The Playhouse Creatures Theatre Company presented their 2nd Annual Tennessee Williams Festival
with a wine reception, a reading of the Williams’ one act play, Kingdom of Earth, introduced by Playhouse Creatures Artistic Director Joseph W. Rodriguez, followed by a panel discussion featuring accomplished directors known for successful interpretations of the dramatist’s work.
Austin Pendleton, Emily Mann, Jodie Markell, Cosmin Chivu, Travis Chamberlain, Thomas Keith
The panel was moderated by Williams scholar Thomas Keith, Consulting Editor at New Directions, Williams’ original and only publisher. He had asked each of the guests to focus their comments on one specific project, in relation to the topic of directing Williams’ later, lesser-known works and, in one case, bringing a fresh approach to an early iconic play.
Drama and comedy written for the theater is as old as civilization itself, and at its heart has always been language that reveals fundamental aspects of what it means to be human and what it means to be inhuman. The greatest playwrights are poets whose words can reach across years and even centuries to present an artistic mirror that compels us humans to laugh (or weep) at ourselves, reaffirm our values, or reexamine the validity of our most cherished beliefs in what we hold to be sacred or profane. And Tennessee Williams is arguably the greatest playwright that America may ever produce. From the shortest stories to the grandest pageants, his wit and wisdom wove poetic tapestries featuring memorable characters and speaking directly to issues of class, race, sexuality, and social justice in ways that were daring for his time, but which remain just as relevant today. It is the universal aspect of his themes, usually presented in the specific environs of the American South during the middle of the twentieth century, that provide audiences so much treasure, as well as his ability to provide actors with language that appears to be rendered in our common speech, but is in fact poetry and how we only wish we spoke to one another.
Moderator Keith had asked for comments relating to issues faced when staging later Williams offerings or those known to have been “difficult.” But down the line, the panel stressed that there was nothing wrong with Williams’ later plays. Rather, they agreed, any real issues lay with critics and a public that wanted him to keep writing the traditional dramas from the early 50s, when he had evolved toward deeply personal works, expressionistic in style, and intimate in their nuanced structure and language, which could not be adequately expressed in the cavernous Broadway houses where they were first staged, often coming off as melodramas.
Here follows my personal reminiscence of Eli Wallach
The revered actor died on Tuesday at the age of 98
When I met him almost five years ago, Eli Wallach was being held up by two persons who were preparing to usher him toward the exit at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, where the elderly actor had read with his daughter from Tennessee Williams’ Mister Paradise as part of the ceremonies inducting the dramatist into the cathedral’s Poet’s Corner.
Anne Jackson, Thomas Keith, Eli Wallach
For many years, the bulletin board over my desk had a brown and faded copy of a New York Times editorial published just after I arrived in New York City from graduate school. Written by Eli Wallach and his wife Anne Jackson, it concerned their crushed dream of opening a rep company at the South Street Seaport that would offer tickets at affordable prices. It stated that the theatrical establishment would not permit this, since Broadway relied on the half-price booth for its true income, and therefore ticket face value had to remain high, so as to help insure profitable productions. The editorial was basically an apology to New York City for the Wallachs being unable to do what they still felt would have been the right thing.
But I had admired Eli Wallach long before I became aware that his heart was in the right place. As a child, my favorite movie was The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, followed closely by the Magnificent Seven, which I could practically recite from memory, and often did when acting out Wallach’s death scene. It was years later that I recognized the profoundly excellent craft and true artistry that earned him an Honorary Oscar in 2011, and which was demonstrated in films like The Misfits, and Baby Doll.
He was admired even more for his work on the stage, at least by those fortunate enough to have seen him. I never did so, and wasn’t even born when he originated the role I most wished I could have experienced in person.
And so, that evening in the cathedral, I strode past the likes of Vanessa Redgrave and Marian Seldes, Olympia Dukakas and Gregory Mosher, to interrupt the progress of the little old man being shuffled out of the way. I apologized for my intrusion, and then asked if he would sign the paperback book I had placed before him. I was unaware he would be there, and just happened to have a copy with me. Wallach looked down with a furrowed brow, which then leapt upwards as he read the title, Camino Real.
Produced between The Rose Tattoo and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Camino Real was developed at the Actor’s Studio and featured Wallach in the lead role of Kilroy, the all-American boy who does not survive a visit to a corrupt banana republic right out of the Twilight Zone. A surreal dream pageant where the romantic spirit struggles for survival in the age of cold-hearted capitalism, the play was written and premiered on Broadway in the heart of the conventional, conservative 1950s. And being even more ahead of its time than many Williams’ plays, it promptly flopped.
And yet, the script contains such poetic beauty, and the ideals of compassion, justice and brotherhood espoused by characters no less than Lord Byron and Don Quixote, and the all-American boy, that I once carried it around for scraps of inspiration in the same way the narrator in Zorba the Greek totes his Dante. And it was directing Camino Real that became my Masters thesis in graduate school.
Eli Wallach looked up at me with his lips parted in surprise. He then returned to the book I was holding, putting his hand flat upon it, like a courtroom bible, before looking back at me to say, in that uniquely gathered voice of his, “This is a wonderful play!”
He began to stir, and suddenly aware of his bonds, looked at each of his handlers to repeat the urgent sentiment, “This is a wwwwWONderful play!!”
After scribbling his name on a leaf inside, he handed me the script, looked out at the small crowd gathering around him to proclaim, “I got to be Kilroy!”
“You got to create Kilroy.” I responded out of reflex.
