Art, arrogance & a whiter shade of pale

Today, art lovers and those who simply love paintings created by beautiful young ladies, is another from Frances Anne Hopkins. I think I should like to name a daughter Frances Anne, but that occurrence is very doubtful. Oh, well. This one is titled, "Rue St. Dominique Montreal." The date looks to be July 4 (or July 9), 1866. It appears to be a watercolor, with soothing shades of pastel to send the viewer drifting away into the sky. (Sound like a wannabe art critic, do I not? Worse things could happen. Done books, movies and music professionally, why not art?) Note the tracks in the mud on the street. Note the pedestrians and, in the distance, a pair of buggies, and in the far distance, the church spires reaching for the sky. Frances knew what she was doing. Like another of her watercolor paintings, "Ile Dorval," also done in 1866, this is one where I want to close my eyes, to step into and to forever become part of the painting and of Montreal in 1866. Dream on, Fram ....

Sometimes the arrogant thrive ....

A few days ago, I entered into a difference of opinion discussion with an individual regarding what I consider good manners and consideration for other people.

While not directly related to that, one of my "personal rules" is that I will not stand in lines. This began after my departure from the Marine Corps. The "hurry up and wait" doctrine approaches near-religious dogma in the military, and I was done with it forever after, I vowed. I absolutely refuse to stand in a line for more than a few minutes, which, translated, means probably five or, maybe, even ten. When preciseness cannot be a consideration, for instance, such as waiting to be seated in a restaurant, I generally will grant two or three couples ahead of me as worth standing around and waiting to be seated before me. More than that? Adios.

My second rule, which was the topic of the conversation, centered on my devout habit of not being willing to wait for people who are late. Would I be chauvinistic to say that is a difficult rule to apply to a young lady?

When I first was starting out in the world of adult work, I made it a habit to arrive five to ten minutes early for an appointment. Almost invariably, I had to wait those minutes, plus another five or ten, for my appointment to arrive. Frustrating, to me, at the very least. Somewhere along the line, I changed by habit and began arriving five to ten minutes late, ostentatiously to ensure that I would not be kept waiting for anyone.

At some point, I decided that was not appropriate, and began to arrive a minute or two before a given appointment, but to wait no longer than five or ten minutes before I left, had my appointment failed to arrive. As a reporter, this tact worked well. The majority of people being interviewed wish to be interviewed, and do not want to get on the "bad side" of a reporter.

And now, once again, loom machismo and arrogance, in perhaps the strangest event from practicing this "rule." On one occasion, I was to be interviewed for a job as a reporter at a newspaper. When the person who was to interview me failed to appear in ten minutes, I began to depart the building. On the way out, I met a man who assumed I was the job applicant. He introduced himself as the newspaper owner. He said he was surprised the interview was finished so quickly. I told him there had been no interview, and explained by point of view on the matter. After turning several shades of red, the gentleman said he would conduct the interview personally. He told a receptionist to track down "Mr. Make Up A Name," and to tell him to come to his office immediately.

Without going into further needless detail, I will note that I did receive a job offer, that I did accept it and, approximately six months later, that "Mr. Make Up" A Name was demoted to a reporter and I was promoted to his position. Sometimes, displaying a machismo and an arrogant attitude pays off.

Another anthem from long, long ago ....

Without wasting my own time and words (= money), I shall again literally steal words from those brave souls who operate Wikipedia, this time to introduce an anthem that was born in the 1960s and persists to this day. It is, for sure, one of the most beautiful and haunting melodies ever produced, some of the most discussed and mysterious lyrics ever written and, quite simply, a really neat song. This version of "A Whiter Shade of Pale," by the one and only Procol Harum, was recorded two or three years ago in Union Chapel in London.

Whenever I hear this song, I want to pick up my drink, light a cigarette and drift onto the dance floor with the prettiest girl in sight. Oh, baby. Just listen to it, close your eyes for a moment and dance to it in your mind ....

