We cared, together.

Eric Whitacre’s Virtual Choir 3.0, “Water Night,” streamed live last night online from Lincoln Center. My aging, temperamental laptop and equally frustrating internet connection miraculously made peace with each other, allowing me to watch all 3700+ of us, with a celebratory glass of wine in my hand. The video is now here.

My post, “Virtually Awesome,” talked a bit about how I found Virtual Choir 2.0, ”Sleep.”  That video was a tiny virtual shrub poking from the side of the sheer mountain face of despair I was then falling down, and I held onto that shrub fiercely while I found a toehold. I regretted publishing “Virtually Awesome” so quickly after recording my tenor part for “Water Night,” though, because my writing focus wasn’t right. The focus shouldn’t have been me, it should have been Eric Whitacre and those people from all over the world who gave themselves into that gentle, calming, reassuring gift of “Sleep.”

After last night’s “Water Night” premiere, Lincoln Center hosted a three-person discussion among composer John Corigliano, “Water Night” composer and conductor, Eric Whitacre, and Chris Anderson, conference curator from TED. These three talented and insightful individuals clearly realized that the Virtual Choirs were ground-breaking and universe-denting, and they seemed just as awed and humbled by them as the participants themselves have been. Notes I scribbled while watching them include, “The singers cared about one thing, and they cared together; there was a profound oneness; the singers are a part of a larger family; no singer was left behind; music changes how we respond to things — it opens us up; the singers are part of something bigger than themselves, which is a key to happiness.”

 

Corigliano, Whitacre & Anderson

 

I’ll probably never find my little square among all those other videos comprising the whole “Water Night,” (though, based on a static group photo, I am 4th row from the bottom and 27 places from the left edge), but that’s okay. I know I’m there and  care about that one bigger thing, and I’m surrounded by literally thousands of virtual singing family members who also care about that one bigger thing that took on a life of its own, and who support and improve my performance a thousandfold. I took part in this because of them, not because I wanted visual recognition, or to stand out from everyone else. I wanted to inhale the breath of our community, and release it into the same magical sound with my family from Brazil, El Salvador, Namibia, Hungary. Our breath, our determination, our triumph, are now a part of this universe, as the rising moon in “Water Night” watches over all of us.

A Baker’s Dozen

n    (Mathematics & Measurements/Units)   thirteen

[from the bakers’ former practice of giving thirteen rolls where twelve were requested, to protect themselves against accusations of giving light weight]

 The current trend seems to be toward publishing lists – 10 things women wish men knew ( toilet lids down, use napkins, no means no, never enough shoes, no empty jars in the fridge, yes I cry, no you can’t fix everything, finish what you start, 20 years is long enough to wear a free tee shirt, sometimes the box is better than what’s inside);   50 best places to retire this week (there’s so much more to it than cost of living, weather, and population count so laughably emphasized in those worthless articles) ; 7 deadly sins (as listed at www.deadlysins.com: anger, gluttony, sloth, envy, lust, pride, greed – how many evil badges have you earned? Collect all 7!).

 I’ve compiled my own baker’s dozen list of what I’ve come to appreciate much more over the past year, in completely random order. Here we go:

 TED.com – I have a link to this on my blog. Go there. Watch a lecture. Think about the presentations. Listen to the understated Ric Elias talk about a life-changing airplane trip, check out what Jill Bolte Taylor brings on stage, experience the wistfulness of wishing you’d known Ben Dunlap’s friend. Broaden a horizon, maybe your own.

 CSA – Community supported agriculture. In wide-eyed, city-dweller wonder and ignorance, I signed up to receive an assigned share of locally-grown produce. Every other week I show up at a parking lot with my bag and weigh potatoes, arugula, oyster mushrooms and many other foods I would never purchase in a grocery store because I don’t know what they are. It’s a very Dickensian experience, particularly when holding up my plastic container for the farm person to fill with apple cider from a blue 55 gallon drum. I am now addicted to lettuce and realize kale can actually be eaten; you can do more with rhubarb than make pie; watermelon contributes to a tasty chutney. And mushy cantaloupe blends well with Skyy Citrus Vodka.