Eli Wallach snapped his head toward me, peered into my eyes with a puzzling look that said, “Who ARE you, and how did you come by all this?” And then a change came over the old actor, as the crow’s feet melted away and he stood more erect with an expression of distinct pride.
A gleam came into his eye, and his lips twitched as his mouth searched for words around a flickering tongue, as if he was savoring the tasty memory of being 38 again and starring in his second major Tennessee Williams play on Broadway.
“Kazan would Wwwwork it up. And then we would shhhow it to Tennessee…” he said like a master storyteller, to the arc of listeners gathered before him. But just then, two more people pushed through the crowd to put a stop it and take him away.
He looked at me with the regret of a child whose play date has been cut short. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He said to me, as if we were the only two people in the room. And I could tell, he truly wished we could go off together and continue our conversation.
“It’s OK.” I said. “We can talk more about it next time.” And his eyes replied, ‘Really? I hope so!’
I thought about that night, this past Monday, when I was attending a wonderful panel discussion on directing Tennessee Williams, featuring Emily Mann, Austin Pendleton and others, and moderated by Thomas Keith, the Williams scholar and editor, and my friend for nearly 40 decades, who also organized the evening in the cathedral.
I had sort of hoped that Eli Wallach would have been in attendance, among those others in the audience who had known the playwright well. I then got word that he had passed away the very next day.
“I worked with Eli and his wife Anne Jackson when they wrote a forward to the volume Mister Paradise and Other One-Act Plays. I’ve had the chance to meet many artists of stature, but few have had the natural electricity that Eli Wallach did.” That is how Thomas Keith put it, as we emailed each other with the sad news at just about the same time.
Now there will never be a next time for me and Eli. And I shall never walk under the stained glass of St. John the Divine again without saying to myself, “Kilroy Was Here.”
We Already Have Birds That Sing, the new CD from Life in a Blender, is an album of tunes developed through live performance, and perfected in the recording studio, with the addition of extra guitar parts, refined arrangements for the resident strings, and a hard-hitting horn section of guest artists.
But the blood and guts of each cut on this, their 8th album, is the rock n roll core of drums, bass, and electric guitar propelling the singing that is voiced by the guy next door, with an affable lilt that can change to carnival barker or shrieking banshee on a dime.
photo: Quigley Media
Life in a Blender arose in the post-punk art rock scene of the mid-1980s. The current lineup has been together over twenty years, with a loyal fan base that continues to grow, thanks to the inventive thinking man’s rock composed by an ensemble of veteran musicians, and the sneakily adroit lyrics of front man Don Rauf, which are like little short stories, filled with quirky characters defined by the imagery of a specific time and place, yet achieving the cathartic impact of broader human experience.
The album opens with a blast of raucous horns, leading into Tongue Cut Sparrow, a boisterous burlesque number, closely based on the published biography of a young Japanese-American singer who was initially forced to work as an exotic dancer at Forbidden City, a popular men’s club in 1950s San Francisco. Shunned by all her family, except a grandmother, she ultimately finds her voice and career as a chanteuse.
In Shards, a man describes his daily life to an old acquaintance, and exhibits a confident outlook even if things could be better, and then suddenly reveals the private, backyard anguish of loss and lamentation. The juxtaposition of human façade and interiors is a theme Don Rauf has explored on previous records, as with the upbeat transient with the broken heart in the song Professional Mover (from The Heart is a Small Balloon, 2007,) along with the eccentric crank of a neighbor who turns out to be a friendly, regular guy once you get to know him, in Hoot Owl (Homewrecker Spoon, 2011.)
But in Shards, the switch between outward appearance and inner reality is more poignant and more surprising, as the brass-driven funk of the first part underscores the growling declaration that, “I’m looking fine. I bump and grind…,”only to have the music and the singer suddenly stripped to the basic beat, as the violin rises up to play on the heart strings while accompanying the strained confession of regret. It is a classic example of just one life in a blender, found in the canon of this long-lived band of the same name.
A less weighty lament is expressed by a lonely guy out on the town, in Mamanama, a romping, stomping two-step, complete with electric fiddle solo. He searches for companionship and good times across the expanse of Los Angeles, appealing to bar flies and surfers alike, with a chorus of “Can’t you see? I’m good company!”
photo: David Barry
In the song Falmouth, a cheery fella imposes his unquenchable optimism on an emotionally distressed friend going through some unnamed crisis, and not taking no for an answer. A press release reveals information about the character’s specific situation. But Falmouth works so well on its own exactly because of the tight focus details of chicken, flowers, and roller derby, set before the background of ambiguous emotional circumstance. It allows a listener to connect the song’s sentiment with their own life experience, where they or one they care for has made similar efforts to reach someone in a bad place and pull them out.
Often when immersing myself in a new record there is a tune that goes unnoticed, only to put a hook in me later on, so that it becomes a permanent part of the repertoire of fragments sung when cleaning the house or walking down the street. Falmouth is that song on this CD. I think it has something to do with the syncopation in the clean picking pattern from guitarist Al Houghton, in combination with the sporadic vocal harmony lines, and the smart and infectious interludes from the horn section, arranged by bassist Mark Lerner.
Then again, the counterpoint underpinning Good Answer, which Lerner composed for cellist Dave Moody and violinist Rebecca Weiner Tompkins, is just as memorable, and it provides plenty of space for drummer Ken Meyer to fill up with tasty accents. Where that song is a flippant response to the bandwagon catch phrases of American pop culture, Frankenstein Cannot Be Stopped breathes new life into one of the most popular stories of gothic horror. The point of view is that of a member of the cinema audience, who is haunted by the tragic scene where the unintentional monster kills his youngest victim, and so he returns again and again to try to warn her from the dark.
