Discography - Week 37

And now it's New Year's Eve.  I've proposed before that folks who teach for a living have a different biological clock than the rest of humanity because our year doesn't begin and end at the same time, so the New Year is more of an interruption than the beginning and end of anything.  That said, it's still an elegiac time of year and it's difficult to not get reflective.  As always, the other members of the Discography group were much more creative than some rusted historians, and this is a wonderfully inspired week - and a great way to ring out a wretched year.

Or, as Mike Kelly expressed aesthetically during a particularly inane and endless faculty meeting:

It shows that friends can redeem anything, and I am blessed to count you all as my friends.

Gary Beatrice

Beck, Debra

Sometimes I get inspired and send G a whole bunch of songs in a short period of time. I did that not too long ago and as a result you got Yeah Yeah Yeahs on Christmas Eve and they aren't the slightest bit related. I've intentionally sent Beck's Debra on the last day of 2016 as a nod to dearly departed Prince.

One of the many things that make Beck so brilliant is his ability to take so many different influences in so many genres and mash them into a unique sound. Debra is one of the few songs in which he doesn't do that. I hear Debra as a straight Prince tribute / send up, from the funky and sensual organ to the falsetto vocals, to the funny and naughty lyrics. Who but Prince would begin a song

            I met you at JC Penny. I think your name tag said "Jenny".

Or better yet

            Cause when our eyes did meet, girl you could tell I was packing heat. Ain't no use in wasting time getting to know each other.

But best of all is the chorus punch line, one that only Prince could pull off:

            I want to get with you
            And your sister
            I think her name's Debra.

I hope you all have a wonderful 2017.

Dave Wallace

Joe Jackson, I'm The Man

As we prepare for the inauguration of our new president, I will be devoting my song posts this month to cynicism, disillusionment, and apocalyptic doom, all of which match my current mood.  I start off with Joe Jackson's furious ode to modern-day snake-oil salesmen, which seems an appropriate description for Donald Trump.  

Right now

I think I'm gonna plan a new trend

Because the line on the graph's getting low

And we can't have that

And you think you're immune

But I can sell you anything

Of course, the song is insanely propulsive, with the band repeatedly threatening to spin out of control, but somehow holding it together until the end.  The baseline throughout is just tremendous.

Kelly Thomas

Tom Waits, A Sight for Sore Eyes  

No one wallows quite like Mr. Waits. I admit, I'm a contender, but he's still the best. Because this is my least favorite time of year, New Year's Eve is a welcome relief: it means the holidays are officially over at the stroke of midnight.

In 1988, I was in love with an anarchist political science professor 14 years my senior, and moved to Montpelier with him. We lived in a tiny apartment on State Street and commuted to Burlington together in his El Camino wagon to teach at Trinity College. He owned 37 guns and we spent many a winter evening loading shotgun shells together, which taught me the true meaning of "shooting your wad." Loving Frank meant I didn't see him over the holidays, as he was away in Maine, hunting moose. He hunted all seasons: bow, rifle, muzzle-loader, which he considered his "high holy days." We always had venison. And PBR, before it was hipster beer. Ours was a tempestuous affair and when we'd quarrel I took refuge by filling up the big claw-foot tub and playing my Best of Tom Waits tape on the boombox. Alone on New Year's Eve 1988, I made myself a nice dinner, opened a bottle of champagne, phoned everyone I loved, then took a bath with Mr. Waits.

Frank and I parted ways shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall, went on to find our true loves, and stay in touch, however infrequently. He emailed me a couple of weeks ago that he finally finished his book, an ecological interpretation of the Constitution:  America's Environmental Legacies: Shaping Policy through Institutions and Culture.  It only took him 29 years, but god love him, he persisted.       

Listening to this song again, with its references to baseball greats I had little clue about as I pruned up in that big tub, I’m struck by the eloquence of the bar chat phrases, so spot on and evocative of dives where I plopped my ample Irish arse on a bar stool next to my friends, laughing, confessing, bullshitting, flirting, crying or debating. Having recently lost two of those folks, its boozy longing fits in a deeper way than it did in 88. "The old gang ain't around everyone has left town." I'll be toasting those palookas tonight. I hope they died with the radio on. 

Nate Bell

Attempting to shake off the rust after a hiatus of festive stress...Apropos as the theme of the first selection for week 37 is rust...in a fashion.

500 Miles to Memphis, 1947

This week I had the occasion to drive through Portsmouth, Ohio, and the now unfortunately named named Ironton. I drive by many neat, tidy, inexpensive houses, many maintained with what what I imagine might be fanatic devotion.  Around the homes...wasteland.  In a very literal sense, land, wasted, and land laid to waste.  The crumbling skeletons of industry jut from the shoreline like the bones of a long dead Beast, now as out of place, archaic but massive, a monument to nothing else but the beast's own demise, and just as relevant now as mastodon bones to those living there. 

" Oh river town what's left intact?
That way of life is now long gone
Along the river there lies a town in ruin
What was once good has gone away
You made steel for near thirty years along the banks of the Ohio
But they don't want you
They don't need you anymore
Gonna shut you down
All that's left is the old and they're dying

It was a good living...but that was a long time...ago"

I like this song, it's simple and mournful.  I truly appreciate the way that the song doesn't aggrandize the past of the river towns, and don't make any attempt--by the singer or the implication--that there is a dream of return, or hopes for old glories.  The song simply states a fact, and bleeds out the sadness of a region plainly, clearly, with the pain, anger, and finally, the acceptance of the death.  It is a dirge to the death of a livelihood and a region, no flowery phrases or false flattery, just music in place of tears.

Which leads me to the next entry.  At the New Year, some may dwell on hopes denied or chances lost.  Others put a rhinestone gloss on the future, where everything is bright, shiny, and ultimately false.  I like the previous entry in that it mourns the past without completely gilding it, or completely submerging the sense of self and worth in the loss.

