Treasures from the Vault: Hark the Herald Angels Sing...in Chinese!

Time to get in the holiday spirit, people...with help from the Chinese Children's Choir! Proves that Christmas is Christmas, all around the world! Thanks to April Winchell for this lost classic.

Music for a Victorian Home

House concert for the lucky Mattunes ticketholders today; beaglesitting for me. Since last spring, neighbors Greg and Maggie Tucker have been hosting a series of concerts in their Victorian row house on Mattoon Street. Sometimes I attend, and sometimes I just keep Mr. Lucky and Miss Rose out of the vicinity of the music. They're not purebreds, but they have enough beagle in them to bay incessantly even if they're sequestered up on the third floor. With forty strangers in the house, music, and the smells of a gourmet luncheon wafting up the stairs, believe me, they'd bay.

This concert was a bit of a change from the norm: it was a Valentine's Day tea, held at two homes. Music was of the type which might have been heard in these homes when they were new--before TV and computers, when people in neighborhoods like ours frequently gathered together around a piano for entertainment. Goodies were served in both homes, and paintings from three area artists were on view.

Concertgoers began at Larry Picard's place just up the street from the Tuckers. Larry's got the lower two floors of a gracious row house. Paintings of Cynthia Picard, lovely and arresting botanicals, plus a few by Doug Fortin in a more surrealist style, could be viewed while enjoying tea and savories. Larry, who's the organist for South Congregational Church in Springfield, played the piano for this segment. Then the crowd moved to Maggie's for more tea and sweets and more music, this time Larry and Maggie playing two pianos/four hands. Maggie was showcasing paintings of Gina Beavers.

Gina Beavers is a local favorite; she used to live on Mattoon Street before defecting to what she calls "mini-Mattoon" in Holyoke. Most of her work is commissioned, and it's a rare house in this neighborhood which doesn't have one of her paintings in it somewhere. This one is Greg and Maggie's portrait, which usually hangs in their bedroom (can you say "romantic"?), but was rehung in the front parlor for this occasion. That's Gina herself seated to the right.

Next month's house concert is classical guitar and tapas. For that one, Taz can be in charge of babysitting the beagles. I don't want to miss it.

Rabbie Burns Day

Rabbie Burns Day is January 25, but in our neighborhood it was celebrated today. Maggie and Greg Tucker hosted their third Mattunes house concert in honor of Scotland's favorite son. They departed a bit from the usual vegetarian, non-alcoholic repasts to make the occasion as authentic as possible.

It rained in the afternoon, which did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the guests. Glenn Pryor, the musical talent for the event, piped everyone in. He's a formidable talent and the official bagpiper of Yale, piping in graduates at commencement. Today he was piping in the haggis--real haggis, plus a non-revolting veggie version.

Rabbie Burns Day, which is the birthday of the poet born in 1759, involves a speech about Burns (the "Immortal Memory"), recitations of his poetry (like "Address to a Haggis" and "Tam O'Shanter"), singing of his songs (like Auld Lang Syne), a supper of traditional foods (cock-a-leekie soup, tatties and neeps, haggis, and tipsy laird), and numerous toasts drunk with Scotch whiskey.

I'm not sure how much poetry got recited, as I was back at the Emory House, babysitting Maggie's beagles, rather than at the concert. The traditional food was all there, including the horrible haggis, and of course there was magnificent Scottish music played by Glenn Pryor. There was even a "wee dram" of Drambuie despite the ordinarily "dry" nature of the concerts. And hey, if the weather had been nice, it wouldn't have felt like a Scottish affair at all.

Happy Birthday Françoise Hardy

Today is the 64th birthday of Françoise Hardy, the French pop singer of the '60s and '70s. She was the Madonna of her time, eclipsing all other female singers of the era. Unlike Madonna, however, she was--and is--universally beloved.

It didn't hurt that she was possibly the most beautiful woman in France, a talented singer and composer, and, for all that, seemingly unaware of her specialness. She projected an air of sweetness and vulnerability: a musical Audrey Hepburn. Her first hit, "Tous les garçons et les filles" is about watching everybody else her age paired up, while she herself had no one to love her. She wrote it from personal experience.

When Françoise Hardy sang, she looked straight at the camera or the audience. You couldn't shake the feeling she was singing just to you. How many men must have wanted to jump up and proclaim, "I love you, Françoise! I love you!"

Françoise Hardy is married to talented musician Jacques Dutronc. They have one son, Thomas Dutronc, himself a very cool jazz musician. Françoise Hardy famously collaborated at one point with Michel Berger. Here's a song she wrote with him, called Message Personnel:

Au bout du téléphone
Il y a votre voix
Et il y a des mots
Que je ne dirai pas
Tous ces mots qui font peur
Quand ils ne font pas rire
Qui sont dans trop de films
De chansons et de livres
Je voudrais vous les dire et je voudrais les vivre
Je ne le ferai pas,
Je veux, je ne peux pas
Je suis seule à crever, et je sais où vous êtes
J'arrive, attendez-moi, nous allons nous connaître
Préparez votre temps, pour vous j'ai tout le mien
Je voudrais arriver, je reste, je me déteste.
Je n'arriverai pas,
Je veux, je ne peux pas.
Je devrais vous parler
Je devrais arriver
Ou je devrais dormir.
J'ai peur que tu sois sourd
J'ai peur que tu sois lâche
J'ai peur d'être indiscrète
Je ne peux pas vous dire
Que je t'aime peut-être.

