Admin: Cleaning Up Some RAMH Clutter

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Running After My Hat, like certain real-world counterparts, has always had a back room or two into which its proprietor secretly hopes no one will stumble, because they’re filled with old junk, and sometimes even with new junk. Broken knick-knacks and furniture. Tumbled piles of books. Telephone handsets which lack base stations and/or wires. Family photos, fifty-year-old report cards, greeting cards from people who no longer share the faintest remembered connection with you, paintbrushes stiff with dried varnish, board games which have lost their dice or their, um, actual boards.

One such back room has always been the “About” page.

I’ve spent some time sprucing that up. It looks much the same, but the verbiage has been cleaned up. And it’s a little less preciously self-conscious, if you know what I mean. If you’ve been visiting here for a while, I doubt that you’ll find anything new, except new expressions of what you already knew. But for anyone who’s a stranger, or imagines him/herself to be, I’ve added four new and (I hope) not-too-preciously-self-conscious pages about me.

(Aside to those of you who do visit regularly, and expect to continue: this will save you from many tedious first-person-POV posts in the future.)

The new pages are:

We now resume our regular broadcast schedule, such as it is. Until the next interruption.

Which may, or may not, have something to do with how the joint looks. (I’m still terrified to touch it.)

Long, Languorous Tomorrows

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[Image: “August Morning,” by Tracy, from “August in Ohio” at the Seasons Flow blog]

[Below, click Play button to begin Summertime (Charlie Parker). While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 2:46 long.

[audio:summertime_charlieparker.mp3|titles=’Summertime’|artists=Charlie Parker]

From whiskey river:

Late August

Let me enjoy
this late-summer day of my heart
while the leaves are still green
and I won’t look so close
as to see that first tint
of pale yellow slowly creep in.
I will cease endless running
and then look to the sky
and ask the sun to embrace me
and then hope she won’t tell
of tomorrows less long than today
Let me spend just this time
in the slow-cooling glow
of the warm afternoon light
and I’d think
I will still have the strength
for just one more
last fling of my heart

(Jon Bohrn [source])

…and (italicized portion):

Directions

You know the brick path in back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window,
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk up into the woods you come
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond that you arrive
at the bottom of that sheep’s head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab hold of a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is as high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.

The best time is late afternoon
when the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy
falling of a cone or nut through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
piercing the ground with your stick

(Billy Collins [source])

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Midweek Music Break: “I’m Beginning to See the Light”

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While working on the What’s in a Song posts about “Body and Soul,” my Big Band playlist reminded me of a song which threatened to swamp my attention to the nominal subject of the moment. “I’m Beginning to See the Light” was a recording for Harry James’s band in 1945, with a vocal by Kitty Kallen. (It had also been a #6 hit for its composer, Duke Ellington, and #5 for Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots.)

Unlike “Body and Soul,” this one has an unmistakable melody: each stanza consists of three lines repeating virtually the same tune, followed by a simple refrain of the song title. You couldn’t escape the tune if you tried.

But somehow the song doesn’t become boring, and I think the reason for that lies in the lyrics. The Poets of Tin Pan Alley, by Philip Furia, says:

Ellington’s luck with lyricists hit its peak in 1944 when Don George gave an exuberantly casual setting to the catch-phrase “I’m Beginning to See the Light”…

What is even more artful about the lyric is George’s witty use of a list structure; not only does he develop a catalog of “light” images, he refreshes the tritest metaphors by reading them in literal terms — from stars in the eyes, to a suggestive “afterglow,” and the paradoxical “now when you turn the lamp down low I’m beginning to see the light.”

I think Kitty Kallen’s voice helps, too — the playful, flirtatious spin she puts on the phrasing. Here’s her version:

[Below, click Play button to begin I’m Beginning to See the Light. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 3:12 long.

[audio:imbeginningtoseethelight_harryjameskittykallen.mp3|titles=’I’m Beginning to See the Light’|artists=Harry James Orchestra + Kitty Kallen]

Lyrics:

I’m Beginning to See the Light
(Duke Ellington, Harry James, Johnny Hodges, and Don George;
as sung by Kitty Kallen)

I never cared much for moonlit skies
I never winked back at fireflies
But now that the stars are in your eyes
I’m beginning to see the light

I never went in for afterglow
Or candlelight on the mistletoe
But now when you turn the lamp down low
I’m beginning to see the light

Used to ramble through the park
Shadowboxing in the dark
Then you came and caused a spark
That’s a four-alarm fire now

I never made love by lantern-shine
I never saw rainbows in my wine
But now that your lips are burning mine
I’m beginning to see the light

And here’s Ella Fitzgerald with the Ink Spots:

[Below, click Play button to begin I’m Beginning to See the Light. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 2:45 long.