This next song, though I can't claim to completely interpret it correctly, is about a girl who dwells on her past, and engages in all the self destructive behaviors one does when thinking about what one has lost:

500 Miles to Memphis, Broken,Busted, Bloody

In my interpretation, the song is sung by a person who has been similarly been beaten down, has a few things wrong at the moment, yet still sees some hope and potential.  In less precise phrasing, he is still up for a relationship, just as soon as she gets her head out her ass and stops brooding about her old boyfriend:

"Sitting in a mustang she does a line of cocaine
Not thinking about the future, just thinking about the past
The letter says invited and we would be delighted to throw back a few with you
Tonight it's on
Baby's gone
Well she's been spending all her time just thinking about the love she lost many years ago
But she aught to know that she can pass the next eight bars
and find nothing but booze and pain and heartache on the way

Got a broken car with a busted wheel, got a bloody hand that won't heal
That's my best excuse

Well I didn't say I'm past that point of caring about you anymore
But something's got to give
If you're going to live up to the good times that you promised me
I know that I'm not going to be around for very long
I get tired of sitting on this barstool thinking about you"

This New Year's, even though I am one of the junior members, I think it's safe to say each of us might have a broken car, a busted wheel, or a bloody hand that won't heal.  But we carry on, and convince those around us to live up to the good times promised.  And, noted Musicologists, I believe most of us do a fine job of work living up to the good times, and squeezing the fun out of life, maybe because of our scars rather than in spite of them.  Happy New Years, and Cheers.

Miranda Tavares

Flogging Molly, Whistles the Wind

Well, it's the end of the year, and we're all looking back before we look forward. This song has so many layers it can mean anything you want (pretty sure it's about David King's virtual exile from Ireland after he had some issues with his VISA, but he was nice enough to put things in soft focus so that it could still strike a chord with some of us less worldly, more...well, boring folk). I love the lyrics, and there are particular lines that jump out at me depending on my mood, but what I really love is the music. 

Flogging Molly generally rocks a little (or a lot) harder than this, which I usually prefer, but this song is just beautiful. I can't even begin to pick out how many and what types of instruments are involved in weaving this tapestry (hey, I do humor and sarcasm; when it comes to describing beauty, I'm forced to rely on cliches). I fully admit that my utter lack of musical talent extends to being unable to recognize basic instruments (I can pick out the drums! And the vocals!), but, in this case, I'm fairly certain I'm not the only one struggling. All of the melodies in this song meld so seamlessly into each other that the finished product feels solid, almost three dimensional. I do know that I hear an accordion, and, no disrespect to Weird Al or Tim Brennan, but I would never have expected to describe accordion music as beautiful. So, fist bump for that. 

The song stops short of haunting, and I like that, too. It feels more accessible that way, more like a sturdy friend's arm around your shoulder than a hazy spectre's finger beckoning you from afar. It doesn't feel depressing, either, despite the lyrics. The richness of the music keeps the whole from sounding lonely and abandoned. Whether you take the lyrics as mourning the loss of your love, or your country, or yourself (it is the end of the year, after all; are you who you want to be?) you are assured that you are not the only one feeling these things. You have a veritable symphony letting you know that we've all been there. 

Dave Kelley

"Baby, baby drove up in a Cadillac

I said, "Jesus Christ!  Where'd you get that Cadillac?"

She said "balls to you daddy"

She ain't never coming back."

The Clash, Brand New Cadillac

By the time The Clash released "London Calling", they had moved far beyond their early days as a pure punk band incorporating many other forms of music like ska, reggae, and even jazz.  They also brought a level of musical and lyrical sophistication that would have seemed out of place on their early pure punk releases.  To my mind and ear, Joe Strummer and Mick Jones were, for a period of time, one of the greatest musical collaborations we have seen.  My selection this week is a cover song that has no deep meaning or social commentary of any sort.  Basically his girl, or by now ex-girl, rolls up in a brand new caddy and tells him to fuck off.

I picked this song for the sole reason that I fucking love it.  The guitar intro reminds me of a cross between Dick Dale surf guitar and the theme song for the sixties Batman TV show.  The guitar solo is a classic Chuck Berry riff.  If you are playing air guitar to this song I believe a Chuck Berry duck walk is mandatory.  This is the song that the John Travolta and Uma Thurman characters would have danced to in Pulp Fiction after they got sloppy drunk.  Music does many great things.  One of the things that Rock and Roll can do is shoot a bolt of adrenaline into our weary bloodstream.  (Think the needle jabbed into Uma's chest.)  I do not do five hour energy drinks, but love me some three minute energy music.  If I had any musical talent and played in a cover band, this tune would get played every damn night.  As Bruce says at many of his shows, there are no guarantees about eternal life, but we are alive RIGHT NOW!  This song makes me feel alive.  Not bad for a three minute, three chord song.   

Kathy Seiler

Discography - New Year's Eve

It's been a bumpy week filled with all sorts of things I didn't want, or expect. This week has also been one of introspection and physical and mental "cleaning out" that always seems to follow Christmas for me.  On weeks like this I often listen to the blues and music with meaningful lyrics. On my better weeks I listen to gangster rap and drop it low while cooking (just ask Phil, and one of those posts will happen in the future). This wasn't one of those weeks! In this post, I give you another Jill Scott song A Long Walk  - one of my favorite pieces of poetry by her. I love the picture it paints, the expression of the joy of the company of another person, both in speech and in silence. It''s a really hard song to sing, but you will find me belting it out. running out of air when it plays. Enjoy.