Mais si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
Ne crois pas que tes souvenirs me gênent
Et cours, cours jusqu'à perdre haleine
Viens me retrouver
Si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
Et si ce jour-là tu as de la peine
A trouver où tous ces chemins te mènent
Viens me retrouver
Si le dégoût de la vie vient en toi
Si la paresse de la vie
S'installe en toi
Pense à moi, pense à moi.

Mais si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes,
Ne le considère pas comme un problème
Et cours, et cours jusqu'à perdre haleine
Viens me retrouver.
Si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
N'attends pas un jour, pas une semaine
Car tu ne sais pas où la vie t'emmène
Viens me retrouver.
Si le dégoût de la vie vient en toi
Si la paresse de la vie
S'installe en toi
Pense à moi, pense à moi.

Mais si tu...

Kooky Band

I was in Antwerp last Saturday, and the weather was fine. Strolling through the Grote Markt, I encountered this cheerful band of folk musicians. I couldn't put my finger on the style of their very catchy music, but if I had to approximate it, I'd say klezmer, I guess. They had a tuba; they had an accordion. They had half the people in the square following them as they wound their way through it and down a side street.

Belgium is one of my favorite countries. I was curious about it long before I ever visited, since my mother had lived there long ago. I've been making pilgrimages to all the cities she lived or travelled to, but Antwerp wasn't one of them. On this trip, however, I decided it was time to get to know Antwerp.

On a flight from Boston or New York to Brussels, half the people on the plane will be Hasidic Jews. Most of them are headed for Antwerp. It's been the international center of the diamond trading industry for centuries, traditionally controlled by Hasidic Jewish families. In the 16th century, Antwerp was the center of the entire international economy. Antwerp has been traditionally tolerant of Jews and everybody else, so there's been a large and affluent Hasidic presence there for five hundred years.

Stepping out of the train station in Antwerp, you see diamond shops lining both sides of the street. Wouldn't it be cool to wear diamond studs purchased right from Antwerp? If I ever get any money ahead, I'm going to seriously consider it.

Le Tombeau de Couperin

Tonight I spent a lovely evening at the symphony with friend Maggie, enjoying a program of Mozart, Haydn, Hummel, and Ravel. Maggie's a discriminating musician who picks and chooses her concerts carefully and doesn't fool around with the cheap seats. Symphony Hall is a classy venue, newly renovated and with good acoustics. Best of all, it's only five blocks away from my house.

I particularly like the Ravel piece, Le Tombeau de Couperin. It was originally composed as a suite for piano. The six movements of the suite are: Prélude, Fugue, Forlane, Rigaudon, Menuet, and Toccata. Ravel later orchestrated four of these: the Fugue, Forlane, Rigaudon, and Menuet. And, since we were at the symphony, that's what we heard.

A tombeau in the musical sense is a memorial piece. Ravel dedicated each movement to one of his friends who had died in the Great War. The work, however, is anything but funereal. The forlane and rigaudon, for example, are peppy dances; the menuet is a bit more stately, but by no means somber. The menuet is my favorite movement of this suite.

Symphony Hall was built in 1912. The orchestrated version of Le Tombeau de Couperin was first performed in 1920. I wonder when it was first performed in our hall?

Symphony

I got home from a necessary errand in the late afternoon with no thoughts besides cough medicine, flannel pajamas, hot tea and bed. And then neighbor Maggie called. She never knows if she'll have an escort to the symphony because husband Greg is an international pilot. A couple of musically-minded friends had made whiny noises about accepting a free ticket for a Sunday evening concert, so Maggie thought, Who could I call who'd be up for anything, even at the very last minute?

And of course I went. Maggie was under the weather, too, but not about to miss a performance of Lowell Lieberman's latest piece. It's not worth driving to Symphony Hall from where we live (well, we did see some other neighbors who had driven there, but it doesn't seem worth it to us). So we just bundled up against the Arctic cold, stuffed our pockets with tissues and lozenges, and strode over.

Maestro Kevin Rhodes was in fine form. He's a big ham and lots of fun to watch. I can't think of any activity nowadays, with the possible exception of belly dancing or Carnaval in Rio, that affords the opportunity to dress up and be as campy and theatrical as a symphony conductor.

It was a kind of funny program, to me. The opener, Rossini 's Overture to La Gazza Ladra, has been used in so many animation scores that I can't think of anything else but cartoons while listening to it. The Liebermann piece, his Piano Concerto No. 3, Op. 95, premiered only last May, was astonishing--dissonant and lyrical by turns. It was a real workout for the pianist, Jeffrey Biegel, who was all over the piano throughout the concerto. Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4 in F minor, Op. 36 seemed kind of tame by comparison. Biegel played one encore, Abram Chasins's Rush Hour in Hong Kong, a blisteringly fast minute and a half of giddy froth. Of it the composer once said, "Nobody seems to know whether or not Hong Kong has a rush hour. But if there is, or ever will be one, this is what it will sound like!... with all the assurance of one who has never been there...."