The album closes with Sea in a Sieve, a buoyant appreciation of the joys found in setting sail in a small vessel just for the fun of it. And like the record as a whole, it is a transportive entertainment that is worthwhile and enjoyable, but ends sooner than one might wish, leaving a taste for more.
We Already Have Birds That Sing can be downloaded direct from the band’s website, for the indecently affordable price of $7, or you may order an actual CD for $10, which also includes the digital download.
Here is a video of Shards, shot in concert at Joe’s Pub, at the Public Theater in New York City, and features the fledgling horn arrangements. You can see and hear how the song evolved, by comparing it to the video farther down, which was shot at Rockwood Music Hall several months earlier, when Shards was being performed for the very first time.
You will have to get the album to hear the definitive version.
New York Youth Symphony Jazz Orchestra Swinging
with guest artist Stefon Harris
The Appel Room, Lincoln Center’s site for large Jazz concerts, is actually housed inside Time Warner Center, overlooking Columbus Circle. And when I say overlooking, the performers stand before a steep amphitheater, with an enormous wall of framed glass at their back. As the sun sets on 59th Street and Central Park, the city lights provide a ceaseless kaleidoscope of color and motion.
But those exquisite surroundings were upstaged yet again by the red blooded Jazz brought to life before our eyes by the superb musicianship in the New York Youth Symphony’s Jazz Orchestra, with Director Matt Holman conducting. Featuring a richly textured new work by composer Nate Kimball and a spellbinding performance by special guest, vibraphonist Stefon Harris.
Master of Mallets, Stefon Harris (photos: M. Krupit)
The theme for this season’s final Jazz concert was “Feelin’ the Vibes”, featuring well-loved music popularized by the great vibraphonists like Lionel Hampton, Cal Tjader, Terry Gibbs, and Milt Jackson. And four compositions by Mr. Harris.
The night kicked off with Benny Goodman’s Don’t Be That Way from 1935, a big band extravaganza with popping horns that lit a fire under every seat in the place. Matt Holman’s arrangement of Joao Donato’s Sabor from 1962 added some Latin spice to the mix, and then Milt Jackson’s Bag’s Groove from 1958 stirred things into a smooth concoction with an inner city edge, that went down easy and then shook things up until the whole room was jumping, before cooling way down at the end, leaving a tingling, revitalized spirit.
That was quite a three tune warm up, which set the bar rather high for Mr. Kimball’s Karma, the commissioned piece of music performed with the composer sitting in the front row, near the piano.
A graduate of the Downbeat Award-winning Jazz program at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas, Kimball continues his postgraduate studies as a composer, while performing with his own modern-day big band. And Karma was indeed modern, fresh and inventive.
Starting out with layers of syncopation in the reeds and percussion, punctuated by brassy swells, it evolved into a complex and witty piece. With a feint towards Gil Evans, it sailed off into new territory, continuing to surprise throughout, as crescendos melted away into a solo from a lonesome sax or sprightly guitar. And time and again the horns joined forces to weave a rich and textured tapestry, as a backdrop to whatever strain was rising to the forefront. His work utterly satisfying, Mr. Kimball stood for an extended and much deserved ovation.
After this modern gem, we were returned to Jazz’s heyday, with a version of Moonglow, from 1933, one of those timeless tunes I never grow tired of hearing. But this was not the floating dreamboat of guitarist George Barnes or the original foxtrot by his pal, fiddler Joe Venuti. Conductor Holman chose instead hornman Al Cohn’s arrangement as a springboard to something right out of a 1930s burlesque hall. The drive of muted speakeasy trumpets and an evocative bump and grind rhythm section set the saucy mood. But it was the slinky trombones that got so low down and dirty I thought they’d summon the ghost of Gypsy Rose Lee right then and there.
Part way through Moonglow I noticed an unusual tightness in the corners of my cheekbones. I then realized I had been grinning to such a wide extent it was becoming painful, but I just couldn’t stop it.
It was a terrific first half, and ended on an even higher note thanks to Hamp’sBoogie Woogie, an uptown jitterbug from 1944, with Lionel Hampton’s vibes conjured up on Billy Ruegger’s guitar.
One of the most interesting aspects of the evening was the fact the first half was dedicated to vibraphonists, while the lead parts intended for vibes were transferred to other instruments. Ruegger and his 1955 Gibson ES-175 were called upon time and again for solos across the evening, and rose above and beyond the occasion each and every time.
But then, solos were offered up all around, with pianist Jacob Gelber and drummer Fred Griggs standing out when they weren’t providing the backbone for everyone else to stand upon, and special mention goes out to the phenom on bass, Nick Dunston.
Each and every member of the horns had solos, which varied wonderfully, and they all made the most of them. From the highest cutting edge of the trumpets and flugelhorns blown by Joe Gullace, Krystopher Williams, Dustin Beardsley and Andrew Digrius, to the wonderful wallow from Lauren Wood’s baritone sax, the muscled altos hoisted by Adrian Condis, and Ryan Park-Chan who was presented with this year’s Director’s Award for Commitment and Achievement, to the wailing tenors taken to task by Sam Torres and Luca Provenzano, and those gliding, barking bones punched out into the audience by Chris Misch, Dan Simms, Spencer Randle and Jack Noble, the entire ensemble was excellent, and the solos of each rose like flares off the roiling surface of the musical sun that lit up the Appel room from start to finish.
And that was only up to the intermission.
Stefon Harris: You look happy, and that makes me happy (photo: T. Oduyoye)
The second half opened with the introduction of Stefon Harris, an award winning composer and front man for his own ensemble, Blackout, who have earned four Grammy nominations.