Phillip Seiler

It seems like a good year for contemplation and reflection and what better way to experience that then through music. There was a tremendous amount of great music this last year (and has there ever been a year with two exceptional albums from artists in the year of their death like this one?) But the album that most infected me this year was Darlingside's "Birds Say". Darlingside is an all string band from the Boston area with layered, harmonic vocals. The album is beautiful and my favorite track is the finale, "Good For You" but that is not the song I am writing about today. 

Instead, I am reminded, as I search around youtube, that a great song can be made even better by a great video.

Darlingside, God of Loss

I love this song. It has a beautiful, simple message and the vocals are perfect as is the tempo. But the video takes it to an entirely different level. Perfect in its simplicity. Perfect in its story. Great art transcends. Just watch and enjoy...or weep as I did.

Mike Kelly

Death Cab for Cutie, The New Year 

Unless you're a Trump supporting Cubs fan who hates listening to cool music, it's pretty clear that 2016 has been a fairly shitty year.  Fuck 2016 has become a cliche even before 2016 is over with and I'm not going to pile on with this post.  

Instead, I'm going to talk more generally about how overrated New Years is in both theory and in practice as well as how this song's argument is that the arbitrary demarcations marking the passage of epochal time doesn't change the way people roll through the world in any meaningful way.  Most things (for better or for worse) are consistent.  

Let's quickly reset what we all know about New Years:  It's amateur hour where people who don't typically get after it are plied with over-priced drinks that took 20 minutes to get and proceed to squeal and hug while secretly wishing they were back in bed without all the trappings of fanciness. "Let's pretend we are wealthy for just this once ... as 30 dialogues bleed into one"  Ben Gibbard sings.  

However, what he's really pointing out is that the same problems, desires and wishes that were there a day ago are still shaping our minds and hearts and the fact that something all of a sudden seems different because you need a new calendar is a mirage.  In fact, he mourns that passage of time and actually wants to go back to "the old days- where I could travel just by folding a map" and where "there could be no distance that could hold us back."   

As someone who has never strayed too far from school, this time of year has always been more like halftime than the end of something so this song has always served as an appropriate long game.  So instead of turning this up real loud and celebrating something supposedly new, we should celebrate the journey.   Happy New Year, I guess.

Gary Scudder

Jackson Browne, These Days

I went through a huge Jackson Browne phase in late high school and and in college, although it didn't make it past Running on Empty, which ended up being a prophetic title for an album and a career.  Still, I liked his early albums quite a bit, and I downloaded a couple of them recently (I had his first five in album format, but they disappeared over the years) and some of the songs still resonated quite nicely.  These Days has always been my favorite Browne song, and it even provided the name for a comic strip that I drew for my college newspaper.  A friend of mine once joked that my dream is that when I die everyone on the planet will each owe me $10.  I won't want the money, but it's essential that over the years I would have done more for them than they did for me.  I suspect that this observation is very true.  Now, why is this the case?  Doubtless part of it is vanity, which speaks to a certain weakness of character, although there's obviously more to it than that.  The excellent Dave Kelley has often opined that none of us ever survive our childhood, and, as with most things, he's correct.  Somehow my parents, later strengthened by Marcus Aurelius and even later by religious precepts, convinced me that you always have to give more than you receive, which I think is a logical and fairly noble way for anyone to lead their lives, and it would almost instantly solve all the problems the world faces.  Now, do I pull this off?  Clearly, I don't, and it remains sadly aspirational.  The other side of this is that my parents, and mainly my father, inculcated in me the belief that it is a sign of weakness to ever ask for help, which has left me pretty crazy.  When my marriage was breaking up I ended up sleeping on the floor of my office for five months because I could not tell anyone that I needed help.  All of this spins back to the Jackson Browne song because it is a reflection on the times that we've failed others, and that's something that really tears at me, especially at this time of the year.  It seems to me that despite the best of intentions I've failed so many people, some of them spectacularly.  So, if I have a New Year's resolution it would be to work harder towards that $10.

My Year With Proust - Day 331

At the sight of a young secretary with a particularly intelligent look, M. de Vaugoubert fastened on M. de Charlus a smile in which a single question visibly shone.  M. de Charlus would perhaps readily have compromised someone else, but he was exasperated to feel himself compromised by a smile on another person's lips which could have but one meaning.  "I know absolutely nothing about the matter.  I beg you to keep your curiosity to yourself.  It leaves me more than cold.  Besides, in this instance, you are making a mistake of the first order.  I believe this young man to be absolutely the opposite."

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 699

Following hard on the heels of yesterday's post the conversation between M. de Vaugoubert and M. de Charlus continues, with the former figuring out that the latter was, to use a term that Communists always used, a fellow traveler, or, in this case, a "Charlus."  However, making that discovery does not eliminate the danger, because there are still rules to the game.  M. de Vaugoubert overplayed his hand, leading to a remonstrance from the Baron.  This brings us back to Proust's earlier discussion of the "solitary," wherein individuals end up isolating themselves because of fear of disapproval, in this case from without and from within.

My Year With Proust - Day 330

   While, before she had even left the entrance hall, I was talking to Mme de Guermantes, I could hear a voice of a sort which henceforth I was able to identify without the least possibility of effort.  It was, in this particular instance, the voice of M. de Vaugoubert talking to M. de Charlus.  A skilled physician need not even make his patient unbutton his shirt, nor listen to his breathing - the sound of his voice is enough.  How often, in time to come, was my ear to be caught in a drawing-room by the intonation or laughter of some man whose artificial voice, for all that he was reproducing exactly the language of his profession or the manners of his class, affecting a stern aloofness or a coarse familiarity, was enough to indicate "He is a Charlus" to my trained ear, like the note of a pitch-fork!  At that moment the entire staff of one of the embassies went past, pausing to greet M. de Charlus.  For all that my discovery of the sort of malady in question dated only from that afternoon (when I had surprised M. de Charlus with Jupien) I should have had no need to ask questions or to sound the chest before giving a diagnosis.  But M. de Vaugoubert, when talking to M. de Charlus, appeared uncertain.  And yet he should have known where he stood after the doubts of his adolescence.  The invert believes himself to be the only one of his kind in the universe; it is only in later years that he imagines - another exaggeration - that the unique exception is the normal man.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 688-689

