*So, for these four days, I am Single Father, whose word is law, as LW departs for a visit to her mum in warmer climes. This era begins with a 4 a.m. wake-up so I can drive her to the airport, after which is a semi-frenzied cleaning of the apartment in anticipation of a Random Clan rehearsal. Which goes pretty well, actually: We plug in a reel, "Galtee Rangers," to shore up our nifty but rather short "Handsome Sally/Man of the House" set, work on our "Wishing Well/Mooncoin Jig" medley and integrate Heather's inspired "Rambling Irishwoman" reel into "Rambling Irishman."
After a luncheon interval, Heather and I head off to jam with Emily, our Double Play compadre. Another two-and-a-half hours of pretty solid playing, during which we get into a near-hypnotic run-through of "Exile of Erin," all wonderfully modal D and thus tailor-made for us DADGADers.
(These musical rambles are, for the most part, captured on my recently acquired minidisc recorder, which the next day I finally get around to hooking up to the stereo, the better to spin out CD copies for various bandmates and acquaintances.)
Home, exhaustion, relaxation, NCAA Tournament basketball.
The remainder of the weekend is fairly nondescript. I visit our friends Jerry and Laurie to indulge in more tournament viewing; my Final Four tally is open to controversy, I suppose, because I picked Louisville as a "substitute" entry once Gonzaga was disposed of. So, if that is an acceptable qualifier, let's say I was half right (Illinois).
*OD, meanwhile, welcomed for a visit an old elementary school friend (which seems about as strange to write as it probably does to read) and former fellow Brownie-Girl Scout troop member, long relocated, who gave me an endearingly big hug upon arrival. As ready and willing as kids are in their late teens to leave behind the things of childhood, there's a significant amount of nostalgia amidst the youthful iconoclasm.
*Could easily have been otherwise if this hadn't been a three-day weekend, but things were quite relaxed around the household. No visits from the constabulary, no calls from credit card companies concerned about "unusual activity," etc. I'd like to think that kids know, in situations of reduced parental presence like this, you have to trust them because there's really not much other choice.
March 22
Sat in on a good old-fashioned ceilidh with Seamus Connolly and Comhaltas doyens Larry and Mike Reynolds, among others. It's a very humbling and important experience to play for dancing, and to focus almost squarely on the I-IV-V progressions and on not bollocking up the rhythm. Did get a chance to do "Flash Company," though, and with Mike's electrified acoustic Guild, no less.
March 19-20
*Nothing like those at-the-last-minute music rehearsals where, frankly, you're not sure what to expect, turns out to be one of the more productive hours you've spent in a while. So it was as Heather and I worked on "The Rambling Irishman" and, in the space of about 10 minutes, came out with a whole new tune (which Heather rightly christened "The Rambling Irishwoman"). We also took a leap at "Since Maggie Went Away" and augmented one of our reel sets.
*The musical fun continued on Sunday at the O'Hanlon's session, which was enlivened by banjo man Eamonn Coyne and rhythm king Matthew Heaton. Oh yes, Jerry Bell prodded me once again into "Poverty Knock," which doesn't take a lot.
*Viewings:
=="Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" - - The premise may take a little swallowing: that someone has come up with a process to erase specific memories - - primarily of unhappy or inconvenient relationships, it would seem - - from our minds and, naturally, has built a business around it. But weird science, and the film's chaotic, stream-of-consciousness flow, aside, there are ideas to conjure with here. First of all, the utter, thoroughly modern conceit of gain without pain on display here, that we should be able to wipe the slate of love clean without any lingering torment or anxiety. But more importantly, as the limits of this memory erasure technology - - or more accurately, those who wield it, become apparent - - we could easily ask, Is true love a form of destiny? Kirsten Dunst, by the way, fairly steals the movie from Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet, because she has to confront those questions in a particularly brutal way.
=="The Terminal" - - Airports are, of necessity, at a physical, social and legal remove from their communities, which only contributes to the dislocation one feels passing through them; they really do seem like portals, not of our world - - and the people who work there somehow seem likewise cut off. Which lends a certain fascination to Steven Spielberg's chronicle of stranded traveler Viktor Navorski (Tom Hanks), whose fictional war-torn former Soviet republic has suspended travel arrangements with the US: Viktor discovers, as do we, the undercurrent of life among an airport's staff, the routines, the inside jokes and the frustrations. But the story is weakened by the love-interest plot thread with the (undeniably) glamorous Catherine Zeta-Jones, and the revelation of Viktor's raison-d'etre brings to the fore the unfortunate Spielbergan sentimentiality.
=="The Human Stain" - - Philip Roth's familiar staples of class and religious conflict are further roiled by the addition of race in "Stain," adapted here by Nicholas Meyer and director Robert Benton. Anthony Hopkins, who brings just the right amount of menace to his civility and courtliness, bears all those burdens as Coleman Silk, an ex-academic haunted by a secret past. But the presence of Gary Sinise as the putative narrator and the uneven pacing don't help matters.
March 18
A Happy Birthday to dearly Loved, and Loving Wife.
March 14-17
*At a time when the weeks seem to go by particularly fast, this one most assuredly galloped to a conclusion. Getting a couple of last-minute assignments thrown one's way certainly helps with that. But when you have the annual Boston College Athletic Association St. Patrick's Day Zamboni Room Party on the itinerary, well, that can knock off a few hours real quick, too.
