a Child is Born
8. Joy to the World
9. Masters in this Hall
10. In the Bleak Midwinter
Though I may have a stray post up now and again, I’ll be away from blogging until at least December 29. A Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to all.
I thought about making my last pre-Christmas post a “top ten favorite carols” list. Perhaps next year. Rather, I’m thinking this morning of the one which has been in my head all week: “O Du Fröhliche.” (Here’s an old Youtube clip of the Vienna Boys Choir singing a rather stately version.) Along with “The Holly and the Ivy”, “O du Fröhliche” would certainly make the upper end of any top ten list I compiled.
But I write this morning thinking of my father, for this was indisputably his favorite carol, and his memory of hearing it sung as a small boy is especially poignant. My father was born in Austria in 1935 to a Catholic mother and a Jewish father who had converted to Rome. After Hitler’s takeover of Austria in 1938, my grandparents took their children and fled successfully to England, living a refugee life in London, then Ellesmere Port, and finally rural Berkshire. (Most of the rest of my grandfather’s family perished.) When World War Two broke out, however, the British government interned my grandfather. A citizen of an enemy nation, it didn’t seem to matter — at least at first — that he was an ethnically Jewish refugee from Hitler. He was released after about a year, but spent the first Christmas of the war — 1939 — in what my father says was a reasonably comfortable camp in Scotland. (He was not interned with actual prisoners of war.) Women and children were not interned; England’s policy was apparently more lenient than that shown by the Americans to the Japanese.
That Christmas, when my father was four and a half or so, my grandmother took him and his older sister on a long train trip up to the north to visit my grandfather in his camp. My father remembers very little of the visit, but he does remember that the assembled internees (all of whom were either German or Austrian men) sang some Christmas songs. The last one they sang was “O Du Fröhliche”, and my father remembers that his mother and many other grownups wept. For the rest of his life, he was very fond of the carol.
I’ve sung “O du Fröhliche” all my life. And I’ve heard many recordings. But the version I love best is one I’ve never heard. I often like to imagine the one which was sung in December, 1939 by dozens of German-speaking men, ranging from adolescence to late middle age, internees in spartan barracks in Scotland. I imagine their mostly unprofessional voices, and their faces as they gazed at their families who had come to spend a few Christmas moments with them. I think of my grandfather, a then 37 year-old physician, himself descended from a line of Moravian rabbis, but now a loyal son of Holy Mother Church; I imagine his mixed feelings at being safe from Hitler only to be shut away from his family in this strange northern country. And I imagine my father, not quite five, missing his daddy as I, a man of 41, miss mine this Christmas.
It’s a fine carol.
Merry Christmas.
I was saddened to read last night of the death of Odetta, the legendary folk-singer whose deep voice inspired generations of activists and music fans alike. I am so sorry she did not fulfill her most recent ambition (to perform at Barack Obama’s inauguration), and thrilled that she lived long enough to see him elected president.
As soon as I saw the obituary on the New York Times web page, sounds and feelings from my childhood rushed into my head. I was, from my earliest memories, a folk-music baby. Though my father (an amateur cellist) loved classical music, my mother had fallen in love with folk as a student at Vassar in the late 1950s. Folk music in the 1950s was the music of the political and cultural Left; it was also experiencing a major rebirth thanks to the efforts of folks like Odetta, Pete Seeger, and others. It was the soundtrack for my mother’s young adult years, and growing up in the 1970s, I listened over and over again to the records she had collected in the late ’50s and early ’60s.
The Newport Folk Festivals of the early 1960s were extraordinarily important in American musical history. My mother had virtually all of the recordings of these live concerts on LPs. On these records, which she or I (or less often, my little brother) would put on on rainy afternoons, I heard Joan Baez, Pete Seeger (on his own and with the Weavers), Ian and Sylvia, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, and the young — acoustic — Bob Dylan. What had been the soundtrack for my mother’s college and graduate school years became the soundtrack for my childhood.