The first number was a warm and buoyant rendition of Hoagy Carmichael’s The Nearness of You followed by four Stefon Harris compositions. Harris said he choose the name Blues for Denial for the work commissioned by Jazz at Lincoln Center in tribute to Milt Jackson and Lionel Hampton, because it’s hard to play.
He then proceeded to ask the audience for a starting note. Settling on two that were hummed, he began to improvise, at times accompanied by his own voice, sometimes laughing, sometimes scatting along with the notes ringing off the vibes. Rising in tempo and complexity, he came to an abrupt halt, letting the chimes of the last exhilarating run sustain out into the ether before the band joined in for a bopping hothouse of mile-a-minute Jazz.
Part acrobat, part magician, Harris enveloped himself in the round and ringing tones from his vibraphone, only to switch to the woody plunk and rolls of a marimba. But whether his mallets were hammering away at metal or rosewood, or stretching wide to play both at once, he coaxed out melody and raised cacophony like a shaman communing with his spirit guides.
The second Harris composition was a joyful excerpt from a 2007 concert-length suit he calls Dancing Moon, Laughing Stars, commissioned for the 150th anniversary of the Unitarian Church, beautifully arranged for the orchestra by Matt Holman.
Harris confided that it happened to be his 14th wedding anniversary, but then assured the audience that he and his wife had already been celebrating for two weeks, one day for each year, so we wouldn’t worry about him getting in trouble for being truant. And then the orchestra joined him for Let’s Take a Trip to the Sky, written for his wife in 2012. This expansive composition proved transportive. I cannot tell you where my mind traveled to with the soundtrack provided by Harris’ mallets and Holman’s young musicians, but it was a mellow, unhurried place of sweet breezes and cool waters. I was loathe to leave it, until I heard the next tune.
I think my favorite piece was the last. The Velvet Couch has an infectious funky 70s groove punctuated by big, brassy phrasing, pulsing bass runs, and a hip-swinging melody that could have been the theme from some mod caper movie with a cast including James Coburn, Sidney Poitier, and Raquel Welch.
And then, they chose to end the evening as it started, with Benny Goodman, as Harris, Holman, and the orchestra returned for an encore and lit up the Appel room one final time with a jet-fueled rendition of Flyin’ Home.
As Stefon Harris put it, supporting an organization such as the New York Youth Symphony Jazz Orchestra is vitally important, “celebrating creativity, celebrating diversity, celebrating tolerance, all these incredible values we hope to instill in our society. It is not just about making great musicians. It is about providing opportunities for people to dream really big.”
And while it is a good and important thing to provide opportunity for our youth to learn, and grow and enrich our culture and society, this is also wonderful entertainment. I mean, come on! World-class big band Jazz, at Lincoln Center, for $20? This is an extraordinary value, and spectacular music, performed spectacularly. So keep on the lookout for their next concert.
It is a wonderful way to spend an evening. Or for that matter an afternoon.
So bring the kids, as you will rarely get a chance to take them to Carnegie Hall at those prices for the thrilling experience of a full classical orchestra, live and in person. And if you don’t have kids, borrow some. Or at least bring a friend. They will be impressed.
And that is one man’s word on…
Lincoln Center Jazz with Stefon Harris and the New York Youth Symphony Jazz Orchestra
Friday night, May 23, a group of veteran professional writers will gather in Brooklyn, where they will be rocking out at Freddy’s bar, on 5th Avenue in the South Slope. The occasion is the reunion gig of a most unusual band from 1980s New York, Dondi’s Bloody Sputum, a send up of all things Punk, in parody, in satire, but also in homage, and always with suitable irreverence.
Ten years after the Sex Pistols sucker punched the queen, and the Dead Boys had spit on, well just about everyone, the music world was still reeling from the smack down that Punk had provided. When who should appear but Dondi’s Bloody Sputum, the band that chose a nice little orphan for their namesake, and then beat the snot out of him. Their name refers to the newspaper comic strip about the kind of goody-two-shoes that would have suffered habitual schoolyard beatings in real life, even after surrendering his lunch money.
The same year that Spinal Tap took the mickey out of hard rock, D.B.S. put a skewer through the heart of Punk. Here were not pimply toughs from a city ghetto, vomiting songs about throwing bricks in Brixton. The members of D.B.S met at university in sleepy Athens, Ohio, and after graduation, they reconvened in Queens. There, they wrote songs, mostly thrashing head-bangers about the tribulations facing middle-class white kids from comfortable homes, with titles like “I’m Thinking of Trying a Croissan’wich,” “Martin Sheen Sweats Well,” and “Dogs Like Cheese.”
They were not your everyday safety pin pierced Punk songs. Others include the eerie ode to food poisoning, Sushi is My Krytonite.
Be suspicious of rolled up fishes
Avoid places that don’t use dishes
Sushi is my Kryptonite
Sushi is my crypt tonight
And then there’s the rocker Rodeo Clown.
I’ve got a friend
His name is Bim
He works down at the Square Gar-den
He only works about three weeks a year
Heardin’ them steers when the rodeo’s here
He’s got the dumbest fuckin’ job in town
He’s a rodeo clown
Many of the songs are indeed quite funny, but they are also clever in the way they captured the blistering essence of Punk music, often mixing the raw edge of the Stooges with the finesse of the Minute Men. This is not surprising, considering the artistic background of every member of D.B.S., all of whom went on to critical acclaim as a writer of weightier material.