Proust revisits the theme of the loneliness and alienation that homosexuals felt in society at that time.  He suggests, "The invert believes himself to be the only one of his kind in the universe. . ."  However, he then writes that, " . . it is only in later years that he imagines - another exaggeration - that the unique exception is the normal man."  Clearly the actual number is somewhere between one and the universe, and through a process of maturation and a Hegelian dialectic swing we arrive at the actual number.  But, how does one arrive at that number?  Proust implies that as he grew older, and especially once he stumbled across the assignation between M. de Charlus and Jupien, that he could just tell, even when that person was trying "to pass" as the "normal man."  He continues, "How often, in time to come, was my ear to be caught in a drawing-room by the intonation or laughter of some man whose artificial voice, for all that he was reproducing exactly the language of his profession or the manners of his class, affecting a stern aloofness or a coarse familiarity, was enough to indicate 'He is a Charlus' to my trained ear, like the note of a pitch-fork!"  A conversation between M. de Vaugeoubert and M. de Charlus provides the evidence for Proust's analysis, with M. de Vaugoubert being another "Charlus" wondering about the proclivities of the Baron.  "But M. de Vaugoubert, when talking to M. de Charlus, appeared uncertain.  And yet he should have known where he stood after the doubts of his adolescence."  We take a step back from the philosophical and focus in on the personal and the painful.  How does one find companionship and common ground in a cold world, with the decision having profound negative consequences?

My Year With Proust - Day 329

That great game of hide and seek which is played in our memory when we seek to recapture a name does not entail a series of gradual approximations.  We see nothing, then suddenly the correct name appears and is very different from what we were trying to guess. It is not the name that has come to us. No, I believe rather that, as we go on living, we move further and further away from the zone in which a name is distinct, and it was by an exercise of my will and attention, which heightened the acuteness of my inward vision, that all of a sudden, I had pierced the semi-darkness and seen daylight.  In any case if there are transitions between oblivion and memory, then these transitions are unconscious.  For the intermediate names through which we pass before finding the real name are themselves false, and bring us nowhere nearer to it.  They are not even, strictly speaking, names at all, but often mere consonants which are not to be found in the recaptured name.  And yet this labour of the mind struggling from blankness to reality is so mysterious that it is impossible after all that these false consonants are really lifelines clumsily thrown out to enable us to seize hold of the correct name.

Marcel Proust, Cites of the Plain, p. 675

For fairly obvious reasons this is making think of the brilliant movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, where I learned that Jim Carrey is actually a very talented performer and was reminded, once again, what an extraordinary actress Kate Winslet is.  Occasionally I will show this film in Concepts of the Self.  It makes me think of the concept of "hiding" memories from the world.  We all hide pictures and emails from ex-girlfriends in misleading file names on our computers and phones, but I think we also do that with memories.  Like the misleading files, these memories are stored in a different life "folder," where others are not allowed to access.  And just as you don't allow your current girlfriend to roam around on your computer or phone, you don't allow her to roam around in your memories.  You avoid topics or you change the subject, and you protect those "files."  She would love to erase them, but just as you would have trouble doing so, you also don't want to do so. That person and that memory created you, and you, in a very real sense, wouldn't exist without that person and that memory.  That said, in the process of hiding them they often are hard to track down, and then they, or in this case she, comes rushing back into your life, much like the first time you met her.

My Year With Proust - Day 328

Any mental activity is easy if it need not be subjected to reality.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 674

Yes, I'm featuring the seemingly impossible: a sentence from Proust that isn't three pages long.  However, I'm championing it, not because of its brevity, but because of its brilliance.  I may now have to start out every class with this line, right before I write Observe/Analyze/Argue on the board for the first of thirty times.  This line may also perfectly sum up the idiocy of the recent election.

Tour Guide, theoretically

As I've often stated, I'm a big believer in recreating yourself every five years or so, otherwise we have a tendency to get bored with ourselves; and we me it usually just means bad behavior.  It seems that this five year window has become Gary Scudder, Tour Guide, in that I'm leading a lot of student trips.  Two springs ago it was Cyndi Brandenburg and I leading nine students to Jordan, which we threw together on the fly and with absolutely no promotion. Last spring Steve Wehmeyer and I took nineteen students to Zanzibar.  A month ago Mike Kelly, Kelly Thomas and I led twenty students to Spain and Portugal.  This coming March Cyndi and I are leading eighteen students to India and Sri Lanka.  I've recently put in proposals for two trips for next year: a return to Zanzibar with Steve in the form of a December trip that combines my Aesthetic Expression in the fall with his Sacred & Secular in the spring; and then Cyndi and I are leading a return trip to Jordan for March 2018.  Currently I'm also working on proposals for two trips for the following year: another linked December trip, once again with my main travelling companion Cyndi, to India and the Maldives (linking her Ethics and the Environment and my Heroines & Heroes); and then a March 2019 trip to Namibia, with, potentially, Cyndi, but I've started a competition with my friends wherein if they are waiting for me when I get off the plane in Windhoek in May then they get to accompany me on the Namibia trip (could be Cyndi or Steve or Kathy Seiler or Mike Kelly or even Mike Lange, who doesn't want to lead a student trip but has threatened to meet me at the airport just to throw a monkey wrench into the system).  That brings me up to the fall of 2019, which will either be another Thanksgiving trip, maybe back to Jordan (I can see the poster now: Thanksgiving in the Wadi Rum) again or a return trip to Spain and Portugal - or another linked December trip, maybe back to Zanzibar, or Samarkand, or, if it ever settled down, Yemen, but who knows?  And then, I'm done, at least that is my intention.  In January 2020 I turn sixty, and I've set that as the line in the sand when I stop leading student trips.  That would mean that I would have led nine different student trips, each to a different country or with a different theme, which is somewhere between cool and amazing and idiotic.  Now, why do I not want to lead trips after I turn sixty?  Part of it relates to the fact that at a certain point the students will, quite rightly, stop wanting to spend time with me, especially on a foreign trip.  And maybe, just maybe, I'll want to stop spending time with them.  It may also be that at that point I'll be more interested in just travelling on my own, and I'll really pick some challenging locations.  Having said all that, none of my friends are buying the January 2020 deadline anyway.  As we know, I will not age gracefully, so either the deadline will hold because in my mind I need something more, or it won't hold because someone will have made a comment that I'm too old to attract students on a trip or, for that matter, to lead a trip, and my ego will kick in and I'll be leading trips until I'm seventy (but not past January 2030, and I mean it!).

