{It’s still Lent and I am still writing each of these forty days, with the general theme of “music.” With the name of my blog “Peace, Grace, and Jazz,” yes, the slant is toward jazz, but along the way I am also trying to share some thoughts about other music I enjoy. Today is a bit different: it’s about jazz I don’t necessarily enjoy.}
I’ve heard it said so many times: “I don’t like jazz.” I understand not liking certain music. I don’t care for much “country/western” music. I wouldn’t enjoy 15 minutes of polka tunes. Lest I insult your favorite music, I won’t go on. However, when someone tells me they just plain don’t like jazz, I usually (and respectfully) ask, “What kind of jazz do you not like?”
Is it Vince Guaraldi’s music for the Charlie Brown TV specials? You don’t like Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five?” Or, Ella Fitzgerald’s Verve recordings? What about the Nat King Cole Trio and “Route 66?” Count Basie’s “April in Paris?” Harry Connick, Jr.’s big band? Oh, I get it if you are 19 and into rap, or a 70 year-old opera aficionado, or a cattle rustler. But there are so many kinds of jazz, so many forms and sub-genres and net contents – I find one’s very general dismissal of America’s original musical art form hard to accept. But that’s because I am such a fan of almost all forms of jazz, from “straight ahead” to hard bop to Dixieland to “West Coast” to modern jazz, whatever that is these days. Except for what we heard a couple of nights ago.
We experienced “The New Jawn.” (Jawn – that’s a Philly term for anything, a place, a person, just, y’know, one of those.) It’s the name of one of Christian McBride’s groups. And the other night they played a couple of hours north of here. Now, anyone who really knows jazz knows Christian McBride. Band leader, educator, radio host, and bass phenomenon. I mean, the bass was created for the likes of McBride. We saw him wear his many hats last January during a week-long jazz cruise. Every time he was on stage hugging his instrument, whether caressing or pounding or plucking its strings, we saw his genius, or rather heard it. Many folk think the drummer sets and keeps the rhythm of the tunes, but it’s the bass player if things are cooking exactly right.
So, we sprung for tickets to see this quartet of talented jazz players: McBride, Marcus Strickland on sax and bass clarinet (!), Josh Evens on trumpet, and drummer Nasheet Waits. No piano. And it turns out, no chords. It’s a rule: no chords. The cacophonous notes of the first tune rattled the hall. And our ears. Wait…what? And then the tune called “Head Bedlam.” We weren’t warned ahead of time that it was a musical response to the drama and upset of the pandemic and the general mess of the world around us. The tune ended with cacophonous bedlam again.
Joan and I looked at each other and thought, “Well, this is different.” And the concert was full of “different.” Here we were looking for a melody and improvised variations, but we heard very gifted players exploring a jazz landscape we had never thought about trekking through. Not knowing exactly how to tell this story, I turned to a site called jazzbluesnews.com and found these phrases helpful: “freedom of expression,” “funky groove,” “adventurous free-blowing,” “intriguing sounds.” “gritty and daring, and maybe a bit brash” add to the mix.
The brilliant musicians in this piano-less quartet hold equal weight throughout with each given plenty of time to stretch out on their own, team individually with their bandmates, and come together as an ensemble.
jazzbluesnews.com
Was it free form jazz? Or, freed from jazz forms?
Was there “structure?” Yes. Were the musicians masters of their instruments? I’ll say! I expected Christian McBride to be spectacular, but I was especially blown away by drummer Nasheet Waits. I’ve never seen hands and sticks move so fast. Inventive. Steady. Extraordinary.
They pretty much played the whole of their new album “Prime” in its entirety. But we struggled to enjoy it. It seemed like for all the freedom the solos exhibited, the evening was a lot of work. Maybe we were seated too far from the stage, but I didn’t see a band enjoying one another’s efforts, a nod or a smile, not even for the audience, except for McBride’s acknowledgment of the applause after each composition. He clearly was enjoying the night, the music, the playing, the tunes, and I’m sure the others in The New Jawn were too. But as a friend put it today in a totally other context, they seemed to leave the audience behind. Except…
Another friend totally got it. He was thrilled to be there, to hear the live (and lively) performance, to experience the creativity and adventurous freedom, and yes, “intriguing sounds” of the chord-less quartet.
In fact, the audience stood at the end and applauded until the band, less than reluctantly, played its required encore.
At our restaurant dinner before the show, I heard a man at another table tell his small dinner party, “I think you’ll like this tonight. It’s a pretty standard quintet of bass, piano, drums, and a couple of horns.” Oh-oh. Wrong. I’ll bet that dinner foursome was surprised. There was no piano, and it was far from “standard.”
I have the feeling that more than one unsuspecting concert-goer left the theater muttering, “That’s why I don’t like jazz.”
{Except for having missed one day while I was “on the road,” I do write each day in Lent, but not always first thing in the morning. Some days, I can barely fit this blog thing into my waking hours. By this time in Lent, I’m more than ready to say, “Enough is enough.” But let’s push on, shall we?}
There are many times I regret not playing an instrument. As I’ve previously written here, I tried a couple of times, but only half-heartedly. I was meant for other things, using other gifts. But when I see the joy that comes to musicians when they play together, I wish I could join in. I know they need (or at least like) listeners, but but what a gift for them to share their talents, even just for the fun of it.