This year's do is enlivened with a guest appearance from musician pal Heather, who provides some very thoughtful conversation (about music, mutual acquaintances and a few other subjects) as well as excellent fiddling. The session is an absolute pleasure, with solid, familiar but not overplayed tunes cranked out at a decent speed.
*Two nights later, Amelia and I head out to the Blackstone Valley for our corporate St. Patrick's Day gig, which consisted of sitting off to the side at a "networking reception" in a bank building and going through our paces. Fortunately, no drunkenly insistent or obnoxiously delivered requests for "Danny Boy" or "McNamara's Band" befoul our two hours, and so we make our way through our previously arranged jig and reel sets, plus a song or two, and also manage to put together a couple on the spot.
En route to the gig, I slip in the car stereo one of my long-time favorites, Moving Hearts' "The Storm." Amelia listens to the synthesizer washes, sax and electric guitar solos and crisp-sounding percussion winding around the pipe, whistle and bouzouki and declares, "Wow. That's so 80s."
*Book completed: "Two Lives" by William Trevor - - The title has (ha-ha) a double meaning: The book is a two-fer, encompassing the novels "Reading Turgenev" and "My House in Umbria." And both explore the contrast, and conflict, between one's inner life and that which is shared, or withheld as the case may be, with the world at large. Trevor's narrative style is markedly different and well-suited for each. For "Turgenev," in which poor, young Irish country girl Mary Louise flees from her disastrous marriage into a courtship of the mind based on a fleeting, and doomed, liaison, Trevor describes the succession of events almost as if he were a literary-minded psychiatrist recounting a case history, which in a way he is, after all.
"My House" is first-person: The narrator, Emily Delahunty, is an aging romantic writer and survivor of a suspected terrorist attack who hosts three others recovering from the horror - - and fairly bursting with evocations of the glorious Italian countryside in which the story takes place. Emily variously casts herself as healer, guardian - - especially to 8-year-old Aimee, who lost both parents and her brother in the bombing - - confessor and even a somewhat besotted Jessica Fletcher. It is that last role, a writer imagining events, dialogues and motivations for those around her, which erratically but insistently drives the plot along, as she seeks to understand that which binds, and that which separates her and her fellow survivors.
*Viewings:
=="My House in Umbria" - - The casting for this adaptation of the Trevor novel is pretty well spot-on, especially Maggie Smith as Emily, Emmy Clarke as the damaged but resilient Aimee and Chris Cooper as Aimee's estranged, stiff uncle who reluctantly but dutifully arrives to assume his familial obligation and take her home. But the altered ending is a woeful, perhaps even cynical misjudgment.
March 11-13
Another weekend largely devoted to dealing with, or dancing around (slouching to and recovering from, to be more accurate) tax work, which lo and behold is largely done by Sunday morning - - and hours later, so is OD's history thesis. A red letter day in the household, to be sure.
Meanwhile, most of Sunday afternoon is taken up in rehearsal for an upcoming (paying!) St. Patrick's Day gig with Amelia, an especially talented denizen of the Boston area Teen Fiddle Squad. Among her many attributes, Amelia has a very good sense of how tunes should sound, by themselves, with accompaniment and in context of a set; I also appreciate melody players who, rather than just saying "It's in D" - - not that that doesn't help, mind you - - can spell out for you not only which chords should go where, but which chords you can substitute, e.g., those "relative minors." Anyway, in the course of about three hours we cook up nearly a dozen tune sets and songs. A good way to pass the time, to be sure.
March 5-6
*Excruciatingly deliberate and detailed work on taxes yields to a cold night's fun at the Boston Urban Ceilidh, relocated this time to Jacob's Ladder Coffeehouse in Malden. Turnout is sparse, but BUC architect Laura Cortese and crew make the best of it, as always. (Yours truly wins "King of the Ceilidh" honors for unconscionable improvisation during the Eightsome Reel.)
*More taxes, then another evening's treat: the Sunday evening session at P.J. Ryan's, which I visited briefly back in the summer. The regulars, much to my pleasant surprise, remember me and help me settle in for a good couple hours of tunes and songs. What with the demise of the O'Leary's session, I reckon this one will be high on my list.
March 4
*Recent musical acquisitions:
==Waterson:Carthy, "Broken Ground" and "A Dark Light" - - It's one of the best tracks, periodfullstop, ever recorded in the contemporary British Isles folk revival: "Bald-Headed End of the Broom." Seguing from a sprightly rendition of the morris tune "The Forester," the song features Martin Carthy, sounding as if he's enjoying himself as much as we are, singing above the accompaniment of a New Orleans brass ensemble. If anything symbolizes this group's ability to balance love and respect for traditional folk music with a willingness to explore innovations, it's that several minutes on "Broken Ground." But there's so much more, of course: Eliza Carthy's entrancing fiddle, which simultaneously seems to reflect several different styles and none at all, on the tune sets, such as the Rowling Hornpipe set on "Broken" and "Balancy Straw/Seventeen Come Sunday /Whitefriar's Hornpipe" on "Light," both of which also boast Saul Rose's lively melodeon. Norma Waterson, meanwhile, brings that unforgettable voice - - occasionally lugubrious but above all stately - - to "The Outlandish Knight" and "We Poor Laboring Men." But this is a band, above all, and they show it with stirring effect on the chilling "Death and the Lady" and the joyful "Shepherds Arise."