From Wikipedia:

In April 1967, Gary Brooker began working as a singer/songwriter and formed Procol Harum with Keith Reid (poet), Hammond organist Matthew Fisher, guitarist Ray Royer and bassist David Knights. The band name was chosen by its original manager Guy Stevens after a friend's Burmese cat, and has been alleged to be Latin for "beyond these things," however the correct Latin translation of "beyond these things" is Procul His. The band's name actually means, in Latin, "of these far off things" (harum is in the feminine, genitive, plural). However, procul would not be followed by a genitive in Latin. The name of the band is frequently misspelled; often with Procul, Harem, both, or other variations.

At Olympic Studios, with session drummer Bill Eyden, producer Denny Cordell, and sound engineer Keith Grant, the group recorded "A Whiter Shade of Pale." The song was officially released on May 12, 1967. With the sudden success of this single and The Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin," their label, Deram Records, became known as a premier progressive rock label.

With a structure reminiscent of Baroque music, a countermelody based on J.S. Bach's cantata no.140 assigned to Fisher's Hammond organ, Brooker's soulful vocals and Reid's mysterious lyrics, "A Whiter Shade of Pale" reached #1 on the British charts and did almost as well in the United States, reaching #5. In the years since, it has become an enduring classic, placing on several polls of the best songs ever.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8jJ1ORIOes

Metamorphosis & Notre Dame de Paris

If the photograph seems to be a bit weak in a technical sense, this is why: It is a digital photo of a slide being shown on a makeshift screen. Not too bad, when that is taken into consideration, right? The exact location of this photo is not necessary to know, but it would be safe to assume the water in the background is Lake Superior and that the photo was taken atop a minor league mountain by a minor league photographer named Fram Actual. It also would be safe to assume that the top, as well as the bottom, of this "large hill" is closely associated to the photographer in question. Neat view to wake up to in the morning, is it not?

A new identity merging with an old

I do not know who among you have read Franz Kafka's masterpiece, "The Metamorphosis." I do know I have been going through that transformation since at least January.

My metamorphosis is not like the one experienced by Gregor Samsa, other than beyond what might be recognizable through the natural advent of age. Mine has been exclusively internal, philosophical, having to do with the senses and with perception, if you will, at least in as much as a battle has ensued between an old order under siege by a new and unblemished persona.

My inner self wants to remain a Marine forever and wants to exist in White Anglo Saxon Protestant male theology and political dogma forever. It wants to stand on a mountain top and shout defiance and challenge to any who dare to threaten it. (Yep, pretty typical male ego at work there.) These elements have been in conflict with new concepts that not many years ago would never have existed in my life because there was no Internet, no blogs, no person-to-person connection between worlds distant not only in miles but in thought.

I have had a personal computer since 1985, probably before some of you were born. Back in "those days," I could have bought a new car for the same amount of money. That is how much I was willing to pay to gain a foothold in then-new computer technology. So, this has not been a sudden process. No detail is necessary here, only a reminder that what is new to some is part of the old to others.

Only a few years ago, my life was set into a track that was leisurely and in which I was reasonably content, if not actually happy. But, fate intervened. The curse of modern life, commonly labeled as a divorce, led to more than the dissolution of a marriage. As I have written before, my Sanctuary/Refuge atop a hill vanished along with the marriage.

As implied, even before divorce, the last few years of marriage consisted of a life routine, somewhat dull and based on avoiding the world as much as possible. No love, no new experiences, no challenges. To repeat myself, as I said a few days ago: ".... life is experience and the object of living, to me, should be to collect it. This is a given. My own interpretation of my own words is that we are the sum of our experiences; and each experience, whether good or bad, is of value to the formation of the whole; and we should be grateful for it."

It was comfort and conformity in exchange for learning and experiencing.

Thanks to a few individuals who frequent my page, I have been in a position to know more about how people live and think in countries other than my own. Reading a textbook or a novel does not help in this sense. Watching a travelogue on television or listening to news broadcast from other countries is near meaningless in this sense. Only real people convey emotions while they tell their truths and explain their thoughts as they understand them. This allows me to grasp how narrow my field of vision has been during the past decade or thereabouts.

Still, sadly for me, sometimes I think I might be the last romantic on earth. Everyone seems to be overly concerned with material goods and the personal accumulation thereof, most of these goods being little more than toys, or, as is the case with the new inhabitants of Washington, D.C., fixated upon radicalizing traditional America. Sadly, too, for practical reasons, I do not think there ever will be a house atop the hill from which the view above is shown.

