My Years With Proust - Day 407

   At Saint-Pierre-des-Ilfs we were joined by a glorious girl who, unfortunately, was not a member of the little group.  I could not take my eyes off her magnolia skin, her dark eyes, the bold and admirable composition of her forms.  After a moment she wanted to open a window, for it was hot in the compartment, and not wishing to ask leave of everybody, as I along was without an overcoat she said to me in a quick, cool, cheerful voice: "Do you mind a little fresh air, Monsieur?" I would have liked to say to her: "Come with us to the Verdurins" or "Give me your name and address." I answered: "No, fresh air doesn't bother me, Mademoiselle." Whereupon, without stirring from her seat: "Your friends don't object to smoke?" and she lit a cigarette.  At the third station she sprang from the train.  Next day, I inquired of Albertine who she could be.  For, stupidly thinking that people could have but one sort of love, in my jealousy of Albertine's attitude towards Robert, I was reassured so far as women were concerned.  Albertine told me, I believe quite sincerely, that she did not know. "I should so like to see her again," I exclaimed.  "Don't worry, one always sees people again," replied Albertine.  In this particular instance she was wrong; I never saw her again, and never identified, the handsome girl with the cigarette.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 912

Once again, Proust expresses his doubt that someone could love both sexes - or at least he's reflecting back on what he "stupidly" believed then.  "For, stupidly thinking that people could have but one sort of love, in my jealousy of Albertine's attitude towards Robert, I was reassured so far as women were concerned."  This reflection was inspired by a beautiful woman who had ended up in the same train compartment as him.  Marcel tells us, "I could not take my eyes off her magnolia skin, her dark eyes, the bold and admirable composition of her forms."  Knowing my well-documented fascination with dark European actresses with terrible secrets, I suspect I wouldn't be able to forget her either.

My Years With Proust - Day 406

   But I, engrossed from the very first by these people whom I did not know, was suddenly reminded of what Cottard had said to me in the ballroom of the little casino, and, as though it were possible for an invisible link to join an organ to the images of one's memory, the image of Albertine pressing her breasts against Andree's brought a terrible pain to my heart.  This pain did not last: the idea of Albertine's having relations with women seemed no longer possible since the occasion, forty-eight hours earlier, when the advances she had made to Saint-Loup had excited in me a new jealousy which had made me forget the old.  I was innocent enough to believe that one taste necessarily excludes another.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 904

And following up on one part of a discussion we had a couple days ago dealing with the perplexing question of Albertine liking both Robert Saint-Loup and women.  Proust had written, "I felt more or less cured for the time being of the idea that she cared for women, assuming that the two things were irreconcilable."  He hinted that he knew the question was more complicated, and less irreconcilable, than he understood then.  In this passage he follows it up by proclaiming, "I was innocent enough to believe that one taste necessarily excludes another."  As with so much of Remembrance of Things Past, one has to wonder if this says much more about Proust himself than it does about Albertine.  I guess we'll have to wait for the rest the novel to solve this mystery. As Master Shake reminds us, all will be revealed.  This seems especially appropriate on a day when #BiTwitter is trending on Twitter.

My Years With Proust - Day 405

To be sure, these common travellers would have been less interested than myself - notwithstanding the fame that several of the faithful had achieved - had anyone quoted in their hearing the names of these men whom I was astonished to see continuing to dine out when many of them had already been doing so, according to the stories that I had heard, before my birth, at a period at once so distant and so vague that I was inclined to exaggerate its remoteness.  The contrast between the continuance not only of their existence, but of the fullness of their powers, and the obliteration of so many friends whom I had already seen vanish here or there, gave me the same feeling that we experience when in the stop-press column of the newspapers we read the very announcement that we least expected, for instanced that of an untimely death, which seems to us fortuitous because the causes that have led up to it have remained outside our knowledge.  This is the feeling that death does not descend uniformly upon all men, but that a more advanced wave of its tragic tide carries off a life situated at the same level as others which the waves that follow will long continue to spare.  

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 895-896

I've reached the age when, sadly, my friends are starting to shuffle off this mortal coil with increasing consistency.  I suppose every year from now the passages will seem more logical and less random, more divinely sanctioned and less needing of some explanation from God for his/her/its/their seeming random mean-spiritedness.  Proust writes, "This is the feeling that death does not descend uniformly upon all men, but that a more advanced wave of its tragic tide carries off a life situated at the same level as others which the waves that follow will long continue to spare."  A very good friend of mine, a man so much better than me in every conceivable way, has been fighting a heroic battle with cancer for over a year, and yet someone such as myself who has, doubtless, created more harm than good, traipses along.  The Hebrews raised this question in the Book of Job thousands of years ago, but we're no closer to sorting it out today.  Unless you think of the totality of one's existence, both in this mortal plain and beyond, it seems arbitrary and more than a bit cruel, but I guess this is why we have faith.  Still, we somehow suppose that we will exist long enough for it all to make sense (and we get to see Trump roast in Hell) but in the end God is not math (although recurring geometric patterns form an essential part of Islamic art because it is a lovely metaphor for the eternity and logic of the divine) and it doesn't necessarily have to add up (at least in a fashion that we can access).

Life is seldom this beautiful or this logical.

That Guy

As I've shared before, my friends always tell me that I'm a very different person overseas, generally much happier and satisfied with life.  Doubtless, it is true, which is why my son will occasionally ask me why I don't just move overseas (and I'm increasingly finding it difficult to come up with an answer which explains why I don't).  Here's a shot from our jeep tour of the Yala Wildlife Preserve in southern Sri Lanka, which I'll talk more about later.  That guy certainly seems happy.

My student John Van Evas snapped this photo as we passed back and forth through the roads, some little more than trails, that make up the nature preserve.  I think we had just seen one of the eighteen elephants we saw.

My Years With Proust - Day 404

Such a change of perspective in looking at other people, more striking already in friendship than in merely social relations, is all the more striking still in love, where desire so enlarges the scale, so magnifies the proportions of the slightest signs of coldness, that it had required far less than Saint-Loup had shown at first sight for me to believe myself disdained at first by Albertine, to imagine her friends as fabulously inhuman creatures, and to ascribe Elstir's judgment, when he said to me of the little band with exactly the same sentiment as Mme de Villeparisis speaking of Saint-Loup: They're good girls," simply to the indulgence people have for beauty and a certain elegance.  Yet was this not the verdict I would automatically have expressed when I heard Albertine say: "In any case, whether he's devoted or not, I sincerely hope I shall never see him again, since he's made us quarrel.  We must never quarrel again.  It isn't nice." Since she had seemed to desire Saint-Loup, I felt more or less cured for the time being of the idea that she cared for women, assuming that the two things were irreconcilable.  And, looking at Albertine's mackintosh, in which she seemed to have become another person, the tireless vagrant of rainy days, and which, close-fitting, malleable and grey, seemed at that moment not so much intended to protect her clothes from the rain as to have been soaked by it and to be clinging to her body as though to take the imprint of her form for a sculptor, I tore off that tunic which jealously enwrapped a long-ed for breast and, drawing Albertine towards me:

                    "But won't you, indolent traveller, rest your head
                    And dream your dreams upon my shoulder?"