My liberal politics were — and to some extent still are — inextricably linked to music. I have no musical ability myself, but like many children and teenagers, I found in music an opportunity to discover emotions and ideas that I could not have felt as deeply in any other way. If, like some of my conservative friends, I had been raised listening to the explicitly evangelical music of the likes of the Gaither family, I might have embraced a much more traditional world view as a child. As it was, I came of age on protest songs. I can sing from memory every verse of “Joe Hill”, of “We Shall Not Be Moved“, and “The Banks are Made of Marble.” And Odetta’s version of “Down by the Riverside” is my favorite call to pacifism I know. Continue reading ‘Saluting Odetta, and some thoughts on a folk-music childhood’
Last night, my wife and I took some friends of ours to see the new musical 9 to 5, written by Dolly Parton and based on the iconic 1980 film of the same name. Just last Tuesday, the show had its world premiere not on Broadway but here in Los Angeles; it will be moving to New York in early 2009.
We went for a variety of reasons, but mostly because all six of us, as different as we are, are devoted Dolly Parton fans. The part that Dolly made famous in the film is played by the wonderful actress Megan Hilty (who did a splendid “Glinda” in many productions of “Wicked”); Allison Janney (of “Juno”, “West Wing”, and “Primary Colors” fame) took over the Lily Tomlin part and acquitted herself very well. The music and lyrics, all by Parton, were accessible, memorable, and fun. The house was packed, and I feel quite certain the show will have a long and successful run here and elsewhere.
But I’ve written before about my deep fondness for Dolly Parton. Last night, watching the show — with its gently feminist theme of exploited working women rising up against a tyrannical and sexist boss — I thought of, you guessed it, Sarah Palin.
Virtually everyone agrees that Sarah Palin has, at least so far, helped the Republican ticket. Mind you, she’s got seven weeks to turn from an asset into a liability for John McCain, and I suspect that by the time we’ve made it close to Halloween, some of the initial enthusiasm for her will have subsided. That may be wishful thinking, of course — it’s also possible that her selection will prove the decisive factor in the election, and a galvanized conservative base will provide the GOP with the winning margin in November as a result. I certainly hope not, but I take that possibility seriously.
I don’t know who Dolly Parton is endorsing in this election. Dolly has always soft-pedaled her politics (though there is a very funny and vicious crack thrown at George W. Bush in the finale of “9 to 5″). Unlike her comrade-in-arms Emmylou Harris (whose advocacy for many social justice causes, especially veganism and animal rights, has made some of her right-wing fans squirm), Parton has carefully eschewed open involvement in the political arena. Dolly has legions of gay fans, whom she always warmly acknowledges — but she also has a strong fan base in southern and rural America. Including, one suspects, a great many voters to whom the selection of Sarah Palin was carefully calculated to appeal. Continue reading ‘“Backwoods Barbie” and white rural feminism: of Dolly Parton, 9 to 5, and Sarah Palin’
If you’re going to be in the Santa Barbara area tomorrow, there’s a concert honoring my father and raising money for the Westmont College quartet that will bear Dad’s name. Actually, two concerts: “fiddling” Americana from 4-6PM and a classical concert from 7:00PM on. $25 dollars at the door; the concert is at Santa Barbara’s Trinity Episcopal Church.
Jill had a meme up the other day: list the five most embarrassing songs you’ve got on your Ipod. There are both aesthetic and political reasons to be embarrassed, I suppose. At one time or another I downloaded each of these, and a couple have made it on to Friday Random Tens (which will return in September). #5 presents perhaps the greatest assault on good taste among these songs, while #4 is to be lamented for its appalling worldview. But they are all still on my Ipod, and I play them from time to time.
1. “Betty Davis Eyes”, Kim Carnes
2. “Rhythm of the Night”, DeBarge
3. “This is the New Sh*t”, Marilyn Manson
4. “One in a Million”, Guns n’ Roses
5. “Make Me Lose Control”, Eric Carmen
Bonus Embarrassment: “All Cried Out”, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam
I love this song.
Scott Craig at Westmont College kindly sent me a link to this press release: Newly-Crafted Instruments Resonate Well. It begins:
The Hubert Schwyzer Quartet, a unique ensemble of instruments commissioned by Westmont, is taking shape under the hands of master violin maker James Wimmer at his workshop in Santa Barbara. Named for a former UC Santa Barbara philosophy professor and cellist, the quartet will be used by Westmont faculty and students during the school year and loaned to the Music Academy of the West in the summer months.
You can see pictures here.