==Bill Jones, "Turn to Me" - - The 2000 album debut of Jones, whose Staffordshire roots are proudly manifested in her decidedly unadorned, unaffected vocal style. Her piano and accordion accompaniment supplies a subtle but palpable rhythmic drive to "The Handsome Cabin Boy," "Long John Moore" and especially to the clever, heartfelt "Blood and Gold/Universal Soldier" medley, which deftly blends the seemingly disparate writing styles of Andy Irvine and Phil Ochs. She can do the slow numbers, too, as evidenced on "Taimse im Chodladh" and the wistful title track. But the instrumental medleys with guest musicians Saskia Tomkins and Simon Haworth are generally too plodding and low-key to add anything; I'd rather have my fill of Bill.
==Jolly Jack, "Rolling Down to Maui" - - Actually, it's "Jolly Jack and Friends." The Jollies (Jacks?) are a mainly a cappella trio favoring maritimes songs, shanteys and the like, and do justice to "Doodle Let Me Go," "Farewell Nancy," even "Clear the Track Let the Bulgine Run," which is associated more with African American traditions. The aforementioned "friends" appear on some tracks in support, others as the featured acts, and let's just say the results vary. Iain MacGillivray's "Rolling Home" is easily as alluring as Archie Fisher's version; Barry Skinner's "Admiral Benbow" balances well between understated and heroic (although I prefer the melody used by June Tabor); and Steve Turner does a perfectly good turn on Stan Rogers' "Make or Break Harbor." But "My Donal'" by The Wassailers winds up rather tedious, with a bit too much tinkling mandolin in the background, and while Linda Adams gives "Caroline and Her Young Sailor Boy" her best, the accidental in the second line of the verse has always been - - for me, anyway - - an annoyance.
Feb. 23
Went to Passim (sorry, non-profit organizational nomenclature aside, just really not inclined to say "Club") with the clan, including visiting sister-in-law, to catch Lissa Schneckenberger's CD release concert. Probably about a fifth of the audience combined was up on the stage playing with her at some point or another, or else could have been. Not only a wonderful evening of music, but also of fellowship; so many people there to greet and catch up with. I am reminded once again how inter-connected this area's folk community is (Pete Frame would have a fine old time), and what great music it makes, individually and collectively. Solitude definitely overrated.
Feb. 18-20
*Happily, a weekend bookended by musical activities, beginning with another excursion to the Friday night session at The Skellig. Made the mistake of asking a sessioneer birthday celebrator about his age, and was invited to commit an intimate act of anatomical impossibility. But I'm sure it was suggested with love. Or something like it.
*Saturday is largely uneventful, except for the ravings of an incredibly bored OD, who begged for transportation and general indulgence until finally arranging a mall trip with schoolfriend. And school vacation hadn't technically begun yet. That night, LW and I watch "The Shining," which I'd actually rented for YD, who wanted to save her viewing for an upcoming sleepover. Film history question of the day: How close to parody did Jack Nicholson's performance come? Or, perhaps, did he unwittingly or no establish a benchmark that invited parody?
*Sunday, I returned to the the O'Hanlon's session for the first time since before Christmas, and was pleased to sit in with Eric Merrill and Flynn Cohen, who demanded, in a very good-natured and helpful manner, that I initiate a search to find and purchase a lavaliere microphone for the bouzouki. We were joined by Jerry and Nancy Bell, the former doing an a cappella "Barrett's Privateers" (not that there's any other way to do it) with choral assistance from yours truly. I feel as if I've passed some sort of milestone in my bodhran development; it feels like less of a strain to play for long periods, and I'm getting some nice rolls in as well.
Feb. 15
Attended a two-fer CD "launch party" held by BC's Irish Studies Program, one for the "Boston Edge" album released last year by Seamus Connolly, Joe Derrane and John McGann; the other, a compilation of various concert and home recordings - - and a few made in the loo of the Watertown Canadian-American Club - - of Jimmy Hogan, now 85, a Clare flute and whistle player who's lived in the Boston area for a few decades now.
Seamus, unfortunately, took sick shortly after the evening began, but before leaving he described the recording project, the time and trouble it took to get hold of these various recordings and make them listenable. Much of it, apparently, went on with Jimmy's blessing but (understandably) little or no comprehension on his part. When Jimmy was told the CD was nearly complete, Seamus recalled, his first comment was, "Is it any good?"
A few tracks played on the house sound system, and the verdict was "Oh yes, Jimmy."
Joe Derrane and John McGann were left to present their wares, with Joe cracking a Johnny Cunninghamism, practically as a tribute, during their tuning-up: "Play that note 40 times more an' yah got a New Age tune." (Quite a difference to hear it uttered in a Waltham, rather than Scots, accent.)
Joe's in his mid-70s, doesn't have quite the physical presence he used to, but from what I can hear, his dexterity and agility is still in great supply, as is his humor - - but, more importantly, his love and zest for music. At one point, he talked about the certain lack of respect shown his chosen instrument and how this has redoubled his desire lately to explore its full possibilities and capabilities. With that, he spun off into an original composition, somewhere in a waltz-tango rhythm, and very much unlike his stock in trade. The tune flitted between humor, pathos and just plain fun, and at the end most everyone in the room seemed to be wondering just what else he might come up with in his explorations.