For a number of years, a couple of local jazz venues offered “jams” where players and singers could gather informally and play whatever happened to need playing. One place was a restaurant that offered a tiny space out of the way (but near the bar) where players showed up to blow horns, hit drums, play keyboards and entertain themselves, along with a small gathering of listeners who vied for the few unoccupied seats.
The other venue was more club-like, with a stage, tables and chairs for appreciative fans, and a musician/emcee who herded the cats. And those cats were old veterans of the big band era, musicians who played professionally in local ensembles, and very occasionally some young college and high school students who gathered up great amounts of courage to join in. Many of the players were very talented; they knew the music, fed off the atmosphere and the audience, played their groovin’ hearts out. There was the random player who wasn’t quite up to the gig. Even one or two who prompted stifled groans as they approached the stage. (“Yikes! Choose a better note and hold it! Please!”)
The best nights at both venues were the ones when players smiled at one another’s offerings, enjoyed the collegiality of playing jazz, appreciated the talents of their peers, and bowed to cheering applause. Man, what a thrill it would be to step up to the Baldwin grand piano, or open my trombone case, or go to the microphone to sing “How High the Moon.” Now and then some fairly big names would turn up and I can imagine the thrill of musicians hopping up to the bandstand to add their instrument to the band.
This informal gathering of music-makers is not unique to jazz. On a summer bike ride around paths at a local park, we saw five or six drummers in a pavilion, beating out rhythms drum-line style. When I stopped once to listen, I saw a young kid there getting lessons. Another afternoon, another pavilion: a wind ensemble! A couple of clarinets, a flute, a bassoon, and a French horn, women blending their musical voices with the summer breeze, and a trickling stream a few yards away. It was lovely.
And again, I coveted the experience they were enjoying. I know that whether it’s a chamber group or jazz quintet, informal gatherings may include some hard work, some risk, but if it were too much trouble, they wouldn’t be doing it, right? For the most part, there is joy in the music and satisfaction in the minds and hearts of the musicians.
In a few weeks, we’ll be going to a university big band spring concert, always a thrilling performance. There are very few music majors among the forty or so players. There might be a trumpet player who’s majoring in nuclear physics, or a pianist who’s pre-med. Some of the seniors will be playing in their last concert. They will go to grad school or start work at their vocation, and their instruments might wind up stowed in a closet…forever. I hope not. I sincerely hope that those who can play now will play tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. I hope they’ll find a place to share in the rare experience of playing music with friends… forever.
As Lionel Richie sang, “They’re jamming in the street, all night long (all night), all night long… Feel good, feel good!”
So, musicians! Jam…and feel good! And we who listen will share in that feeling, and say thanks!
And if, like me, you are primarily into music appreciation, keep listening for the sounds of music around you. Show your gratitude for the sounds that move feet to tap, eyes to light up, faces to smile. Thank God for music and people who play nicely together.
{Since Ash Wednesday 2023, I’ve been writing each day as a Lenten discipline. These posts are not devotional material, per se. Just reflections on the meaning of music in my life. If what I write helps you think about art in your life, that’s nice too.}
Nine year-olds murdered, along with three adults who loved and cared for them. That’s the news. As usual, “thoughts and prayers.” Sometimes empty. Sometimes heartfelt. But… Yesterday we noticed the flags at the local Lockheed Martin plant were lowered to half-staff. I guess that was for those lost in the church school shooting. As we drive by, we are reminded again of the national lament that sounds when these slaughters happen.
And the news reporters give us more details each day and pundits give more opinions. But little changes. Is the problem “mental health,” or guns? Police response time? Some “system” or other that has failed those little ones? I heard a Nashville Methodist pastor on MSNBC today quote what Jesus had said about swordplay in his day. “Put your sword away. Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.” Sword=weapon. Weapon=gun. There’s the equation so easy to figure out.
So this Lent I write about music. There are and will be vigils: candlelight and tears. And “Amazing Grace” about us wretches who can’t stop the gunfire. We remain blind, unseeing, no matter what we sing. From the very beginning of things, human beings have cried out in lament. Before there was language, there was groaning, howling, weeping, sobbing. When there were words, one was “Why?” spoken to no one in particular. And with fists shaking, people asked that of the God they had come to know (but not understand). “Why?” the Psalmist cried. More than once, of course. For the heart yearned for answers over and over. The proof is in the number of psalms that express questioning, feelings of betrayal, deep pain, lament.
And often, there are no words. As in that time you wanted to comfort someone in their terrible loss but no speech could help. So you just embraced. And maybe it occurred to say something like, “I’ll always be here for you and love you.” But maybe no words at all.
People of faith have sung their laments through the ages. We have sung the words of the Psalmist, we have sung the thoughtful lyrics of hymns that brought some comfort, if not healing. Some of the most lasting music of the church is in the form of the “Requiem.” And the music has been so powerful that even non-believers have embraced the music, if not entirely the scriptural words.
