My love for John Cusack did not start with Say Anything, as it did for so many people. My best friend and I watched Sixteen Candles almost every Saturday night for the first two years of high school, and my love and appreciation for JC grew from his role as Farmer Ted's sidekick, video equipment strapped to his head, Members' Only jacket with the popped collar. In college, I must have watched Grosse Point Blank forty times, wishing that I were Minnie Driver (that tall, gorgeous tramp smooching on my man), laughing at his wonderful deadpan exchanges with his wacky sister, Joan (also in Sixteen Candles, if you were paying attention), who somehow manages one toe this side of total psychosis. I'd be friends with her, but might also fear her. A good basis for friendship.
There are songs that take me back to places and people in time. I can't hear 'Jungle Boogie' without thinking of my darling friend Ayla (it's her birthday today - happy birthday, A!) and the year we met and became friends, more than twelve years ago, in faraway British Columbia, bonding over our mutual love of high church and Kool and the Gang. Alanis Morissette (no, not THAT song) singing 'Unsent,' swirls me back to my sophomore year in college, listening to this song in the car with my friend Matthew, who loved to point to himself when she sang the first line, "Dear Matthew..." and all the ups and downs of that year. The recent and tragic death of Whitney Houston also brings me back to that year - the year I had the best college roommate EVER, Selena. She was wicked smart, sassy, wore my clothes without asking, left her things everywhere, and it didn't matter, because we lived so very well together. This circumstance was never to be duplicated, ever. We even joked about the monster living under her bed, beneath the mountain of crap. His name was Herbert, or was it Harold... She drove a car she referred to as "the flaming Honda," and could look at me at any time and say, "Chinese food?" She was the best. "I love Paris" always turns into "I hate Paris," Meg Ryan's interpolation in the movie French Kiss, and my friend Casey. We watched this movie in her apartment outside the gates of LSU, a wonderful 2nd floor of a house, crowded with books and movies and things that smelled good. We've been friends for something like 16 years, and I can always count on her to be reading something interesting and, like me, in search of the best lip balm ever. It's a lifelong quest. "Jimi thing" heralds the summer of 99, Woodstock on the radio in the car of my friend Kristy. I can't remember where we were going, but we had to change clothes in her car. God it was hot that day. And the list goes on.
It's sunny today, here in St. É. I have rehearsal in a little more than an hour, and while I'm seriously inclined to sit here and youtube Peter Gabriel for the next 45 minutes, I should probably detach myself from the nostalgia train. To all the ones I love - I miss you. But not necessarily in the Lisa Loeb kind of way :)
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Hold me closer, tiny dancer
I'm on this Elton John kick. I can't stop listening to 'Tiny Dancer,' and I can't even tell you why. I think it has something to do with comfort. When I'm on the road, I seek out things that make me feel a little less foreign, a little more at home, whether it's my regimen of soft-boiled eggs and lavender earl grey tea for breakfast, or my arsenal of hand cream and shampoo/conditioner, wrapped and plastic-bagged for the trans-Atlantic flight. I tend to sleep a lot, read a lot, and build myself into this little cocoon of normalcy that serves as a buffer between me and everything outside my studio apartment. In this case, that would be the hostile weather, the French grocery store and its siren song of a cheese section, and French television.
Can we take a minute to talk about the cheese section? As a latecomer to the non-dairy scene, I spent a lot of my childhood and young adulthood eating cheese. Not any of that kraft singles bullshit, we're talking real cheese. Edam. Gouda. Brie. Stilton. Gorgonzola. Manchego. Drunken goat. Any kind of goat, really. My mom makes eyes at the cheese man at Whole Foods. I keep telling her, she just has to ask for a sample and they will give it to her, flirting or not. All of this is to say it's really REALLY difficult to avoid dairy in France. Just like it's really difficult to avoid baguettes. I'm walking down the street, there are at least 15 people in every block holding a steaming hot baguette, and they have already ripped a piece off the end and are munching on it while walking. Bread and cheese. I could survive on bread and cheese, if my digestion would let me.
Which brings me back to comfort. In the place of the goat cheese I wish to spread on anything and everything, I turn to things like Nutella. Or, here in France, crunchy Nutella. Yes, friends, such a thing exists. It's so beautiful. It's like that Ferrero Rocher chocolate thingie in a jar. Nutella, bananas, lentil soup, baguettes, soft-boiled eggs, pasta and pesto. Elton John.
