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This Time With Music

This Time With Music

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This should have been yesterday’s post. But yesterday I hadn’t yet watched a televised recording of what I witnessed in person the evening before, albeit from a distance.

It’s been our habit lately to watch the 4th of July fireworks on D.C.’s mall — the same ones that appear in living rooms across the land — from a ridge in Arlington, across the Potomac. While this provides a hassle-free and far-off glimpse at the gorgeous display, it doesn’t supply a soundtrack. 

I got that yesterday, when I took in the replay of what I watched live Tuesday night. This time there were no toddlers jumping on and off my lap, but there was Renee Fleming singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and the National Symphony playing “1812 Overture.” 

It was fireworks with music. It was what I’d been missing.

Endangered Radio

Endangered Radio

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“How long till Tucumcari?” 

“Why is it so hot back here?”

And … “Can you turn up the radio?”

These aren’t my children’s comments about long-distance travel; they’re my own. Or at least what can I remember of the cross-country travel my brothers and sister and I took as kids. 

We were stuffed into the backseat and nether regions of the old “woody” station wagon and driven more than two thousand miles, from Lexington, Kentucky to Hollywood, California, and other western destinations. The view out our windows was priceless: forests and grasslands, mountain and prairie, red rocks and cactus; the whole continent unfolding before us. And the soundtrack of our travels? AM Radio.

That’s going to change soon, according to a report in the Washington Post. Some automakers are already omitting AM Radio from their electric vehicles’ dashboards. And Ford is eliminating AM radio entirely.

There have been protests from station owners, first responders, listeners and politicians of all stripes (it’s a rare bipartisan issue), saying that the move may spell the end of AM radio entirely. 

I don’t listen to much AM radio — until I’m on a long-distance car trip. And then I tune into these staticky stations to catch the weather, oldies and talk. AM stations give you a taste of the places you’re driving through.  I’m sorry to hear that, like so much that is local and authentic, they’re endangered, too.

My Man

My Man

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A late post, but I can hardly let the day pass without acknowledging that it’s the 190th birthday of the composer Johannes Brahms, who I once described (cringe) as “my man” (see profile).

That may be flippant, but I have always loved Brahms’ symphonies, concertos, chamber music and other works. I even try to play some of his piano pieces when I’m feeling confident. 

What caught my eye this evening was this rather studly likeness of Brahms, based on a 3-D render, created by artist Hadi Karimi, who uses 3D modeling programs to recreate artists of the past using photos (if there are any), portraits and death and life masks. 

In the text that accompanied his Brahms creation, Karimi said this project was relatively easy because by the mid-nineteenth century photography was popular enough that there were several taken of Brahms. For this rendition, Karimi pictures the composer in his 30s. Quite a departure from the bearded fellow we usually see. 

(Top photo: Hadi Karimi. Bottom photo: Wikipedia)

Follow the Yellow-Flower Road

Follow the Yellow-Flower Road

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This is what happens when I walk. I can be thinking some perfectly sane and responsible thoughts and then a scene like this will trigger the ear worm. For the rest of the walk, I hear the high-pitched voices: “Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road.”

Only I substitute “flower” for brick.

Because, really, isn’t that what you think when you see these bright buttercups, so plentiful this year? Maybe not. But if it’s folly, it’s a folly that flows from a flower, so all is forgiven.

I did follow the yellow-flower road, and it gave me a good workout. 

The Happy Key

The Happy Key

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The wind chimes languished when they hung from the deck railing. They were close to home but blocked from the breeze that would make them sing. 

For a while now, though, they’ve dangled from a low limb of the witch hazel tree, far enough out in the yard that the wind catches them, moves their string and clapper. When I’m out in the yard weeding or picking up sticks I hear their song. 

The chimes have been restrung and refurbished several times, but I still remember unwrapping them, the little note that explained they were in the “happy key of D Major.”

Is D Major a happy key? I’ve never minded it. Only two sharps. Not as easy as G Major (one sharp) or C Major (all white keys) but easier than A (three sharps) and E (four). 

I did a bit of googling, learned that Franz Schubert called D Major the key of triumph and hallelujahs. That’s good enough for me. 