Then and Now
Silent “Phil” Noir
Mark Drop
Hugh Bryss
Henry Tenney
Patty Melt
Jane Young
Steve Shape
Steve Spiegel
Back in the day, Mark Drop and Steve Spiegel (aka guitarist Silent “Phil” Noir and drummer Steve Shape) were sharing a house in Astoria, earnestly trying to sell scripts to popular sitcoms like Moonlightening. Their big break came with the Arsenio Hall Show, which took them to L.A. in 1989. Both men live there today with their respective families, after long careers spent writing popular shows for television, as well as for Disney theme parks and cruise ships.
Under that same roof was found acting student Henry Tenney (singer Hugh Bryss), who went on to appear in plays and on TV. He also spent some years as head writer for VH-1’s Pop-up Video, and today he writes mainly for foodie television, featuring celebs like Bobby Flay and Mo Rocca.
The acting work of Jane Young (bassist Kitty Head) was seen on stage, TV and film, and she had several of her own plays produced in New York City. Young later received her post grad degree in creative writing at Sarah Lawrence, and has since shifted her focus to screenplays and short stories.
And Trey Kay (guitarist Big Mike) performed with NYC improv troupes before becoming a long-time contributor to Public Radio. A Spencer fellow, and Peabody award-winning journalist, Kay recently produced the documentary The Long Game: Texas’ Ongoing Battle for the Direction of the Classroom, and is now developing a new show, This is the Thing, with host Alec Baldwin.
Kay was unable to attend rehearsals for the reunion, due to his busy schedule. But it is rumored he will return to New York to witness the gig.
With only two rehearsals after 24 years apart, the edges may be even rougher for their first reunion gig than they were at their actual first gig in a Brooklyn loft 30 years ago. None the less, those fortunate to have seen D.B.S. performing at rock spots like the Gas Station in the East Village, will be happily meeting up at Freddy’s backroom, this Friday, to relive those haymaking nights under halogen lights.
Those who have never heard D.B.S. will be in for a rare treat.
The band recorded no albums. However, some rehearsal studio bootlegs have surfaced from time to time, and they include cuts featuring the saxophone of Matt Wickline, an old friend of the band.
No stranger to satire and parody, Wickline won his first Emmys writing for David Letterman, before heading west to develop popular shows like In Living Color and Martin, as well as his own critically acclaimed cult hit The Clinic, co-written by Wickline, D.B.S. guitarist Mark Drop, and the late Sandy Frank. It also featured D.B.S. front man Henry Tenney as the troubled son of the stodgy doctor played by Adam West.
Inquiries as to whether Wickline might attend the D.B.S reunion received the following reply: “Piss off, you stupid git, before I clobber til you slobber.”
And you too can curl your lip into a sneer, don a torn t-shirt, and get your Punk on, with D.B.S. this Friday night at 9 PM.
Guest writer Len Berger (foreground) was lead guitarist for the Cheese Beads, a 1990s speed lounge act that included three former members of Dondi’s Bloody Sputum.
Last night, at the Cornelia Street Café, there was a reading with music, celebrating the works of the late Seamus Heaney, who died last August, at age 74.
This is but one of many similar poetry readings organized by veteran New York actor Paul Hecht, which at times feature original music by Ellen Mandel, former composer in residence at the Jean Cocteau Rep during its glory years.
Among the most important poets of the twentieth century, Seamus Heaney was a professor at Harvard and Oxford, simultaneously, and included among his ample accomplishments is the most compelling modern translation of Beowulf, published in 2001 after decades of work. Yet, Heaney’s own poetry ignores the grandeur of epic saga in favor of the intimacy observed among everyday lives, conjured in a voice that recognizes the irony found in how the smallest moments prove to be the most transformative.
Many of the poems are set among the peat bogs and turf lodge farms of his childhood in 1940s Northern Ireland, while some relive the bomb-strewn Troubles of the 1970s. But like other great Irish writers, the poetry reaches beyond the expression of what it is to be Irish, to reveal universal facets about what it means to be human. And like his predecessors, Yates, Shaw, and Beckett, Heaney’s efforts were awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1995.
Paul Hecht reading Seamus Heaney
(photos: L. Flanagan)
Living Language
Which poems and excerpts to include from such a career, in a scant 90 minutes, was no easy feat. But Hecht provided a judicious balance between the weighty and the whimsical, and he and his fellow readers, Elizabeth Mackay and Kim Sykes, made their interpretations seem effortless with ease, so that their own enjoyment of the language proved infectious. The timbre of the women’s voices added highlights and brightness to the evening, set off by the sonorous shadows in the voice of Hecht, rich with resonance, and wide and deep in range, with just enough gravel to mark the boundaries.
The proceedings opened and closed with passages from Heaney’s Nobel acceptance speech, filled with its own poetic imagery. But none quite so distilled and served up like the actual poems read aloud. These included Casualty with its wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time death suffered by the pub crawler who was “…blown to bits/Out drinking in a curfew/Others obeyed…”
And the awkward romance of Twice Shy.
Our Juvenilia Had taught us both to wait, Not to publish feeling And regret it all too late – Mushroom loves already Had puffed and burst in hate.
There was The Skunk, a lighthearted piece from the poet’s brief period at Cal Berkley, and Death of a Naturalist, which tells of a young boy’s interest in nature being cut short when he finds out his beloved tadpoles grow up to be “gross-bellied frogs … Some sat poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.”
A whole section was dedicated to the Glanmore Sonnets, written after moving back to the country in the 1980s, this time south of Dublin, where
We have our burnished bay tree at the gate, Classical, hung with the reek of silage From the next farm, tart-leafed as inwit
And on four occasions a poem would be read by Hecht, Mackay, or Sykes, and then it would be sung beautifully by soprano Eleanor Taylor, accompanied on the piano by Ellen Mandel, who has made her own art form of setting great poems to music.
