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Moon Landing

Moon Landing

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To continue with the theme of wonder, there is now a U.S. spacecraft on the moon for the first time since 1972. It landed Thursday on the lunar surface, near the south pole. 

The space craft was built and flown by a Texas-based company, Intuitive Machines, with NASA equipment on board. There were some tense moments at first due to issues with the craft’s navigation and communications systems. But those appear to be resolved and the robot lander, Odysseus, is now transmitting signals.

Surely it’s worth a song. I’m imagining this one set to the tune of Yusuf/Cat Steven’s Moon Shadow. 

We’re being treated to a moon landing, moon landing, moon landing. 

Leapin’ and hoppin’ with a moon landing, moon landing, moon landing.

And if we ever lose our way, tip our craft, botch our stay. 

And if we ever lose our way — let’s hope we can launch once more. 

Happy Birthday, Rhapsody

Happy Birthday, Rhapsody

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Yesterday, after the errands were run and the groceries put away, I sat down at the piano, pulled out the ancient sheet music and played the opening run. For the next 30 minutes, I bungled my way through one of the most important and beautiful pieces of American music ever written, George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

A hundred years ago to the day, on a snowy February 12, 1924, Gershwin played the piece at Aeolian Hall in New York City in a concert billed as “An Experiment in Modern Music.” Paul Whiteman had commissioned Gershwin to write the piece, and Gershwin had done it in just a few weeks, roughing out the original idea on a train trip from New York to Boston. “I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America, of our vast melting pot, of our unduplicated national pep, of our metropolitan madness,” Gershwin said.

He had created a masterpiece. Though no one knows exactly how the piece sounded that day (it wasn’t recorded and Gershwin improvised parts of it), a recording made a few months later is thought to be a close replica. The piece was an immediate success, with multiple recordings, and Paul Whiteman made the Rhapsody the theme song for his radio show. Gershwin had created an anthem for the Jazz Age. 

Later versions of the Rhapsody give it a more lush orchestral sound, but the original performance brought out the jazzy brightness of the piece in all its syncopated glory. Even hopscotching through the music as I was last night, cherry-picking the easier sections, I felt its magic in my bones. 

(Thanks to Wikipedia and The Syncopated Times for info and art, and to Hot Jazz Saturday Night for the inspiration.) 

Catching up on Taylor Swift

Catching up on Taylor Swift

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I’ve just spent more time than I meant to reading about Taylor Swift. I’m not exactly at the vanguard of popular culture, but the juggernaut that is Taylor + Travis, especially as we race toward Super Bowl Sunday, seemed like something I should know just a little bit about. 

This led me to watch a few music videos, do a little googling (there’s a Taylor Swift class at Harvard and, of course, she was Time‘s Person of the Year for 2023) and feel just a little more a part of the cultural zeitgeist. 

I’m still mostly in the dark about the superstar and her super-athlete boyfriend, but I’m curious enough that I may tune in on Sunday, if not for the football then for the celebrity dish.

(Photo: Patrick Smith/Getty)

Standing Ovation!

Standing Ovation!

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My rule for a standing ovation is this: if the performance deserves one it should lift you up, almost a levitation, and you should find yourself standing as if by magic. 

I don’t always follow this rule. You stick your neck out when you leap to your feet before others. And you seem the curmudgeon when you stay seated while everyone else is standing. 

Every so often, though, conditions are right. The music moves you, you’ve cleared your lap of program and purse, and when the last notes sound you’re ready to jump up and start clapping. 

That’s what happened last night when the National Symphony Orchestra played the final bars of Shostakovich’s Symphony Number 5.  It’s a prodigious work, one I’ve loved since I first heard the Leonard Bernstein recording of it at my friend Barbie’s house in high school. 

I listened last night with significantly altered ears, heard the suffering and the pathos of it, the triumph, too. I felt the shiver down the spine, the frisson that cannot be faked. I knew that when it ended I would be on my feet.  It was the least I could do.

(The Kennedy Center Concert Hall stage, January 25, 2024)

Stand Up

Stand Up

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We were more than two-thirds of the way through the program last night when the orchestra struck up the familiar prelude. It was the Hallelujah Chorus of Handel’s Messiah; time to stand up.

The tradition of standing during this song began, so it’s said, when King George II was so moved that he rose to his feet during the London premiere, and the rest of the audience followed suit. 

Last night’s hall was almost filled and the conductor encouraged us to sing along, too, a challenge only a few of us were brave enough to accept. Still, it was impressive to see hundreds of people on their feet as the chorus belted out the familiar words: 

“King of Kings, forever and ever. And Lord of Lords, hallelujah, hallelujah. And he shall reign for ever and ever. … Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!”

