Sixteen years ago today, LW was SSO (Seriously Significant Other), and we were enjoying our first extensive time together, transporting our guitar, dulcimer and mandolin around the west and north of Ireland. Fifteen years ago today, we embarked on a different kind of journey, as we stood in the wet grass of my mother's backyard and promised ourselves to one another. The traveling has far to go yet, I believe. Kiss kiss.
Aug. 28
*Viewing: "Trust" -- Odd couplings: Pregnant high school drop-out whose mother blames her for her father's sudden death becomes involved with intellectual, misanthropic young man with an equally resentful, tormented father. Writer-director Hal Hartley manages to keep the proceedings from getting either too mawkish or slapstick, with off-center dialogues and a sub-plot that, unfortunately, turns into a Macguffin. At the center of the film is a basic, yet entertaining premise: Given the lack of judgement and good fortune the two characters have endured, how can either one trust the other? Adrienne Shelly, by the way, makes a quite appealing transition from big-hair vixen to vulnerable yet resilient gamine.
*Recent musical acquisitions:
==Blowzabella, "The Blowzabella Wall of Sound" -- I prefer their later stuff, with Andy Cutting on melodeon; his energetic duets with hurdy-gurdyist Nigel Eaton were a most effective core. But there's certainly a lot to like here, plenty of the jazz and other contemporary influences that embellish the group's medieval and Renaissance material, especially the medley in track 4, with its zesty saxophone rolls and Dave Roberts' staccato accordion backing. Their original compositions, especially "Last Chance Bourree" and "Glass Island" fit in quite well.
==Barachois, "Barachois" and "Naturel" -- Wisely, the latter album includes live material, because that is absolutely the best depiction of their talent, spirit and great humor. Not that you don't get any hint of that on other tracks, notably "Potpourri" on the self-titled album (with silly falsetto vocals at the end) and their Acadian remake of Paul Simon's "The Boxer" on "Naturel." But it is in the live recordings -- the jig medley with its whimsical vocal break and an offering of reels that builds from a Jew's harp intro to ever-higher levels of energy -- that the essence of Barachois comes through.
Aug. 27
*Walking across campus on an errand, I heard the woodwind and reed section of the college's marching band practicing something that, despite the multiple instrument arrangement, sounded uncannily familiar. Then I realized what it was: "Kashmir," by Led Zeppelin.
Marching band repertoires sure are different than what I remember.
*Aw, isn't it cute when your kids conduct their first urban legend investigation? In this case, they decided to check out the "Wizard of Oz"-"Dark Side of the Moon" connection. Oh, and they already know about the Munchkin suicide.
*How serendipitous is this? Only a couple of weeks before the 9-11 anniversary, and not one but two persons feared lost at the WTC are found to have survived: a homeless man last known to have been living in the subway station below the WTC, and an occasional sidewalk merchant who apparently has been suffering from amnesia since that day. Poignantly, the latter revelation has reaffirmed the belief of more than a few next-of-kin that the same thing could have happened to their loved ones.
*Viewing: "Saving Private Ryan" -- With war films, in particular, it seems timing is everything -- not only the era in which they are made, but when one views them. At the time of its release, "Ryan" was chiefly a stirring, unflinching paean in the midst of a national hail-and-farewell to the Greatest Generation; post 9-11, and perhaps pre-Gulf War II, it's hard not to feel an undercurrent of personal dread watching superbly self-contained Tom Hanks and his comrades wend their way through a hostile territory and a determined enemy. Context aside, though, you can't help but get caught up in the battle sequences which bookend the movie; Steven Spielberg's use of hand-held cameras, and grainy, jerky footage, put one about as close to combat as possible. The war is horrific, occasionally darkly ludicrous -- as when two combatants hurl their gear at one another as they frantically search for weapons -- and perverse: In arguably the film's most disturbing scene, a soldier gives cruel comfort to the man he's just mortally wounded, a solace which seems derived as much from triumphalism as from true sympathy. In between, writer Robert Rodat gingerly takes up, and does not completely answer, the moral-philosophical dimension of Hanks' mission. In fact, there's a fair bit of ambiguity around, not the least of which is Private Ryan's question at the very end: Do we indeed really know if he earned what he was given?
Aug. 19-25
*We celebrate the end of the unprecedented heat wave, which brought new meaning to the phrase "beyond endurance," with a visit from Father-in-Law. This includes a whale-watch, on which we are accompanied by YD and her very pleasant friend. We reach the Stellwagen Bank and begin to encounter some pretty elaborate swells, and I sit down next to F-i-L, who seeks to engage me in the obligatory sociopolitical analysis of Massachusetts 2002.
As I attempt to formulate a response, I realize something.
My gosh, I think I'm getting seasick.