In fact, Mandel and a collection of singers will be performing her compositions this coming Saturday, May 17, at The Wild Project, 195 East 3rd St., to signify the release of her latest CD, There Was a World, featuring the words of Seamus Heaney, William Shakespeare, E.E. Cummings, and others.
Last night, one of the Heaney poems set to music was When All the Others Were Away at Mass. Written upon the death the poet’s mother, it is specific and deeply personal, while also universal in its scope.
When all the others were away at Mass I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one Like solder weeping off the soldering iron: Cold comforts set between us, things to share Gleaming in a bucket of clean water. And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying And some were responding and some crying I remembered her head bent towards my head, Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives– Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Upcoming readings in this series at the Cornelia Street Café include:
Bloomsday – Monday June 16 – James Joyce w/ Paul Hecht and others
Monday August 18 – Annual Ogden Nash Bash – w/ Paul Hecht and featuring Ellen Mandel
May 4 seems so long ago. May 4 seems like it’s barely passed….
Forty-four years ago, on May 4th 1970, Walter Cronkite interrupted thousands of family dinners to inform us that soldiers in the Ohio State National Guard had opened fire on anti-war protesters on the campus of Kent State University, killing four students and wounding nine others.
While hardly the first time time government forces had fired upon unarmed citizens in America, it was the first time such a thing had happened in the era of modern mass media. Along with Watergate, it forever changed the public’s perception of, and trust in, their government.
One of my favorite songwriters, Neil Young penned the protest anthem Ohio, and within days Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young had recorded it and released it across the country. It became a best-seller and the anthem for anti-goverment sentiment.
This is a rather different song from one of my other favorite songwriters, Don Rauf of Life in a Blender, that presents one of his famously quirky fictional characters on a personal errand sometime after the tragic events of May 4, 1970. And it is entitled simply Kent.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art gave a lecture about Martin Guitars, featuring Dick Boak, who has worn many hats at Martin and now is the company’s chief archivist, historian and head of the Martin museum. He was joined by two-time Grammy award winner Laurence Juber, who is among the finest guitarists of this or any era. Juber’s first book, Guitar with Wings, is set for release in May 2014, and features his personal photography from the years he spent as a member of Paul McCartney and Wings.
This presentation was in conjunction with the almost year-long exhibit of early American guitars at the Met, with the great majority of those guitars made by C.F. Martin Sr., who arrived from Saxony in the 1833 to set up business in New York City, before moving shortly thereafter to Nazareth, PA. That is where his great, great, great, grandson runs the family business today.
Jayson Kerr Dobney, Associate Curator in the Met’s Musical Instrument department was the primary organizer of the exhibit, and he opened today’s events with a short slideshow detailing Martin’s background, and explaining how Martin experimented his way to the designs that gave rise to the modern guitar as we know it. This part of the presentation focused on the recent scholarship that resulted in the book Inventing The American Guitar: The Pre-Civil War Innovations of C.F. Martin and His Contemporaries. It is a most impressive work, which will soon be reviewed here.
Boak’s portion of the hour+ event was called “Guitarmania to Beatlemania.” As he ran a slideshow, he provided often humorous commentary and firsthand anecdotes, while Laurence Juber provided musical excerpts on various guitars from the Martin museum, as well as adding many of his own interesting comments and historical references.
After brief history of string instruments, which led to the evolution of the long neck lutes, and eventually the guitar, Boak turned his attention to the history of the Martin Guitar Company.
There was one ukulele present, an instrument Martin made in great numbers during the Hawaiian music craze that swept the nation beginning in 1916. As for vintage guitars, there was a pre-Civil War 2-1/2-20, with translates to size 2-1/2 with a price of $20. In modern times, the “style” number refers to specific aesthetic appointments, with the higher numbers costing the most. Professional level Martins today start at just under $2,000, with many costing much more.
This guitar was strung with gut strings, like a classical guitar, but it had an early version of the now famous X-brace pattern of struts supporting the spruce soundboard, the Martin innovation that revolutionized guitar making and led directly to today’s steel string acoustic guitars.
Next came a 1929 Ditson 111, made by Martin for the Ditson department store, also starting in 1916. Enormous by the standards of the day, the largest Ditson models earned the nickname Dreadnought, after the British battleships. Martin’s D size went on to be the most popular guitar design of all time. In addition, there were modern replicas of two famous guitars, the 000-45 Jimmie Rodgers model, and the D-28 Hank Williams. Rodgers is considered the father of country music, and Williams the heir to that legacy. Juber also had his own Martin artist signature model on hand, the OMC-28B. While each guitar had a soundboard made of one sort of spruce or another, the Ditson 111 had a back and sides made out of mahogany, and the other guitars present were of Brazilian rosewood.
As the presentation went forward, Juber would play short examples, some planned, others were improvised. In fact he was cracking Boak up at times, as some name would be mentioned as the slides went by, say, Jimmie Rodgers, and suddenly there were strains of “He’s in the Jailhouse Now,” or “Mrs. Robinson” for Paul Simon, etc. But Juber also played some early guitar music on the 2-1/2-20 by an Italian Renaissance composer, which he sight-read from a music stand. And then he dropped the guitar into Open G tuning to show how various composers often wrote outside of standard tuning. These included some of the earliest guitar music composed and published in America, along with Franz Gruber’s “Silent Night.” And then he got into more of his own sort of music as the talk shifted to the modern era.
