On memory and Mahler

Not surprisingly, I have many, many memories associated with music. The earliest dates back to preschool—singing “Bluebird, bluebird, through my window” in music class. But the one that’s the strongest, yet the most vague, occurs whenever only periodically, as it did tonight, as I listened to the London Philharmonic Orchestra perform.

I only stayed for the first half, because I wanted to hear the Mahler, and then the soloist. Now, I like Mahler. I’m not nearly as familiar with his work as with many other composers, but his symphonies are phenomenal, and the man could write a hell of a horn line. But tonight the LPO opened their concert with the Adagio from his unfinished Symphony No. 10, and as far as I’m concerned it was a big fat FAIL.

Weirdest. Piece. Ever. I did not get it. I did not like it. It was unlike any Mahler I’ve ever heard, though that’s not really saying anything.

But then. Leon Fleisher took the stage for Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23, and somewhere in the middle I was yanked into the past. It’s a hard feeling to describe, but you know that feeling of intense nostalgia—not the wistful or melancholy kind, but just a vague feeling deep in your memory somewhere? Mozart does that to me, particularly when played by orchestra or piano.

Mozart is the earliest classical music that I remember hearing. I doubt that’s true, since I started dancing in The Nutcracker at age four, I think, so Tchaikovsky probably came first, but it seems like the oldest memory. I think it’s from when Dad performed the role of Don Alfonso in Così fan tutte with the opera workshop at the university. I was pretty little, but we went to see him, and I vividly remember sitting in the dark theater and hearing the music. (Also, there were tights involved, and makeup to make him look elderly. A man in tights was just too weird for me to comprehend at that age.)

Anyway, this happens periodically, where I get that feeling.

Also, apropos of nothing, Leon Fleisher is just adorable. He’s 80 years old and vaguely leonine in aspect, and he sort of sings along with himself as he plays. It’s very endearing. But the most amazing thing about him is his story.

In 1965, after during a wildly successful performing career—which began, by the way, with his New York Phil debut at age SIXTEEN—he was struck by a rare neurological disorder that left two fingers of his right hand immobile. The gifted artist was suddenly unable to perform, though he continued to perform the repertoire for left hand only, as well as conducting and teaching. But then, nearly 40 years after the illness struck, medical science caught up with him, and his affliction was cured. Do you know how? Botox. Seriously. He began getting botox injections in his arms and hands, and eventually regained the use of his hand.

And there he was tonight, backed by one of the world’s great orchestras, and you would never know that he had a 40-year hiatus from the piano. Just goes to show that you can lose everything, or seem to, and you may have given up hope—heck, you may have given up hope DECADES ago—but hope is never really lost. Just ask Leon Fleisher.

Dog Blog

It’s Wednesday. Dad is in Israel, communing with Moses and ancient demoniacs. Mom is at home worrying about tornados dropping a tree on the house (a seemingly irrational fear until you learn that this has occurred on two separate occasions, though not by tornados). I am watching hockey and mentally packing for my trip home this weekend, where G and I will party it up with Mom on her birthday.

We will also possibly get a dog. Not for me, unfortunately—I need to keep reminding myself of that—but for Mom and Dad.

Speaking of dogs, can we please talk about this?

May I present to you….the Komondor. Is this not the awesomest looking dog ever? I mean, look at him. He clearly has an affinity for reggae—check out the dreadlocks!—and I bet I could train him to keep my wood floors clean.

Although then I would probably have to clean the dog more frequently. Perhaps there’s a flaw in my plan.

I got completely sucked into the Westminster Kennel Club show last night, though I only saw the Toy and Working classes, followed by the Best in Show. And during the commercials, they showed about a zillion of these Purina ads about pet adoption. Pleading eyes peer adorably out of cages, and my heart breaks, and then I inevitably waste two hours looking for alternative housing with a fenced yard, until I get distracted by something else, like cupcakes or the Daily Show.

I want a dog. But you all knew that.

Couldn't have said it better myself

This is sort of a "Heard" post, but it's more like "Read" or "Received," because it was not verbalized so much as, you know, text messaged to me. From B, who was all the way in yonder Seattle during last night's uber-harrowing game.

9:58 PM: Trailing 23-20 with 2:24 to go, Ben Roethlisberger and Santonio Holmes have completed three passes for 40 yards, progressing from the Pittsburgh 12-yardline to the Arizona 6.
B [via text]: !

10:00 PM: Second and goal on the Arizona 6, Roethlisberger lofts one into the corner and Holmes lands--barely--with two toes in the end zone. TOUCHDOWN! Or was it? Officials review....and....it's good! The Steelers regains the lead, 27-23, with 35 seconds left, and I about have a heart attack for the fifth time in 20 minutes.
B: !!
Me: That's an understatement.
B: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Problem solved!