The whole family is very eager to hear the first music produced by the quartet that will bear my father’s name in perpetuity. When you think about what lasts and endures, few human-made things are still useable centuries after they were made. Good instruments, however, can remain playable for three or four hundred years if well cared for. Dedicating a string quartet in someone’s memory, in a sense, is more lasting than getting their name up on a building.
We are still fund-raising for Westmont and its music program. You can, if you choose, give here; note Schwyzer Quartet in the gift designation area.
I met Ruthie Kelly at WAM 2008; she’s the opinion editor of the San Diego State Daily Aztec and a rising feminist voice. I haven’t had much to say about the whole Miley Cyrus photo controversy, and I’m glad I haven’t, as Ruthie has gone ahead and said much of it for me, and said it better. Ruthie writes:
…like the other pop teen queens who came before her, Cyrus was sexualized long ago. That isn’t the real problem. The upsetting part is that her sexuality used to be innocent because she was sending signals with miniskirts and makeup but didn’t really understand what those signs meant. The symbols are meant to be understood by adults who aren’t part of her actual fan base. Her appeal lay in her inexperience - her powerlessness. Her appearance has always been suggestive, but she wouldn’t really know what to do in a sexual situation, so it was a type of make-believe.
But Cyrus is 15 years old now and is starting to grow up. She’s beginning to take control and embrace her sexuality, and use it the way she wants to, as opposed to the way she was directed. Being sexual on any level seems so monumental, new and powerful at age 15. But just when she matures to the point of wanting to embrace and explore that side of herself is when she becomes the most dangerous because then she is the one who takes control.
It’s an interesting point. Though I worry that Ruthie may be overselling Cyrus’ own sexual agency just a tad, I think she’s making a powerful and important point. Part of the discomfort we have with the Miley Cyrus images lies in our recognition that we’re dealing with a young woman who is very publicly asserting her sexuality. Whatever the designs of the photographers in Vanity Fair (or of those who leaked Cyrus’ private pics onto the ‘net), it’s clear from her meteoric rise that Miley (also known as “Hannah Montana”) is a remarkably driven, poised, and thoughtful young woman. And yes, she’s still fifteen. Continue reading ‘Agency, ambivalence, and desire: some preliminary thoughts on the Miley Cyrus kerfuffle’
I’m a little bleary-eyed this morning after two back-to-back nights of five hours of sleep. Eating a vegan diet does enable me to cut back a bit on the number of hours I need, but I still seem to do best when I’ve had a minimum of six. Given how busy our lives are without human children, the real question we both have is how it is that we will adapt to having a kid. What does it look like when two Type A personalities who want to go-go-go 18 hours a day suddenly have a small child? No, we’re not announcing anything, folks — just musing together. Some things will have to give, and that’s a prospect that fills me with considerable ambivalence.
We’ve had some of my wife’s family in town, and last night, my wife, brother-in-law, and I took their mother to see Juanes at the Nokia Theater downtown. Juanes is, as most of my readers will know, one of Colombia’s two most famous rock stars (the sublime Shakira is the other). We’ve been fans of his for years, and even though I have only a limited understanding of his lyrics, I’ve always found his pop hooks to be particularly infectious. It was a delight to see so many multi-generational groups in the audience last night; though my wife and I brought her dear mother, I saw several grandmother-daughter-granddaughter pairings enjoying a Mother’s Day evening out together. The audience was, of course, overwhelmingly Latino, but not exclusively so.
When Juanes dedicated one number to the Afro-Colombian people, my wife and mother-in-law exploded with delight. My mother-in-law was born into an African-Colombian family in Santa Marta, on the northeastern Colombian coast; she bequeathed to my wife that marvelous mixed heritage of West African, Spanish, and indigenous American influences. Too often in Colombia, “whites” ignore or malign the sizable Afro-Colombian minority. To have Juanes, the consummate Colombian rock star and perhaps, after Juan Valdez, the nation’s most recognizable male export, celebrate the African influence on his country and his music was welcome indeed.
I danced in the aisles. While my wife and in-laws moved their hips with easy and rhythmic abandon, I danced in that traditionally self-conscious white boy way. When it comes to distance running, I know how to center myself in my core. When it comes to dancing, however, my center seems to be located in my trapezius muscles, and I scrunch my shoulders and rotate them while shuffling my feet. I was teased good-naturedly by my family and by others around me, but I was happy as a clam. The fact that I understood about 50% of what Juanes said from the stage struck me as a special triumph.