I want to share a video link here, a tune composed by my friend The Rev. Bill Carter, an “Elegy.” An elegy is a song of mourning, a lament for the dead. As this musical offering witnesses, the elegy needs no poetic words. Musical notes will do. Any reader of this blog knows that Bill Carter leads the Presbybop Jazz musicians, and he wrote his “Elegy” after hearing of a deadly shooting not far from where he lived. I recorded this performance in concert at Binghamton University. (One camera, unedited footage, about 10 minutes in length.)
Let it lead us to some comfort. And then let us act on our “thoughts and prayers,” and tell those who try to govern us that they can, they must, do something, do many things, to stop the violence of gunshots snuffing out our neighbors’ lives.
Those who live by the gun…
Bill Carter, Piano; Tony Marino, bass; Mike Carbone, saxophone; Marko Marcinko, percussion
{I wrote many words yesterday about hymns and the books that hold them. Even more words today, and then on to something jazzier.}
I’m getting to be a fan of new words to old hymn tunes. That is, I like the familiar music that is the early soundtrack of my worship experiences. I grew up in a church that used a denominational hymnal filled with many of what we might call “classic” songs. “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” “Be Thou My Vision,” “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise,” and, of course, “Amazing Grace.” And while the older hymns do contain some odd language (to us) and perhaps out-dated references and vocabulary, many people of a certain age (mine) have a strong emotional sense of connection with those hymn tunes.
Still, I am quite accepting of newer music, including songs from Taize, Iona, and world music from Africa, the Caribbean, and New Jersey. I go on record admitting some disdain for a lot of so-called “praise music,” what my wife refers to as 7-11 music, seven words sung eleven times. With knitted brow, however, I realize that some music from Taize is exactly that, or close to it. Maybe it’s more the actual words, then, that I shrink from. The vocabulary of faith.
That said, and as long as I’m admitting things here, there are some hymns, old and newer, that contain words that don’t reflect my theology. Maybe they did at one time, but not now. For example, a hymn came up recently that mentioned the word “ransom,” as in the “ransom theory of the atonement.” I don’t accept that theory, so I prefer not to sing about it. I don’t like hymns that sing of “the blood,” as in Jesus shed his blood to satisfy God’s desire for…well, blood sacrifice isn’t in my current theology. So, when these verses turn up in hymns we sing in worship, I pause and let them go on without me. (When a parishioner says she/he doesn’t believe in the virgin birth, and therefore doesn’t feel comfortable saying the Apostles’ Creed, I advise that person to just remain silent during that line and move on with something that IS in their belief system. So, I give myself permission to let certain hymn phrases pass me by.)
Back to new words to familiar tunes. Some wonderful poets are writing powerful words that reflect contemporary expressions of faith, mission, service, personal journeys, etc., but the meter of that poetry fits the music many of us already know. Their new words aren’t trying to replace the older lyric; they are simply using a fresh theological understanding of the ways God is acting, challenging, comforting, alive in today’s world. In the Presbyterian church, it was Jane Parker Huber a couple of decades ago; today it is Carolyn Winfree Gillette who is writing fine poetry that gives new life to our singing. I recommend two of her books: Gifts of Love, and Songs of Grace. Beyond the published hymn lyrics, Carolyn is always creating and writing. If there is something in the news that prompts people of faith to bow in prayer – a storm, flood, gunfire, wildfire – she contributes what seem to be “just the right words” that speak from the heart of faith and a desire for justice and mercy. And usually, churches have permission to print the lyrics for immediate use in worship, as long as authorship is credited. They are easy to sing becuase we already know the music.
Time’s up for today….I have something to move toward, but I’ll be back at the keyboard tomorrow.
{ Another week in Lent 2023, and another collection of thoughts about music. It’s my writing discipline for this year, after previous years of writing about the forty people who’ve influenced my life, forty windows I’ve looked through or at, and forty panoramic images that spurred daily reflections. I write primarily for myself, but publicly in this blog, so I’m an open book. A hymn book today.}
This jazz guy has only been to New Orleans once. And while there, we visited Preservation Hall and its traditional jazz music. And I saw what was, at the time, the most expensive dinner tab I’d seen, thanks to the wine choices of my Episcopal priest companions. What took me to New Orleans? A hymnal.
It was 1982 and the Episcopal Church was publishing its first new hymnal since the 1940 version. It took an act of the Episcopal General Convention to authorize the new official book of hymns, and the move wasn’t without controversy. I was hired to shoot some video at the New Orleans site of that year’s convention, and one of the interviews was with a member of the Standing Commission that edited the new book. It was the first time I’d given any thought to how a denomination’s hymnal came together.
Not surprisingly, it’s a lot of work: musically and theologically, but also to find that mystical balance between beloved old favorites and the newer music that would reflect contemporary expressions of faith. When you think about it, you simply can’t keep adding new hymns without cutting out some old ones; the book would be too heavy to hold. So, the publishers of denominational hymnals must make difficult decisions, and church folk are good at raising ruckuses. “How dare they drop my favorite hymn?”
“When was the last time you sang it?”
“Ages ago! The pastor never chooses it.”
“Sorry.”
In the preface to that “new” 1982 (think about that) Episcopal hymnal, I found this paragraph.