 BEER – What a heady love affair I’m in. I want to sample every last brew from every micro and craft brewery in the United States (except maybe Clown Shoes, based on a near experience and general clown loathing). And I want to try them all by the end of the week, which I guess is a bit unrealistic (though still a noble goal).

 ROBERT EARL KEEN – Why did it take one of the most heart-breaking times of my life to wrap his music around myself like hot caramel around an apple? I know every word of “Merry Christmas from the Family.” If you haven’t heard his newest release “Ready for Confetti,” stop, do not pass go, do not collect $200 until you listen to it.

 LEATHER – Somebody should have dope-slapped me years ago on this one. I still harbor an aversion to our leather couch, but I have no such problem with my new leather jacket, and those absolutely necessary black leather boots I had to have to wear with that (unnecessary though shivery-comforty) jacket. There’s a safe feeling, but a bold one, too, when wearing leather. Accept no imitations. Thank you, Ebay. Sorry, Elsie.

 YOU TUBE – I could not have survived the last year without YouTube. From 50 States of Confusion to Rodrigo y Gabriela to Nora the Cat to Steve Jobs to Felonius Monk to Eric Whitacre, I’m rounding out and enhancing my heretofore shockingly circumspect and limited education.  I’ve learned how to fold tee shirts and tents, seen that a smartphone might outsmart me, heard that more people answered “a joint” than “the church collection basket” when asked to name something that gets passed around, and discovered I can do a decent Bruce Springsteen imitation to Mike’s Neil Young. All these have been witnessed from my office chair. Free.

 BRAS THAT FIT – Not a pleasure, but less than a bed of nails. You can fill in whatever else at this point.

 LOW SLUNG BOOT-CUT JEANS – As with leather above, sometimes my learning curve is so steep I tip over backwards trying to climb up the slope. These gems take at least 10 years off my middle aged frame. They’re comfortable clothes that actually look good (no humility there, but I’m discarding that with everything else these days, except the bras that fit. For now, anyway.)

 THE BLUES – I’ve said it before but I’m sayin’ it again. Koko Taylor and Big Mama Thorton, if I could find a way, I’d inhale your essence and hold it in my lungs. No exhaling.

 HUMMUS – I’m going to have to put a time lock on the refrigerator. Beyond delicious, and there’s a rumor it might be healthy.

 NPR – Say what you want about government funding, biased news, etc. etc. NPR is about so much more than news. Never in a million years would I have otherwise discovered The Decemberists, The Bridge School Concerts, a Smoot, and more movies than I can name (including I Love You Philip Morris; Enron, the Smartest Guys in the Room; and The Battle of Algiers). NPR has made me more thoughtful and open to other viewpoints, but it hasn’t helped me understand Lady Gaga or that New Jersey girl, Snookie or Nookie or whatever her name is. No matter where I am I can usually find an NPR station with familiar voices and worthwhile stories.

 MY BLOG – This year’s completely unexpected lifesaver. Some years back I wrote bad fiction. Sometimes the blog seems like bad fiction. The Magic Bus Stop is a deep, murky pothole swallowing everything I can pour into it. Somewhere in that big dark space, my missing identity lies covered by Solitude, Sadness, Emptiness, and Lost Dreams. The more I write into the blog, the closer to the surface my identity rises. Must write, must write, must write.

 FRIENDS & FAMILY – Some old, some new, some borrowed. . . Sisters of another mother; friends online and in town; family found as the scales fell from our eyes leaving us bloody and bowed and leaning on each other – whether you know it or not, each of you at some point has propped me up. You are all on the Bus with me, and I’m better for having you beside me.

 

 

 

 

I might have the blues.