I said, taking her head in my hands, and showing her the wide meadows, flooded and silent, which extended in the gathering dusk to an horizon closed by the parallel chains of distant blue hills.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 894

Initially I couldn't track down this passage, which Proust quotes to Albertine: "But won't you, indolent traveller, rest your head/ And dream your dreams upon my shoulder?"  However, my most excellent friend Steve Wehmeyer, being a gentleman and a scholar, found it.  It's from stanza 313 of La Maison du Berger by Alfred de Vigny.  Impressive detective work, leading my friend Debbie Preston to opine, "Dude, your friends are a bunch of nerds."  True enough, but they are most excellent friends nevertheless.  It's the beauty of our Core Division, actively promoting brainy non-practical liberal arts education - in opposition to a practical business-friendly curriculum - for ten years now. We rule.

By the end of this passage the text almost becomes otherworldly.  Proust follows his description of Albertine in the rain, "looking at Albertine's mackintosh, in which she seemed to have become another person, the tireless vagrant of rainy days," with a far earthier line, "which, close-fitting, malleable and grey, seemed at that moment not so much intended to protect her clothes from the rain as to have been soaked by it and to be clinging to her body as thought to take the imprint of her form for a sculptor, I tore off that tunic which jealously enwrapped a long-ed for breast . . ."  While much of Cities of the Plain has dealt with sex and desire, I would propose that this line is the most sexually charged one of the entire novel (at least so far). Having said all that, by the end we've moved on to the almost ethereal: "I said, taking her head in my hands, and showing her the wide meadows, flooded and silent, which extended in the gathering dusk to an horizon closed by the parallel chains of distant blue hills."

Albertine's obvious mixed feeling towards Robert provided, at least temporarily, solace for Proust since the thought that she might desire Saint-Loup meant that she didn't desire women, although even Proust is not sure that it is that cut and dried: "Since she had seemed to desire Saint-Loup, I felt more or less cured for the time being of the idea that she cared for women, assuming that the two things were irreconcilable."  The last few words are the key, "assuming that the two things were irreconcilable."  Now we, and especially the generation of my students, much more naturally accept sexuality and gender and desire existing on a scale as compared to a little dichotomy.  Proust seems to understand that it's not that simple as well.

My Years With Proust - Day 403

I had in any case left my dear Albertine too long alone.  "D'you know," I said to her as I climbed into the carriage, "the seaside life and the life of travel make me realise that the theatre of the world is stocked with fewer settings than actors, and with fewer actors than situations." "What makes you say that?" "Because M. de Charlus asked me just now to fetch on of his friends, whom this instant, on the platform of this station, I have just discovered to be one of my own." But as I uttered these words, I began to wonder how the Baron could have bridged the social gulf to which I had not given a thought.  It occurred to me first of all that it might be through Jupien, whose niece, as the reader may remember, had seemed to become enamored of the violinist.  However, what baffled me completely was that, when due to leave for Paris in five minutes, the Baron should have asked for a musical evening.  But, visualising Jupien's niece again in my memory, I was beginning to think that "recognitions" might indeed express and important part of life, if one knew how to penetrate to the romantic core of things, when all of a sudden the truth flashed across my mind and I realised that I had been absurdly ingenuous.  M. de Charlus had never in his life set eyes upon Morel, nor Morel upon M. de Charlus, who, dazzled but also intimidated by a solider even though he carried no weapon but a lyre, in his agitation he called up me to bring him the person whom he never suspected that I already knew.  In any case, for Morel, the offer of five hundred francs must have made up for the absence of any previous relations, for I saw that they were going on talking, oblivious of the fact that they were standing close beside our train. And remembering the manner in which M. de Charlus had come up to Morel and myself, I saw at once the resemblance to certain of his relatives when they picked up a woman in the street.  The desired object had merely changed sex.  After a certain age, and even if we develop in quite different ways, the more we become ourselves, the more our family traits are accentuated.  For Nature, even while harmoniously fashioning the design of its tapestry, breaks the monotony of the composition thanks to the variety of the faces it catches.  Besides, the haughtiness with which M. de Charlus had eyed the violinist is relative, and depends upon the point of view one adopts.  It would have been recognised by three out of four society people, who bowed to him, not by the prefect of police who, a few years later, was to keep him under surveillance.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 891-892

We're continuing the encounter that we started yesterday, except that we're fleshing it out a bit and getting at a bit of the backstory.  In a train station M. de Charlus had sent Marcel over to contact a violinist that Marcel assumed M. de Charlus knew, only to discover that he, in fact, knew him - and only later does it occur to him that the older man didn't know him at all.  Essentially, M. de Charlus was using Marcel to pimp for him.  When Marcel was talking to his friend M. de Charlus suddenly bursts in and says, "I should like to listen to a little music this afternoon. I pay five hundred frances for the evening, which may perhaps be of interest to one of your friends, if you have any in the band."  M. de Charlus instantly engages Morel, the violinist, in an intimate conversation, and suddenly decides to leave the train.  When a flower seller interrupts them, M. de Charlus laments, "Good God, why can't she leave us alone."  The use of the word "us", especially from a man as self-absorbed as M. de Charlus, tells the reader volumes.

We also have a little foreshadowing as Proust, when talking about M. de Charlus, includes the line, "It would have been recognised by three out or four society people, who bowed to him, not by the prefect of police who, a few years later, was to keep him under surveillance."  Proust has devoted most of this volume of Remembrance of Things Past exploring the shadow world of the homosexual community in France at the time, but clearly there are rules and their are limits; not everyone plays by the rules of society.

A True Power Couple

I just wanted to post a picture of the most excellent Cyndi Brandenburg and the indomitable Inder Singh from Tiger Paws Adventures.  We couldn't have pulled off the trip to India and Sri Lanka without them.  I snapped this picture early on the morning of our first day in India.

Cyndi and I deeply appreciate everything Inder did for us, and he completely saved the day.  To my students, however, Inder was quickly raised to the level of an almost mythic folk hero.  I think he actually liked spending time with them, and fed off their energy (even if at times they they drove him - and us - quite crazy).

Discography - Week 49

Cyndi and I have made it back, safe and sound and reasonably sane, from our latest adventure.  I snapped this picture of her strolling on the beach in Mumbai, which allowed her to add another entry to her 50 for 50 project (although she still refuses to include it all in a blog), in this case dipping her feet into the Indian Ocean.  She didn't actually swim, because, well, it's the ocean off of Mumbai and it's a cesspool, but you get the idea.

And we've reached our final (at least for this round) Thematic Week.  For sometime we've been talking about a Thematic Week when we would revisit one or more of our fellow plenipotentiaries' songs and commentaries.  We're commenting on a noted musicologist's earlier musings, either refuting their opinions or championing their musical acumen or just talking about how much they love/hate the song.