“The Hymnal 1982 retains the best of the past and sets forth many riches of our own time. [The Standing Commission on Church Music] looked for theological orthodoxy, poetic beauty, and integrity of meaning. At the same time, the Commission was especially concerned that the hymnody affirm ‘the participation of all in the Body of Christ the Church, while recognizing our diverse natures of children of God.’ … Texts and music which reflect the pluralistic nature of the Church have been included, affording the use of Native American, Afro-American, Hispanic, and Asian material.”
The Hymnal 1982 Preface
And here we are 40 years later. Not being an Episcopalian, I’m unaware of a revised version of that 1982 collection, but surely something is in the works. The times, they are a-changin’. And so is singing the faith.
Our Presbyterian Church is still using the 1990 Presbyterian Hymnal, though it has been officially replaced by the 2013 edition called Glory to God:The Presbyterian Hymnal. Most “major” denominations have their own hymnals, but other non-denominational hymnals are available and widely used, and many churches add “supplements,” usually newer hymns and/or even really, really old favorites folks can’t let go of– even if the language is terribly dated, or imperialistic, or racist.
In a conversation with another retired pastor the other night, I was impressed by her remark that younger church-goers find much of the language of popular, well-known hymns archaic (when was the last time you raised your Ebenezer?) and much of the music just plain worn-out, passé, or otherwise clunky. And that’s another issue today’s composers of songs of faith must grapple with: what’s “contemporary” music, anyway? Must it be hip-hop?
Back in the 1960s folk music seemed cutting edge in worship. You know, guitar masses. Today, there are some “cowboy” churches, and I’m sure the music there grew far from folk into solid Nashville. Then there was Peter Scholtes’ 1966 “Bossa Nova Mass,” which gave us the song, “They’ll Know We’re Christians by Our Love” AKA “We Are One in the Spirit.” There have been several jazz masses since the 1950s, but they seem (sadly for me) used more for special, occasional services. (Fine examples of jazz in worship are found at www.presbybop.com.)
What about rock music? Well, what kind of rock? Emo? Metal? Soft? Progressive, whatever that means? A Moody Blues Mass? A Springsteen service? The music of Pink, or punk, or Puth (as in Charlie)? We’d all have to sing in separate rooms in the education building, because choosing music to sing with one voice in a sanctuary would be impossible. (And in Room 6, you can sing “In the Garden” and “Power in the Blood” if you are into the old stuff.) Therefore, we all have to bend a little. Or blend a little.
Recently I visited the Freemason Street Baptist Church in Norfolk, VA and saw that they had published their own hard-bound hymnal. They are not alone in that endeavor, but I really liked looking through the result of their quest to provide a variety of choices for their congregation. No, there’s no hip-hop (that I could find in a quick perusal), but I suspect some hymns could at least swing a bit, given the jazz-loving pastor there. I read through the introductory pages and found a couple of quotations I really liked.
“Songs are funny things. They can slip across borders. Proliferate in prisons. Penetrate hard shells. I always believed that the right song at the right moment could change history.”
Pete Seeger
Pete Seeger said that, and those Baptist hymnal editors placed that comment under the heading “Changing the World.” Hymns might be able to help; faith certainly does. Thus, the editors add: In this sense, it is like the church itself, wrestling to balance its desire to preserve a beloved past, even as it honors Christ’s call to go out to serve the ever-changing world with new songs as well as old. The second quotation I liked in that hymnal comes from Zoltan Kodaly:
“It is not worth singing for ourselves; it is nicer if two people sing together. Then more people: hundreds, thousands, until the huge harmony can be heard in which we all just can be one, indeed.”
Found in the Hymnal of Freemason Street Baptist Church
Being one as we sing is a joyful challenge. So many wonderful voices mixed with folks who can’t carry a tune in a tuna casserole dish. But we have a faith well worth proclaiming in song and assorted joyful noises.
{My series of entries during the season of Lent (2023) continues as I think and write about music. Frankly, as you might have guessed, I do more writing than thinking most days.}
I’ve previously written about my singing in choirs, adding my bass voice to choral compositions, and hoping I didn’t mess up the guys standing next to me. Today, I focus in on the bass/tenor-only singing groups.
The first time I sang with a men’s vocal group was in college. The fraternities had had a lock on such choral singing. Their vocal presence was especially evident when the guys would gather under a women’s dorm window and serenade someone’s newly pinned or engaged girlfriend. Some of those serenades were actually kind of sweet, and depending on the musical talents of the lead singers, the sound of men singing together was, if not beautiful, at least earnest. But I wasn’t in a fraternity. I was what was called an “independent.” And ordinarily, being independent, we who bore that distinction didn’t gather for anything, much less for a song.
But late in my college career, someone, another so-called independent guy, suggested we could learn some songs and just sing for whomever would listen. We could just go stand under all the dorm windows and serenade the unsuspecting women who might give us an ear. While a few of us were members of the college choir, a couple other guys joined in, and we actually sounded good! We sang in four parts, not quite “barbershop” style, but probably using some of that repertoire. Don’t ask me what we sang; it wasn’t that memorable. But the experience was. I enjoyed being part of that shared sound, tenors and basses blending admirably, attracting some appreciative listeners. The group didn’t last very long. There were lots of demands on our time and we found it hard to find rehearsal time. So, it fizzled.