In any case, thanks to a few individuals who talk here and who write their own posts on their own pages, while I still do want another castle on a hill, I do not want it for a while yet and no longer am bitter about losing the one I did have for a few years. Once, back then, I was ready to spend all my days roaming rooms and running woodlands. Now, I am curious once again. I want to learn more about what is beyond my own world. There is much out there to learn.

What? There is more to life than rock & roll?

Magdalena, who lives near Warsaw in Poland, regularly posts music on her page. A few weeks ago, she presented the performance that I have now "borrowed" from her and listed below. I knew absolutely nothing about this song or the show it came from, but I thought the music and the vision and to be lovely and irresistible beyond words. To discover more, I turned to a popular source of data these days, Wikipedia, of Internet fame. Here is the description found there:

"Notre Dame de Paris" is a French-Canadian musical which debuted on 16 September 1998 in Paris. It is based upon the novel, "Notre Dame de Paris," by the French novelist Victor Hugo. The music was composed by Riccardo Cocciante and the lyrics are by Luc Plamondon.

Since its debut, it has played throughout France, South Korea, Belgium, Switzerland and Canada. A shorter version in English was performed in 2000 in Las Vegas, Nevada, and a full-length London production, also in English, ran for seventeen months. Popular songs from the show, such as Belle and Le temps des cathédrales have also been translated into Belarusian, Catalan, Czech, German, Lithuanian, Polish, Russian and English.

"Notre Dame de Paris," according to the Guinness Book of Records, had the most successful first year of any musical ever. The score has been recorded at least seven times to date (2007): the original French concept album, which featured Israeli singer Achinoam Nini (aka Noa) as Esmeralda was followed by a live, complete recording of the original Paris cast. A complete recording of the score in Italian was made, along with a single disc of excerpts in Spanish from the Madrid production.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_QoESuLBLQ&feature=player_embedded

If I leave here tomorrow ....

Red River Expedition at Kakabeka Falls 1877
Another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins

Where hurry up and wait originated

Traffic jams might generally be viewed as a problem originating in the 20th Century with the advent of automobiles. Not so, as is illustrated in this painting by Frances Anne Hopkins, our painter of forever and always and even beyond.

Boat after boat after canoe awaits its turn at landing to begin the portage of Kakabeka Falls. The painting is teaming with life and action. There appear to be men fishing. Others are gathered round fires, almost certainly preparing food and eating. Many are moving up and down the "stairway," hauling goods, provisions and watercraft along the trail.

Note the "steps" going up the portage incline. Steps have been gouged into the earth with entire trees cut and laid in place to create a stairway traversing the steep slope. This was a common technique employed by French voyageurs and, very possibly, by the Native Americans who taught them the trails and the streams to follow while journeying in primeval America.

Anyone who reads travel tales written during the 18th and 19th centuries in the wilderness areas of America will discover that traffic jams were not at all unusual. There are accounts, not only of river and lake travelers spending a significant amount of time in line at portages, but also of wagon expeditions waiting, sometimes for days, in a line for ferry transportation across a river or, sometimes, even at a place that provided the only safe ford for miles across a waterway.

Artists such as Frances bring visual life to words in diaries and journals about those days when adventures were no less "hurry up and wait" than they are today.

Would you still remember me?

Someone recently asked me if my blog was becoming a music blog. No, I replied, but I shift gears frequently and wanted to try a few more demonstrative elements to illustrate some of the music I enjoy. Citing lyrics from songs I am listening to at the time of writing, or simply those I like, has been part of my blog almost since its beginning. In fact, not too long ago, one of my posts ended with the entire lyrics from today's song being printed.

This particular "musical magic" is an anthem of the 1970s and beyond: "Free Bird," by the band Lynyrd Skynyrd. This, some might deduce through personal knowledge and/or intuition, is my all-time favorite song. 'Tis the music of a true vagabond.

My introduction to this piece came in a small, all-night restaurant, after making the rounds of a few bars with a young lady of French-Canadian origins and whose name was Michelle. A juke box device was mounted on the wall in our booth. I flipped through the selections. I noticed a totally unfamiliar band.