Gary Beatrice

The Clash/Vince Taylor and the Playboys, Brand New Cadillac:

In week 37 Dave Kelley wrote eloquently about the Clash's cover of Brand New Cadillac from London Calling (which is, in my humble opinion, the greatest album ever). I agree with everything Dave said and I couldn't have said it any better than he did. But I want to add a couple points.

First of all, as Dave and I commented previously, one of the wonderful ironies of the song, made especially clear in Joe Strummer's shout "Jesus Christ! Where did you get that Cadillac?", is that the car means more to singer and girlfriend than their relationship ever did.

But the second point I want to make is that this: like the Clash's earlier brilliant cover of "I Fought The Law", this is a cover of a rockabilly song. Listen to the original, which is damn good. I've never heard it discussed but somebody in the Clash was a roots rock fan. I don't know if young Clash fans went back and discovered country music through their covers, as young Stones fans discovered the blues through Stones covers, but given how many alt country and Americana fans claim the Clash as an influence, it is possible. At the very least this English punk band helped to make country music safe for future rockers, which is yet another testament to this band's brilliance.

Dave Wallace

The Temptations - Papa Was a Rollin' Stone

To finish up soul month, I'm picking a song that Dave Kelley previously chose (and did an excellent job writing about).  The Temptations are arguably the greatest soul group of all-time and its most enduring.  As the group transitioned into the 70's, their vocal mainstays (David Ruffin, Eddie Kendrick) had left the group, and their music became more socially conscious, reflecting the current trends.  This approach peaked with Papa Was a Rollin' Stone, in which the sons gather around the deathbed of their father and deliver an unforgiving assessment of his life.  While there are a number of different versions, I've linked to the original 12-minute version (which may be more Papa than some people want!).  There are so many fantastic things about this song - the ominous bassline, the use of strings, the different lead vocal performances, the handclaps!

Kathy Seiler

I wasn't going to do a post this week because I have absolutely no business judging anyone's else's take on music, at least in my own mind. But then tragedy happened and a previous post came to mind. The post I comment on is that of my own beloved, copied below:

-------------

Phillip Seiler, Week 37 (New Year's Eve)

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.

------------

So first, I can't say that 2016 was a particularly awesome music year in my world. The most memorable music from 2016 for me was discovering the Hamilton soundtrack, which is quite an ear worm. It's MixTape followup was not nearly as good. 

I just stole Darlingside's "Birds Say" album from Phil's music library a month ago or so. It's got a folky vibe to it, with vocals that I would call more "airy" than anything else. Reminds me a little of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" vocally and generally the songs on the album all sound too much alike to make me love it. But it's good background music for me.

There is something oddly compelling about the God of Loss song, and the video Phil linked to absolutely WRECKED me the first time I watched it. I sobbed, literally for almost an hour, feeling the woes of the previous year (of which there were more than I care to admit) break open the emotional dam holding them back. I looked up the lyrics and couldn't figure out what they actually meant. I will note that Phil didn't say what he thought they meant either. So of course I went to the great oracle Google to see if it could enlighten me. It didn't help much, but referred me to the fact that the song was inspired by the book "The God of Small Things" by Arundhati Roy, which sounds like it might have too many descriptive words for someone like me.

But then this week happened. A close friend of my 18 year old son (also 18 years old) died extremely suddenly. There have been many conflicting stories on what actually happened, which bothers me immensely. I know that as a result of his sudden death, he was an organ donor. This kid was smart, charming, full of potential, and made some bad decisions at times like many young men do. He spent many days and nights at our house over the years and would make fun of how many different kinds of cheeses we had in our refrigerator, which immediately endeared him to me.  I constantly told him he'd better go to college because he was going to get a scholarship and he was motivated. And I'm pretty sure I threatened to kick his ass if he didn't. He promised me he would. I found out this week he'd interviewed at Dartmouth and was awaiting their decision.

I found out Monday night that he had passed away that afternoon. The universe, in its wisdom, made the God of Loss song come on during my drive to work on Tuesday morning. And of course, I barely made it into work through the tears. And as much as the video made me weep the first time, the words alone made me weep this time. 

I'll be no outlaw

No renegade

Just your faithful

God of Loss

This tragic death brought home these words not for their beauty but for their truth. Loss just...is. You can rely on it. There's nothing really all that dramatic about it, but it's the thing we know we don't like, that we pretend isn't there. So we feel like it jumped us in an alley when it happens.

So while Phil might not have told me what the words meant, and the song did not bring me comfort this week, I am grateful for being made aware of it. It made me remember that feeling deep hurt and pain is what it is to be alive. And that loss reminds us how precious and painfully short life can be.

Phillip Seiler

This was a difficult assignment our host presented us. As I dug back through the blog I was reminded of so many great songs that people posted on. This song and post deserve amplification though.

In week 28, Miranda posted on Tracey Chapman's song Fast Car. Her post started: 

"Tracy Chapman, Fast Car

As a kid I loved this song. I liked the idea of riding in a fast car and feeling liked I belonged. I paid little attention to the verses, despite knowing all of the words and singing along. The music is simple yet rich, and it resonates. It is a great song, musically - catchy and moving at the same time. You don't have to study it to enjoy it. "

I remember when this song came out and I am fairly certain I rushed to buy the album after first hearing it, struck by the same feelings Miranda describes. (Most likely, I saw it first as MTV was still a source for music that might not get airplay elsewhere.) And the whole post just gets better and better examining this little pearl of a song. 

What I really like about the commentary is the examination of the roll of fiction in confusing our perceptions as humans. Miranda rightly points out that the turning points in literature, movies, and even songs are rarely as obvious as portrayed. We except this as necessary for dramatic effect, of course. "What is drama but life with the dull bits cut out" quipped Hitchcock but hidden there is also the realization that turning points come and go on a regular basis. Yet even if they are not enacted upon, others often do come. But how we feel in those moments, both when we act and when we do not. Oh, that is the real stuff. 

This has all been buzzing around my brain over the last few months in observing our current political situation. I am sure I am not the first to realize this but the remarkable thing about preventing the next holocaust is you will almost certainly have no idea that you did prevent it since it will not have happened. And worse, many people will think you a crank for ever suggesting things were going to be that bad. So even if you do recognize that this moment is literally that leave or live and die this way moment, no one else may ever believe you. How lonely is that? 

Dave Kelley

Return with me now to the halcyon days of the Spring of 2016.  We had a sane president, the Cubs had not yet had a World Series title since 1908, and every day did not bring another attack on the moral underpinnings of our great country.  A tremendous music blog was introduced into the ether, and the domestication of cats and dogs continued unabated.  A youthful idealist from Indiana made his first post...........

"Lookout Mountain"  Drive By Truckers

The Truckers sing about class in a way that virtually no one else does.  All three of their songwriters at the time they released "The Dirty South" very much come from a Southern progressive background, and the characters that populate their songs are very specific to the region.  It is ironic that, much like Springsteen's working class Jersey protagonists, many of the folks The Truckers sing about probably would vote for Republicans in general and Trump in particular.  The modern economy has left many behind, and many of those white working class folks feel angry and marginalized.  Sadly they sometimes fall for the siren song of the conservative Republicans and vote against their own economic interests.  If "What's the Matter With Kansas" were written today it would be entitled  "What the Fuck is Wrong With America!"