Elton is a new development. I had a brief but intense experience with the Elton John greatest hits box set when my friend Emily's car (oh Owen, how we miss you) broke down and I drove her to and from school for a week. She had just purchased said box set and when it showed up in the mail (that's right, this was BEFORE iTunes and downloads), we loaded that puppy into my 6-CD changer and there it stayed for the whole week. I had always enjoyed Elton from afar, but there he was, in my car and in my ears, just as she was in my car. I want to say that was almost ten years ago.
So. Before I get too comfortable, I'm gonna put on my running shoes and head to the gym. As a person who almost never does things by halves, sloth is only one step past comfort.
Happy sloth day to you all. Hold me closer, tiny dancer.
Can we take a minute to talk about the cheese section? As a latecomer to the non-dairy scene, I spent a lot of my childhood and young adulthood eating cheese. Not any of that kraft singles bullshit, we're talking real cheese. Edam. Gouda. Brie. Stilton. Gorgonzola. Manchego. Drunken goat. Any kind of goat, really. My mom makes eyes at the cheese man at Whole Foods. I keep telling her, she just has to ask for a sample and they will give it to her, flirting or not. All of this is to say it's really REALLY difficult to avoid dairy in France. Just like it's really difficult to avoid baguettes. I'm walking down the street, there are at least 15 people in every block holding a steaming hot baguette, and they have already ripped a piece off the end and are munching on it while walking. Bread and cheese. I could survive on bread and cheese, if my digestion would let me.
Which brings me back to comfort. In the place of the goat cheese I wish to spread on anything and everything, I turn to things like Nutella. Or, here in France, crunchy Nutella. Yes, friends, such a thing exists. It's so beautiful. It's like that Ferrero Rocher chocolate thingie in a jar. Nutella, bananas, lentil soup, baguettes, soft-boiled eggs, pasta and pesto. Elton John.
Elton is a new development. I had a brief but intense experience with the Elton John greatest hits box set when my friend Emily's car (oh Owen, how we miss you) broke down and I drove her to and from school for a week. She had just purchased said box set and when it showed up in the mail (that's right, this was BEFORE iTunes and downloads), we loaded that puppy into my 6-CD changer and there it stayed for the whole week. I had always enjoyed Elton from afar, but there he was, in my car and in my ears, just as she was in my car. I want to say that was almost ten years ago.
So. Before I get too comfortable, I'm gonna put on my running shoes and head to the gym. As a person who almost never does things by halves, sloth is only one step past comfort.
Happy sloth day to you all. Hold me closer, tiny dancer.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
What's missing
I'll tell you what's missing: the 2nd movement of the Ravel Gmajor piano concerto. It's the most sublime 9 minutes of music you've probably never heard. Go on - youtube it. I'll wait here for you.
I've been in France for a week, and my jet lag is getting better. This doesn't seem obvious, as I'm writing this blog post at nearly 1am, but it's better than it was. At least I'm considering going to bed in the next 20 minutes. But with Ravel playing, the world seems brighter, more optimistic. I can almost pretend that it's not sub-freezing outside, and that the layer of ice covering the sidewalks I must walk to the opera house might consider melting.
It's rare I'm truly moved by music anymore. That's an awful thing to say, given that I've chosen to spend my life in this art. But it's worse than snobbery. I've become numb to most theatrical 'wow' tricks. I've listened to so many recordings, been to so many recitals, it really takes a serious shock to make me catch my breath. I can think of a few standouts offhand:
1. Ariadne auf Naxos at Lyric Opera Chicago this past winter. The final scene had me gasping for breath, tears rolling down my face, it was so moving.
2. Der Rosenkavalier at Semperoper Dresden last winter - presentation of the rose scene. I've heard it so many times, but experiencing it in the context of the opera was completely different for me. Maybe it was hearing it in Strauss' opera house, with an orchestra that has been heeled and raised on Strauss, in a building that breathes and lives Strauss, but it was a big bang wow for me.
