Elaine, let’s get the hell out of here.

card_catalog_2I don’t like country music. The yodeling vocals, the whining guitars, the relentlessly predictable lyrics about faithless babes, abusive bubbas, pickup trucks, disreputable nightspots in the middle of nowhere … An hour of this, and a visitor from another planet would marvel that everything south of the Mason-Dixon line had not long since slid off into the Gulf of Mexico, crushed into slurry under the weight of all that drama and all those tears.

“Wait just a gosh-darned minute!” I hear someone shouting from the back row. “Yes, a lot of country music is like that, but it’s not all the same. You’re being unfair.” Continue reading

Journal: Tuesday, October 25

musicHave you ever wondered why we use the term “conservatory” to refer to a music school? The word conjures up images of greenhouses and environmentalist GoFundMe pages, but what exactly is being “conserved” at the Oberlin Conservatory, the Boston Conservatory at Berklee, or the Paris Conservatoire?

In fact, the Italian word conservatorio means “orphanage”, and in its day the Ospedale della Pietà in Venice was one of the most famous, largely due to the presence there of the Red Priest, Antonio Vivaldi, who joined the staff in 1703. The Ospedale took in orphaned girls and trained them to sing and play instruments; under Vivaldi the music program there became one of Europe’s greatest cultural attractions. The well-bred and the well-heeled flocked to concerts at which a nun, dressed all in white with a scarlet pomegranate blossom behind her ear, would conduct performances, often of music written by the flamboyant master himself, while the musicians and choir remained demurely hidden behind a screen that allowed the sound to reach the audience but kept the girls out of view. Continue reading

Unintelligible at any speed

Satan's little helpers? The Kingsmen, 1965.

Satan’s little helpers? The Kingsmen, 1965.

In my younger days, my father often expressed concern that I was becoming prey to a languid intellectualism that he feared would leave me ill-equipped for life in the Real World in the unlikely event that I should ever shamble into it. In retrospect, he was probably correct: fortunately, he had a plan to address the problem.

Jobs. Lots of jobs.

No job was too small, too filthy, or too ill-suited to my temperament (which was, admittedly, opposed to work in almost any form) as long as it paid. From the moment I was old enough to get a work permit, Dad was unsparing in his efforts to get the most out of the twenty-dollar fee. Loading hay, working on a garbage truck, cleaning offices, flipping burgers: I was a busy boy. Continue reading