"Lookout Mountain" is just a great, powerful, angry guitar song.  At times DBT reminds me a great deal of Crazy Horse, and I would cite this song as a prime example of that.  Typically I focus on the music to this song more than the lyrics.  I am not usually contemplative when playing air guitar, air drums, or both at the same time.  (I am that crazy talented!!!)  When thinking about what to do this week I scrolled back through all of the songs everyone has posted.  I blasted this one at top volume a few times in my car and found myself listening to the lyrics in the context of a world gone Trump.  Sadly, I think the character singing the song may have a "Make America Great Again" hat on top of his head.  The duality of "The Southern Thing." 

Going back through the prior posts reminded me again of how great this blog has been.  I know we are nearing the end of our year and hope that we resume at some point after taking a well deserved break.  The blog has introduced me to some great music I did not know, made me think about familiar songs in a new way, and surprisingly served as a form of therapy during very difficult times for our country.  The only downside is that I may forever be linked to "Wildfire" in the mind of some friends.  Oh magical horse, carry me away to a world without Trump!!!    :)

Gary Scudder

On Week 43 the esteemed Dave Kelley wrote the following:

"Oh the good old days of the 1990's when our biggest worry about shenanigans in The White House was illicit blowjobs.

Dwight Yoakam, A Thousand Miles from Nowhere

My choice this week is "A Thousand Miles From Nowhere" by Dwight Yoakam.  An heir to the Bakersfield sound, Dwight made some great music in the 90's.  There is nothing much to say about this song other than it is fantastic.  His voice is excellent, and I love the guitar sound.  It was also featured in "Red Rocks West" which was a great movie."

I don't know if I have anything profound to say in opposition to Dave's points, although I would like to take the opportunity to propose that whoever convinced Lara Flynn Boyle to undergo plastic surgery should be tried for war crimes.  My only criticism of Dave's posting is that I think he damned the song by faint praise.

However, and more importantly, Dwight Yoakam's A Thousand Miles from Nowhere is easily one of my top ten favorite all-time songs.  America is about many things, but it's also about space and isolation.  Over a century ago the historian Frederick Jackson Turner spelled out his frontier thesis, which essentially stated that what made America America was not the east coast or the Puritans or Jamestown or the tie to England but rather it was the frontier, because it inculcated in folks true independence and freedom and democracy.  Turner's point then was that the most recent US survey had shown that the frontier was complete, which also allowed him to ask the question of what would this mean for the American sense of self.  It's a theory that's often disputed, although I still think there's a grain of truth in it, and it explains why we were still adding state in the 1950s and going to the moon in the 1960s and why we tend to love governmental programs with names like the New Frontier - and it also explains why Trump's isolationist policies are not only foolish but also, I would suggest, un-American in the purest sense of the word. And although Hamlet might have proposed that he could be bound in a nutshell and count himself a king of infinite space were it not that he had bad dreams, we as Americans can't stand to be bounded at all (which makes the gated community such an abhorrent concept).  I think it's why John Ford's use of silhouette shots from inside doorways works so well at the beginning and end of The Searchers, because it juxtaposes so brilliantly against wide open space (warning: film whore alert).   Anyway, I would argue that few songs speak to the sense of space and isolation, both geographic and emotional, than Yoakam's A Thousand Miles from Nowhere. 

She was brilliantly cast in Red Rock West, especially coming on the heels of playing such a nice girl on Twin Peaks.  OK, this has nothing at all to do with our Discography discussion, but I've always liked this picture.  Oh, and you can always tell if someone's Mom was reading or watching Doctor Zhivago when they were pregnant if they choose Lara over Laura.

My Years With Proust - Day 402

I had in any case left my dear Albertine too long alone.  "D'you know," I said to her as I climbed into the carriage, "the seaside life and the life of travel makes me realise that the theatre of the world is stocked with fewer settings than actors, and with fewer actors than situations."

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 891

In carrying out a favor for M. de Charlus, Marcel stumbles across an old acquaintance, in one of those odd happenstances that only happens in Dickens novels and real life, and it causes him to reflect upon the seemingly limited number of different players and scenes in the world. As we all know, William Shakespare told us, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts." Now, as every student in Heroines & Heroes can attest, Vladimir Propp proposed that there are only seven character functions: 1) the villain, 2) the dispatcher, 3) the helper, 4) the princess, 5) the donor, 6) the hero, and 7) the false hero.  It seems to me that I've traditionally done a poor job teaching Propp, because instead of focusing on the character functions my students get side-tracked by the thirty-one different stages (interesting, but I would argue of less interest).  I had the thought recently that one approach would be to have the students consider times in their lives when they have played each of these different roles.  In the last couple years I've started modeling academic activities (and certainly not personal behavior) for my students, which leads me to create a new self-portrait every year.  So, with this in mind, if I'm going to ask my students to identify the times they've played the different Proppian roles (keeping in mind that they're young and may not have played them all; I'm always amazed how few of them have even been in love, let along played the false hero) I should really force myself to undertake the same exercise.  I'll have to revisit this post and report my findings.

Metaphor

I've been posting way too many pictures of myself lately, which, to be fair, is a testament to the fact that several folks, most notably my students, have snapped some decent shots of me (a very rare occurrence).  Here's a picture of me in the Indian city of Nashik, early into our recent trip (I'll have much more to say about it later).  To me this picture is somewhere between a summary and a metaphor for my entire teaching career: I'm overseas and I'm backed by a small mountain of dried cow shit.

Nashik was fascinating, and served as a lovely transition away from Mumbai (itself, obviously, an indelible part of India) to a more traditional aspect of Indian life.  The dried cow pies were set aside as a fuel source for the celebratory bonfires that would mark the beginning of Holi. As always, I effortlessly blend into my surroundings. [Hint: I'm the one in the middle.]

My Year With Proust - Day 401

   To the reproaches which I heaped upon her when Saint-Loup had left us, Albertine replied that she had intended, by her coldness towards me, to dispel any ideas that he might have formed if, at the moment when the train stopped, he had seen me leaning against her with my arm round her waist.  He had indeed noticed this attitude (I had not caught sight of him, otherwise I should have sat up decorously besides Albertine), and had had time to murmur in my ear: "So that's one of those priggish little girls you told me about, who wouldn't go near Mlle de Stermaria because they thought her fast?" I had indeed mentioned to Robert, and in all sincerity, when I went down from Paris to visit him at Doncieres, and when we were talking about our time at Balbec, that there was noting to be done with Albertine, that she was virtue itself. And now that I had long since discovered for myself that this was false, I was even more anxious that Robert should believe it to be true.  It would have been sufficient for me to tell Robert that I was in love with Albertine.  He was one of those people who are capable of denying themselves a pleasure to spare a friend sufferings which they would feel as though they were their own.  "Yes, she's still rather childish.  But you don't know anything against her?"  I added anxiously.  "Nothing, except that I saw you clinging together like a pair of lovers."