In the middle of it all Boak played a video he put together with footage from recently discovered film shot at the Martin factory in 1939, showing a small staff performing the traditional tasks involved in handmade guitars, still practiced on a much larger scale at the modern factory.
Laurence Juber did play three longer selections during the event. The first was most of Lonnie Johnson’s “6/88 Glide,” which was recorded in 1927 and stands as the earliest guitar solo on record. He pointed out how it has many features and techniques we still associate with rock or blues solos today.
Laurence Juber and Martin guitars – Yesterday and Today
Once the timeline got up to the Beatles, the guitarist choose “I Saw Her Standing There” as his demonstration piece. It is remarkable to watch Mr. Juber in action, as he played the fast-paced bass part running through the entire piece, while also playing the vocal melody and often the vocal harmony parts as well, and the guitar solo when the time comes. The slideshow at that point displayed photos of all the various members of the Beatles playing Martin guitars, with even Ringo having a go at a Martin D-28 while John played drums.
And then the proceedings closed with Juber’s killer version of “Only a Paper Moon,” by Harold Arlen. An earlier rendition of which can be seen on YouTube, HERE.
The previous Wednesday, Laurence Juber gave concert at the Cutting Room, on 32nd Street, in Manhattan.
He was in fine form, and put on one heck of show! Using various guitar tunings, he covered a wide range of material, with originals and many of his most impressive arrangements. And for the encore, out came a cajón, one of those rhythm boxes you sit on and play with your hands. And to play it was none other than Steve Holley, who was the drummer in Wings during the same years that LJ was a member. Holley has been Ian Hunter’s drummer for the past quarter century or so.
They performed the “Rockestra Theme,” which earned each man their first Grammy, as well as Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.” Juber pointed out that when they recorded “Rockestra” at Abby Road Studios, they had three drummers, Steve, John Bonham, and Kenny Jones, along with five guitarists, four bass players, etc. So this was the “acoustic version.” And it was indeed a treat to see him render the general feel of the mass orchestration on one small Martin guitar, with help from the rattle and thump of the cajón.
As Steve Holley put it, Juber “just keeps getting better and better.” And I would have to agree. I am sorry he didn’t get to play more at the Met today, as the crowd was clearly wowed by what they witnessed.
And he will be wowing audiences all over the place in the coming weeks, including California, Ohio, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Virgina. A full schedule is available at this website.
Tartan Week is winding down in New York City, and I am pleased to have witnessed one of the most satisfying events – the Pipes and Fiddle Concert at Jalopy, in Brooklyn, on Thursday evening.
There was an opening section featuring players who frequent the weekly Monday night Scottish music session at Iona, in Williamsburg, which was blazing good fun. And then a series of very special guest artists from out of town took the stage and raised the roof on the place.
The award-winning multi-instrumentalist Troy MacGillivray topped a bill that included fiddler extraordinaire Katie McNally and her pianist Neil Pearlman. And not to be out shown, Ben Miller likewise performed a thrilling set on the small pipes in duet with his musical partner, fiddler Anita MacDonald. There wasn’t an untapped foot among the audience all night long. But with such vigorous music throughout, foot stomping was more often the case.
It has been at least three years since I performed at Jalopy, that quirky, delightful theater in Brooklyn, just around the corner from the Battery Tunnel entrance, in the less-traveled area between Carroll Gardens and Redhook. There one can take music lessons, buy used guitars, have dinner and a pint, and see all sorts of live performances, six nights a week. All in an intimate setting, with high ceilings, brick walls, rows of church pews, and a real stage with a top notch sound system, run by a top notch soundman.
When I played there, I was appearing as a member of the Highland Shatners, and on a bill with Bargainland. Both acts do some traditional Celtic music in a less than traditional way, as well as more contemporary fare. And there was a member of both bands taking part in the concert I saw last night.
Matt Diaz, aka Flutie Shatner, was sitting in during the first section, strumming time in the Celtic DADGAD tuning on his Lowden guitar, made in Northern Ireland for just such occasions. Diaz was also responsible for the exhibit of photographs lining the theater walls, featuring players from traditional music sessions, like the one at Iona. In fact, there appeared to be included at least one photo of every person on the stage, among many others. The exhibition of photos will be up for another two weeks.
Karen Brown, of Bargainland, with whom I have shared many a Burn’s Night Supper and Scots music concert, was the chief organizer of the event, and took her place next to Matt to contribute some fine fiddling, along with her magnificent Scottish brogue during introductions.
After a boisterous opening session by all of the Iona sessionists, there were featured a series of players in mini-sessions, often accompanied by guitarist Max Carmichael, on a well played-in Gibson J-45 (in what appeared to be Drop D tuning.) The fiddle of Calum Michael took up the banner first, followed by Amy Beshara, Andrew Forbes, and John Nevin. Each did themselves proud and the overall musicianship was truly outstanding. But if anyone stole the red ribbon from the rest, it had to be Ms. Beshara. The infectious joy that beamed from her and her fiddle strings was reflected by the audience, and set us up for all that came after.
Piper Ben Miller hails from Edinburgh, Scotland, but grew up in Upstate New York. His partner, the fiddler-violist Anita MacDonald, was born and raised on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Their destinies joined when they met during a Celtic music festival and appeared to be very much in lockstep, given the fast-paced jigs and strathspey dance tunes they tossed off in absolute unison during their section of the concert. Afterwards, I discovered they were aged 25 and 22 years, respectively, and each of these excellent musicians picked up their instruments while in grammar school. Both humbly insisted they had a long way to go. As I have often recognized in fellow guitarists, there isn’t a serious player, on any level, who doesn’t feel that way in some respects or have at least one other musician they only wish they could play like. I am sure there are plenty out there who wish they could play like Miller and MacDonald.