Moon Over Wolf Trap

Moon Over Wolf Trap

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A last gasp of summer, an outdoor concert at Wolf Trap, where cellist Yo-Yo Ma and clarinetist Paquito D’Rivera played together like … beans and rice, which they explained briefly before they played are their nicknames for each other. These names also showed up as titles for movements in the piece they performed, which D’Rivera composed. 

At Wolf Trap it’s never just about the music but the experience: picnicking on the lawn, waiting for the performance and the darkness. 

Last night a pale waxing moon appeared just as the hall was filling up, and as the players tuned (so different to see the National Symphony in its shirtsleeves), the moon rose and brightened. By the time we left, sated with the music and the evening, it was high in the sky, lighting us home.

This Old Resume

This Old Resume

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The musical “Chorus Line” contains a song with the lines, “Who am I anyway? Am I my resume?”  I thought of those lines recently when I came across one of my first professional CVs, a document listing jobs I’ve long since forgotten — writing scripts for a public television station — and interests — music and reading — I’ve continued to enjoy but have long since ceased to record. 

And then there were the personal details. I listed my birthday, marital status, even my height and weight. Were these  required? I wasn’t seeking a position as an airline flight attendant but a high school English teacher!

A key phrase in these old resumes was “agreeable to relocation.” And looking at a list of the places I sent them — Wyoming, California, New Mexico — that could be assumed. What a quaint concept in these days of remote work. 

And what a quaint document in general, this old resume, with the blotchy printing and the inclusion of my middle name “Leet,” which I’m proud to bear but haven’t used in decades. 

Am I my resume? Not this one.

Extraordinary

Extraordinary

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In the continual quest to match music to landscape, today’s choice might seem a bit odd. Who tramps through the suburbs listening to Brahms’ German Requiem?

Someone who loves the piece and believes it ennobles whatever they see while listening to it, I suppose.

And so the stilt grass, that long-legged invasive, looked more like slender bamboo fronds waving. And the Joe Pye weed was more elegant, more proudly purple, than its usual shaggy self. 

The shaded trails embraced me, the meadow views broadened my vision, and the pond gleamed golden in the morning light. 

It was an ordinary walk made extraordinary by the music in my ears. 

Ancient Airs

Ancient Airs

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How is is that a piece I’ve heard for years suddenly amazes me? Have I just grown into it? Have I never truly listened to it before?

Respighi’s “Ancient Airs and Dances” has reached up and grabbed me by the lapels. It’s seducing me with its melodies, calming me with its chords. It’s leaving me wanting more. 

There are three suites, I learn. Respighi, a musicologist, based the pieces on Renaissance lute songs. But what is old becomes new in the hands of this brilliant orchestrator. The sprightly opening of the first, the second with its expansive denouement, and the third, described as the most melancholic. Yes, I hear those minor keys. But I also hear grandeur and joy. The recording I find orders them 1, 3 and 2, a suitable reordering, I think.  

I read more. Respighi died in 1936 at age 56. His wife, Elsa, a former pupil 14 years younger, outlived him by 60 years. A friend said their marriage “functioned on an almost transcendent level of human and spiritual harmony.” Elsa made sure that her husband’s legacy was secure. She died in 1996  at age 102. 

The Concert

The Concert

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The crowd began to gather 30 minutes before the performance, a ragtag group of concert-goers, including students, friends of the musicians, and a few tourists thrown into the mix.  It was our last night in Portugal and we had been wondering how to spend it when I happened upon an announcement of a concert on the grounds of the Quinta da Regaleira, of spiral staircase fame. What fun it would be to return in the evening, just as the last light was slanting onto the twisted spires and tree trunks! 

That was before we arrived to find a black-clad musician (perhaps the cellist?) exclaiming to the guard on duty that, at least from what I could make out, something was missing at the venue. Forty-five minutes later, we were escorted through the grounds of the Quinta right up to the stage where the Damas de Sao Carlos, a 10-member all-female ensemble (plus a male harpsichordist) had taken the stage. The musicians came from Hungary, Poland, Bulgaria and Portugal. They had decked out their concert black with scarves of scarlet, blue and green. 

We had barely taken our seats when they launched into “Spring” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” How the music filled and animated that special space! How good it was to hear those familiar notes in that unfamiliar setting. And how strangely comforting: it reminded me that just as music transcends all languages, travel transcends all cultures. It draws us together. It makes us, however briefly, one.