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 889

"I never told you about this because I thought it would crush you, but now I could give a shit.  I fucked Elizabeth. Before you broke up.  Before you were having trouble, even.  So you can stop making her into a saint.  She was good in bed and she could keep a secret.  And that's about all I can say about her." John (Peter Gallagher) to Graham (James Spader) in Sex, Lies and Videotape.
.
As I was re-reading this passage from Proust several things popped into my head, one of them being the end of the brilliant film Sex, Lies and Videotape.  Our insistence on lying to each other and to ourselves about love and sex - and our endless persistence and creativity in doing so - has to be one of the hallmarks of our species.  We all lie and we all play roles, and I suppose the juxtoposition between our reality and our play-acting seems most dramatic in women mainly because society tries to force them into a smaller and more defined intellectual and moral window.  Certainly there are women who cling to illusions of virginity with one hopeful and patient would-be lover while happily descending into casual depravity (if I keep repeating this term it will become a thing) with another more insistent or more knowing lover.  Although, truthfully, it probably has very little to do with the patience or impatience, or skill or clumsiness, of her lovers, but rather her determination to choose her own role.  Marcel had sold a version of Albertine to his friend Robert, and thus also to himself, and it was necessary to maintain that delusion, as much for himself as for Robert.

And speaking of Robert, maybe he's a better friend, and a better person, than he has seemed to be up to this point.  Proust writes that he "was one of those people who are capable of denying themselves a pleasure to spare a friend sufferings which they would feel as they they were their own."

My Years With Proust - Day 400

Robert must have realised that I was not indifferent to Albertine, for he did not respond to her advances, which put her in a bad humour with myself; then he spoke to me as though I was alone, and this, when she noticed it, raised me again in her esteem.  Robert asked me if I would like to try and find, among the friends with whom he used to take  me to dine every evening at Doncierces when I was staying there, those who were still in the garrison.  And as he himself indulged in that sort of teasing affectation which he reproved in others, "What's the good of your having worked so hard to charm them if you don't want to see them again?" he asked.  I declined his offer, for I did not wish to run the risk of being parted from Albertine, but also because now I was detached from them.  From them, which is to say from myself.  We passionately long for there to be another life in which we shall be similar to what we have here below.  But we do not pause to reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, in this life, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we once were, to what we wished to main immortally.  Even without supposing that death is to alter us more completely than the changes that occur in the course of our lives, if in that other life we were to encounter the self that we have been, we should turn away from ourselves as from those people with whom we were once on friendly terms but whom we have not seen for years - such as Saint-Loup's friends whom I used so much to enjoy meeting every evening at the Faisan Dore, and whose conversation would now have seemed to me merely a boring importunity.  In this respect, and because I preferred not to go there in search of what had given me pleasure in the past, a stroll through Doncieres might have seemed to me a prefiguration of an arrival in paradise.  We dream much of paradise, or rather of a number of successive paradises, but each of them is, long before we die, a paradise lost, in which we should feel ourself lost too.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 888

First off, this section reminds me of the Kathleen Edwards song Copied Keys, a song that is much more knowing and self-aware than she should have been able to write when she was that young.

Marcel and Albertine has unexpectedly come across Robert Saint-Loup, who suggests they go in search of some old friends.  Proust tells us, " I declined his offer, for I did not wish to run the risk of being parted from Albertine, but also because now I was detached from them.  From them, which is to say from myself."  And maybe this particular passage is what first brought me to the Edwards song.  You can easily lose touch with your friends and your world, and thus with yourself.  I've talked before about the fact that one of the biggest challenges that I faced with lovely British girl was finding a universe where neither one of us depended upon copied keys, which is why our best options always focused on alternate locations such as Abu Dhabi or Hong Kong.  While I would have missed my friends and my world tremendously, I suspect I could have more easily lived in London than she could have lived in Vermont, mainly because I'm older and I've enjoyed the company of my friends for many more years; essentially, I would have had more to draw on from the storehouse of memory.

Proust, typically, then launches into a much more philosophical rumination on life, specifically the life we are living and the life that we dream of living.  This relates to both another imagined life running parallel to our own lived life (and this is something I'm perpetually guilty of) but also the next world (which, depending upon your own beliefs, might also qualify as an imagined world).  "We passionately long for there to be another life in which we shall be similar to what we have here below.  But we do not pause to reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, in this life, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we once were, to what we wished to main immortally"  However, what does that other world, either the parallel one from this life or the next, even mean for us?  As Edwards asks her lover, "would you even be the same?"  More pressingly, would we even be the same?  Proust proposes, "Even without supposing that death is to alter us more completely than the changes that occur in the course of our lives, if in that other life we were to encounter the self that we have been, we should turn away from ourselves as from those people with whom we were once on friendly terms but whom we have not seen for years . . ."  Essentially, we would turn away from our friends, and we would even turn away from ourselves.

In the end, Marcel decides to not go in search of this lost world, this imagined world, this paradise, a paradise that was already lose. "In this respect, and because I preferred not to go there in search of what had given me pleasure in the past, a stroll through Doncieres might have seemed to me a prefiguration of an arrival in paradise.  We dream much of paradise, or rather of a number of successive paradises, but each of them is, long before we die, a paradise lost, in which we should feel ourself lost too."  I need to brood over this section more, which is why I'm planning on, upon completion, to go back and reread all of my commentary again and potentially add new reflections.  I can't decide whether this is one of the saddest passages or one of the most hopeful passages; I am sure it is one of the most insightful passages.

As Proust reminds us, "In a world thronged with monsters and with gods, we know little peace of mind."

My Years With Proust - Day 399

   Albertine's friends had gone away for some time.  I was anxious to provide her with distractions.  Even supposing that she might have found some happiness in spending the afternoon with no company but my own, at Balbec, I knew that such happiness is never complete and that Albertine, being still at the age (which some people never outgrow) when one has not yet discovered that this imperfection resides in the person who experiences the happiness and not in the person who gives it, might have been tempted to trace the cause of her disappointment back to me.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 884

Why are we drawn, almost magnetically, to the perpetually sad?  And why do we devote so much energy in the sysphean task of trying to make them happy?  At a certain age we should discover, as Proust points out, that "this imperfection resides in the person who experiences the happiness and not in the person who gives it."  And  yet some of us never figure it out.  Is it because we think that we're going to be the one to make them happy, and thus it's just vanity?  Or maybe we mistake their unhappiness for some deeper intelligence and understanding, and thus we romanticize them and assign them a greater fascination.  I've always joked that I have a fatal attraction to dark European actresses with a terrible secret, and I'm sure it's all part of the same mania.

A Walk on the Beach

I know this looks like an outtake from Shrek, but actually it's a picture of my most excellent friend, boon travelling companion, esteemed colleague and titular little sister Cyndi Brandenburg and me walking along the beach in Mumbai on the first night of our recent trip.  This allowed Cyndi to dip her feet in the Indian Ocean, which became part of her 50 for 50 project.  I've learned many things from Mei Mei, and maybe the biggest is that it's never too late to make great friends.  On the bus on the way back from Boston we were already talking about next spring's trip to Jordan.