This feeling persists, although I rally enough to catch a couple of glimpses of a minke whale off the port bow. Some overly graphic details follow. May be unsuitable for readers of fragile constitution At last, sitting at the stern of the lower deck, I give in -- and up comes my souvlaki luncheon. What's worse is that part of it ends up in my beard, which means I get to resample the odor for a while until I manage to track down some soap and wash my face. Ick.
Oh, well, after we leave Stellwagen I feel well enough to track down LW, and we sing sea chanteys and other similar songs on deck until Boston Harbor comes into view.
We disembark, and after a fairly brief visit to the New England Aquarium, we have a quite enjoyable dinner at Legal Seafoods (I had the scampi and pasta, ta very much), and then it was back home to the ocean of dreams. [Pictures to follow shortly]
*The next day, we continue our aquatic motif by doing some canoeing along the Charles, and later on feast on lobster at home. Alas, I think the chances of me ever getting the itch to run away to sea and be a sailor are quite remote.
*As the academic year hoves into view, work is starting to become Work again.
*A fairly quiet weekend ends with another visit to O'Hanlon's , which is hosting landlady Una's sister, husband and daughter from France, who perform on twin fiddles and didgerido. It rapidly becomes one of the best sessions I've been to so far there, good tunes at a reasonable pace, lots of cheer and amiability. And it's not every day you get to play alongside a young lass of French-Irish extraction (you should hear her accent) wielding an ancient aboriginal instrument.
Aug. 15-18
*Ack. Heat. Humidity. Lethargy. TV, bean salad and liquids.
*Book completed: "Roscoe," by William Kennedy -- DISCLAIMER: The author is an old family friend, whose kids I used to play with, whose lawn I used to mow and whose presence in our lives was a constant delight. OK. The title character is, as suggested by the classic gangster slang word, a weapon for the Democratic machine trying to hold on in post-WWII Albany. "Roscoe" more than lives up to the standard for which WK is quite rightfully recognized: full of memory, regret, betrayal, ghosts, honor, politics and, most importantly, the idiosyncratic mix of personal and public history. As always, the dialogue is crackling, full of challenge or seduction:
"You don't seem to mind being shot. You handle it so well and so often."
"Being shot's not so bad. The problem is getting even."
Aug. 14
Oh yes, there's this, which is an account of my Kibological field trip on July 26:
http://www.angelfire.com/folk/sts/kibology/childrensmuseum.html.
Aug. 3-13
*I suspect I'm like more than a few people in that I don't always take to home-based vacations very easily. Can you really let yourself relax, not sweat the small stuff, nor most of the big, at least for a while? As the days wind down to precious few, do you start to fret over uncompleted or uninitiated projects -- or do you just go with the flow?
For the most part, I/we did just that. On one day, I take OD for a reprise of the July 14 excursion to The West, and once again -- after an additional stop in Greenfield -- I amble leisurely around Shelburne Falls, baking in 90-degree weather, before sidling into a rest area further along Route 2 to noodle around on instruments. At length, a 5-string banjoist whose accent marked him below Mason-Dixon, but who is apparently a full-time resident of Germany these days, joined me -- mostly, as it turned out, to talk rather than play music. Still, he had a great story about being recruited to sit in with an Irish bluegrass band, and the mountain of empty beer bottles and cans that accumulated on the stage. Before I knew it, the Pioneer Valley idyll was at an end.
*OD, assorted family friends and I took in the Concord Monday night dance, and the next night our household and a few other guests ventured to Copley Plaza for the weekly summer international dance. The kids amused themselves on the subway ride in by singing everything from "Particle Man" to "Buttercup" but by and large became bored with the dancing. Still, LW and I at least got to enjoy the odd grapevine, hora and Charleston.
*An interesting, if not particularly obvious, parallel in news coverage this period: As discussion escalated over US military action in Iraq, the turret of the Civil War ironclad the Monitor was raised from deep within the ocean, and found to contain the remains of one or two crewmen. Vestiges of one horrific conflict speak to us as we consider the possibility of another.
*Book completed: "Hogfather" by Terry Pratchett -- Another imaginative turning-on-the-head of folklore, custom and human nature, this one featuring Death as a surrogate Santa Claus and the anthropomorphization of a thousand-and-one emotions and sensations. Droll and inspired as always, but I tend not to enjoy as much Pratchett's satire of academia, perhaps because I've been immersed in it for a while (which is not to say that I take exception to Prachett's depictions of egotistical, inept scholars; rather, the joke is a bit too familiar by now).
*Viewings:
=="Don't Say a Word"--Michael Douglas is a New York psychiatrist whose family is endangered when he treats a young mental patient (Brittany Murphy) linked to a flawed robbery and double-cross. It helps if you're willing to accept the sophisticated high-tech gadgetry used by Douglas' tormentors as they coerce him to extract the information they want from Murphy (which they believe will lead them to the booty). But the potential of Murphy's character gradually becomes subsumed as a plot device, and in Douglas making his familiar transition from professional paterfamilias to action hero.