"Lie-Nerd, Sky-Nerd, who are they?" I asked my companion.

She laughed at me, and explained the pronunciation and the origin of this southern rock band. Women always seem to know more than I do -- virtually about everything. The song on the juke box was "Free Bird." It immediately became my theme song. I suspect I was not the first, and I know I will not be the last, to adopt it ....

Both versions I have here are by the original band members, some of whom were killed in an airplane crash and others of whom have departed via a more natural route. For those who do not know, the singer here, Ronnie Van Zant, was among those killed in the crash, and his brother, Johnny Van Zant, now does the vocals for the band. Very similar voices, the two boys have (had?).

The lead version shows the band in action. The problem with it is that the guitar amplifiers are revved up (for the fellow who thinks he is Hawaiian, and is wearing the flowered shirt) to the point there actually is feedback, and the singer really cannot be clearly heard. Guitar guys, what can you say? Never loud enough for them. If you watch the singer, he does not hide his agitation about this problem, either. Contrarily, when the singing stops and the rocking starts, you can understand why the brightest girls cluster round the guys with the guitars.

The second version only offers slides of the band, but the music is a studio recording and words of the song can be distinctly heard.

The full song is approximately 15 minutes in length, however, apparently YouTube does not permit songs longer than approximately 10 minutes in length, so both versions are cut off rather abruptly.

Maybe I will post another song or two after this one, to include my selection for the third best (maybe tied for second best) under the category of absolute best singer in the era of rock music. Then, I will be "traveling on" to another idea .... or, maybe, to another place .... or even to another time ....

Actual band performance ....



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CkTQUtx818w

Slides and studio recording ....



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qD90Z912lLE

A way few will ever be & more music

The Silver Strand of Coronado has known thousands of feet running the soft, deep sand before bellies hit ground and hands hold rifles at the ready during seven or eight decades as a training ground for Marine Corps and Navy personnel. This is a naval amphibious base across the bay from San Diego, California. This is a photograph from a few years ago of a Marine Corps Force Recon unit spending an afternoon working on a tan under the southern California sun. This was Fram's sand for a time. This is the way it is in the real world, like it or not.

Once upon a time in another world

A few hours ago, I wrote these words in response to a remark reflecting surprise that I never had seen the band, "Boston," perform live on stage: "I missed a lot of living being too heavy into work .... much of what I love today I never even noticed when it was 'real time'."

A few days earlier, I wrote these words in response to a question about some of my experiences in the Marine Corps: "For as many years since my departure from the Marines, that is how long my comment to such a suggestion (telling war stories) has been: Those stories are six-drink talk, and only with the 'right' people."

These two concepts are different in origin, but are parallel in thought.

War stories fall into line with my general barroom demeanor. Two drinks, and I might bid, to all, a good night. Four drinks, and we approach unknown territories. Six drinks, and I probably am in for the night. I have been in for more than a few.

More than that and far beyond that, actually, such talk, to me is reserved for others like me or for others I am really close to and who I want to understand me to the bottom of my soul. As I have said somewhere (at least two places) within the past couple of weeks or so:

"Late last night, I wrote the following words as part of a comment at another blog: .... life is experience and the object of living, to me, should be to collect it. This is a given. My own interpretation of my own words is that we are the sum of our experiences; and each experience, whether good or bad, is of value to the formation of the whole; and we should be grateful for it."

No matter what experience I have had, no matter how beautiful or ugly, no matter now sensual or painful, no matter how merciful or brutal, I am glad for it, thankful for it, feel fortunate for having had it.

I think there is something intrinsically wrong about or missing from or phony about anyone who can bare his soul on a street corner or in a written piece. By this, I do not mean to imply that the telling of a story about experiences or about obstacles overcome or about hopes and dreams is the wrong thing to do. I do mean to say that reciting moments of heaven or of hell on earth is more id than ego.

Maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is better to unload to the world at large. Maybe it is better to talk to anyone who will listen. But, for me, I know my soul is open only to brethren or to those I love and who I know love me. To each his own, but I also have a distinct line regarding who I listen to and who I walk away from, and that a wannabe who did not earn his merit badge does not count.

Hey, man .... rip it ....