Feb. 14
Recent musical acquisitions:
==Various artists, "Return to Cold Mountain": If you can get beyond the flimsy premise of this album - - it's music inspired by the film "Cold Mountain," performed by musicians who are from that part of the country - - this is a pleasant enough collection of mainly Appalachian/old-timey standards, such as "Pretty Polly" (sung with a good dollop of dramatic tension by Michael Farr), "Lorena," "Shady Grove," "Farther Along" and "Old Joe Clark."
==Regal Slip, "Bandstand" - - Long-defunct British a cappella quartet mixing traditional English carols and songs, American spirituals and the tongue-twistingly humorous "Swim Sam Swim." Strong vocals and good spirits, and with some thoughtful arrangements, notably a minor-to-major key shift in "The Death of Robin Hood," which turns it from a dirge into an elegy. Only wish the album were longer (under 40 minutes).
==Lunasa, "Redwood" - - Recorded during a 10-day retreat in the midst of their 2002 US tour, the album has a certain solitary mellowness to it, especially in tracks like "Harp and Shamrock" and "Lady Ellen." They still show plenty of drive, such as in the "Welcome Home" medley, but in general "Redwood" comes off more as a respite than an album.
Feb. 11-13
*Another enjoyable night at The Skellig, with fellow Random Clan/Double Play mate Heather to enliven the proceedings (and, unfortunately for her, to be on the receiving end of a less-than-diplomatic chat-up). Just wish there was a crowd noise-dampening device so's we could hear one another better.
*Saturday, a long-in-coming Random Clan practice. Interesting experience now to be part of two musical ensembles, irregularly occurring though they may be, and to consider which songs, tunes and even arrangements are most appropriate for one or the other. A pleasant dilemma, if that's really the word for it.
*Ahhhh! New strings for the guitar and 'zouki. Like the dawn of a new day, when just about anything seems possible.
*Viewing: "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" - - Classic late-60s/early-70s post-existentialism, with Jane Fonda and Michael "Off the Map" Sarrazin as thrown-together allies in a 1930s dance marathon, which of course becomes an all-consuming arena of the Human Experience. (Filmed a few years earlier, or more likely a few years later, and this would've been considerably more shallow and posited as far more of a spectacle.) Inevitably, the supporting characters, notably Susannah York and Red Buttons, become more interesting than the rather futile chemistry between Sarrazin and Fonda.
Feb. 8
Recent viewings:
=="The Village" - - M. Night Shyamalan seemingly cribs from a volume's worth of folk tales and folklore in the expository first part of this film, set in an isolated and self-contained (for reasons other than are first expressed) village in rural Pennsylvania that lives in an uneasy truce with mysterious creatures in the surrounding woods. It's all in preparation for a larger parable, when a crisis prompts the blind daughter (Bryce Dallas Howard) of one of the village leaders (William Hurt, now seemingly destined to be a paterfamilias) to set out for help from "the towns," a place of assumed evil which seems to frighten many of the inhabitants almost as much as their barely glimpsed antagonists. Howard has that classic heroine strength-vulnerability mix just right, and the message Shyamalan appears to have here - - beware the myths you create, not just the ones you inherit - - has any number of political parallels. But the mystery unwinds pretty quickly, and the result is overall less than satisfying.
=="Lolita" - - The Adriane Lyne-Stephen Schiff remake of Nabokov's dark comedy certainly gets the "dark" right, not least by casting Jeremy Irons as Humbert; once again, Irons brings a kind of wan dignity to a psychologically troubled character. Making it a period piece set in 1947 (and a very good recreation it is, too), however, works only half-way: On the one hand, Lolita Haze could easily symbolize the post-war emergence of adolescence as a distinctive American demographic but then, the essence of the story is really one that need not be constricted to a particular era. Lyne, to his credit, looks for opportunities to try and depict some of the Nabokovian imagery. But he and Schiff ultimately tip the scales too far to tragedy.
=="Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkhaban" - - On the subject of puberty, the three protagonists - - or rather, their cinematic proxies - - of the Harry Potter franchise are now well into their own adolescence: The voices are deeper, the faces rather more mature, no longer quite as impressionable. So there is a certain perfunctory, almost joyless, element to their discoveries, about magic, the grim secrets of Hogwarts and the whole wizard society, and of course, about themselves.
Birthday Weekend 2005
Forty-seven, in case you wondered.
Friday night was a visit to The Skellig for a tune or three, where I was pleased to encounter fiddler George Keith and accordionist Sean Gannon, the latter trading good-natured barbs with their acerbic accompanist ("Ye goin' to do nothin' but rheels? I can't play fekken rheels all night." "Aw, ye can't do nothin' all night anymore, can ye?"). I wound up playing a lot of bodhran, which was a good thing; the elbow lubrification process appeared to kick in quite well.
(Family sit-com moment: I advise YD, on her way out with a friend, to tread carefully on the slowly accumulating ice gathered on the sidewalk, to which she replies, with no hesitation, "Actually, I was going to run with scissors.")
Saturday, LW and I had a good ole-fashioned Grown-ups Night Out at an annual benefit coffeehouse. The main attraction was singer/songwriter Michael Troy, early-Dylanesque voice and a fine command of lyrics, which evoke hard-bitten but hopeful people - - encountered during his various incarnations as fisherman, mill worker, laborer, carpenter, and family man. The impression one gets, in fact, is that he's a helluva lot more comfortable having his songs speak for him.
Sunday ended with a suspenseful Super Bowl win for the Patriots, who now confirm themselves as a capital "D" Dynasty. Interesting that one of my other football faves, the Steelers, were famously inept and mediocre during my childhood before reaching the top in my late teens/early adulthood; nice to have it happen all over again. And again?