3. Poulenc flute sonata - 2nd movement - played by Jean-Pierre Rampal and Francis Poulenc himself, available on DVD (or on youtube, if you like). Exquisite, truly. And Poulenc's playing isn't perfect, it's real, true.
Ravel is my old friend. I was 16 when I went to audition at LSU (post-audition celebratory cheetos care of my good friend and audition chauffeur, Kristy) for their piano performance degree. I don't recall how it came about, maybe I was waiting around for my other audition, but I ended up in their recital hall and someone was playing Une barque sur l'ocean, from Miroirs. I was truly transported. Same when my piano teacher in college sent me to the library to listen to the Gmajor piano concerto, 2nd movement. Something about crazy old Maurice just gets to me. No - gets me. As crazy as it sounds, Ravel gets me. And I'm so very grateful for him on these cold nights, when I'm far from home and the ones I love. Because he comes to me, wherever I am, and reminds me of why I do this crazy business of being a musician. It's not for the costumes (let's not revisit the lamémumu), it's not for the travel (no, mom, they don't fly opera singers first class), it's never for the money (oy, tax season), but every now and then, when you're really lucky and things are very special, you get to make art and share it with an audience.
In the minutes it's taken you to read this post, I hope you were listening to the piano concerto. My friend Jennifer is listening to it right now, while studying for her history exams, in a library in south Mississippi, and it makes me so happy to know we're there together. Seven times zones are easily bridged, when Ravel is there. That said, I'm going to tuck myself into bed with these happy strains in my ears.
Good night, sweet Maurice. You always know what I need.
I've been in France for a week, and my jet lag is getting better. This doesn't seem obvious, as I'm writing this blog post at nearly 1am, but it's better than it was. At least I'm considering going to bed in the next 20 minutes. But with Ravel playing, the world seems brighter, more optimistic. I can almost pretend that it's not sub-freezing outside, and that the layer of ice covering the sidewalks I must walk to the opera house might consider melting.
It's rare I'm truly moved by music anymore. That's an awful thing to say, given that I've chosen to spend my life in this art. But it's worse than snobbery. I've become numb to most theatrical 'wow' tricks. I've listened to so many recordings, been to so many recitals, it really takes a serious shock to make me catch my breath. I can think of a few standouts offhand:
1. Ariadne auf Naxos at Lyric Opera Chicago this past winter. The final scene had me gasping for breath, tears rolling down my face, it was so moving.
2. Der Rosenkavalier at Semperoper Dresden last winter - presentation of the rose scene. I've heard it so many times, but experiencing it in the context of the opera was completely different for me. Maybe it was hearing it in Strauss' opera house, with an orchestra that has been heeled and raised on Strauss, in a building that breathes and lives Strauss, but it was a big bang wow for me.
3. Poulenc flute sonata - 2nd movement - played by Jean-Pierre Rampal and Francis Poulenc himself, available on DVD (or on youtube, if you like). Exquisite, truly. And Poulenc's playing isn't perfect, it's real, true.
Ravel is my old friend. I was 16 when I went to audition at LSU (post-audition celebratory cheetos care of my good friend and audition chauffeur, Kristy) for their piano performance degree. I don't recall how it came about, maybe I was waiting around for my other audition, but I ended up in their recital hall and someone was playing Une barque sur l'ocean, from Miroirs. I was truly transported. Same when my piano teacher in college sent me to the library to listen to the Gmajor piano concerto, 2nd movement. Something about crazy old Maurice just gets to me. No - gets me. As crazy as it sounds, Ravel gets me. And I'm so very grateful for him on these cold nights, when I'm far from home and the ones I love. Because he comes to me, wherever I am, and reminds me of why I do this crazy business of being a musician. It's not for the costumes (let's not revisit the lamémumu), it's not for the travel (no, mom, they don't fly opera singers first class), it's never for the money (oy, tax season), but every now and then, when you're really lucky and things are very special, you get to make art and share it with an audience.
In the minutes it's taken you to read this post, I hope you were listening to the piano concerto. My friend Jennifer is listening to it right now, while studying for her history exams, in a library in south Mississippi, and it makes me so happy to know we're there together. Seven times zones are easily bridged, when Ravel is there. That said, I'm going to tuck myself into bed with these happy strains in my ears.
Good night, sweet Maurice. You always know what I need.
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