Don Dokken was a Norwegian lad who came out of the Los Angeles music scene in the 1970s. I use the word "was" in initial reference because Dokken is now in his mid-50s. Despite some people who insist on referring to a person who will be 56 on June 29 (Dokken, not me) as being in mid-life, I, personally, do not know anyone who is 112 years old. I believe applying the term mid-life to anyone in his or her mid-50s is being optimistic to the point of silliness.

Anyway, back on topic.

Dokken was one of the biggest and the best hard rock bands of the 1980s. Don was and always will be one of the smoothest and the best lead singers of the era. My vote would be to place him in the No. 2 position, immediately following Boston's Brad Delp, under the category of absolute best singer in the era of rock music. Unlike Brad, Don is still around and performing. I heard him last summer in Fargo, North Dakota, of all places. It was fun. It was great, but I wish I would have had the opportunity (made the opportunity) to have seen him and his band live on stage around 25 years ago, when they still were sort of kids and at their peak.

Below is a link to a video with Don performing the song, "Stay." The invisible powers that be do not permit this clip to be embedded, but the link is there for any who wish to watch and to listen. My personal favorite Dokken piece is, "Alone Again Without You," but his voice, like Brad's, lost more than a bit of its range over the years. This song offers a taste of, shall we say, the voice that was. This song also provides a considerable taste of guitar work by George Lynch, another among the half-dozen or maybe ten premier guitar players to come out of the 1970s and 1980s.

Wild times, loud times, crazy times back then. I am not so sure I would have survived them had I been a 20-year-old in the L.A. club scene during the 1980s. On the plus side, many of the bands back then actually had singers who had a voice, and who understood that songs are meant to be sung, not spoken or shouted; such is Don Dokken.

Here is the link. I hope you take the four minutes and thirty seconds this song lasts to enjoy it. Anyone who is not up and dancing inside of fifteen seconds should consider pinching his leg to make certain rigor mortis has not occurred:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRMm6bY6Jks

Lyrics to the song
"Stay"
Sung by Don Dokken

Girl, when I think of you, you know it makes me sad
And I wonder, wonder about what we had, what we had

Say we're over baby
That we're through
Can't believe it say that it's not true
Please believe me when I say I do
I'm still missing you, loving you
Loving you

Won't you stay
Can't you see my love is waiting here
Darling, stay
Don't you leave me drowning in my tears

Do you love me baby let me know
Show your feelings 'cause I gotta know
Am I wasting my time, am I being a fool
For loving you, loving you

Every night your name is on my lips
I feel your body at my fingertips
Please believe me when I say I do
I'm still missing, loving you
Am I a fool?

Won't you touch me and stay for a while
I need you so badly
Darling...
Won't you stay

Why not more from Boston?

Since the Don Dokken song could not be embedded, why not toss in another one from Boston and Brad Delp? Sounds like a plan to me. Here is, "Amanda."

Can'tcha Say The Sun Also Rises

This song & this novel/film belong together

On the television, next to me, I can see the 1957 motion picture based upon Ernest Hemingway's novel, "The Sun Also Rises." I generally consider this to be the greatest, while at the same time being the most boring, movie made in the history of cinema: Great but boring. There should be an Academy Award for that category. It was near to the last performances made by actors Tyrone Power and Errol Flynn, who both died of massive heart attacks within two years after filming. Ava Gardner, the beauty among all beauties, appears as the Lady Brett Ashley. Yep, that she was.

On my computer, playing for perhaps the x00th time over the weekend, is the Boston song, "Can'tcha Say (You Believe in Me?)" This song was part of their 1986 album, "Third Stage," the name of which was designed to be symbolic of the onset of middle age. This song either wipes you out or not. No in between. The guitar work is magical, which is a hallmark of most Boston pieces. The singer, Brad Delp, who, in my not so humble opinion, was the absolute best, most versatile singer in the era of rock music, died by suicide at age 55 in 2007.

This novel/film and this song are a perfect match. They belong together. They were made to be together. They were "born" to be together. Possibly, a combined title could read "born too late." If you do not understand this combination, it is something to investigate, provided you have the time and are the curious type. Learn how good you are at reading between the lines, or if you even ever read/think that way.