Feb. 2
Well, how did that happen. Perhaps it's work, perhaps it's the mid-winter malaise, unremitting snow and cold, what with nearly three feet of nature's white bounty gracing our highways and by-ways. In any case, I am have been a most unfaithful correspondent.
*First, the debut of the Double Play quartet (three teens and an old guy) went off with nary a hitch. From my end, there were a few chord variations I neglected, and I really do need to be more confident about my backing for "Siobhan O'Donnell," but - - making Chris Newman proud - - I kept the damn rhythm. And at very brief junctures throughout, I caught myself thinking, "Geez, these guys play realllll nice."
*Such a procession of major world events: the tsunami, the Iraqi vote, the beginning of Bush II. Offering a quick-hit commentary on some or all of these things seems a task for which I'm quite unprepared at the moment. Which is a long-winded way of saying, I know this stuff is important but I can't figure out what to say about it. Not right now anyway.
*Books completed:
=="Short People," by Joshua Furst - - Collection of stories which, for the most part, effectively channels the inner world of children, from elementary school-age through the end of adolescence. The first three are particularly adept: "The Age of Exploration" depicts that bittersweet, sometimes anguishing, period in middle childhood when you start to identify your special characteristics and how they compare - - favorably and unfavorably - - to those of your friends; "This Little Light" portrays the consequences of overwhelming teenage emotion posing as religious/spiritual fervor; "Merit Badge," told from the point of view of the kid who's socially a step behind his peers (in his and their eyes), offers an insight into the pathology of adolescent self-victimization. The other stories aren't quite as strong, although "Red Lobster" is bit of dark absurdity on the misadventures of one dysfunctional family - - a counterpoint to another, more disturbing failed household in "The Good Parents."
=="Free Speech for Me - - But Not for Thee: How the American Left and Right Relentlessly Censor Each Other," by Nat Hentoff - - Published in the early 1990s, this could most certainly merit a sequel. Village Voice First Amendment champion Hentoff relates high and low-profile cases of censorship, particularly in public school and college settings. Hentoff tends to be tougher on the left-leaning side of the ideological spectrum, certainly in terms of the number of cases cited, but the central questions here really go beyond political affiliations: How do we balance the right to free speech with the right to privacy? More basically, how do we revive the art of discourse, wherein you grant your opponent those statements that are true, and then make your own assertions? Hentoff occasionally seems to relish a little too much his role as maverick and scold, but does best when he interviews the protagonists in cases, thus bringing them and their particular controversy to life; it would've been great if he could've been more expository for the censors as well as the censored. For all the sardonic tone elsewhere in the book, his tribute to Lenny Bruce, as one of the ultimate free-speech martyrs, is genuinely moving.
=="The Circus in Winter," by Cathy Day - - Clever scrapbook-like compilation of stories set in the fictitious town of Lima, Indiana, the winter quarters for a second-rate traveling circus. ("Winter," Day writes, "is a long circus Sunday, a day of rest") Day uses several narrative voices, traveling backwards and forwards in time, to follow the threads of lives and events that occasionally intersect, and considerably influence one another: A major character in one story about a middle-aged railroad worker confronting the prospect of a lost career makes a brief, but revealing, cameo appearance in another story that ties up some, but by no means all, of the threads. There's an economical yet compassionate feel to Day's writing - - very Midwestern, one might be tempted to say.
Jan. 17
Time�passing�so�quickly! Can't�reflect�fully�on�recent�events!
Sorry, but true. Work (with a capital "W," denoting occupation) ratcheted up very quickly to racing speed, leaving me fair breathless. But I did get in a most enjoyable practice on Sunday with my teen compatriots for our Jan. 30 benefit concert. It helps, obviously, to have played with them several times before on an informal basis, but damned if we didn't just slide into a performance group mode with little or no fanfare. Really wouldn't mind if this became a steady gig. But Random Clan, I still love you, too.
An occasionally familiar dilemma, thanks to the coaching acumen of Bill Belichek - - who obscures his much-discussed genius with about the blandest demeanor possible; rather like covering Thai food under a tarp of white bread - - and the inability of the Jets to redeem the gifts given them: My two favorite pro football teams square off against one another for the AFC title.
Jan. 7-9
*Talk about your torn-twixt-pleasure-and-pain: After months of anticipation, Boston Celtic Music Fest arrives, as do our tenants of the Low Countries. Poor LW is a whirligig of organization and movement, while the rest of us are fortunate enough to go to the Boston Urban Ceilidh for merriment, marvelous music and quite strenuous dancing. Happily, YD consents to participate in a few of the dances and acknowledges, albeit guardedly, her enjoyment. OD rediscovers, for the umpteenth time, that she really needs to go dancing more often. And me? Hamstrings severely strained, especially during a free-style romp to a pulsating reel medley that, at one point, brought me into a kind of leaping combat-dance with the irrepressible Rushad Eggleston. But all more than worth it.
*Returning home from the BUC, I assist beleaguered LW in furniture and rug shifting for a couple of hours, then go all unconscious for a few hours until it's time to bring OD to BCMFest, Day 2, so she can perform with her fellow Great Meadows rapper-sworders. All give a good account of themselves, and then we trek our way through ice and slush a few blocks to The Burren for an afternoon of tunes and songs. Random Clan does an "unplugged" set, touting our recently increased repertoire, and darn if we don't get some applause and smiles. Great fun is had, too, with the likes of GMMSers Amelia (fiddle) and Gillian (step-dancing), and the effervescent Peter Barnes at our side at various points along the way.