We spent the day back up in Santa Barbara; it was the first time my brother, sisters, and I had all been together since before our father died nearly two years ago.
This morning, my ten-month old nephew Matthew Hubert was honored in a “naming” ceremony at the Santa Barbara Unitarian Society. I’m fairly accustomed to being around earnest, sweet, doctrinally vague, and unfailingly left-leaning Unitarians. But my wife and I couldn’t hold it together, when, after a service filled with virtually every cliche in the Book of Progressive Religion, the minister asked us to — yes, you know it — join hands and sing “Kumbaya.” My beloved and I did quarter-turns away from each other as we clutched hands, knowing that if our eyes met we would both lose it completely.
How often does the phrase “we’re not going to hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’” make its way into our discourse? And yet, in all my church-going experience, I’d never actually been asked to do it. Oh, I’ve held hands with my fellow worshippers; I’ve sung Kumbaya a time or two. But I’ve never had these two activities combined into the great archetypal experience of well-meaning liberalism.
The Santa Barbara Unitarian Society, bless ‘em all, is an irony-free zone.
Jill and Amanda both had posts up on Monday about the “Pushkin Problem”: the issue of love, disparate literary taste, and “deal-breakers”. Their posts were inspired by this Sunday Times piece: It’s Not You, It’s Your Books. It begins:
Some years ago, I was awakened early one morning by a phone call from a friend. She had just broken up with a boyfriend she still loved and was desperate to justify her decision. “Can you believe it!” she shouted into the phone. “He hadn’t even heard of Pushkin!”
We’ve all been there. Or some of us have. Anyone who cares about books has at some point confronted the Pushkin problem: when a missed — or misguided — literary reference makes it chillingly clear that a romance is going nowhere fast.
As of this morning, there are 114 comments below Jill’s excellent reflection, and twice that many below Amanda’s. And all of this has me thinking about deal-breakers, both past and present, when it came to dating or marriage.
I didn’t have my first real girlfriend until I was 17 and a senior in high school. Before that, I spent a great deal of time talking with my friends — and fantasizing to myself — about what the “ideal girl” for me would be like. I’m not talking about physical attributes, though that sort of fantasizing was not absent from my reveries. I’m talking about taste. Like so many teenagers, I cared a great deal about books and music. It was the early-to-mid-1980s, after all, and I was in perhaps the only stage of my life where music (this meant records and tapes) was hugely important. I went back and forth between listening to Sixties folk-rock and early ’80s pop-punk; Joan Baez and The Clash were indispensable components of my adolescent soundtrack. And sometime in 1983, before I had even been properly kissed, I declared, with puerile self-righteousness, that “I would never date a girl who likes Duran Duran.” As best I can remember, this was the first of many “statements of exclusion.” Continue reading ‘Love trumps aesthetics: of books, music, desire, and deal-breakers’
On an entirely different note, this song came into my head today. My mother sang it to me when I was a child. She learned it from her roommate at Vassar in the mid-1950s; her roommate had sung it at an Episcopalian youth camp. I’ve sung it myself for many of my Episcopalian friends (including priests and the current bishop of Los Angeles), and to my amazement, none of them know it. So here it is, and it is to be sung to the tune of “God Bless America”:
I am an Anglican,
I am C.E.:
Neither high church
Nor low church,
I am Protestant and Catholic and Free!
Not a Presby,
Nor a Luth’ran
Nor a Baptist, white with foam;
I am an Anglican –
Just one step from Rome!
I am an Anglican —
Just one step from Rome!
Whether it’s theologically true any longer is debatable, but the bit about the Baptist is pretty darned good.
Trusting that most folks observe the de mortuis nihil nisi bonum rule, let me note with sadness the passing of Dan Fogelberg. His Greatest Hits album was one I listened to constantly my sophomore year of high school. I was very much into punk at the same time, listening to mainstream bands like the Clash and more obscure artists ranging from Stiff Little Fingers to Johnny Thunders. But though I pretended to share my friends’ enthusiasm for say, Jodie Foster’s Army, I played my Fogelberg cassette in secret in my room. I wasn’t a popular kid when I was fifteen, of course; but admitting that I teared up everytime I heard “Run for the Roses” would have been the end of whatever social credibility I enjoyed.