Morgan, one of the students on the Spain/Portugal trip, decided to act as if her were my arranged chauffeur. I guess it's still better than the guy who met me in Zagreb, Croatia (I think) with the sign that said "Straebag".

My Year With Proust - Day 327

On the former hypothesis - if the future Mme de Vaugoubert had always been so heavily mannish - nature, by a fiendish and beneficent ruse, bestows on the girl the deceptive aspect of a man.  And the youth who has no love for women and is seeking to be cured greets with joy this subterfuge of discovering a bride who reminds him of a market porter.  In the alternative case, if the woman has not at first these masculine characteristics, she adopts them by degrees, to please her husband, and even unconsciously, by that sort of mimicry which makes certain flowers assume the appearance of the insects which they seek to attract.  Her regret at not being loved, at not being a man, makes her mannish.  Indeed, quite apart from the case that we are now considering, who has not remarked how often the most normal couples end by resembling each other, at times even by exchanging qualities?  A former German Chancellor, Prince von Bulow, married an Italian.  In the course of time it was remarked on the Pincio how much Italian delicacy the Teutonic husband had absorbed, and how much German coarseness the Italian princess.  To go outside the confines of the laws which we are now tracing, everyone knows an eminent French diplomat whose origins were suggested only by his name, one of the most illustrious in the East.  As he matured, as he aged, the Oriental whom no one had even suspected in him emerged, and now when we see him we regret the absence of the fez that would complete the picture.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 670

Proust arrives at the Guermantes reception, and proceeds into another, at first blush, interminable, or to use the words of my friend David Rous, "impenetrable", soiree.  With Proust you have to be patient, as there are always brilliant observations in even the most "impenetrable" section.  Here he is reflecting, I would argue rather clumsily by Proustian standards, on the old chestnut about how long-time couples begin to mimic each other.  It made me reflect upon my own long-time relationship, my marriage.  For most of it we led a very isolated existence, and I had come to believe that I was actually a very introverted person, and it became part of my own personal narrative, so much so that when someone once pointed out to me that I was one of the most social people she knew I thought it was ridiculous.  However, since our separation I've often found myself being the ringleader of our crew in generating, often out of whole cloth, social events for no other reason than for us to spend time together.  Ignoring the earlier observation, I thought that maybe it was the natural response to so many years looking inward.  However, I've since talked to people who knew me when I was younger who assured me that I was an actively social person then, and was very "popular," a view that I don't remember, and which fills me with dread.  Still, why did I go through such a long period when I was seemingly closed off from the world.  My ex-wife was an intensely private person, and I'm sure in some ways I adapted to that - which is not a criticism of her because she gave me far more than she ever took from me - but it has to be more complicated that that.  Over the years I've taken several of those personality tests and I inevitably test out as being introverted, although that can also be a self-fulfilling prophecy if you view yourself a certain way and are bright enough to figure out the point of the test.  So, did I actually blossom as I hit my 50s (which, truthfully, has been a wonderful decade, and, with the exception of general physical decline, has been the best years of my life)?  And, if I did blossom at this later stage, is this a result of maturity or wisdom or just not caring what anyone thinks?

My Year With Proust - Day 326

   As I was in no hurry to arrive at the Guermantes reception to which I was not certain that I had been invited, I remained sauntering out of doors; but the summer day seemed to be in no greater haste to stir.  Although it was after nine o'clock, it was still the daylight that was giving the Luxor obelisk on the Place de la Concorde the appearance of pink nougat.  Then it dilute the tint and changed the surface to a metallic substance, so that the obelisk not only became more precious but seemed more slender and almost flexible.  One felt that one might have been able to twist this jewel, that one had perhaps already slightly bent it.  The moon was now in the sky like a section of an orange delicately peeled although slightly bruised.  But a few hours later it was to be fashioned of the most enduring gold.  Nestling alone behind it, a poor little star was to serve as sole companion to the lonely moon, while the latter, keeping its friend protected but striding ahead more boldly, would brandish like an irresistible weapon, like an oriental symbol, its broad, magnificent golden crescent.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 657

Proust moves on into Chapter One of the Part Two of Cities of the Plain.  Marcel is trapped by his own self-doubt outside a reception because he's not certain whether or not he was actually invited to attend or not.  How many of us have been in that situation over the years (although, I suspect, not at the level of a Guermantes reception)?  I included this section because it sets up the following discussion, but also because it is beautifully written.  Proust takes a break from fretting to look into the sky: "The moon was now in the sky like a section of an orange delicately peeled although slightly bruised.  But a few hours later it was to be fashioned of the most enduring gold.  Nestling alone behind it, a poor little star was to serve as sole companion to the lonely moon, while the latter, keeping its friend protected but striding ahead more boldly, would brandish like an irresistible weapon, like an oriental symbol, its broad, magnificent golden crescent."  In this case the arrival of the Duc de Chatellerault, who served as a moon to Proust's "poor little star," allowed Marcel to enter the reception.