Still, at length my musical companions scatter, and I am left alone to sing�until an ages-old musical acquaintance, Paul, with whom I'd only recently exchanged e-mail, shows up. We swap songs and tunes from our respective pasts - - "Lakes of Pontchartrain," "Barleygrain for Me" - - and in so doing affirm my belief that there must be a Higher Power of Music up there who, for every inconveniently placed cut or mistimed case of laryngitis, fosters many, many more of these happy moments.
*Quick zip back home (well, as quick as possible with a winter storm in your face), helping even more beleaguered LW to finish apartment preparations, and then - - with some guilt - - off to Cambridge for the festival finale. I miss the first several minutes, but plenty of great material left. Highlight: sean-nos singer Mair�n U� Ch�ide introduces a song by revealing that her son - - much against the family's wishes - - joined the service and is now a paratrooper in Iraq; the song (which I assume she composed) is a mother's prayer for her son's safety, and at the end most of the audience is breathless.
*The night is quiet, clear and cold now, and I park at the bottom of the driveway, observing that our newly-arrived tenants have already gone to bed. And, mercifully, so has LW. I collect instruments and head off to the apr�s-BCMFest party. Lots of talking, of course - - at one point I converse with a gregarious Harvard freshman from California who, apparently, made her own set of Uilleann pipes (when I was a freshman, I was lucky if I made my bed, HAR HAR!) - - and occasional fits of music. Most of all, a very welcome end to a busy, occasionally frantic last few days.
*Postscript: LW is considerably relaxed next day, as am I. I take new tenants, who being from overseas are without a car temporarily, out for a spin to the grocery store and a brief tour of the area.
*Yes, there will be photos from BCMFest soon.
On Our Holidays
I'm at somewhat of a remove here, it being nearly three weeks since I vanished into the Christmas-New Year's wormhole. So, well, let's reconstruct as best as possible:
*For starters, there was the Boston Celtic Music Fest "Teaser" at Club Passim, at which I was invited to lend voice and instrument. (Fair warning: name-dropping ahead) So I resurrected the Scots version of "Geordie" I've been singing for lo these 20-some years, accompanied by fellow Random Clanner Heather and fellow fiddlers fine Ellery Klein and Cara Frankowicz, and the estimable Susie Petrov on accordion. Damn good fun. Would love to hear how it sounded. Heather and I also joined in for the grand finale, climaxing with an en masse rendition of Liz Carroll's "Wissahickon Drive." The fun didn't end with the teaser, either, as OD and I ambled across the alley to join numerous friends and acquaintances (including third Random Clanner, Robin) from Revels, out for an après-show lark. Not surprisingly, fiddles were brandished, and before long I was playing reels and jigs, with step-dancers aplenty mere inches from my fretboard.
*Thence came Christmas, which included a trip out to Building 19 and a music store in Natick to buy OD a proper guitar case. And there was the cleaning up, the disinterment of decorations and what-not, White Russians all around (considerably), viewings of "A Christmas Story" and "It's a Wonderful Life," quite mellow exchange of gifts - - and my faith was rewarded with this.
*Braving a more-serious-than-advertised snowstorm, we managed to get out to the airport for our flight to a family (LW's) gathering in Virginia. This idyll will be the subject of a forthcoming Web page, so please be stoic until then.
*Back home, in time for a decidedly low-key New Year's, wherein las herminas both found parties to attend while LW and I paid our bills, fercryinoutloud. New Year's Day saw the commencement of final clean-up operations and preparations for new tenants in the downstairs apartment, with occasional stops for bowl games. The next day was highlighted by a highly productive, enjoyable Random Clan rehearsal.
*The final three days of vacation were hardly vacation-like, in that they were spent moving things around in tenant apartment and basement. But for all that, there was something less than a sense of urgency, as if just by being home and together with LW made everything all right. Reckon it did.
Dec. 20
*Pop culture invades my dreams: Dream One: My family and I became The Simpsons. I don't mean we got all cartoony, with googly eyes and four fingers, but in the dream there was no question in my mind that we were The Simpsons. Maybe it was the wardrobe; I wish that in the course of my dream I had thought to gaze at a mirror and see how I looked in Homer's white shirt and extra large blue slacks. Anyway, OD or YD - - supposedly channeling Lisa - - invited a few friends, one of them a short, middle-aged African American woman, for a sleepover, and I volunteered to read them bed-time stories from a book of "Old West" tales. But they took out brass musical instruments and played very loud, not only drowning out my reading but quite possibly disturbing the neighbors. Dream Two: I am walking in the concourse of some large arena, when I encounter Ashley Olsen, who is apparently a friend of mine because upon seeing me she greets me warmly with a quite affectionate hug. Or maybe I just inspire such impulsive intimate responses from nubile young celebrities. Ashley discloses to me that she is very nervous for her sister: It turns out that this arena is to be the venue for Mary-Kate's debut in her new profession - - a police officer. I suddenly spy Mary-Kate in her cop togs; she evidently knows me, too, because she waves enthusiastically and offers a quick embrace before she dashes off to finish whatever preparations she needs to make.