While much of the evening was filled with folk music and dance tunes from the Celtic tradition of Scotland, Brittany, Nova Scotia, and the Galicia region of Northern Spain, there were several modern, original compositions offered up as well. These included the hypnotic “Tombs” performed on a low whistle by Andrew Forbes, during the concert’s opening section, as well as the beautiful pieces played beautifully by guest fiddler Katie McNally
Ms. McNally and Mr. Pearlman are from Massachusetts, but the music they chose for their duets was from all over. McNally pointed out they weren’t playing “super” traditional selections, before playing a piece by “a Bangladeshi Bluegrass player from Wisconsin.” Masterful and energetic, their set filled the theater with aural radiance, as Pearlman’s rhythmic undercurrents and jazzy, spontaneous swells rose up to fill in and around McNally’s soaring melodies.
And then it came time for Troy MacGillivray. More than one of the participating musicians referred to him as their “hero” and so expectations were high when he took the stage for the final section of the concert. His performance was higher still. A recipient of the queen’s Diamond Jubilee Medal for outstanding contributions to culture in Canada, the native of Lanark, Nova Scotia plays a long list of musical instruments. Tonight he performed a rousing piano duet with Neil Pearlman, and then picked up the fiddle that made him famous to calmly wow the crowd, while generously offering various members of the ensemble the opportunity to share the stage as accompanists.
As satisfying as the entire concert was, it was a privilege to sit in the front row and watch the nuanced performance that unfolded at the end of the evening. I feel sorry for those who were unable to stay long enough to see MacGillivray’s final set of jigs that made me want to push all the pews to back and open up a dance floor, even if I don’t know a single step.
As the midnight hour approached, the headliner asked the other two guest fiddlers to join him for an impromptu jam. So with Neil Pearlman on piano, MacGillivray, McNally, and MacDonald got down, opened up, and took off, to the delight of everyone fortunate enough to witness it, and stomp along from the audience. That also included Pearlman and MacDonald who each left their instrument for a time and broke into a spontaneous dance. And then the young Andrew Forbes was inspired to leap up the steps to the stage, with his border pipes strapped on, and joined in without missing a beat. Together they brought the evening to a spectacular finish.
Karen Brown said afterwards that there is every expectation for a similar concert next year. But if you cannot wait that long to get your fix of fiddle sticks, DADGAD tuning, and the border pipes, do feel free to stop by Iona, on Grand Street in Williamsburg for some pints on Monday nights, as there you will find many a talented musician taking part in the weekly session. And if you are a musician yourself who would like to join in, all the better.
And for those who missed the concert this year, here is a taste of the final jam session.
And that is one man’s word on…
The Pipes and Fiddle Concert at Jalopy
For more information on the session at Iona, click HERE
To see more of Matt Diaz’s photos of traditional session musicians, click HERE (coming soon)
The immigration from Ireland in the early 1800s placed many Irish in America, and across the globe. But the paths to assimilation and success were varied
Monday Map – St. Patrick’s Day
GO HERE for an animated version of this map from PBS, and similar maps of other American immigration waves.
Tis a difficult thing to recall how the Irish immigrants to the United States and other places were viewed with the typical contempt heaped upon other ethnic minorities in later eras. By my own lifetime, being Irish seemed no different than having ancestry from France, or Sweden, England or Germany. While the appalling bigotry aimed at African-Americans, Asians and Hispanics was still with us, I remained ignorant of the fact that it was not so long ago an Irishman suffered much the same kind of prejudice.
In the early 1800s the Irish in America were viewed by many as uncivilized and an inferior people, delegated to ghettos and expected to be suitable only for the most menial jobs. Basically they were the target of the typical treatment from those small-minded people desperate to exalt their own superior position by inventing artificial reasons to view anyone different as inferior.
And like free blacks, and later waves of immigrants from other locations, many Irishmen raised their lot through hard work and determination, to amass wealth and property and take their place among the heads of industry and government. Many others earned their way into mainstream citizenship the same way immigrants have done since the time of Caesar’s legions, by serving in the armed forces during times of crisis.
Irish brigades fought with distinction during the American Civil War, on both sides of the conflict, with many re-upping to fight and often die defending settlers during the years of western expansion that followed. The stereotype of the affable, strong as a bull “Mick Sergeant” lovingly portrayed by Hollywood actors like American Ward Bond and Englishman Victor McLaglen, showed men of rough beginnings who attained rank and respect through the crucible of war, to eventually don white parade gloves at the regimental ball, often with offspring destined to rise to the level of an officer and a gentleman.
Of course, when it comes to such waves of immigration, it is most often the lower, least education classes who are forced to seek passage to a new life in a new world, and work their way upwards. Those of land and letters had no need of such desperate measures, and the English speaking world has been greatly enriched by the collective works of the Irish writers. Some remained in Ireland, while others made their way to the great cities of the world as respected poets and playwrights, essayists and novelists. Johnathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Becket, and Elizabeth Bowen shall remain high in the pantheon of the greats, with many others that could be mentioned alongside them.
My mother’s maiden name is Murphy, but really they were Scots who settled in County Antrim for a time before making their way to the Southern United States. But I retain a strong affinity for all things Irish, most particularly the playwrights and the music. In fact I shall be seeing Irish music tonight, on St. Patrick’s Day, at Freddy’s Back Room in Brooklyn, as I do most every year as a member of the Highland Shatners, who perform a mix of Celtic folk music, Paisley Pop, and even tunes from the original Star Trek.