=="Gosford Park"--Robert Altman's take on the English drawing-room drama/murder mystery genre requires some patience, as do most all of his large-ensemble works with their overlapping, intermittently inaudible dialogues. But the rewards are worthwhile: his use of the mansion interiors as a labyrinth for the various plots and interactions among, and between, aristocrats and servants alike, for instance; and the depiction of paradoxical acceptance of, and struggle against, a doomed class system's hypocrisy. There's also the casting, sometimes against type, sometimes beyond type: Stephen Fry's ineffectual police inspector, a mirror-image of his Wodehouse Jeeves; Alan Bates as the haughty but haunted head butler; Kelly MacDonald as the wide-eyed, impressionable serving maid; Bob Balaban, echoing his TV executive role on "Seinfeld." That's just to name a few.
July 29-Aug. 2
*Most contra-dancing I've done in years! Three times in the space of a week! Heat, sweat, music, joy, pain, stiffness, fun! OD has become quite the aficianado, not that I'm complaining. At the latter event, I am quite pleased to encounter, and subsequently dance with, the inimitable Plorkwort, who reveals to me both her true name and a very agreeable character.
*Viewing: "Bless the Child" -- Your basic good-versus-evil struggle for the future of humanity, played out by cute li'l otherworldly Holliston Coleman and Rufus Sewell, whose strangely aligned eyes make him seem deranged, at least, if not demonic. There's any number of things here which invite head-scratching, not the least of which is the casting of Kim Basinger as the girl's aunt-surrogate mother, who's been warned to protect the kiddo from mysterious cult leader Sewell. If Basinger is embarrassing, Jimmy Smits -- as an FBI agent who (Thank God!) is a former seminarian and can thus figure out what's going on -- just seems embarrassed.
*Book completed: "The Arab World: Forty Years of Change," by Elizabeth Warnock Fernea and Robert A. Fernea -- Well, it seems like a good idea. The Ferneas, a professional, academically-inclined couple, recount their sojourns and return visits to Egypt, Israel, Iraq, Morocco, Saudi Arabia and Lebanon over a period of 40 years, and how the people and families they met fare during the sociopolitical, economic and personal changes in that span. Undeniably, there's very powerful material in there: a Beirut poet's efforts to keep her ideals and spirit together as her city disintegrates; a Nubian family caught up in the Egyptian government's modernization and development planning; Israeli and Palestinian peace advocates riding waves of hope and despair. Robert Fernea's several historical and sociological essays, meanwhile, help to enlarge the stories in between them. But the constant shifting of characters gets confusing, frankly, and the reconstructed dialogue often comes out more fatuous than expository.
July 26-28
*Bowing to my base instincts, I bring along YD to the Children's Museum for the latest Alt.Religion.Kibology Party-Like Event, at which I make the acquaintance of Paula, Plorkwort, Zixia, Talysman, Tom, Jacob, among others, plus a couple of apprentice Kibologists, and renew pleasantries with Matt, Samantha and Kibo himself. A Web page travelogue will follow shortly, in case you want to make a note to yourself or flee your workstation in horror.
*After a moderately-paced but fairly productive weekend in terms of house-cleaning, I reward myself Sunday evening with another visit to the O'Leary's Pub session. Nice time again, but it does remind me of a Quaker meeting for worship: a burst of noise, followed by protracted silence.
*Tragedy, triumph forever entangled: In Hopkinton, near the 495 belt, a family is wrenched from sleep to find their house collapsing from an apparent natural gas explosion. The parents survive in the rubble, but only after hearing the sound no parent should: the last breaths of their young daughters.
Meanwhile, Pennsylvania, and the rest of the country, relive the centuries-old tension of a coal mine disaster vigil. This one ends happily, thanks in great part to a stroke of fortune that is either proof of a deity or the residue of hard work: Engineers somehow managed to pinpoint exactly where to run a air tube through the ground and sustain the nine trapped miners. A very appropriate soundtrack could easily have been culled from here or here.
*Viewing: "Glass House" -- thriller with a premise perfectly suited to the latent societal guilt over accumulating wealth at the expense of healthy relationships with one's children. In this case, the children actually represent wealth, as heirs to a multi-million dollar trust sought by a couple who become their guardians after the mysterious death of the kids' parents -- supposed old friends. Lee Lee Sobieski, as the older of the two orphans, continues to prove she's got more going for her than a resemblance to Helen Hunt, offering just the right blend of vulnerability and steadfastness. The house referred to in the title lends its own presence to the movie, by turns clear, shaded or opaque, much like its owners.
July 23-26
*OD and I go to local contra dance, at which I marvel what a terrific dancer she's becoming, not only in her movements but in the subtleties, such as eye contact. The flip side, of course, is that now she's An Expert, and so my balance-and-swing technique came in for a fair bit of friendly criticism.