[audio:imbeginningtoseethelight_ellafitzgeraldinkspots.mp3|titles=’I’m Beginning to See the Light’|artists=Ella Fitzgerald + The Ink Spots]

Whiplash Misreadings

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So I’m in bed last night, reading a little bit (as is customary) before shutting out the light. I finish one article and move to the next. The title of this new article is “Sleeping with the Enemy”; and the subtitle, “What happened between the Netherlands and us?”

The Netherlands? I wonder. An enemy? Are we having problems with the Dutch which I have somehow overlooked?

So I start to read the article. It opens like this:

The Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology, in Leipzig, is a large, mostly glass building shaped a bit like a banana. The institute sits at the southern edge of the city, in a neighborhood that still very much bears the stamp of its East German past.

Suddenly the needle in my reading mind jumps the groove: squwrawk! I think to myself, Wait, why does this start out by telling me about a building in the former East Germany? Then I back up to the very first words and add: …and what the hell, an institute for evolutionary anthropology?!? What’s that got to do with geopolitics?

Then I back up even further, to the New Yorker‘s category heading: annals of evolution, it says.

So that solves the mystery of the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology. But now I’m even more confused. Did we evolve from the Dutch? Say what—?!?

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What’s in a Song: Body and Soul (2)

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[Image: “Body and Soul’s” opening measures, highlighting the dotted eighth rest]

From the wonderful Jazz Standards site’s musicological writeup:

Because of its complex chord progressions, “Body and Soul” remains a favorite of jazz musicians. The unusual changes in key and tempo are also highly attractive and provide a large degree of improvisational freedom.

“Unusual changes in key and tempo” might be what I think of (in my musical ignorance) as a weird near-tunelessness. At practically every turn, the song slides around what I’d expect to hear. I can’t imagine anyone whistling it while they walk along, y’know? And the weirdness all starts with that first note.

Well, technically it’s not a note at all. You can see it circled in red at the top of the post: it’s a rest.

Even more technically, it’s a “dotted eighth rest,” i.e., it’s supposed to be held for a duration of one-and-a-half “eighth notes,” or five-sixteenths of a whole one. That musicians can make anything at all from arithmetic like this is why they’re musicians and I’m not.

Which itself is weird, if you think about it. I mean, that’s the actual melody there — what a singer is expected to sing, and how. But that opening rest says to the singer: Wait! Don’t start singing right off the bat. Pause for a split-second. Then start.

And then there’s the so-called bridge…

As I mentioned in Part 1, the lyrics are hard to pin down because they’ve been so elaborated upon by so many performers. In its most common form, singers do two verses in the same “melody,” followed by a verse in a second melody, and wrap it all up with a repeat of the first one. This song structure is often depicted like this: AABA. The second melody — the B — makes up the bridge: a bit of music to carry a listener from the opening of a song through to the end.

“Body and Soul’s” bridge (“I can’t believe it/It’s hard to conceive it…”), unlike those A sections, does seem to have a real melody. And it, well, lilts.* Lyrically, the singer seems to be having second thoughts, trying to convince him- or herself that the sense of abandonment can’t be real. There must be some other explanation — “Are you pretending?” — only to conclude, with a desperate, almost audible thud in the final A verse, You do know I’m still yours, right? Please please please…?

Whatever the musical technicalities, for whatever reason, history makes one clear point: “Body and Soul” is much-loved not only by vocalists (who can appreciate not just the musical nuances, but the emotional ones in the lyrics), but by instrumentalists.

—-

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Make Your World

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[Above: an image designed to induce binocular rivalry: an attempt by one’s senses to forge a single thing from two conflicting images. See here for instructions on how to use.]

From whiskey river:

When you have lived as long as I, you will see that every human being has his shell, and that you must take the shell into account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circumstances. There is no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we are each of us made up of a cluster of appurtenances. What do you call one’s self? Where does it begin? where does it end? It overflows into everything that belongs to us — and then it flows back again. I know that a large part of myself is in the dresses I choose to wear. I have a great respect for things! One’s self — for other people — is one’s expression of one’s self; and one’s house, one’s clothes, the books one reads, the company one keeps — these things are all expressive.

(Henry James [source])

…and:

We have to recognize that the world is not something sculptured and finished, which we as perceivers walk through like patrons in a museum; the world is something we make through the act of perception.