Biegel commissioned the Liebermann piece, and got 18 orchestras (including our own SSO) to go in on it. He's been going all over the country (and even overseas, I think) playing this new concerto at all the sponsoring orchestras. He really did sound as though he'd been practicing a lot. He got a standing ovation from almost the entire audience. Maggie and I only get up for the likes of Horowitz or Rubenstein.

Premier Gaou

One of the perks of working from home is listening to loud music whenever I want. My sons are out of range even when they're home, which most of the time they're not. I've got great speakers, several gigabytes of mp3's to choose from, and pretty good acoustics in this big loft of mine. Blasting punk rock, hiphop, or reggae at 3 a.m. feels naughty and nice.

I'm crazy for African music, and I was happy to find a zouglou classic on a world mix CD I obtained recently. I immediately added it to my favorite playlist.

"Premier Gaou" is the biggest hit of Ivory Coast foursome Magic System. Originally released in 1999, it's been re-mixed and re-recorded countless times by MS as well as by other African groups. It sold over a million copies in Europe, the biggest hit song to come out of Africa in twenty years.

"Premier Gaou" is a song about a guy whose girlfriend leaves him, but comes back when he's become famous. Tries to, anyway. The refrain of this incredibly peppy song is "On dit premier gaou n'est pas gaou ô/C'est deuxième gaou qui est gnatar ô. ("They say the first rube isn't a rube; It's the second rube who's an imbecile.") The meaning is pretty obvious: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Zouglou is an ivoirien musical style which dates from the 1990s. It's got a dance beat and subject matter dealing with the trials of everyday life. The lyrics are usually in French street slang, or they can be in an African dialect. The ô at the end of nearly every line is a musical convention, making understanding or translating the lyrics confusing if you're not aware of it.

A gaou is a country bumpkin--naive or ignorant. It can be used rather affectionately to mean a regular guy (like paisan in Italian). Gnatar, on the other hand, is far more pejorative--idiot or imbecile. It's a corruption of "Qatar."

In the United States, it's Polacks. In Iran, it's Turks. And on the Ivory Coast, apparently, it's Qatars. Dress it up in any beat, any language, dig down deep enough, and it's still the same old story.

The U.S. music industry is huge, and we're not terribly interested in anybody else's music. More's the pity. African music especially has universal appeal. "Premier Gaou" has a theme anybody can identify with--the games people play, especially in love--and the entrenched attitudes embedded in all language. Above all, there's the beat. Even if you've got no idea what they're saying, it's near impossible to sit still and listen to this song.

Do Not Stand/Do Not Dance/ Do Not Sit Too Close

Final concert of the City Block series tonight at Stearns Square in downtown Springfield. Series standbys Roomful of Blues were on tap; they're the only band that has played for every one of the seven years. A big crowd assembled to hear them; the ugly fence was up; and I was there promptly at 7:30 with a group of friends. I positioned myself right up front and way off to the side so that I could take some pictures without being too intrusive.

I got some pretty good shots of the band (they've got a snazzily photogenic horn section, and the lead vocalist, Mark DuFresne, was wearing blue suede shoes). Then I flattened myself against the side of the stage to listen to the rest of the concert. Friends Laurie and Lorna had disappeared to somewhere in the midst of the assembled lawn chairs on a hunt for their beverages.

One of the cops I had so magnanimously let off the hook in my blog-rant of a week ago leaned over to me. "You've got to sit down," he ordered me. "Other people can't see." I couldn't imagine whom I might be blocking from my spot, or why everyone had to have their fat fannies in chairs at a swinging outdoor musicfest, but I did obediently sit down.

The minute I hit the grass, the bearded, kerchiefed aging boomer behind me leaned forward and said in my ear, "Are you trying to sit on my fucking lap?" What are these people eating for breakfast--ground glass? I scooted as far forward as I could, so that my nose was an inch or two from the back of somebody's lawn chair. And there I cringed until a guy a few bodies away hiked his lawn chair over a bit and motioned sympathetically to me.

Sliding over as inconspicuously as I could, I noticed that Laurie and Lorna were back--standing in exactly the spot I had been ordered not to stand in, cheerily chatting over the ugly orange fence with the same cop.

So what am I, chopped liver?

Sitting in Theodore's after the concert, I listened to Laurie bemoan the gradual erosion of the dance space by invading lawn chairs over the course of the season. "The band last week was fantastic!" she kept saying. "But noone could dance! They're a swing band, for crying out loud! Everywhere they go, thousands of people get up and dance! Except in Springfield."

So the concert season goes out with a bang, or with a whimper, depending on whom you ask. I know I've had enough, if it means rubbing elbows with terminally crabby people. I can hardly wait to see what ten more months of rabid anti-terrorist patriotism/chauvinism is going to do to people's temperaments, before next year's season begins.