*And we bid you farewell, Alan Lomax. He took more than a few hits for allegedly exploiting or appropriating the music he assiduously collected, some of which might well have been warranted, but it's hard to imagine the American folk revival (and, by extension, perhaps part of the British one as well) without him.
July 19-22
*Music and dance -- starting with the former, i.e., a visit to a special practice by MOTley Morris in preparation for their upcoming trip to the Bassett Street Hounds Ale. Got in three dances: "Dawley," "Mr. Dolly" and (I think) "Liliburlero." Awfully addicting stuff. Might have to carve out some time in the near future to do this more often.
Sunday, I made what's by and large turned into a once-a-month drop-in at O'Hanlon's afternoon-evening session, at which this particular day happened to be Larry Nugent, whose aggressive flute-playing belies a fairly quiet, soft-spoken County Fermanagh bearing. He speeds up hornpipes, slows down fast reels, and it all works. Brilliantly.
Viewing: "Living In Oblivion" -- Steve Buscemi turns his zombie eyes and bad teeth to a role as a frustrated, insecure indie film director in this, another entry for the "movie-within-a-movie" genre. Characters' dreams, memories and fantasies are interwoven with the putative narrative, until it becomes almost impossible to distinguish them from what we're asked to believe is reality. Nothing that hasn't been done before, really, but some of the situations -- such as a series of attempts to film a scene with a lunk-headed, egotistical leading man ends up in a brawl -- are really quite funny.
July 15-19
*Enjoying -- no, really -- my second crown. I notice that I'm somewhat more deliberate, and therefore slower, in my eating, and this is probably a good thing.
*Book completed: "A Certain Age," by Tama Janowitz -- very potent, readable mix of dark comedy, socioeconomic analysis and even pathos, all embodied in Florence Collins, an early-30s New Yorker whose toehold in upscale Manhattan society becomes ever more precarious through a series of unfortunate occurrences, many of them due in no small way to her lack of judgment and self-discipline. It's difficult to get too angry at Florence for her naivete and self-absorption, though -- at times, I couldn't shake the impression of her as a character in a fanciful animal story, as a member of a herd on the Serengeti who starts to wonder about all this survival-of-the-fittest stuff. In this case, though, the resolution is decidedly not Disneyesque.
*Viewings:
=="Chutney Popcorn" -- Talk about crossing genres. A young Indian woman in a lesbian relationship tests her bonds with her family and her lover when she agrees to be a surrogate mother after her older sister is unable to become pregnant. Director and co-writer Nisha Ganatra (who plays the lead) manages to steer around the tabloid-talk show material with simple, affectionate humor and honesty, as well as the diverting intersection of emigrant Indian and lesbian cultures.
=="Ocean's Eleven" -- You can hardly believe it for a second, but this yarn -- somewhat reminiscent of "Bob le Flambeur" -- about a career thief and ex-con who plots to rob a seemingly impregnable casino (owned by the man romancing his ex-wife) works mostly because the principal actors, George Clooney, Brad Pitt and -- Clooney's rival and intended victim -- Andy Garcia, play it cool as well as for laughs.
July 13-14
*Saturday, I bring YD with me for a joint Red Herring-MOTley Morris performance at the Salem Maritime Festival. Bright sunshine, warm temperatures, yeah, just the way we like it. Still, we survive, keep up the smiles (for the most part), and are replenished with luncheon at Salem Beerworks. YD meets up with a friend, who spends the day with her poking around various curiosity shops, so no complaints on that end. Visual highlights available here.
*Watched bits and pieces of a recent documentary, "Endgame in Ireland" on The Troubles, the peace process, Good Friday Agreement and everything in-between. Fascinating interviews with protagonists and participants, from paras to presidents (including a chilling account by a pair of Loyalist gunmen of their reprisal attack on a Republican pub); the film and TV clips also add a lot -- John Hume angrily telling off a fellow MP, "I have to live with it. You don't." What was also striking was how many of these luminaries have passed through this campus in the past decade.
*A day trip Out West, as I chauffeur OD and friend for a visit to a visitor's day at their much-cherished camp, so as to spend the afternoon with comrades and soulmates. I hie myself off to nearby Shelburne Falls, which I visited (and photographed ) during a similar trip back in January. This time 'round, the village is fairly bustling, with folks vacationing in or near the Berkshires passing through to look at the various antique stores and boutiques (as well as to greet the namesake of Boswell's Books). At lunch, I find myself sitting at the counter next to a retired minister, who spent years working in Zimbabwe -- whose sociopolitical situation is woefully misunderstood and misreported, we agree -- and then we discuss the challenges facing today's families, especially those with teenagers. Fortified, I explore both sides of the river, then take myself to a quiet rest stop off Route 2 to sit and play music for a while, before collecting the young ladies for a quiet, somewhat subdued trip home.