Et voila!

G's gentleman friend has solved my problem and thus earned the right to be called by his name--which would be Ryan--on this here blog.



I can now support my team with my heart, my terrible towel, and incessant renditions of "Here We Go Steelers."

1.20.09

I went alone.

That wasn’t the plan. Val and I were supposed to go together, as Ed was working. But at about 8pm last night, she called with the news that she had a scored a ticket through Ed.

On to plan B! I called Nick and Shelley. We made arrangements to meet up at 8:15am. I was ready to roll. Clothes were laid out. Necessities—cash, Chapstick, keys, Metro card, granola bars, camera, cell phone—were neatly tucked in coat pockets, to avoid having to carry a purse.

At 11:15, I had just turned out the light when my cellphone rang. “Um, Hannah?” It was Shelley. “We sort of…just got tickets.”

So I was on my own, or at least I’d have to wait until tomorrow to see who else would be headed downtown, and where they’d be.

I got on the Metro at 7:40am. It was full, but not the sardine tin that I’d anticipated.

A few minutes after 9am, after 30 minutes on the Metro and nearly an hour of trekking—the long way, since 7th and 14th Streets were not, as previously announced, open to cross the Pennsylvania Avenue parade route—around the parade route and down to the Mall, I found a spot on the Washington Monument grounds, facing the Capitol, with an easy view of a jumbotron, which was replaying the We Are One concert from Sunday afternoon. My attempt to walk down the Mall to get closer to the Capitol was foiled by the ubiquitous security forces, who had closed off the Mall because it was already full.

DAR Constitution Hall, where Marian Anderson was banned from singing
in 1939, leading to her famous concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial

I texted a bunch of people to see who was down on the Mall. And! CZ! Guess where she was? At the Washington Monument! For about ten seconds, I thought about trying to find her, before I realized that the odds of spotting someone in the hundreds of thousands already surrounding the monument was slim to none. So I stayed put. Over the next hour, the Washington Monument grounds also filled to capacity, and by around 10, I was so wedged in that I had to say “excuse me” to the guy next to me whenever I raised my arm to take a photo or attempt a text message.

I couldn't raise my arms, so the guy next to me
took this (very close up) photo.

Was it weird being alone? No, and it was kind of great. The mood was buoyant, with people conversing with their neighbors and waiting patiently for the festivities to begin. I was temporarily adopted by two huge black men who stood next to me, one a pastor (Pastor Willie from a church in NE Washington) and his friend, visiting from Brooklyn for the occasion. They provided their own commentary for most of the day and, as the crowd jostled around, made sure I could see. A group of 30-something scientists—all of them quite tall, except for one girl who perched on a crate—stood in front of me (until Pastor Willie and his friend shifted around so I could see). Another gentleman stood to my left and did not open his mouth the entire time.

The view behind me. Note that the crowd
stretches up around the Washington Monument.

The crowd cheered as various dignitaries and VIPs took their seats on the platform. The biggest cheers were received by Ted Kennedy, Jimmy Carter, and—twice the volume of anyone else—Bill Clinton. I helped my neighbors identify people as they were introduced.

“Who’s that?” “That’s Joe Biden’s mother.”
“Who’s that? He looks familiar?” “Howard Dean.” “Oh, right.”
“Who are those girls?” “The Bush twins.” “But who’s the guy with them?” “That’s Jenna’s husband, Henry Hager.”
“HEY, Beyonce! And there’s Diddy!” (They didn’t need my help for those.)

But then the crowd spotted Malia and Sasha Obama, and they went BERSERK.
And then Michelle. More hollering.
And then the President-Elect himself. Flags waved wildly. The noise was deafening. “O-BA-MA! O-BA-MA!”

So. Many. People.

Aretha took the stage, prompting more cheers from the crowd, plus comments on her festive topper. “That,” said Pastor Willie, “is a Sunday-go-to-meetin’ hat.”

As soon as the oath was complete, the crowd went nuts again. Everybody was hugging everybody else. People pulled out their cameras and photographed or videotaped the scene. Tears were plentiful. It was a joyous moment.

Obama takes the oath.

Getting home was an adventure in itself. The crowd oozed slowly toward the exit points, with no one able to tell where the exit points actually were and just hoping that the crowd was going in the right direction. (It was a well-behaved ooze, though. “This is the ruliest crowd I’ve ever seen,” said one guy during the exodus. “Ruliest?” “Yeah, opposite of unruliest.” And he was right. All day, massive crowds were inescapable, and things were confusing, and people had to walk A LOT. And stand in a tiny amount of space for A LONG TIME. And people were calm and pleasant and go-with-the-flow about everything. It was remarkable.) We slowly oozed off the monument grounds, then up Constitution to Virginia Ave to 23rd Street. And from there I walked north to Dupont, where I bought a newspaper, hopped on the Metro (amazingly, with no trouble or delay), and got home around 2:15.