My Year With Proust - Day 325

These descendants of the Sodomites, so numerous that we may apply to them that other verse of Genesis: "If a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered," have established themselves throughout the entire world; they have had access to every profession and are so readily admitted into the most exclusive clubs that, whenever a Sodomite fails to secure election, the black balls are for the most part cast by other Sodomites, who make a point of condemning sodomy, having inherited the mendacity that enabled their ancestors to escape from the accursed city.  It is possible that they may return there one day.  Certainly they form in every land an oriental colony, cultured, musical, malicious, which has charming qualities and intolerable defects.  We shall study them with greater thoroughness in the course of the following pages; but I have thought it as well to utter here a provisional warning against the lamentable errors of proposing (just as people have encouraged a Zionist movement) to create a Sodomist movement and to rebuild Sodom.  For, no sooner had they arrived there than the Sodomites would leave the town so as not to have the appearance of belonging to it, would take wives, keep mistresses in other cities where they would find, incidentally, every diversion that appealed to them.  They would repair to Sodom only on days of supreme necessity, when their own town was empty, at those seasons when hunger drives the wolf from the woods.  In other words, everything would go on very much as it does to-day in London, Berlin, Rome, Petrograd or Paris.

   At all events, on the day in question, before paying my call to the Duchess, I did not look so far ahead, and I was distressed to find that, by my engrossment in the Jupien-Charlus conjunction, I had missed perhaps an opportunity of witnessing the fertilisation of the blossom by the bumble bee.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 655-656

And so ends Part One of Cities of the Plain, and Proust finishes the section as he began it, focusing, specifically, on the love life of M. de Charlus and Jupien, but more generally on the issue of homosexuality and society's response.  Proust seems much more interested in the conflicted role that homosexuals themselves play in denying their own identity, and in supporting societal oppression of homosexuality.  To be fair, if it is still difficult to come out today to your family and friends and co-workers, how imposing was that challenge a century ago?  However, you can only fight your own needs and desire so long, and, Proust proposes,  "They would repair to Sodom only on days of supreme necessity, when their own town was empty, at those seasons when hunger drives the wolf from the woods."

The question is always the same: why would anyone care?  Christians who can readily quote Jesus in regards to throwing the first stone or Muslim who could quote the Quran on the fact that it's only your job to warn others, will still speak viciously or even take action against homosexuals.  Don't we all have better things to do with our time, such as , well, trying to be better persons ourselves.  Even Proust finds himself wondering what he missed because of his fascination with M. de Charlus and Jupien, " . . . I did not look so far ahead, and I was distressed to find that, by my engrossment in the Jupien-Charlus conjunction, I had missed perhaps an opportunity of witnessing the fertilisation of the blossom by the bumble bee."

Discography - Week 36

And we're closing in hard on Christmas, which, as we all say every year, seems impossible.  At Champlain we've been in a cycle the last couple of years where we seem to be getting out later than normal, which makes the rush more noticeable: "Finally, all the grades are calculated and entered into the system; crap, tomorrow is Christmas!  WTF?!?!"  Nevertheless, we end up, at the very least, surviving the holiday.  This morning I was supposed to pick my son up desperately early so that he could catch a 5:30 a.m. flight to Cincinnati to visit his Mom, and, of course, it was the only time that my alarm has not worked.  Thankfully I magically woke up in time and was able to get him to the airport on time, all the while telling him that we had plenty of time and simultaneously considering how I was going to explain it to the residents of Bleak House that I was going to miss Christmas because I was driving my son to the Natti (he would have refused, but I would have knocked over the head and drove him anyway; he would have woke up with a headache in western New York somewhere, but there's Tim Horton's there so all would have been forgiven).

This year, however, let's do more than just survive the holidays, and in fact lay waste to them.  This will be an amazing Holiday season and 2017, thankfully, will be much better than its witless and mean-spirited predecessor.  So, Happy Holidays and thank you all for being my friends.

Gary Beatrice

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Hysteric

Karen O is the vocalist, pianist, and face of Yeah Yeah Yeahs, in my opinion one of the best rock bands of the 21st century. The band made a series of loud, rollicking records and EPs that could be categorized as garage or alternative depending upon who was doing the categorizing. Then they made the unorthodox decision of releasing It's Blitz, a record which was somewhat softer and more melodic, highlighting Karen O's voice. I think it worked like a charm, and It's Blitz remains one of my favorite albums since Y2K.

"Hysteric" in particular finds her in fine form. Her vocals, the humming and whistling, and the evocative lyric "You suddenly complete me" makes for a beautiful, sensuous song.

Dave Wallace

Jackson 5, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas 

I've expressed my love for early Jackson 5 previously on this blog, and that extends to their Christmas album, which is terrific (my daughters also are huge fans of it).  This is the highlight.  The first part plays out as a traditional version of the song, with impeccable harmonies by the Jackson brothers.  Then, with a minute left, the song transforms into an R&B rave-up, with them wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and a "groovy New Year."

Dave Mills

Here's one more musical well-wish for the holidays.

The Bird and the Bee, Christmas Compromise

The only video I could find is of a live performance. If you have Spotify or something similar and can listen to the album version, it's a better production. But either way, given the varieties of religious experience represented in this group, and given our desperate need for compromise and understanding in this world, this song seems apropos.

This also functions as a recommendation of The Bird and the Bee for non-holiday-related listening. They have a great retro-future lounge lizard vibe. The best recommendation I can give of them is to point out that they've created an entire album covering Hall & Oates songs, called "Interpreting the Masters Volume 1: A Tribute to Daryl Hall and John Oates." 'Nuff said. 

Happy holidays to you all!