My seminary years brought a new experience of male voices filling the school’s chapel with hymns sung, well, one might say lustily! We hit most of the right notes of those songs so familiar to our church lives, but even if we didn’t quite do justice to the composers’ vision, we did have volume! And more than once, visitors (especially women) would exclaim how wonderful it was to hear men’s voices lifted in song. (Because in most of our churches, men don’t exactly sing out.) Truth be told, this was many years ago, and we had very few women enrolled in theological education at that time. So, the men’s voices still dominated the chapel hymns. Today, not so much. Women in ministry is a gift to the Church, but somewhat dilute the male contribution to congregational song in seminary worship services.
It would be decades later that I found myself in a men’s choir. The church in Vermont was small, rural, and a surprising place to have enough men to make up a choir of 12-15 voices. But when I arrived there as pastor and joined the church choir, I learned that once a month the men would sing without the treble voices. Of course, I joined in. These were dairy farmers, a retired school administrator, a Ford tractor dealer, a singer in a country music group, a retired pastor whose tenor voice had graced many chorale performances in his earlier years, and, during the months when “summer people” vacationed in the Northeast Kingdom, some guest singers who loved the fellowship of shared male voices.
And it was a fellowship! Making music together was one thing; being together was something else. It’s common knowledge that we men are not good “mixers,” not great at developing a sense of community, or even seeking out and finding BFFs. But that Friday night rehearsal (not much else to do on a Friday in that rural community) and gathering to sing for the Lord and his congregation on a Sunday morning – well, that was a gift of musical comradeship we enjoyed together each month.
Much of the sheet music was yellow with age. The Navy hymn was a favorite. As I recall, we weren’t much into learning new songs. But the four-part harmonies and a rich sense of tradition combined to enhance Friday fellowship and Sunday worship…until time took its toll. Church membership has declined through the years, many men are singing now in heavenly choirs (we assume), and some have simply aged out. Sadly, that tradition is fading.
I guess we’ll have to lean on the recorded voices of male a capella groups for that rich musical sound. Even at my advanced age, I’d still like to try singing with some brothers in church. Or, maybe we could look for a woman’s window in the neighborhood and sing to her, hoping no one called the cops before we’d sung our last bass and tenor notes.
{I write each day in Lent about music. It’s a daily discipline. I think I see a light at the end of the Lenten tunnel. It’s dim, but more light is coming. Thanks for reading!}
I’ve noted this before: how odd it is that sometimes a memory is so clear, you can remember exactly where you were, even what the light was like, when something occurred. It doesn’t have to have been a life-changing event either. Just a memory playing out like a short movie clip.
I was sitting in my study in the Vermont manse when my cousin Kathy contacted me about her daughter Erin. Kathy had learned that my son-in-law had an internship at Disney World (while earning his Masters Degree in Theater Lighting). Kathy said her daughter was looking to start a career in the entertainment world, a talented singer/dancer. My cousin thought maybe my son-in-law might have a connection at Disney that would help Erin’s ambitions.
I told Kathy that I doubted my Disney connection, an intern, had that kind of clout. But I’d mention it to him. As expected, it was a dead end.
But the story moves ahead thanks to a very talented young woman, her persistence, her love of the performing arts, and maybe a “break” or two. My sense of the timing from that phone call to Erin’s Broadway debut is a mystery. All I know is, Joan and I are ready to buy a bus ticket and travel to New York City to see Erin in any show she’s in.
A sidebar here (I have a habit of this kind of intrusion; sorry): I saw my first Broadway show at The Broadway Theatre in 1958. I was 14 and I assume I was in NYC on a school trip. “The Body Beautiful” was about a prize fighter, and it starred Steve Forrest and Mindy Carson, along with Jack Warden and Brock Peters. Big names back then. But unknown to me at the time. It ran for only 60 performances. Still, it was a Broadway musical! And it was a thrill for this first time theater-goer!
But, it would be another 15 years before my next show, “A Little Night Music.” In the years since then, Joan and I have seen countless school musicals and local productions, and a traveling Broadway show or two. But, of course, the actual Broadway musical experience is magic as we take in the talented actors, imaginative sets, dramatic lighting and effects, the excited audiences, and the theater district itself.
Then came Erin Davie. A family connection. A delightful person. A fine singer and actor. And a star. After paying her dues in lots of projects I’d have to Google to research, in 2006 she garnered praise for her portrayal of young Edie Beale in “Gray Gardens,” and received a Theater World Award for that role in 2007. Sadly, we didn’t see that one. Our first view of Erin on a Broadway stage was in the 2009 revival of “A Little Night Music,” where Erin shared the stage with Angela Lansbury and Catherine Zeta-Jones. We did make that show and thoroughly enjoyed a backstage tour thanks to Erin’s hospitality.
Next came her starring role in “Side Show,” where she played half the lead. You see, the story was about conjoined twins Daisy and Violet Hilton, and Erin was joined at the hip (with strong magnets) with co-star Emily Padgett. Two wonderful songs still play in our memories from that show: “Who Will Love Me as I Am?” and “I Will Never Leave You.” (I’ll post a link to their duet at the end of this post.) Erin’s show was a revival (2014) of a previous version, and it closed way too soon, despite very positive reviews. But not before our whole family went together to the St. James Theatre to share the experience and the standing ovation. I suspect a show about misfits, “freaks,” and outcasts just didn’t sell enough tickets.