The crowd oozes, at a glacial pace, past idling tour buses.

It was tiring. I am sore. My toes are still a little numb. But I would not have missed it for the world, and I will not soon forget it.

Yay!

Take a break from Obamamania to contemplate this:

So I have a problem. I know exactly one song about the Steelers, which I learned for their last Super Bowl appearance, but it is no longer applicable.

1) "Cowher Power" is no longer relevant. And nothing rhymes with Tomlin.
2) They already got one for the thumb. "Pittsburgh's gonna get one for the other hand now" doesn't quite work.

We have two weeks to work on a suitable alternative. Thinking caps on!

Dude Moments

People often get reflective around the new year. I don’t like to conform, of course, so it has taken me until the 14th day of the year to get there.

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When we were in London, Ed and I had these things that we called “Dude Moments.” These were instances when we would suddenly realize where we were or what we were doing and one of us would stop and say, “Dude… Can you believe we’re here?” Given the number of new and awesome experiences that semester, we had a lot of Dude Moments.

Anyway, do you ever have one of those moments? The ones where you think to yourself, ‘Dude. How great is this?’ I’ve been doing that a lot recently. I have a wonderful family; friends who I can count on and who make me laugh; a rewarding and challenging job; a great little apartment of my own in a city I love; and a lot of good books. I mean, really, what else is there?

I have these moments fairly regularly, which I think makes me a pretty lucky person. Just this year, I’ve probably had hundreds, but there have been a few that I can remember in the last several months (some of which I’ve already talked about, notably November 4, 2008, when much of the country was having a collective Dude Moment), and—in the interest of reflection and whatnot—I shall share them with you now.

1) October 30, 2008: I sat in a small room in the U.S. Supreme Court with 190 other people, among them the Justices of the Supreme Court, Plácido Domingo, and other local and government persons-of-interest, listening to Renée Fleming sing “Deep River,” and thinking, “How on earth did I end up here?”

2) August 29, 2008: Lola the Corolla was at full capacity as I drove back from BWI with a car full of people, a trunk full of luggage, and six conversations going on at one time—which was saying something since there were just five of us—me, Jules, Miguel, Ash, and Jason—in the car. The Trio, once inseparable, is spread across the country now, but our annual rendezvous is a joyous event—and a loud one.

3a) December 21, 2008: I stood in the choir loft at my home church, with Mom on my left, Dad on the podium, a full orchestra in front of me, and the glorious sounds of the Munsey choir seriously bringing it on Handel’s Messiah, when suddenly, the glorious sound of a trumpet—and one, in particular, that I’d know anywhere—burst forth from behind me. It surprised the hell out of me (though I’m not sure why, because what self-respecting choir director forgets to hire a trumpet player for the Hallelujah Chorus? Certainly not my father!), but brought the biggest smile to my face. (Also bringing a smile to my face? When my father, five bars from the end of the piece, snuck a peek at his watch while conducting. What, you can't wait another ten seconds?)
3b) December 25, 2008: I considered not mentioning this, since it happens every year, but whatever. Christmas Eve worship is my absolute, undisputed favorite two-hour period of the entire year, from beginning to end. It also happens to be the one time of the year when I want to be a soprano. It wouldn’t be Christmas without G rolling her eyes at me as I squeak my way through the descants. And at the end, in the first few minutes of Christmas Day, hundreds of candles are lifted skyward simultaneously on the final stanza of “Joy to the World,” and I literally get chills.

4) November 18, 2008: The Israel Philharmonic performed at the Kennedy Center, conducted by Gustavo Dudamel, and it was, bar none, one of the most incredible musical experiences I’ve ever had. Aside from the stellar performances of Tchaikovsky’s 4th and Brahms’ 4th symphonies, the orchestra began first with the national anthem—and, of course, many people sang along. But then they launched into the national anthem of Israel—a gorgeous, haunting melody—and, amazingly, much of the audience sang along with that, too! It was a powerful moment, and one I’m not likely to forget anytime soon.

5) October 14, 2008: At her request, we kept the festivities for Val’s birthday small this year—just a low-key dinner with her, Ed, J, and me. Since J doesn’t live here anymore, it was the first time in a long while that just the four of us had spent any time together since the Roommate (Plus Val) Dinners that we regularly had at the River Road house, and it was fabulous. Thus, they were the perfect three people to spend the first few (awake) hours of 2009 with at brunch on New Year’s Day.

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So anyway, there it is. 2009 will bring many new challenges, adventures, trips, and people. Oh, and weddings. Lots of weddings. But ’08 was a good year. Thanks to all those who were along for the ride.