I was once a somewhat musical person. That most delicate of instruments, the accordion, “ran” in our family. My father played briefly when he was young, my oldest brother played, and I was the last to take up that weighty mantle. I’m sure the squeezebox contributed to my somewhat, ahem, flattened front anatomy, not to mention arms that seem rather too long. I attribute the extra length to lugging around that boulder of an instrument. If you want a girl child of normal build and curvature, have her play piano or flute.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate the music lessons my parents gave me, but they served me well later in life. When I joined the Ultimate Party Choir at St. Cyril’s of Alexandria in Houston, I could read music, blend my voice with the alto beside me, and hold my own at the tailgate parties in the church parking lot after Easter vigil mass (till the police arrived to shoo us away for being too loud and probably drunk).

Did I really think I could play this?

I ate and drank classical music. I slept with Dvorak, a few of the Bachs, the odd Mozart or two — all issuing forth nightly from my bedside radio (remember radio?) If I could understand the words, i.e. the song was sung in English, my nose would twitch upward. Only Latin or German met my standards, and preferably would be written by long dead white guys. There might be a guilty bit of Gilbert & Sullivan, but you’ve got to think mighty fast to be able to keep up with those words. Better yet, there’d be no words at all — the best pieces were strictly instrumental, and God forbid the instruments be anything other than acoustic.

At the middling age of 40, I took up classical guitar. It was really a desperate attempt to kick-start a brain atrophying from years of mind-numbing clerical jobs and living in the suburbs. It took five years of lessons for me to figure out I was probably not meant to play a stringed instrument. If the notes were anywhere above or below the five lines and four spaces of the musical scale, I was basically lost. My instructor (bless him for trying) was a stickler for tone, and I was lucky just to be able to even get the notes, let alone make them sound pretty. I developed serious anxiety about attending lessons to the point where my hands shook so much I could hardly play at all.

That's me to the left with the kids in the guitar ensemble.

The one scenario where I could play was with a group or in a duet. Just for the heck of it, I enrolled in a community college music class where I played, nominally, with a group of long-haired young men about half my age who were waaaaay better at guitar than me. I was the only female in the class and would sit in the back with an older guy who played bass who was also there just for fun. I drove 60 miles one way to participate in that class. And it was fun, right down to the little recital we had at the end of the session.  My most important part in that recital was playing a low “E” for about 60 measures of “Great Gate of Kiev” from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. But I played that “E” really well and was proud of it. Mike came with friends to our little recital, bringing me a bouquet of yellow silk roses like I was Somebody, and the four of us vacated to the parking lot to send a cork flying and drink champagne after the musical ensemble took its bows.  I still have those roses.

I want to do something musical again, but I haven’t figured out what that is. With a twinge of sadness, I’ve set aside my once-beloved classical music. It’s just become far too regimented and controlled for me. Now I’m rolling like a dog in cat poop in the blues and Texas music. There’s a wildness and raw, unrestrained emotion and big time fun in both of those genres and I’m mining them to the utmost.  I realize I’m late to the game but I feel really bad about Stevie Ray Vaughan. He died (August 27, 1990). And I’m running as fast as I can to catch up my music education, blasting “The Road Goes on Forever” at top volume in the Magic Bus (which has an excellent sound system, especially with the windows open in a really quiet neighborhood), and listening to Muddy Waters sing “Mannish Boy,” and snickering at Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog”, which ain’t nothin’ after seeing Big Mama Thornton perform it.

But that leaves me wondering where I fit in. Can I reinvent as a blues singer?  I’ve noticed if I drink enough vodka my voice gets exponentially lower but stronger so maybe it’s time to start wailin’. I guess I’ve been doing that for a while (wailing, that is); I just need a musical angle. What would Big Mama do? I bet she’d put on a big ol’ grin, blow on that harmonica, and sing Elvis out of the building. I think I’d look great wearing that hat.

You ain't nothin' but a hound dog!