(Terence McKenna [source])

…and:

Kneeling

Moments of great calm,
Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for the God
To speak; the air a staircase
For silence; the sun’s light
Ringing me, as though I acted
A great rôle. And the audiences
Still; all that close throng
Of spirits waiting, as I,
For the message.
Prompt me, God;
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.

(R. S. Thomas [source])

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Looking for a Writing Prompt?

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Long-time RAMH friend Marta has started a new blog. It’s based on something other writers may have thought, from time to time: I bet in another world I’d be appreciated more than I am in this one…!

Marta’s taken it a step further: writing the blog as if her famous-mirror-counterpart — called simply “M.” — were writing it.

[In the following paragraph, both “M.” and “Marta” are fictional characters. “Marta” may be based on the real Marta, but there are probably points of difference, too.]

The entries so far have described how she, Marta, first learned of the existence of M.: the arrival — obviously through some rupture in the space-time continuum — of a fan letter, to M., in response to the latter’s most recently published title. An interesting twist: M.’s book is not a book which Marta never heard of. It’s from one of Marta’s own manuscripts, which she hasn’t yet shown to anyone. M. has also done usual blog-type posts, given that she’s a blindingly successful novelist of course. In the most recent, she recounts how her editor has helped her shop for a place to live on what appear to be the streets of Greenwich Village. And she’s acquired a stalker.

Marta — the real one — is enlisting interested readers and writers in creating the new blog. She’s called for them to write fan (or other) letters to M., as if they were people who know (of) her in this alternate universe… real letters, preferably handwritten (real-world Marta seems to love all paper artifacts).

To participate, just drop her a line via the comments at that new blog — called Famous in Another Universe, btw — or at her regular place, writing in the water, and she’ll work out the details with you.

And of course, taking part in this project or not, you may enjoy just reading along as it grows. Start here (the post called “The Wormhole and the Envelope”) and just click the “next post” links below each entry.

________________________

P.S. I haven’t cleared any of the above with Marta, so for any number of reasons this post may not hang around for long. :)

 

Midweek Music Break: Fearing & White, “Under the Silver Sky”

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It’s worth remembering that outstanding music is made by professionals other than big-name bands and frontmen — successful or not. There are of course the headliners, the acts which other performers open for. Then there are smaller-scale artists who consistently get great reviews and have loyal fan bases; think Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, say, or Mary Gauthier (a recent find — thanks, Greg!).

And then there are all the others: studio musicians, accompanists, songwriters for other people…

From the Fearing & White Web site, their bios:

Fearing is well known within the international folk and roots music community as one of its most accomplished songsmiths, storytellers and guitarists. A double Juno award winner in his native Canada, he has experienced commercial and critical success, both in his solo career and with roots/rock supergroup Blackie and The Rodeo Kings. Along the way, Stephen has toured and recorded with everybody from Merle Haggard to Shawn Colvin.

Northern Ireland born and raised White has earned a global following for blending folk and pop stylings with a poet’s sensibility. Working with the great names of Irish music — Sinead O’Connor, Van Morrison — and writing with the likes of Peter Gabriel and Neil and Tim Finn, Andy has won Ireland’s top songwriting awards and toured the world many times. A published author, his recent on the road journal/novel 21st Century Troubadour has scored rave reviews.

These two guys have been around. (And my guess is: they’re just fine with that.) Friends for years, they have sometimes toured or otherwise played together, and recently released their first duo album, Fearing & White. (They’ve also got multiple solo releases between them.) Here’s one of the songs from the middle of the playlist, “Under the Silver Sky”:

I’ve found no lyrics for this anywhere, and — for now — I’m not willing to trust any transcription I might make myself. (Not while wearing a loaned and clearly less expensive hearing aid. :)) So for now maybe you can just be satisfied, as am I, with the upbeat, ramshackle-road-trip but tightly played feel of it.

(Good interview with them at the Maple Mixtape site, dedicated to “exposing great Canadian music one track at a time.”)

Update: Thanks to Beat Surrender, again, for introducing me to performers who so neatly fit my frame of mind.

Victims of Fashion (Men’s Department)

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Someone, no doubt, has taken a census of active bloggers and other social-media types, focusing on gender. I don’t know what the breakdown might be; maybe I’m stereotyping at least one sex, if not both, but I would not be surprised to learn that more women than men contribute to the ebb and flow of online conversation.

And I’m not complaining, not at all. Totally fine with it—

Well, one little corner of human existence goes sadly unremarked upon because of the gender imbalance. And because (at least in the West) gender-based cultural constraints forbid discussion of it.

I speak, of course, of men’s underwear. I speak in particular of… The Slot.

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