We also saw Erin in a 2017 Broadway revival of “Sunday in the Park with George,” alongside Jake Gyllenhaal. We’ve never been disappointed in her shows and are ready to spring for the next tickets when she’s back on Broadway.
Almost forgot the most recent show: “Diana, the Musical” — We saw it first during Covid time, shot by Netflix in an empty theater. Odd to see a Broadway musical with an audience. But we did go to New York to see the show once it finally opened, and predictably it had more life, more energy, more fun. Erin got good reviews as Camilla, but the show was, well, a concept hard to buy.
From a Richmond, Va. production of “Camelot” to Harry Chapin’s “Cotton Patch Gospel” at the Lamb’s Theater in New York; from the thrilling, long-running Broadway productions of “Phantom of the Opera” and “A Chorus Line,” to our kids’ high school shows — musical story-telling live on stage can be an electrifying, inspiring, thoroughly entertaining way to spend an evening, appreciating the talents of hard-working performers and backstage artists and technicians.
What Erin’s own story tells me is that for many, dreams do come true…but not without a lot of dedication, exhaustive honing of skills, and endless rehearsal time. But then comes the applause!
{Lent 2023…so far into the season I’ve lost track of how many days are left and I don’t have time to figure it out. All I can do is write another of these 40 entries on the general topic of music, and then move on to the rest of my day. If I could type, it would go faster.}
Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved home and the war’s desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: “In God is our trust”: And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Verse 4, “The Star Spangled Banner”
Sound familiar? Probably not, because we usually hear only the first verse of the song we in the USA call our “national anthem.” “The Star-Spangled Banner” was known for a time in our family as “The Hockey Song.” A pre-schooler grandson of ours had only heard the song at the Cornell Hockey games he attended, and when prompted, he belted out what he called the hockey song: “O say can you see…” (and then less-than-comprehensible lyrics as only a 4 year-old might sing them).
It’s long been a mystery to me why we sing the anthem at sporting events, and rarely anywhere else. Oh, I guess school concerts might have the audience join in singing, but mostly we just recite the “Pledge of Allegiance,” to be sure everyone in the crowd is loyally patriotic. We don’t say the pledge at baseball games, however. It’s the homage to our nation’s flag that takes center stage (or center field?) before the first pitch. (You’ve no doubt heard someone jokingly shout “Play ball!” after the anthem is sung elsewhere, so ingrained is the habit at ballparks.) The historical explanation and precedent for tying the anthem to NASCAR, NFL games, and the like is research you can do yourself. I’ve just time to do the following refresher course in the roots of the anthem.
You know the words are attributed to Francis Scott Key. And you recall from middle school that that 35 year-old lawyer had witnessed the stars and stripes surviving the British bombardment of Fort McHenry in 1814. Key may have been an amateur poet, but he didn’t have music in mind as he scribbled, so the poetry was linked to a tune many Americans already knew. Ironically it was of British origin! (If you bomb our fort, we’ll steal your music!) Key, by the way, titled his work “Defence of Fort M’Henry.”
Here’s more than you need to know: the composer was one John Stafford Smith, and according to Wikipedia (I do really heavy research) the song was originally written for a London men’s social club, the Anacreontic Society. “To Anacreon in Heaven” was the name of the tune. (No need to take notes here; this won’t be on the test.)
Somehow the U.S. Navy latched onto the song in 1889, and in 1931 President Hoover signed into law the resolution making the “Star Spangled Banner” the national anthem.
It didn’t occur to anyone at the time that the thing was un-singable by the common citizen. And apparently by many soloists who attempt to sing it at ballgames. I’m told the tune has 19 semitones, thus the difficulty. Then we add to the performance singers who insist on bending nearly every note imitating their favorite pop artist – and that’s one reason to skip the first inning and stand in the concession line for Cracker Jack.
Speaking of ballgames, the season begins soon and many seventh inning stretches will include another bow to patriotism, the singing of Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America,” taught to many of us personally by Kate Smith. I’ve noticed that many are now standing up for that song too, as if Congress had declared it our secondary national song. Some even remove baseball caps and cover their hearts. I don’t do the grand gestures for that song. Heck, if I don’t stand up for the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s “Messiah,” why would I stand for Irving Berlin’s song written for something called “Yip, Yip, Yaphank?” But I digress.
I opened this entry by quoting the little-known fourth verse. Back in the days when broadcast stations actually signed off every night and then signed on again in the morning, the radio stations opened and closed their programming with “The National Anthem.” Often a quick instrumental version of one verse was sufficient, but sometimes the actual words were sung. When the Viet Nam conflict raged in the late 1960s, and Americans were conflicted over the morality of our country’s involvement, the Presbyterian Church U.S. (commonly referred to as the “Southern Presbyterian” church) produced a short film intended for television station sign-offs. A choir sang only the fourth verse while the visuals showed, among other images, young people joining hands around a large flag pole. (I haven’t seen the film in 50 years, so this is only my vague recollection.)