This is a picture that I may have to print off in a physical form for framing.  Thanks to my student Samantha McLaughlin for snapping it and sending it along.

Not the Rising Sun Shirt Again

Yes, it's the Rising Sun, Indiana shirt again.  My friend Cinse Bonino one time commented that she loves the silly traditions that I seemingly create out of whole cloth on a daily basis.  One of them is wearing my hometown t-shirt at least once in every country I visit.  Why?  I'm not really certain, although it feeds into my own personal mythology about history and my tortured relationship with coming from Indiana.  I left Rising Sun when I was seven - and spend most of my formative years in Lawrenceburg - but yet I list Rising Sun as my hometown on all official documents.  Certainly Rising Sun is a much prettier town, whereas Lawrenceburg is pretty much a hellhole, but I suspect it's more about my own personal shit.  Anyway, here are my latest pictures, this time from India (I'll doubtless include the Sri Lankan pictures later).  Oh, and thanks to Carolanne Kelly for sending these pictures along.

The crew in downtown Mumbai, from left to right: Michael Manfredi, Carolanne Kelly, Hattie Rosenberg, and Cyndi Brandenburg lurking in the background.

The only head bigger than my own.  I'm standing in front of the giant statue of Shiva in the caves on Elephanta Island.

My Years With Proust - Day 398

However, the jealousy that was caused me by the women whom Albertine perhaps loved was abruptly to cease.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 883

I'll apologize for this astonishingly insufficient blog post.  I'll try and get caught up later today.  As I mentioned yesterday I'm back safe and sound, and not as exhausted as I should be, from the epic trip to India and Sri Lanka.  So, consider this post mainly a placeholder as I get caught up.

Having said that, I had it marked down as a separate post in my notes, because it marks a transition, albeit a temporary one, in Marcel's relationship with Albertine.  More soon.

Nothing to See Here

As I'm wont to opine, trips are more often made memorable by the odd, unplanned little moments as compared to the carefully scripted big events.  Our recent trip to India and Sri Lanka is great proof of that, and I'll do my best to get as many of them down on virtual paper before the chaos of our life kicks in again (on the bus ride back from Boston Cyndi and I were already talking about next spring's trip to Jordan - and Steve and I are already in intense planning for next year's expanded Zanzibar trip).

On our last day, before the true mad rush to get through the Mumbai airport (more on that later), we had a lovely, and pretty leisurely, drive around the coast on the way to Colombo.  We stopped at a beautiful old fort town (whose name I'll look up later today) for lunch.  As we were climbing back into the bus we saw an old man sitting next to a bucket with a cobra (yes, every westerners dream of the "exotic" east) - so it was laughably appropriate/inappropriate.  However, we were running behind so I didn't point it out to the students; that is, until the man came running down the hill carrying a python on his shoulders.  Obviously, there was no way that we were going to get out of town with a busload of college students when faced with the possibility of playing with a python. This is actually perfectly fine.  I tend to be very forgiving of the students when they want to play fast and loose with the schedule because, well, it is their trip, and as much as they may have loved India and Sri Lanka a very small percentage of them will ever make it back again.  So, we clambered back out of the bus and about half of the students got to handle the snake.  This also included some haggling on the part of our wonderful guides and myself and the man - and that will make a great budget item line for our Finance Department (who hate me, not surprisingly): snake handler - 1000 Sri Lankan rupees.

My friend Cyndi and the snake, and this picture quickly became a favorite meme in Aiken Hall, complete with the appropriate Britney Spears references.

Some old dude and the snake.  I was explaining to my students there as you grow older you go through definitive stages, one of them being that you realize one day that you look like your father; and then you realize that you look like you grandfather, and then finally you realized, to your horror, that you look like your dead grandfather.

Of all the students who went on the trip, Sally Tate Meacham is the one who may have been the most insanely drawn to India and especially Sri Lanka.  I was quite certain that she was going to slip off and disappear into the throng of people.  She, I know, will be back.

And somehow the college continues to let me lead students overseas . . .

Back from India and Sri Lanka

We made it back safe and sound and incredibly happy from the India and Sri Lanka trip, and I'll have much to say about it in the weeks and months to come.  I think of all the foreign trips I've led this is the one that came together most brilliantly, which I suspect relates to the fact that it had such a thematic structure.  By the end the students were making subtle Ramayana references, which expressed how fully they were immersed in the epic.  They were a great crew.  We dragged them all over India and Sri Lanka and they were perpetually up for more.  At the end of the Zanzibar trip last spring several of the students were clearly exhausted, and a couple said that Africa had won.  This year's crew didn't want to leave.

There are so many great pictures from the trip, so I guess it's strange that I started with this one, but I like it.  My student John Van Egas sent it along. We had just exited a Shiva temple in India.

Discography - Week 48

And we've reached Week 48 of our Discography discussion, which means that there is only a month to go.  Next week is our last Thematic week, where we'll be looking at a song from other noted musicologists and giving it a fresh consideration.  Cyndi and I will have moved on to Sri Lanka, if we can get into Sri Lanka, and if she can get out of the Mumbai airport (although techniquely she could just live in the Mumbai airport for four days and we can meet up with her on the way to Sri Lanka, because at least she has a Sri Lankan visa).  Anyway, I guess the point is that time is flying.

Gary Beatrice

Ike and Tina Turner, Proud Mary

You know, every so often I think you'd like me to write about a song that's nice and easy. Well this ain't the week for that.

Ike and Tina take a classic Credence song and make it their own. It's Ike and his great baritone, the funky horns, and most importantly Tina Turner's vocals. Many have tried to perform Proud Mary the way Ike and Tina did, but nobody has ever come close. Sweet soul music.

Dave Wallace

O'Jays - Backstabbers

In the early to mid-70's, soul music went through a period of startling political consciousness, a response to the dramatic social upheaval going on in the country at that time.  (In his book, Mystery Train, Greil Marcus wrote a great chapter about this period of music, with a focus on There's a Riot Going On by Sly and the Family Stone.  If you have any interest in this topic, I encourage you to check it out.)  One of the most socially conscious groups, as well as one of the greatest musically, were the O'Jays.  Backstabbers is one of their best.  Nominally a rant about unfaithful friends, it arguably has deeper implications for how this country has treated African-Americans throughout its history.

Kathy Seiler

Joe Bonamassa, Blue and Evil 

There is something really visceral about this song. Not sure if it's the music, the lyrics, or the way the guitar is played, but its almost a head-banging kind of blues song. It's got an angrier edge than most blues songs, but that's understandable because Bonamassa is singing about the evil inside of all of us, and how sometimes we feel like we are succumbing to it. I find it interesting that the cure for the blues and the evil is to take a drink (of the fermented kind, of course). Numbs the mind, the soul, and often makes you feel like everything is okay. But then, as the song says, the blue and the evil "gonna make a wreck of me." So you take another drink.