July 9-12
*Blessed relief, and rain (which washed off all the dust we accumulated at Old Songs a few weeks back), which certainly were a boon to the family temperament. Both kids are now attending summer classes, and seem to be settling into the routine; stray reports of new acquaintances, if not friendships, abound as well as oblique, infrequent updates on actual work.
*Poor baseball. With the Ted Williams fiasco now added to the mounting concern over steroids, salaries, contraction and just about everything else related to its future, the All-Star Game really needed to be a classic. Instead, it'll be remembered as the Mess in Milwaukee -- when, just about any other year in its past, the denouement (or lack of same) would be seen as fairly reasonable.
*Viewing: "She's the One" -- Familiar ground for director-writer Edward Burns; a somewhat more reductive "Brothers McMullen," built again upon the New York City/Irish-American/male cluelessness themes. But still very winning, not the least because of the hilarious yet poignant relationship between Burns, as wheels-in-the-sand cabbie Mickey, his ambitious and thoroughly tactless brother Francis (Mike McGlone), and their exasperated father -- played by John Mahoney, very reminiscent of his "Frasier" role. Their attempts to understand one another, and the various women in, and out of, their lives, keeps it afloat.
*Book completed: "Nobody Told Me," by Ken Geringer -- DISCLAIMER: This book was personally handed to my wife by the author at the Old Songs Festival [June 28-30], a gesture which might be seen as either shrewd PR or simply a friendly overture (I opt for the latter). Geringer recounts his flight from his 1970s suburban upbringing into early marriage and fatherhood, and entrepreneurial success -- all of which he puts on the line by his involvement in the music business, and especially through collaborations with talented but troubled producer-impresario Jack Douglas. To be sure, it's an unvarnished, in-his-own-voice autobiography, and a number of things give one pause: the photos could've used more elaborate captions and been arranged in a more chronological, contextual manner; the epilogue seems to end several years too soon; and one gets the occasional sense of the book as a means to right past wrongs, or perhaps, settle old scores. But Geringer is undeniably earnest and compelling in telling his story, which is after all a quintessentially American one. The glimpses into the industry and its personalities -- plenty of fodder for Beatles conspiracy theorists and Cheap Trick fans, among others -- are often quite revealing and at times enlightening, such as his account and description of a major international convention whose significance is largely unknown to consumers. Ultimately, Geringer portrays the music biz as the ultimate narcotic -- far more insidious and powerful than the literal kind favored by a number of the book's characters -- which leads one to jeopardize money and reputation for an uncertain, and usually brief, glory.
July 4-7
*Independence Day climaxes the first bona-fide heat-wave of the summer, and the household does its turn for community service, helping out at our local playground project's booth during the town's July 4th fair. Sated with the heat, we enjoy the annual barbecue and talkfest at our friends' house a few blocks away, and watch the fireworks display. Then the winds shift, and we're actually able to shut off the air conditioners. More gabbing Saturday night, at a dinner party held by another set of friends.
*When it comes to the Red Sox, just about any event, no matter the magnitude and gravity, seems to have its bizarro quotient. So, Ted Williams passes on to the Field of Dreams, and his children begin a battle about his remains -- which are now preserved in a cryonic warehouse somewhere in Arizona. Allusions to "Sleeper," "The Thing With Two Heads" and any number of grade-Z horror/sci-fi movies abound, which is a shame, really, considering the dignity Williams sought, and largely achieved, for himself.
*On Sunday, Massachusetts, and much of the Northeast, was in the grip of smoke emanating from Canadian forest fires. There was an eerie sort of pall to the sky, which was hazy but not completely overcast: The sun filtered through the smoke, looking something like a scene from one of those post-Armageddon movies. Well, not to be deterred, in the evening I went on my first excursion to the session at O'Leary's Pub, which proved to be solid yet accessible on the musical side, but low-key almost to the point of awkwardness in terms of sociability. Still, quite worth a return visit.
*I don't usually remember, let alone describe my dreams, but this one was quite the corker: I am, apparently, a terminal patient slated for euthanasia, and put on a circuitous conveyer belt with other terminal cases, during which we receive whatever it is that is supposed to hasten our deaths. At length, I find myself on a gurney, deposited in a hospital corridor somewhere, next to another patient who is philosophical and fatalistic about the whole thing -- noting the TV set blaring nearby, he says, "Well, at least I get to watch the sports news before it happens." I am conscious of feeling terribly alone, afraid and sad as I await the end. Not that I don't have concerns about quality-of-life issues and all, but I think my brain must have been on loan to an advocacy group decrying the inhumanity of medical science.