Why the fourth verse? It was the line, “Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: ‘In God is our trust…’”
“When our cause it is just…” The implication was that the war wasn’t just. The Presbyterians were acknowledging that the “just war” theory was questionable when applied to Viet Nam. And the young people around the flag pole were being just as patriotic in their protests as were those who wore lapel pins in the shape of the stars and stripes.
At first, TV stations were happy to have some fresh content with which to end their broadcast day. Very few paid much attention to the unfamiliar lyric. When the more “hawkish” folk did pay attention, the short film became a matter of controversy and was pulled by some broadcasters. At the time, I applauded the creativity of the PCUS media staff. It’s what free and brave citizens do.
If the church had had the budget and its members’ support, what a gift it would have been to add new visuals to their short film, showing U.S. soldiers returning from that war to open arms of grace, and gratitude for their survival of the hell of war.
One more note, and quickly because you have been so kind to have read this far. One of the most moving renditions of the National Anthem I’ve encountered opened the performance of the Binghamton Philharmonic last fall. It was Veteran’s Day weekend, and while the orchestra doesn’t usually begin concerts with the anthem, it seemed appropriate that night. And the whole theater was filled with the audience’s voices singing Key’s poetry to the accompaniment of the symphony orchestra. I mean, the sound was magnificent. John Stafford Smith would have teared up. I did.
{I’m back after missing a day of my 40 Days of Lenten writings. With any luck, I’ll make up for that day away. We returned from our International Presbybop Jazz Tour of Eastern/Central Virginia yesterday, and writing was impossible. In fact, I was so tired, everything was impossible. But here we go again. Stay tuned.}
Vestal, NY Summer Music Series
As we move into springtime, I begin to think about experiencing music “out there,” that is, outside. I love public performances in parks, by the riverside, in gazebos, on the street – instruments and voices blending with the sounds of birds, breezes, and even Buicks (traffic doesn’t stop for Beethoven or Brubeck). When I look back (or listen back in my deep memories), I think of the very first “live” music I heard as a little kid. First there was the Vestal (NY) High School Marching Band. One fall, as I played in the vacant lot next door to our house, I heard the band from a distance, practicing for the oncoming football halftime shows. I’d stop running around with my friends to listen to music I heard from the nearby school grounds. I didn’t know the titles of the marches, but I knew our Vestal hill was alive with the sound of music, and I liked what I heard.
A bit later, our family had moved across the Susquehanna to Endicott and on summer Sunday evenings we’d go to Enjoie Park to sit on the grass and listen to “industrial” bands and local singers as they entertained from the large gazebo stage. Among the singers were my Uncle Tom and Aunt Viv. Tom had a wonderful Irish tenor voice, and Viv (Dad’s sister) had auditioned for the Met as a young woman. They sang along with the Endicott Johnson Band, one of a vanishing breed of village and town bands made up of generations of musicians still making good on those childhood lessons they had no doubt complained about decades earlier. Endicott Johnson was, at the time, one of the largest shoe manufacturers in the U.S. and its workers made music together at the park and other local venues, playing marches, tunes from the big band era, and light classical works, all so familiar to the audiences that tapped feet and hummed along. Many of those musicians were from Italian, Russian, Czech, Polish and other immigrant families who had come to the U.S. to make footware. Here they were making music…together.
The other industrial giant in town was IBM. In fact, the International Business Machines Corporation had been founded in Endicott, and, not to be outdone by the shoe factory workers down the street, it too had a band that played in that park gazebo on alternate summer Sundays. While the older members of the audience sat on blankets or lawn chairs, many children ran to and from the concert grounds to play on swings, take quick swims in the massive pool nearby, or just chase one another to the sound of Sousa marches or Glenn Miller standards.
A bit of that tradition remains, though the park itself and those companies have disappeared from our village. I guess it may be true of other locales, but New York State still has town and village bands that continue playing for summer audiences. My friend Jerry conducted the Vestal Community band almost forever, and he told me that much of its music repertoire was donated to it when the IBM band folded. It was a goldmine of classic band arrangements. And we’ll hear those notes again this coming summer.
Speaking of Vestal, its summer concert series will continue from a gazebo in a small park where folk music and jazz compete with those Buicks, Broncos, and BMWs referenced earlier. It’s a busy intersection but as the sun sets on summer Tuesday nights, the traffic’s clamor can’t overcome the sense of community we enjoy listening to live music. An example of that community spirit: last summer between the tunes played by a “little big band,” I struck up a conversation with the older gentleman in the camp chair next to mine. Turned out that we had gone to the Vestal elementary school around the same time and had had the same teachers. (That would make me “an older gentleman” too.) No doubt, he too as a child had heard the school band practicing in the distance.
Besides the park concerts, I think of the frigid night when few hardy folks gathered downtown to hear a guy play an upright sidewalk piano on a Binghamton street. Or, hearing the Binghamton Philharmonic and a summer night concert along the banks of the Chenango River. (Years ago, the orchestra played from a barge on the river!) We also have a “Blues on the Bridge” series, and, as I’m sure you know, there are summer music festivals around the country…heck, around the globe! I’ve heard jazz at Saratoga, and “A Prairie Home Companion” folk music at Tanglewood.