Every Verse

Every Verse

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“Second verse, same as the first,” goes a line from an old Herman’s Hermits song. 

Two verses used to be the limit for the processional and recessional hymns at my church. But there’s a new music director in town, an organist no less, and he plays all four verses of every entering and leaving song.

Is it my imagination, or is there a certain restlessness as we plunge into verse four of the entrance hymn, a narrowly avoided temptation to glance at the watch? 

As for the recessional, people are voting with their feet. This morning, about half the congregation left before the last notes of “The Church’s One Foundation” sounded and the postlude began, organ chords thundering down from on high. 

This is how we’re supposed to leave the sanctuary, I thought, as I made my way to the holy water font and out the door — caught up in a marvelous swell of sound. 

(This organ is from San Bartolome Church, Seville, Spain, not my church. I wish!)

Walking Bass

Walking Bass

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When I need ballast and rhythm, when I require that steady beat, there is usually one composer I turn to — J.S. Bach. I cue up the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 because it has the peppy piccolo trumpet I once heard can pop the blood vessels of its players, so high are its notes, so forcefully must one blow to make them sound. 

But also because, like its confreres, No. 2 has a steady walking bass line, the solid quarter notes perfect for pacing one’s self, for staying in line, for moving along. 

Although now associated with rock or jazz, the walking bass line has long-ago origins. Some theorists consider Bach its early master. And while this is important for musicians to know, it’s equally essential for walkers. We need a beat that will pulse all the way down into our metatarsal bones. 

Although the trumpet notes of Bach’s Brandenburg No. 2 dance around on high, underneath them is the dependable meter of the walking bass. It’s a winning combination: the flourishes of the former, the steadiness of the latter. Together, they keep me going.

(Can’t imagine walking very far with this bass!)

For the Birds

For the Birds

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It’s a fact of life that if your dear old doggie has passed away, some of the attention he used to enjoy will be passed along to the pets who remain. And so, during our recent Savannah getaway, the parakeets had timed radio music to brighten their day and accompany their chirps. 

Here are these tiny creatures, the two of them together weighing less than a first-class letter, with Beethoven, Vivaldi, Rimsky-Korsakov, Chopin, Rachmaninoff and scores of other composers blaring from the stereo. The house was filled with sound, whether they wanted it or not. 

Luckily for them, the radio shut down a little before 7 p.m. each evening, which means they were spared the news of the day. 

(Toby during a contemplative moment)

A World Without …

A World Without …

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I was driving down the road, a crowded highway that required my (almost) undivided attention, when Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony came on the radio.

This is the warhorse of all warhorses, the world’s most famous symphony, whose opening notes — dot, dot, dot, daaaaasssshhhh — became associated with victory in World War II, the short, short, short, long of the letter V in Morse code corresponding with Churchill’s two-finger V for victory sign.

It’s not my favorite Beethoven piece. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would be: The second movement of the Seventh Symphony, which first came to life for me in the basement of the University of Kentucky’s performing arts building?  One of Beethoven’s piano sonatas, which I have tortured for decades with my amateur playing? Or maybe the magisterial Ninth Symphony?  That’s a logical candidate.

But no. It was his work in toto I considered as I drove, pondering what the world would be like without Beethoven, which is unimaginable. How many other artists have similarly enriched our lives? We all have our lists, whether they contain de Kooning or Flaubert, Springsteen or Brahms. There is an endless supply of artist names to list, of course. I just randomly chose these, except for Brahms, of course. 

(Brahms portrait by Hadi Karimi)

Jollity

Jollity

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Last night under the stars, a glimpse of the planets:  At Wolf Trap Center for the Performing Arts, the National Symphony Orchestra performed Gustav Holst’s “The Planets,” accompanied by NASA photographs, with my favorite movement, “Jupiter: the Bringer of Jollity,” scoring the most applause. 

Jollity is defined as “the quality of being cheerful.” Can a planet be cheerful? Perhaps if it’s named after the king of the gods. Or if it’s a gas giant more than twice as massive as all the other planets combined. 

One reason not to be jolly: what looks in photos to be a big red eye. It’s not the result of excessive interplanetary partying, but a centuries-old storm bigger than Earth.

And speaking of Earth, the only planet Holst omitted from his piece, today at 7:15 a.m. EST is the one moment of the year when most of its people are bathed in sunlight — an incredible 99 percent of us. A reason for jollity, to be sure. 

(Photo: Courtesy NASA)