Mike Kelly

Robbie Fulks and Lucinda Williams -- Pretty Little Poison 

As I reflect back on my last couple of posts, I realize I run the risk of being typecasted as a nostalgic downer hearkening back to an imagined past and so I wanted to rectify this with an unapologetic ode to desire.  It's been well-documented on this blog that this genre falls squarely within what Lucinda is good at so it's no surprise that she makes a cameo here.  While much maligned for sad songs about breakups, what's gone understated about country music is the power of the genre to make summer storms worth of good hookup songs.  Here's to spring.   

Dave Kelley

Putting People on the Moon -  Drive By Truckers

So this week's post is sponsored by the emotion "Rage".  I will grant that The Affordable Care Act has been far from a perfect fix on health insurance availability and affordability.  The issues involved are very complex, and there are no easy answers.  Certainly there are many acceptable points of view on how to proceed going forward to make certain that costs are contained and as many people as possible have insurance coverage.  Given his experience and knowledge of the field, Gary Beatrice is my go to person on insurance issues.  If he were in charge of the whole affair, I would be sleeping better.

However, I find the Republican alternative to The Affordable Care Act to be cynical and horrific.  It certainly appears to me that our old, sick, and poor are being sacrificed so that rich people can pay lower taxes and corporations can make higher profits and pay their executives even greater salaries.  I find this to be opposite to the ideals of America and Christianity.  I will shut up and let DBT preach to the choir. 

Gary Scudder

R.E.M., Country Feedback

It's more than a little stunning that we're into Week 48 of a year-long music discussion, in which we've considered hundreds and hundreds of songs, and I think this is the first R.E.M. song.  In the 1980s or 1990s how laughable would that prediction have sounded?  Years ago I posed the question of whether we judge the truly great bands by whether or not they wrote "important" songs; that is, songs which made profound statements about a time and place or that challenged norms or authority, as compared to songs that are just beautiful or which capture an age.  I would argue that Dylan and Springsteen and the Drive-By Truckers and Uncle Tupelo and Lucinda Williams and Neil Young have all written "important" songs and maybe that's why they have more staying power, at least to me.  Michael Stype has said that Country Feedback is his favorite R.E.M. songs and I'd have to agree with him.  Like so many of their songs it suggests more than it definitely declares, but I think it's beautiful, elegiac and transcendent.  I'm including a link to an absolutely extraordinary version that R.E.M. played with Neil Young at one of the latter's Bridge School benefit concerts.  Peter Buck looks insanely happy and Michael Stype looks like he's going to cry.

And the Other Side of the Short Story

I guess this would be the companion piece to last week's post of the sun coming up in Iceland around 11:00 a.m.  Here's a shot of the sun giving up the ghost and surrendering to the inevitable a few hours later.

This shot was taken from a narrow dirt road that skirted the edge of the mountain as we headed north.  I loved this picture, but began to think that maybe I didn't want to retrace my steps in the dark over the icy road.

My Years With Proust - Day 397

   Albertine and I were waiting at the Balbec station of the little local railway.  We had driven there in the hotel omnibus, because it was raining.  Not far away from us was M. Nissim Bernard, who had a black eye.  He had recently forsaken the chorister from Athalie for the waiter a a much frequented farmhouse in the neighbourhood, known as the "Cherry Orchard." This rubicund youth, with his blunt features, appeared for all the world to have a tomato instead of a head.  A tomato exactly similar served as head to his twin brother.  To the detached observer, the charm of these perfect resemblances between twins is that nature, as if momentarily industrialised, seems to be turning out identical products. Unfortunately M. Nissim Bernard looked at it from another point of view, and this resemblance was only external. Tomato No. 2 showed a frenzied zeal in catering exclusively to the pleasures of ladies; Tomato No. 1 was not averse to complying with the tastes of certain gentlemen.  Now on every occasion when, stirred, as though by a reflex, by the memory of pleasant hours spent with Tomato No. 1, M. Bernard presented himself at the Cherry Orchard, being short-sighted (not that one had to be short-sighted to mistake them), the old Jewish gentleman, unwittingly playing Amphitryon, would accost the twin brother with: "Will you meet me somewhere this evening?" He at once received a thorough "hiding."

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 883

OK, there's nothing profound here.  Mainly I just think it's a funny story, and shows that Proust, among other things, did have a sense for the bizarre.

My Years With Proust - Day 396

   As for Albertine, I cannot say that anywhere, whether at the Casino or on the beach, her behavior with any girl was unduly free.  I found in it indeed an excess of coldness and indifference which seemed to be more than good breeding, to be a ruse planned to avert suspicion.  When questioned by some girl, she had a quick, icy, prim way of replying in a very loud voice: "Yes, I shall be at the tennis-court about five.  I shall go for a bathe to-morrow morning about eight," and of at once turning away from the person to whom she had said this - all of which had a horrible appearance of being meant to put one off the scent, and either to make an assignation, or rather, the assignation having already been made in a whisper, to utter these perfectly harmless words aloud so as not to attract undue attention. And when later on I saw her mount her bicycle and scorch away into the distance, I could not help thinking that she was on her way to join the girl to whom she had barely spoken.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 881-882

Marcel continues to create worlds within worlds, and while I'm pretty certain that Albertine is guilty of at least some measure of his suspicion, his paranoia has reached a point where she cannot possibly say anything that doesn't prove his worst fears.  Here she proves her sapphic "crimes" merely by paying no attention to the other women she meets.

Windblown

There were signs like this sprinkled all over Iceland, which one would expect with a country that is battered by so much brutal weather.  Neither of us could speak a word of the language but the number on the right in red, tied to the fact that we were perpetually almost being blown off cliffs, convinced us that it had something to do with the wind speed.

I think this has something to do with the unfolding zombie apocalypse, or at least that was the narrative we created.

My Year With Proust - Day 395

   One day I saw the unknown woman whom Albertine had appeared not to recognise at a moment when Bloch's cousin was passing by.  The young woman's eyes flashed, but it was quite evident that she did not know the Jewish girl.  She beheld her for the first time, felt a desire, scarcely any doubt, but by no means the same certainty as in the case of Albertine, Albertine upon whose friendship she must so far have counted that, in the face of her coldness, she had felt the surprise of a foreigner familiar with Paris but not resident there, who, having return to spend a few weeks there, finds the site of the little theatre where he was in the habit of spending pleasant evenings occupied now by a bank.