*Book completed: "A Far and Deadly Cry," by Teri Holbrook -- New author Holbrook gives herself a pretty ambitious setting and context at the outset: Three years after her husband kills himself to avoid being arrested for terrorism, his Georgia-born widow Gale -- still living in the requisite quiet English village -- is visited by tragedy once again when her young babysitter is murdered, and the detectives who worked on her husband's case are called to investigate. Holbrook wisely gives as much attention to Gale's struggles, as a single mother trying to rebuild her life under considerable scrutiny and lingering suspicion, as to the efforts to find out why someone would kill a seemingly popular and innocent girl whose past also was marked by familial tragedy.
Old Songs, Not Old Hat
The current word du jour around the house, madames et monseiurs, is Barachois. No, not the tidepools that form around Prince Edward Island, but the very talented, inspired and wonderfully demented musical group that hails from those shores. They became a focal point of our first-ever three-day immersion in the Old Songs festival. Friday: After two days of yard and house work, and general preparation, we set compass for Altamont, arriving around dinner time. OD and I collected our Official Volunteer Badges, and all four of us received the coveted "Creature Comforts" meal tickets that would keep us fed during the next 48 hours or so.
The highlight of this evening wasn't so much the music, which was perfectly wonderful, but my greatly anticipated reunion with old friend and one-time fellow band member. It began with my spotting her son, whose birth and infancy featured a host of developmental problems he never has quite overcome in his 20-some years. Realizing it was him, and that my friend was with him but facing the other direction, I quick-stepped there. When I got within about 10 feet, her son -- who has seen me twice, and then only briefly, in the last decade -- waved and said matter-of-factly, "Hi, Sean."
Needless to say, it added an undeniably magical, and poignant, quality to the reunion.
After midnight, we drove an hour-and-a-half to the old family homestead, passed out...and then awoke barely three hours later so I could be on time for my first shift. Saturday: I wasn't quite sure what to expect as a volunteer at the performer check-in and hospitality center. Yes, I had read the list of expected duties -- taking names, handing out festival passes and info, making sure refreshments were available -- but what else? I wondered. For the most part, pretty unspectacular. There was, as one might expect, the unexpected: a guest pass gone astray, a performer's family member arriving (or not arriving) unexpectedly, a group of performers whose transportation arrangements were completely fouled up. But much of the 10 work hours this day and the next were spent in casual conversation, about things you'd most likely expect adults within sight of middle age to discuss: youthful music-related experiences, raising kids (and animals, or both), vocation and -- I swear to God! -- washing machines.
OK, there were some other, more off-then-beaten-path discussions, too: the World Cup finale, with Tony Barrand, or the blessings and burdens of bagpipes, with Whirligig's Parisian-born sax and flute player Yves Duboin.
Meanwhile, LW was dragging the kids off to a workshop on humorous and whimsical songs, and their initial inertia and reluctance diminished about the time Barachois came on.
A lot of the day dissolved into brief meetings, with LW, the kids, my step-mother, friend/former band-mate, and various and sundry acquaintances. At 9 that night, I started my last shift of the day, and from afar we could hear the strains of Jez Lowe and the Bad Pennies singing long-time personal favorite "Durham Gaol." Later, I was able to go down to the main stage and catch Barachois do their side-splitting medley/parody of famous hit songs supposedly stolen from Acadian tradition, with jabs at Mick Jagger, Glen Campbell and the Bee Gees.
Concert ended, OD went a-contradancing, we went in search of sessions, and eventually it was off to stepmother's house in Albany for another three-hour nap. Sunday: OD and I summoned up the wherewithall to join a pick-up morris session, while YD was joyfully stunned to find herself at breakfast with Barachois. They asked about her progress in our home French instruction program, and about her collection of novelty buttons, and wound up giving her one of theirs. Might seem a small thing, but personally I quite like performers who are engaging and appreciate their audience, even at breakfast in the midst of a long and taxing weekend.
That's one reason why YD, for her part, has played the Barachois CD constantly since we finally departed late Sunday afternoon. Enjoying someone's music from a distance is one thing, but feeling as if they honestly like having you as a fan is quite another. Which is what these events should, in theory anyway, all be about: see 'em, hear 'em, share a cuppa joe, and a laugh or two, with 'em.
Pictures and further highlights from this weekend can be seen here.
June 20-25
Bending the time-line here somewhat, so bear with me:
*In the midst of the musical merriment recounted below, YD and I stole out for a day at Canobie Lake Park, highlights of which may be found here.
*On Saturday, I went west to wish Me Mum a happy birthday, and spent the afternoon at her place on top of Mt. Mineral, and accompanied her on her chores. I had never been to Temenos in warm weather (pictorial highlights from last visit here), so the place looked quite different in many respects. Overcast skies and tree cover can make for some pretty arresting imagery. Also met a nice family staying the weekend who, it turns out, live less than a mile away from us.