I’ve been listening, on the verge of weepiness, to “Same Old Lang Syne” over and over again the last two days. Dear readers, think of the confidence it takes to admit to this!
Do wait for future posts paying tribute to David Gates and Bread; Seals and Crofts; and Helen Reddy.
Vanessa posted last week about the Coaching Boys into Men program, a product of the New York Family Violence Prevention Fund. Vanessa posts one of the flyers produced by the program; it features a boy in an orange hoodie with the words “Awaiting Instructions” emblazoned across the front. And the instructions the boy receives:
1. Eat your vegetables
2. Don’t play with matches
3. Finish your homework
4. Respect women
And in the comments section at Feministing, there’s a mix of praise and criticism for the campaign, mostly revolving around the “problematic” meaning of “respect” for women. ProFeministMale writes:
…often times, when I hear the general, non-feminist public teach young boys to “respect” women, I get the impression that a lot of what they’re teaching also involves “chivalry,” to to see women as somehow being “different,” that they’re nimble and weak and need to young boys and men to serve as the “protectors.”
This is a good idea - but I can’t help but think these boys are also being indoctrinated into gender roles that so much of the world is buying into.
In the various workshops I’ve put on for young men (and not so-young-men) in church and school settings, I’ve talked a lot about the real meaning of one of my favorite words, “respect.” (And if you’re thinking of the Aretha Franklin song now, hold on, I’ll get to it.)
I often start by writing the word “respect” on a flip chart or chalkboard, and then ask the folks I’m working with to play the word association game with me. Everyone gets to throw out the first thing that comes into their head when they hear or see the word. As you might expect, I get a lot of different definitions. Some people do think of chivalry; almost always, someone will say that “opening the door for a woman” is the first thing that he thinks of when he hear the word. Others will offer a negative definition, suggesting that “respect” is more about what you don’t do than what you do: “It’s like watching your language around a girl”; “It’s about not grabbing her just ’cause you want to”; (I remember that definition vividly from one high school group), “It’s treating her as a girl and not like a guy.” I write as many of the definitions and word associations on the board as I can. Continue reading ‘“Find out what it means to me”: some thoughts on respect, chivalry, and campaigns against sexual violence’
I flippantly remarked today that my favorite musical era is marked by the period between the Kent State shootings (May 1970) and the election of Jimmy Carter (November 1976). And so, here are ten of my favorite albums from that period. I turned three the month Kent State happened; I was nine when Carter defeated Ford. (The 1976 presidential election was the first one I followed closely, and I walked precincts in Carmel for Carter-Mondale that fall).
I’d take all of these albums to a desert island with me. Of course, I’d love to have them on original vinyl with that wonderful “hiss and pop” sound that came with an old-fashioned record.
I’m limiting myself to one album per artist, and though I might change the order a week from now, I’m ranking them as follows:
1. “Late For The Sky“, Jackson Browne. There are very few albums from any era on which every single track is a gem. This is one such recording. I burned through two cassettes before I finally got the CD. Favorite Track: “Before the Deluge.”
2. “Pieces of the Sky“, Emmylou Harris. Favorite Tracks: “Boulder to Birmingham”, “Queen of the Silver Dollar”
3. “The Last of the Red Hot Burritos“, Flying Burrito Brothers. Favorite Track: “High Fashion Queen”
4. “Turnstiles“, Billy Joel. Favorite Track: “I’ve Loved These Days”
5. “Blood On The Tracks“, Bob Dylan. My favorite Dylan album ever, hands down. Favorite track: “Shelter From the Storm.”
6. “Manassas“, Steven Stills and Manassas. Favorite track: “The Treasure (Take One)”
7. “Eagles“, The Eagles. Everyone says “Hotel California” is the essential Eagles album, but I’ll take their self-titled debut. Favorite song: “Peaceful, Easy Feeling.”
8. “Blue“, Joni Mitchell. Who doesn’t love this album? Most people pick the wonderful “Carey” as their favorite song, but I’ll go with “This Flight Tonight”.
9. “Madman Across the Water“, Elton John. Obviously, “Tiny Dancer” is one of the greatest songs ever, but I’ll select the title cut as my fav.
10. “Harvest“, Neil Young. Favorite track: “A Man Needs A Maid.”
And the bonus album is obvious:
“Born to Run“, Bruce Springsteen.
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