   Bloch's cousin went and sat down at a table where she turned the pages of a magazine.  Presently the young woman came and sat down beside her with an abstracted air.  But under the table one could presently see their feet wiggling, then their legs and hands intertwined.  Words followed, a conversation began, and the young woman's guileless husband, who had been looking everywhere for her, was astonished to find her making plans for that very evening with a girl whom he did not know.  His wife introduced Bloch's cousin to him as childhood friend, under an inaudible name, for she had forgotten to ask her what her name was.  But the husband's presence made their intimacy advance a stage further, for they addressed each other as tu having known each other at their convent, an incident at which they laughed heartily later on, as well as at the hoodwinked husband, with a gaiety which afford them an excuse for further caresses.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 881

Proust continues to unearth evidence of a rich and vibrant lesbian community, which may or may not have existed, and which may or may not have contained Albertine.  If he was correct, then this must have been one of the first descriptions of gaydar.  One woman passed another sitting at a table, and very quickly: "Presently the young woman came and sat down beside her with an abstracted air.  But under the table one could presently see their feet wiggling, then their legs and hands intertwined."  I really need to do some more research on the response to Remembrance of Things Past in Proust's own lifetime.  It is often described, fairly or unfairly, as the first modern novel, but I'm not certain how scandalously it was received at its publication, and, for that matter, were people more shocked by the enormity of the novel and the depth of his detail and analysis than by the subject matter itself.

Discography - Week 47

Wow, little more than a month left in our year-long Discography music discussion.  Yes, I know, I make a similar point every week, but I guess I've been having way too much fun taking part in this dialogue and it pains me that we're soon be drawing to a close.  However, I'm really happy that we've recorded it on the blog for future revisits.

Gary Beatrice

Elton John, Madman Across the Water

At his peak in the early and mid seventies Elton John was a very good pop artist. We tend to forget that because of the crap he's made since and because that time period was dominated by some rock artists who never made the AM radio, which was what most of us young folks listened to in the day. He didn't do much that qualified as "great" but his early music is no guilty pleasure either.

A few years ago he re-released my favorite of his albums, Tumbleweed Connection, and to my surprise it included an extended version of Madman Across the Water which is amazingly powerful. John has a limited vocal range but he and the guitar and base drive a sinister feel that was only hinted at in the second version, which was the only one known for forty years.

Invest nine minutes in this and you may have a higher opinion of Elton John.

Dave Wallace

Spinners - Mighty Love

Continuing DW soul month, the Spinners were a terrific Philly soul act from the 70's, who released a number of fantastic songs, maybe the greatest of which was Mighty Love.  My favorite part of the song is Philippé Wynne's ad-lib vocalizing during its last couple of minutes.

Kathy Seiler

Crosby & Nash, ImmigrationMan 

This is in light of Muslim Ban 2.0. There's really nothing more to say.

Phillip Seiler

Kirsty Maccoll's Us Amazonians

The two great tragedies of Kirsty MacColl's life are that she is not better known and that she was taken from us just as she was exploring the reaches of her music. Her last full studio album had her embracing South American rhythms while maintaining her sardonic wit. The album, Tropical Brainstorm, is a feast of great songs from Treachery (a song about a singer stalking her former fan for buying someone else's music), Autumngirlsoup (cooking metaphors put to their best use), England 2, Columbia 0 (a lament to an almost terrible hookup). But Us Amazonians is a standout for me with the infectious carnival drumming, a melody that hums in your brain long after the notes have stopped but mostly for the unabashed celebration of womanhood and female sexuality. Kirsty was always cheeky and brash in her lyrics (notably at odds with major stage fright she felt, apparently.) But this song above all celebrates her fullness and love of being a women. 

"Us Amazonians know where we stand

We got kids, we got jobs

Why do we need a man

Us Amazonians make out all right

But we want something to hold in the forest at night."

Killed by a boat while swimming not long after, she left with many songs unwritten. We are poorer for it.

Dave Kelley

Refugee - Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers

While this song is really not about actual immigrants or refugees, it certainly seems topical right now with all of the nonsense coming out of the White House.   Tom Petty is one of the great American rock songwriters of the last three plus decades and also has one of my favorite voices.  Petty is also backed  by one of the great bands outside of E Street, and all of the musicians live up to their billing on this classic song.  Mike Campbell is just an amazing guitarist who always elevates the songs that Petty writes.  Benmont Tench's organ also perfefctly complements the music here.  One of my favorite sounds is a surging organ dueling for space with an electric guitar.  See also "Independent Thief" by Kathleen Edwards or any number of classic Springsteen songs.  Not much to add other than to suggest listening to this at the highest volume possible.

Mike Kelly

Last Goodbye -- Jeff Buckley 

When Neko Case taught us to hold out "for that teenage feeling" that was probably just code for "remember to go listen to Jeff Buckley after you break up with someone." What's so great about Last Goodbye as a breakup song is its unapologetic willingness to feel something more nuanced than whiskey bottle-bad after the split.  When he asks her to kiss him "out of desire, babe, not consolation" he's simultaneously sad, confident and open to the possibility that torches that actually matter are tough to extinguish.   In the end though, he's not delusional enough to realize it's for the best that it's all over. He can point to the little things adding up to a series of clues that it's just not going to work out.  While Hallelujah gets all the credit, this song is the better representative of what Jeff Buckley was able to do.  Don't go rushing out to buy the whole record (as I'm writing this post, I'm realizing how crappy lots of the songs are) again but remember that confident breakup songs are the best breakup songs.  

Gary Scudder

Van Morrison, Into the Mystic

By the time you read this week's post the esteemed Cyndi Brandenburg and I will be, inshallah, in India on the first leg of our adventure - but through the magic of the nano-overlords at Blogger we'll all be together, at least musically.  So, what better choice could I have this week than Morrison's Into the Mystic from his wonderful album Moondance.  Although, I suppose, the song Moondance is what most casual listeners remember about the album, truthfully, while I really like that song, it might be the weakest song on the album.  When I'm promoting music discussions I will sometimes ask the questions: what are the two best songs back to back on an original album?  While I have argued several possible combinations over the years, I've often suggested Caravan and Into the Mystic.  While that may or may not be Correct Answer (another crazy discussion forum I used to run) I do know this: it is physically impossible to listen to those songs back to back and still be unhappy.  Over the years I've often set my alarm clock to play Into the Mystic, which always seemed like a fitting way to start the day.  It's certainly a great way to kick off a trip to India.  This is my sixth or seventh trip to India, but I'm really excited to see it again for the first time through the eyes of my most excellent friend and titular sister Cyndi.  I always associate India with my transformation into being a traveler (I still have to remind myself that I didn't even have a passport until I was forty-two, but that in the fifteen years since I've spent at least two of those years overseas).  The first place I ever visited was Dubai in the UAE and then, shortly thereafter, India, both times because Champlain College actually had branch campuses in Dubai and Mumbai - and because nobody else wanted to go.  That said, on my first visits to the UAE and India our administrative overlords kept a very close rein on us and we never had much time to explore, which increasingly frustrated me.  On our second visit to India a manic Hindu religious festival was going on outside the walls of the school and I just walked out of the gates and disappeared, like Larry Darrell in Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge, into the chaos.  The festival celebrated Krishna's birthday, and teams competed in the streets to build human pyramids to smash clay pots suspended fifty or sixty feet or more in the air.  One of the teams adopted me as a mascot and I sat in the street with them and ate their preparatory meal.  I don't think I was ever the same person again. Oh, and with all that in mind, the Indian festival of Holi will be taking place in India when Cyndi and I are there; into the mystic indeed.