I head back to Ashley, who is walking down the concourse and in sore need of commiseration and encouragement. We are periodically joined by a few other celebrities, including Robin Williams, who naturally begins his rapid-fire, stream-of-consciousness bon mots and riffs. Vainly, I try to keep up with the absurdity and silliness, until I ask, rhetorically, "Are we going to draw funny faces on our Ken dolls now?"
Think I'll catch up on my reading this vacation.
*Recent company holiday party showcases a vocational-social phenomenon I've come to find rather interesting: the handshake with the president. Given the length of the greeting line, you've got anywhere from 10-45 seconds to say "Hello," offer best wishes for the holidays and, perhaps, make a little small talk (rather dependent on how familiar a relationship one has with the president). So the question is, what kind of handshake will you get? The Slow-but-Steady-Steer-to-the-Exit? The pat-shoulder-or-forearm combo? The firm shake, followed by immediate disengagement and brief conversation?
In this case, I got the "Two-fer": The president shook the hand of the colleague in front of me, exchanged some general remarks for several seconds, then segued me into the conversation and in so doing, gave me a variation of the Slow-But-Steady. I felt as if I needed George Costanza there to offer an exposition.
*Recent musical acquisitions:
==Rory McLeod, "Mouth to Mouth" - - If he's not the happiest man on the face of the Earth, McLeod - - whose harmonica-playing alone has brought him renown - - clearly has a joie d'vivre that informs his compositions, which tend to blues-flavored but easily take in other genres (such as the reggae push of "A Lover Should Teach a Lover"). Really, how can you not like a guy who devotes several minutes to recalling just about every kind of kiss - - parental, playmate, platonic and passionate - - he's ever had ("London Kisses")? Or, with tongue affectionately in cheek, narrates his parents' courtship to hilariously, uncomfortably intimate ends ("When Mum and Dad Made Me"). There's some well-done sociopolitical commentary in there, too, notably "What Would Jesus Do?" and "Jesus Loves Me," the latter a wicked little swipe at religious extremists. Even the cover photo, showing him and infant son mouthing an apple, shows him as a guy who revels in, but is by no means limited by, his domesticity.
==Ola, "Be Prepared for Weather" and "The Animals Are in the West" - - A trio of young singers/musicians from North Yorkshire which combines traditional and contemporary material, and puts out quite a strong, distinctive sound in doing so, mustering fiddle, concertina, viola, flute and percussion, among other things. They put together some inventive arrangements, such as interpolating Alistair Hulett's coal-miner rabble-rouser "Blue Murder" with "Reel Beatrice," and play damn good tunes, including Amy Cann's "Catharsis" and "JD's Welcome," by Black Swan Rapper muso (and somewhat recent acquaintance) Rog Peppe. The vocals by Helen Bell and Bella Hardy (replacing Sarah Wright on "Be Prepared�") have their charms, such as on "Sovay" or "Blue Murder," but at other times sound a bit too airy and affected, making "Bold Riley" far too plodding. But no question, they have a lot to credit them.
Dec. 15
*Took in the second annual - - quite hope it's yearly - - Mid-Winter Celebration presented by the Commonwealth Morris Men with our own (OD's own) Banbury Cross Morris and Orion Sword. What I've liked about it thus far is that CMM isn't too lofty in their ambitions about what the occasion is, or should be: A small-scale but well-prepared sharing of the seasonal atmosphere for family, friends and acquaintances. At the end, after the last wassail is sung, we just eat, drink, chat and enjoy one another's company. (And rhapsodize about performances like that of Orion, who unveiled another imaginative re-imagining of the longsword dance tradition). Photos here.
*How much of a hopelessly besotted Red Sox fan am I? Enough that I listened to the rebroadcast of the AL Championship Game 7 driving home - - and drove around the block just so I could hear the final out.
*Browsing through a dirt-cheap discount store with family, YD and I spy a display of toy Humvees, which are supposedly "voice-activated" to honk the horn, rev the engine or blare music. These models apparently having been made with spit, tissue paper and deteriorating duct tape, the truck "voice" constantly calls out "What did you say? Did you say 'Music'?" in an almost endearingly plaintive fashion. But YD spoke for us all when she scrawled on a toy "magic message board" conveniently located on the same display: "Honk if you hate Hummers."
*Recent musical acquisitions:
==Mozaik, "Live at the Powerhouse" - - Andy Irvine and Donal Lunny, arguably the cornerstones of the modern Irish traditional music revival, teamed up a few years ago with old-timey virtuoso Bruce Molsky, one-man Bulgarian folk music orchestra Nikola Parov and Dutch multi-instrumentalist Rens van der Zalm, creating an unlikely yet stunningly effective blend of Eastern European, Irish and American music. If you had to hold up a representative track, it would be the seamless Romainian Hora/Black Jack Grove medley, driven by Molsky's surging fiddle and a spot-on oom-chuck guitar accompaniment by van der Zalm. Then again, the segue from Molsky's playing of "Pony Boy" into Irvine's Woody Guthrie tribute "Never Tire of the Road" works just fine, too. Irvine's warm, comradely vocals are in great form, especially on the Macedonian lament "Sandansko Oro," and the Irvine-Lunny bouzouki duet is nothing short of exuberant on "Suleman's Kopanitsa." But the album seems to lose steam toward the end, as the band takes up Planxty classics like "The Blacksmith," which draws unfair yet inevitable comparisons. Would love to hear them with a more extensive repertoire.