*Viewings:
=="An Everlasting Piece" -- Barry Levinson's quite amiable satire on Northern Ireland socioeconomics and entrepreneurship, as two overmatched but game young men, one Catholic, one Protestant, plot to corner the Ulster hairpiece market, and find themselves struggling against sectarian politics as well as their own ineptitude. Yet these guys know all too well what the score is, as one of them shows in a touching and surprising monologue on the meaning of "a gesture."
=="Stigmata" -- Young girl beset by Biblical-supernatural forces the Church would just as soon forget. Well-educated priest trying to reconcile his vocation with possible inner demons. Where have I heard this before? Not quite a fair or apt comparison, but other than the visuals there's not much there.
=="While the Cat's Away" -- Pretty simple, charming story about unhappy 20-something Parisian who loses her cat and winds up finding out a great deal about the neighborhood in which she lives, and the people -- including a tiny, gregarious old woman and a mentally deficient but touchingly loyal Middle East emigre -- who make it a community, rather than a collection of residents.
June 17-21
*In case you missed it, and are even the slightest bit interested, there's now a Web page up on the June 16 Revels Maypole fest.
*This week is dominated by the dynamic, bursting-at-its-seams Gaelic Roots Summer School, BC's very worthy contribution to, and exultation of, Irish and Scots-related music and dance. You walk around the campus, and you can see veteran musicians like Pat Sky (at left) and Paddy Keenan compare notes (of one kind), as well as neophytes, many escorted by dutiful, non-musician parents (can we add "feis Moms" to the cultural lexicon yet?). The most conspicuous, and overriding, attraction for most are the outdoor sessions, held under tents and presided over by leading lights of Gaelic music such as Mary Bergin, Tommy Hayes, Kevin Burke and a cast of, well, dozens, to which participants flock individually and sometimes as couples -- the folks on the far right unfailing showed up as a duo at each session, and even seemed to sit in the same place..
Sociomusicalogical observations aside, I hied myself to a couple of guitar workshops given by Chris Newman, who proclaimed straight-off that not only does he favor playing standard or dropped-D tuning, but that he studiously avoids DADGAD, my style of choice in accompanying tunes. Well, fine, we learn and grow as much through challenging our respective paradigms as refining them, do we not? In this case, I found ever more intriguing the possibilities Chris presented, to the extent that by week's end I eschewed DADGAD at the sessions and tried dropped-D instead -- a helluva lot of practice and familiarity needed, but this might indeed lead somewhere.
Also managed to nip in for the last day of a workshop given by Andy Irvine, long one of my favorites as a singer and instrumentalist as well as a touchstone for the dignified yet imaginative strokes with which he offers trad. music. Being able to sit up close and watch him pick out the arpeggios and runs on, say, "You Rambling Boys of Pleasure" was sublime.
June 15-16
*Saturday, OD and I brave thoroughly awful, non-June weather for the Team X performance at the Cambridge River Festival. But shared misery loves company, or perhaps vice-versa, and it turns out to be not so bad at all. You can get at least some idea of the event here.
*On Sunday, OD and I once again are off to Cambridge, this time to participate in a maypole processional and celebration organized by Revels. A Web page documentary is available, but suffice it to say that this marked about the longest "Winster Processional" I think I've ever done -- also, the first time ever in front of a team of oxen pulling a wagon.
*That evening, I bask in folk and familial bliss at the Team X potluck, held at the lovely estate of morris doyen (and all-around swell guy) Tom Kruskal. The hours pass very quickly in animated conversation (to the apparent embarrassment of some youngsters present) with old friends and new acquaintances, about folk festivals and concerts past, dancers and other personalities we've known, and of course, the usual parental prattle. Later on, there's impromptu music and dancing in the Kruskal "barn," which is actually an immense semi-screened porch. Yeah, it's the kind of occasion that helps define, and redefine, the word "community."
June 13
*Elementary school in Santa Monica, Calif., finds itself in a storm o' scorn when principal issues a restriction on games of "Tag" at recess -- not an outright ban, as was the popular fancy, but a directive that such games be played in the presence of an adult. The rationale is to prevent or cut down on game-related injuries and rough-housing, which is fine as far as that goes. But then came the school's statement that included an amusing musing on the concept of the "it," of one who is to be avoided; this, said the school, verged on the issue of possible damage to (everyone now) "self-esteem." So, OK, in games of "Hide and Seek" should we make sure that seekers find hiders at precisely the same rate of time elapsed?
*Viewing: "Saint Clara" -- odd Israeli film, which at times seems like a more surreal, and profane, version of, say, "Small Change" or "Melody." Thirteen-year-old Russian �migr� Clara apparently has ESP, and her use of her powers -- helping classmates ring up perfect test scores, guessing the winning lottery numbers -- create a growing unrest in the forbidding, dehumanized urban community in which she lives, even as she captures the heart of Tikla, who's become ostracized by his friends on the suspicion of him being a cat's paw for the school authorities. As is often the case in films of this type, the adults tend to be of little or no help: they include the school principal, who's obsessed with Edith Piaf, or Clara's uncle, who suffers from some kind of post-traumatic stress syndrome. But the film's goofy atmosphere, such as one kid's riotous explanation of the Richter scale and its origin, helps smooth out the rough spots.