When we visited Estonia a couple of years back, we learned of that nation’s long tradition of choirs gathering at what is now the Tallinn Song Festival Grounds to share their beloved national songs. In 2019, over a thousand choirs participated, with 35,000 singers (!) and ticket sales topped off at 60,000 for safety reasons. It’s been going on since 1869, now happening every five years. For that whole nation, the music “out there” is very much “in here,” that is, in the heart.
(The photo is the “stage” on the Festival Grounds.)
When the pandemic forced musicians to play from their homemade video-streaming den or bedroom studios, we realized how much we had missed live music played without walls. Somehow a virtual music-listening at-home community just doesn’t measure up, compared to sitting outside with neighbors, family, fellow citizens, and music-lovers of all generations and genres, smiling at the familiar or appreciating the new.
When these Lenten days have ended and we once again sing our alleluias, many of those resurrection songs will be sung outdoors, at sunrise services, perhaps a capella, or maybe with guitars, or trumpets. No walls can contain the joy of music as its notes return to the creative Source of voices and reeds, of skins and brass, of rhythm and heart. I’m looking forward to getting back “out there.”
So, I invite you to think about an outdoor concert or two that you have enjoyed. And I challenge you to keep your ears open to the acoustics of creation, the hills and valleys and gazebos alive with music.
[In case you are coming in late to this movie, let me catch you up as you take your seat. Each day in Lent 2023, I am writing some reflections on music. It’s a daily discipline I began many years ago. We’re entering the second half of this ordeal.]
The venerable John Williams lost another Oscar the other night, but he seemed pleased to see someone else bask in the spotlight. The master smiles at the ones he has no doubt mentored in some way, even if it was only their exposure to his numerous film scores. German composer Volker Bertelmann won the Academy Award for his score for “All Quiet on the Western Front.” It was an intense film, and most certainly the music soundtrack contributed to the powerful re-telling of Germany’s role in the first World War. I noticed the score as we watched the film, not because it was in the way, but because it did what it was supposed to do.
When I started buying records in my teen years, soundtracks and musical film scores were among my earliest purchases. The first in that genre might have been the soundtrack to “The Big Country,” a sprawling western released in 1958, with music by Jerome Moross. The music is (pardon the expression) iconic western movie music, and I believe it has since been used in TV commercials for, what? Beef? (“It’s what’s for dinner.”) Having enjoyed the film, I bought the soundtrack.
“The Big Country” was not a musical play, of course. But I bought those LPs too. “Carousel” and “Oklahoma” were on my list, and the Marilyn Monroe film “Let’s Make Love.” Oh, I could go on. Later in life I added the “space music” I wrote about earlier in this series. For example, the soundtrack to “2001: A Space Odyssey” as well as John Williams’ scores to the “Star Wars” films. One of my all-time favorite scores is from the “The Mission,” by Ennio Morricone. From that score, I could play the haunting “Gabriel’s Oboe” all day. Really.
As I reflect on the music of filmed media, I think back to a television soundtrack from the 1950s, music composed by Richard Rogers for “Victory at Sea,” the Emmy-winning documentary about WW2. Rogers’ symphonic music for that series could stand on its own as an orchestral masterpiece.
Thus, there are at least two kinds of soundtrack scores: those that are purely instrumental, providing the music that communicates the passion, the humor, the violence, and every emotion that moves the story along. And those which contain the singing of songs that make movies “musicals.” “The Sound of Music” comes to mind. Or, “The Wizard of Oz.” You can name several more, can’t you?
We might think of those soundtrack recordings as ways to relive the films’ stories, to hold on to the feelings we had as we viewed the movies. Or, it may be that we just plain like the music, treating the soundtracks as we do all music, either to enjoy or to escape a “mood.”
In 1963 I was intrigued by an epic film about a young priest who, by the movie’s finale, had become a Cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church. His story involved the politics of the church, but more dramatically issues of racism and abortion. The stirring theme music that began with the opening credits and recurred in variations throughout the film was generally known as “The Main Theme from ‘The Cardinal’”, but it had another title: “Stay with Me.” The lyric was never used in the film production, but Frank Sinatra recorded it on one of his albums, and I have almost adopted it as my personal theme song. (You might go back and read through these posts to see that I wasn’t intending to reveal my theme in this series. But there it is.) I’m crediting Carolyn Leigh with the prayerful text.
Should my heart not be humble,should my eyes fail to see Should my feet sometimes stumble on the way,stay with me Like the lamb that in Springtime wanders far from the fold Comes the darkness and the frost, I get lost,
I grow cold, I grow weary, and I know I have sinned And I go seeking shelter and I cry in the wind Though I grope, and I blunder, and I kneel, and I’m wrong Though the road buckles under as I walk, walk along ‘Til I find to my wonder every path leads to thee All that I can do is pray, stay with me Stay with me.
“Main Theme from The Cardinal: Stay with Me” – Carolyn Leigh
Here’s to the soundtracks that make remind us of the power of “story,” and the music of our own lives, as we celebrate life day by day and note by note.
Peace, Grace, and Jazz! 