==Liz and Yvonne Kane, "The Well-Tempered Bow" - - Almost unbelievably synchronized fiddle duets by the young Connemara sisters, with very capable backing by guitarist John Blake. Highlights include the first track, especially the concluding reel, "Paddy Fahey's," the slow tune "Kusnacht" and the "Bee's Wing" and "High Level" hornpipes.
Dec. 14
Well, guess it's time to scrape off the Pedro Martinez baseball card I taped to my bouzouki case.
Dec. 10-12
*Some good old-fashioned work on our tenant apartment takes up most of Friday evening and Saturday, with a shrimp dinner (plus the missus' terrific curry-mayo dip) as a reward/stimulant. Then Saturday evening, I hie myself out to the monthly Boston Urban Ceilidh Music Party, picking up stalwart teen fiddler Amelia on the way. And good thing, too! Just about all the other musicians at the place turn out to be bagpipers - - not that there's anything wrong with that; after all, I played with a couple of pipers (and * ding, ding, self-promotion here * appeared on their album). While I would certainly have had a good enough time playing along to the likes of "Jig of Slurs" and "Sound of Sleat," accompanying Amelia's compositions and interpretations of Scots-Irish trad pieces is an absolute pleasure.
*Recent musical acquisitions:
==Noah and Andrew VanNorstrand, "Driftage" - - The younger two-thirds of The Great Bear Trio, brothers Noah and Andrew offer up an album of mostly their own material, derived from Irish/Scots/French-Canadian/Scandinavian traditions, all of which they capture and articulate very well with their arrangements on fiddle, fretted string instruments, accordion and percussion: Highlights are the title tune, which features the oom-chuck bowing and scraping style now so commonplace among younger players; "Miracle Fish," with gentle fiddle-accordion flourishes over a rolling guitar rhythm; the stately "Bronwyn"; and "Malacandra," which OD describes as the perfect complement for a bus ride. The musicianship is superb, and the arrangements suit the tunes to a great extent (although the "jazzy" flute interludes tend to rub me the wrong way). The curmudgeon in me, however, can't help but wonder if you need a few more years, and albums, under your belt before you release an album of your own tunes.
Dec. 7
*Hooray, practice - - and a highly productive one at that - - with Heather and Robin, from which results the addition of a reel set and a waltz. And lots of pleasant conversation.
*Book completed: "The Hiding Place," by Trezza Azzopardi - - Memoir/novel of a desperate household: six girls - - later five - - and their manic-depressive Welsh mother, whose Maltese husband is busy embarking on a career in organized crime when he isn't terrorizing his children. The story is told, in a series of impressionistic vignettes, from the point of view of the youngest child, who as an infant is maimed by a housefire and struggles to find her place amidst her sisters, whose ranks include a budding arsonist and a rambunctious hellion. Later in the book, she returns as an adult to her old turf, her memories and perceptions challenged, and the ending is truly moving.
Dec. 3-4
*An unintentional, sentimental journey: I drove daughters out to Worcester, that hill-blessed jewel of Central Massachusetts, for their belated birthday present, an Ani DiFranco concert. That left me with a good three hours or more to kill, an interlude for which I was little prepared. Tried to go see the Dropkick Murphys at Worcester Poly, but the show had started by the time I entered and the organizers had discontinued tickets sales; and, to be honest, I did feel rather self-conscious as a middle-aged man in faded cargo pants, plaid flannel shirt and beaten-up "Guinness" baseball cap among college students. So fine, off I went, driving around streets I used to frequent 20 years ago, as a recently minted journalist and resident of this fair city.
There on College Road, just a few dozen yards from Holy Cross, was the little house I shared with biker couple Ray and Cathy, who seemed to have had some past tragedy or unfortunate event that had fostered a somewhat uncomfortable tenderness between them. Actually, much of that first year my time and focus was divided between there and Boston, where my band members resided. But gradually, I found that, for instance, spending after-hours with my co-workers, of similar age and (low) income level, was a more than reasonable alternative to traversing Route 9. And my relatively brief fling with ambitious, focused med student Diane effectively completed my transition to Worcester.
And there was the apartment at Hitchcock Street, on the third floor of a building perched precariously just past the peak of a hilly street, shared with a pair of young-professional females who - - to put it kindly - - seemed to have little intellectual or cultural pursuits. Not that I paid a whole lot of attention (other than when they concocted a mutual passive-aggression pact over which of them was supposed to clean the kitty litter), since a lot of that year was spent rapturously in love with Patti, whose fey gentleness was complemented by an aversion to complexities in her life. If I had looked hard enough, I might've been able to see the greasy spoon near Clark University, just around the corner from Hitchcock, where I regularly took breakfast on Saturday mornings
Go south, and there's Grafton and Millbury, other fairly regular stops during that era. I stopped at a road-house in Millbury, which seemed to have had a considerable face-lift for what was presumably a rather more dingy interior. Going out, I noticed the music was being provided via a DJ using a lap-top.
Funny how it works, time compressed over the decades. If you had told me, to use the familiar phrase, that only three years after the Hitchcock Road era I would be married and cradling a mewling, squirmy infant (and another two years after that) - - yeah, you know the rest.
*Quite a different outing Saturday night: to the Scout House Saturday night dance, music ably provided by a trio of teen acquaintances. I forsook the dance floor for a place on the stage in the second half, going between mandolin and bodhran as the fancy struck me. Sure hope these kids go to college around here.