*Recent musical acquisitions: Varttina, "Ilmatar" and "Vihma" -- Their two most recent studio recordings (2000 and 1998, respectively), and they probably could've been released as one, so similar are they in tone and arrangement. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but at times there's a discomforting hint of formula. Still, the powerful three or four-part vocals do keep most of the material from sagging. "Vihma" is highlighted by the very pleasantly spare "Emoton" and "Laulutytt�," with its fiddle and sax interplay around the driving vocals; outstanding tracks on "Ilmatar" include the mostly a cappela "Kappee," "Meri" -- which has a strong Eastern European flavor -- and "Aijo," a song of sorcery and revenge rendered with appropriate, and whimsical, histrionics.
June 11
NBA Finals. World Cup. Baseball. Heavyweight title fight. So much excitement and chaos. Perhaps a little spiritual direction is needed.
June 8-10
*Our crabgrass-suffused lawn slowly but surely continues its resurrection, as this generally cool, damp late spring unfolds.
*Book completed: "Hollow Ground" by Stephen Marion -- The title, and its allusion to "hallowed ground," evokes the idea of a final resting place, of dying and death. That's the abiding concern for the main characters like Gary, returning home after 14 years in part to find the grave of his long-dead brother, and to try to reach out to his dying father; and Taft, Gary's illegitimate teenage son, who confronts mortality through his idiosyncratic historian grandfather and the scheming of his elusive love-interest next door. The dying Tennessee mill town in which they live, in fact, is a graveyard metaphor. Marion's writing is riveting at times (a trip down a lazy river turns into a near life-and-death struggle), but those who crave plot resolutions are likely to be disappointed.
*Viewing: "Xiu Xiu, the Sent-Down Girl" -- Very accessible Chinese-language movie recounting the tragic downfall of a young, sheltered city girl assigned to apprentice with a reclusive horse-herder, as part of a disastrous Cultural Revolution program to inculcate proletarian values. Instead, she falls prey to the political and sexual corruption of the local party officials, under the sorrowful yet adoring gaze of her would-be mentor, Lopsang. Lu Lu, as the title character, is heartbreaking to watch as she swings abruptly between girlishness and far too premature womanhood.
June 3-7
*Abbreviated work week, bookended by days off at beginning and end. During the former, I visited my friendly neighborhood dentist to receive a new crown -- not too bad, even if the preparation is akin to biting down on Silly Putty(tm).
*A crown of a different sort was the theme for the other day off, as Red Herring helped commemorate Her Majesty's Jubilee with a performance at a small-scale fair that was carved into someone's prodigious back yard. Unseasonably cool drizzle certainly evoked Britannia, as did other accouterments, but didn't make for the best gig conditions. The multi-part stage we danced on made for a little nervousness, but we apparently managed to escape unscathed. We even had enough left to do our now standard tutorial of "Shepherd's Hey", which makes for some fun audience participation -- especially if we're in the presence of royalty.
The event also featured a maypole manned by many youthful insurgents, with accompaniment by the estimable Peter Barnes. And it wouldn't be England without a silver band to play those stirring marches and polkas, the latter particularly enthralling for our ex-pats Peter and Rita.
So, having satiated the UK strain in my lineage with the afternoon's merriment, that evening I gave equal time and access to the Celtic side with a little guitar and bouzouki practice while watching the Lakers gradually pummel the Nets into submission.
June 1-2
*This weekend's highlight is the Banbury Cross almost-end-of-year potluck, which OD, YD and I attend. Smaller than expected, attendance-wise, but very relaxed, convivial atmosphere, and later on I am presented with tokens of appreciation for my soon-to-end brief tenure as squire: about a half-dozen or so painter's hats, festooned with various in-joke drawings and memes, and a t-shirt emblazoned with a photo which I'm somewhat sheepish to offer up to the Internet-viewing public. In any case, my heart is full.
*So fare-thee-well 'til next year, Celtics, and how nice to see you back treading the hallowed turf of the NBA postseason. Maybe a little less reliance on the outside shot next time 'round?
*Viewing: "But I'm a Cheerleader" -- starts out as a rather heavy-handed social parody, as straight-laced couple concerned over their teenage daughter's apparent lesbian tendencies send her to what might be called a hetero-immersion program that emphasizes "conventional" gender roles. But as Natasha Lyonne -- who offers just the right mix of bewilderment and quiet resolve -- gets to know, and love, fellow inmate Clea Duvall, the film starts to lose its sardonic tone and doesn't seem to know quite what to put in its place. Ultimately good fun, with some hilariously disturbing visual compositions and a very winning soundtrack.