Dave Kelley

I have been racking my brain trying to figure out what my final holiday selection would be.  Yesterday I drove to visit my sister in Charlotte and listened to hours of Christmas music in the car.  What to pick, what to pick.

Then I threw in a mix CD I received from esteemed musicologists Nate and Miranda and budding esteemed musicologist Logan.  The CD was full of great music, none of which was holiday related.  Most of the songs were from acts that Nate and Miranda saw live in 2016.  I was fortunate enough to be at many of those same shows.

2016 has sucked in many ways.  It also has been awesome in many other ways.  So much great live music to share with friends.  So many awesome music posts.

My selection this week is Hurricane Season by the great Trombone Shorty out of New Orleans.  ( Oh yeah.  Another great 2016 blessing.  A fantastic trip to New Orleans)  Check him out live if you ever get the chance.

The song is instrumental, so if you want to stay in the Christmas mood, make up a holiday title and replace Hurricane Season with it.

Most importantly, I extend to all of you the best wishes of the season.

Mike Kelly

Counting Crows, A Long December  

For as long as I've been paying attention, the holidays don't mark the end of something but instead are more like halftime.  Winter is cold, its tough, it draws people closer and you're never really alone.  It would be a total stereotype to hold this song up as an anodyne for all the Lexus commercials and jewelry ads because this song actually got pretty famous a few decades ago but damn, can Adam Duritz capture a moment.  "When all at once you look across a crowded room and see the way that light attaches to a girl" he opines in a song where wistfulness, hope and beauty all coalesce into one.  My sense is that this song gets mistaken for a mournful "Winter Sucks" song but it's more complicated than that.  "I can't remember all the times I tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass" is good advice usually associated with celebratory summer songs and anthems of the beach, but being reminded to hold on to the days that are slogs because unexpected moments of awesomeness are mixed in with doldrums in all sorts of complicated ways.   

Phillip Seiler

For the first time since joining this project, I was unable to find the song I wished to write about on Youtube. Phil Manzanera and Any MacKay of Roxy Music put out a Christmas album in the late 80s, early 90s under the moniker The Players titled simply “The Players Present Christmas”. Using all acoustic and traditional instruments, it is 33 tracks of fun and frivolity. I like it all. But I love the second to last track: We Wish You A Merry Christmas. It starts with a stately guitar (never noticed this song was a waltz before) and is joined by harmonica on the melody for the first verse. And then, as if to answer an argument and Christmas dinner, a response from an accordion and bango: faster, louder, more insistent. And then the mess accelerates through 5 refrains of ever increasing speed and volume. Much like so many holidays it builds and builds into the fast approaching drunken train wreck we all dread but expect nonetheless. And just as it peaks? A few seconds of silence. Followed by the plaintive wail of Andy Mackay’s saxophone reminding you tomorrow will not be a good day but we wish you a Merry Christmas all the same. 

Sadly, that song is not available (Spotify may have it. I am not on said service.) So here is The Players doing We Three Kings. It gives you a feel for them if not the actual piece.

And since I could not link to the song I really wanted to, I also give you my favorite version of The Carol of The Bells by The Bird and The Bee. It was my introduction to them and I have devoured their works ever since. It is a subtle and beautiful take on this classic. The key changes work so beautifully on this song.

Finally, I never wrote about the Pogues’ and Kirsty MacColl’s Fairytale of New York because this guy did it better.

Happy Holidays!

Kathy Seiler

It's Christmas Eve. I like this day more than Christmas. I LOVE anticipation. So, I'm back to Christmas songs, but I promise, this is the last one(s).

Ray Charles, Spirit of Christmas 

Every year after we decorate the tree, we watch National Lampoon's "Christmas Vacation" and I laugh every goddamn time at every piece of physical humor in that movie. Everyone in my house finds this amusing and agrees to watch the movie just to laugh at me losing it over the scene with the sap-covered fingers that rip out magazine pages. And I'm fine with that. But this song tugs at my heart strings, as Chevy Chase watches old Christmas and New Year's home movies when he gets locked in the attic.

This past week when we watched this movie, my prodigal daughter had just come back to live in Vermont from her 6 month runaway stint to Florida, my parents were here, and we had all decorated the tree and were watching the movie together. The lyrics really struck home. Luckily another physical comedy moment happened just as I was getting all misty-eyed.

BB King, Back Door Santa 

This song is awesome. An early morning Santa that arrives at the back door, who delivers happiness and cheer to the ladies while their "men are out at play" and gets rid of the children by giving them a few pennies? And the line "I ain't like old St. Nick, he don't come but once a year." Best. Double entendre. Ever.

Happy holidays, all. Whatever you do or don't celebrate, I hope you all have love, joy and companionship in these darkest days. 

Cyndi Brandenburg

Pink Martini, Ocho Kandelikas 

This choice may seem pretty straightforward.  After all, today is not
only Christmas Eve, but also the first day of Hanukkah.  And several
music blog participants spent their last major holiday in Spain.  And
what better way is there to start a Saturday Christmas Eve morning
than dancing an ironic tango with someone you love?

If only it were that easy.

Yesterday, I was determined to post something from my absolute
favorite "classic" Christmas recording, which I transferred to a
cassette tape from my dad's vinyl album sometime in the early 1980's.
Truly classical, beautiful, transcendent, timeless, "Christmas in the
Great Cathedral of Reims" was recorded on site decades ago.  I guess I
lost track of time and age, because it never occurred to me that
something that was released in 1967 would be so totally unavailable
via digital form in 2016.  Oh well.  I really do wish I could share it
all with you, but I just can't figure out a way. At least not right
now (although I am hopeful that with my son's technical savvy, I can
make it happen soon...).

Later on, as I drank a Cosmo and made dinner, I could have sworn I
heard some song by The National emanating from the living room.  I
walked around the corner, and there was one of my daughters back from
college, playing the piano and singing Pink Rabbits.  When did THAT
happen?  So, pink drinks became the theme of the night, obviously.

Which led me to Pink Martini, and this week's selection.  All of which
is to say, sometimes things don't make coherent linear sense, but they
turn out to be the most compelling choice, regardless.  No matter how
you celebrate, no matter what you believe, no matter who you are with,
make this one count.  Happy everything to all of you, and have fun.

Gary Scudder

John Coltrane, I'm Old Fashioned

In honor of the season, and in light of last week's posting, I was tempted to go with ELP's Nutrocker, but thought better of it.  For the last month I've been toying with including a selection from John Coltrane's Blue Train album, but, as is so often the case, I ended up choosing a different song than I initially intended.  Originally I was going to propose Blue Train, the song that opens the album and provides its name.  That song, as well as the rest of the album, is extraordinary, and owning Blue Train is required listening (and owning).  Instead, however, I ended up choosing Coltrane's cover of I'm Old Fashioned, which in some ways is not representative of the rest of the album if for no other reason because it's the only song he didn't write.  Lord knows everyone has covered I'm Old Fashioned over the year, including Chet Baker singing as well as a version where he plays with Stan Getz.  It's a song which, oddly, seems to favor singers with a weaker voice, which may explain the popularity of Baker's version, and, for that matter, Fred Astaire's -   or even the Diane Wiest version from Hannah and Her Sisters.  I suspect it works with a weaker voice because the song celebrates a certain natural timidity.  It also works beautifully as a jazz piece, although it may seem unusual coming from someone whose playing is as normally powerful or kinetic as John Coltrane (although, to be fair, he also played on Kind of Blue) - which is a testament to his talent.  I guess I chose it this week because I have a very old-fashioned, probably bordering on maudlin, love of Christmas.  The fact that I'm old-fashioned should come as a surprise to no one who follows this Discography discussion, because week in and week out I routinely display that I'm desperately out of it and behind the times. At the same time, one would not naturally assume that I'm a fan of Christmas for any number of reasons: my well-documented contrarian nature and/or the fact that I'm such an unrepentant socialist (and thus repelled by Christmas as capitalist wet dream) and/or my religious beliefs, which don't naturally line up with the season (although they're, oddly, closer than most folks would think).  Still, I love Christmas, and I have wonderful memories of Christmas, although most of that relates to my son and the early years of my marriage, and not so much my own childhood, which was dominated by the Gulag Archipelago that was my own parents's marriage.  Or maybe I have a Christmas shaped by an imagined Dickensian world that osmotically replaced my own as I grew up and read Dickens.  In the end, I don't suspect it matters its origins, and all that matters is that I love the holiday.  So, with Dickens in mind, I'll quote Scrooge's nephew Fred: "There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say.  Christmas among the rest.  But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round-apart from . . . the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that - as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.  And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

My Year With Proust - Day 324

Admittedly, every man of M. de Charlus's kind is an extraordinary creature since, if he does not make concessions to the possibilities of life, he seeks out essentially the love of a man of the other race, that is to say a man who is a lover of women (and incapable consequently of loving him); contrary to what I had imagined in the courtyard, where I had seen Jupien hovering round M. de Charlus like the orchid making overtures to the bumble-bee, these exceptional creatures with whom we commiserate are a vast crowd, as we shall see in the course of this book, for a reason which will be disclosed only at the end of it, and commiserate with themselves for being too many rather than too few.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 654

Proust is once again throwing out a hint for the later unfolding of the novel, and thus I figured I should include it here.  As the students know from Linden's The Accidental Mind, about 4-6% of the population fall are consistently homosexual, although a much higher percentage (1 in 4 men and around 1 in 7 women) have had at least one homosexual experience leading to orgasm.

Castelo dos Mouros

Let me quickly post a few pictures from one of the last things we did in Portugal, but also one that the students thoroughly, and almost insanely, enjoyed: a visit to the Castelo dos Mouros (the Castle of the Moors) in Sintra. And to think, the trip to Sintra was a late addition, and came in response to a suggestion from a student.  On both the Madrid and Lisbon sections we had decided to include one side trip, with the Madrid being a bus ride to Toledo.  For our Lisbon side excursion we were originally thinking about heading into the interior, but one of the students, I think Melissa, proposed Sintra instead.  Figuring that it was a miracle that one of the students actually read the guidebooks I bought them and I should reward the effort, I agreed.  They LOVED Sintra, as did I.  Late in the afternoon we rushed into the old Moorish Castle on the cliff above the city, and I think the students would have happily spent hours there.  It was an appropriately wind-swept and caliginous day, which added to the ghostly feel of the place.  The guards, who nicely stayed a little later as we did our best to gather up the students, were quite nice.  They wanted to talk about the election, naturally, and asked if any of us had voted for Trump.  We all said no, and he laughed at said, "Yeah, apparently no one did," which was a funny comment on the fact that no American he had talked to would admit it.  This meant that either people were truly embarrassed by what had occurred and wouldn't take ownership of their vote, or the people who actually travel the world, and who might have a little broader understanding of the global condition, were not the folks who voted for Trump.

Looking down at the Royal Palace, which the students had visited a couple hours earlier.

The castle itself is huge, and this is a view from one side looking towards the other.  Essentially it covers most of the top of the mountain.

I had this definite Game of Thrones moment and was expecting to hear someone break into The Rains of Castamere.

A view looking over the cliff towards the valley.

This definitely qualified as one of my favorite travel moments as well. Precious few of my students had seen a castle before so it just added to the magic.

You can just spot some of my students up among the ruins.  I had to yell at them to come down so that the guards could close the gate, or my kids would probably still be up there, quite happily snooping around.

Well, truthfully, I'd probably be with them as well.  What an extraordinary day.