For example: the Wee Sing recordings (the older ones,
anyway), some of which can be found on YouTube and Archive.org.
And other things you discover for the first time, like
their Christmas recording, which like any good Christmas album contains a mixture
of predictable standbys and mildly exotic old folk songs. Among the latter was one I hadn’t heard before, but
which the narration explained had been written by a priest in the 1600s to
teach the Indians about Jesus.
At some point in my research the cynical thought
occurred to me that, were anyone to do what Brébeuf did today, and adopt
another culture’s language and forms to convey their culture’s information, it
would be deemed both cultural appropriation and colon(ial)ization.On the other hand, one generally imagines
appropriators to be casual users; Brébeuf’s commitment to learning the language
and culture of the Indians he sought to convert was anything but lackadaisical.And however great his temerity in
proselytizing, one can hardly come up with a greater penalty than martyrdom …
On the other hand (for it is Christmas), it is interesting to consider that the most
universally appropriated culture on earth is Christianity.Oh, I know the history of forced conversions;
I am referring to the main of Christianity’s spread.From a slaves’ religion two thousand years
ago to the courts of the empire by 300 A.D. to wherever we are now …
But Christians have always wanted to share their “culture,”
their cultus.
But this is straying far from Jean de Brébeuf and the
Hurons.Here is a solid recording of the
song.The usual English lyrics are not
an especially good translation; the one below the video is supposedly
more accurate.
Have courage, you who are humans, Jesus, he is
born
Behold, the spirit who had us as prisoners has fled
Do not listen to it, as it corrupts our minds.
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.
They are spirits, coming with a message for us,
the sky people
they are coming to say, "Rejoice" (ie., be on top of life)
"Marie, she has just given birth. Rejoice."
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.
Three have left for such a place, those who are
elders
A star that has just appeared over the horizon leads them there
He will seize the path, he who leads them there
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.
As they arrived there, where he was born, Jesus
the star was at the point of stopping, he was not far past it
Having found someone for them, he says, "Come here"
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.
Behold, they have arrived there and have seen
Jesus
They praised (made a name) many times, saying "Hurray, he is good in nature"
They greeted him with reverence (i.e., greased his scalp many times), saying
"Hurray"
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.
"We will give to him praise for his
name"
"Let us show reverence for him as he comes to be compassionate to us."
"It is providential that you love us and wish, ‘I should adopt
them.’"
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.
But it’s Wednesday, you’re saying.But it’s time for MidWeekMuse!
Ah, mon frères,
I am glad that you pay attention to these details.It indeed time for midweek muse.Today, it comes to you with a story.
When Johannes Brahms was in his late forties, the University
of Breslau (now the University of Wrocław, Poland) awarded him an honorary
doctorate of music.“The degree came
with a pompous Latin sentence describing Brahms as ‘the foremost composer of
serious music in Germany today.’”(Source.)
Usually these days one gets honorary degrees in return
for speaking at a commencement or some such occasion, but Brahms was a composer,
rather than a public speaker, so they expected him to do what he did best: write
music.
“Apparently he initially wrote them a simple thank you
note but the conductor Bernard Scholz, who had nominated him for the degree,
convinced him that protocol required him to make a grander gesture of
gratitude. The University expected nothing less than a musical offering from
the composer. ‘Compose a fine symphony for us!’ Scholz wrote to Brahms. ‘But
well orchestrated, old boy, not too uniformly thick!’” (Source.)
Can you imagine writing that to a world class composer,
as if you were ordering up a pudding?No,
neither can I.
Alas, no new symphony was forthcoming.
“Rather than composing some ceremonial equivalent of
Pomp and Circumstance—a more standard response—Brahms crafted what he described
as a ‘rollicking potpourri of student songs,’ in this case mostly drinking
songs. It is easy to imagine the amusement of the assembled students, as well
as the somewhat less-amused reaction of the school dignitaries, to Brahms’s
lighthearted caprice.
“The Academic Festival Overture showcases four
beer-hall songs that were well known to German college students. … It was the
first melody, however, that was most notorious in the composer’s day. ‘Wir
hatten gebauet’ was the theme song of a student organization that advocated the
unification of the dozens of independent German principalities. This cause was
so objectionable to authorities that the song had been banned for decades.
Although the proscription had been lifted in most regions by 1871, it was still
in effect in Vienna when Brahms completed his overture. Because of this ban,
police delayed the Viennese premiere of the Academic Festival Overture for two
weeks, fearing the incitement of the students.”(Souce.)
Plus ça change,
plus c'est la même chose, what what?
Play by play of the songs (pun intended?) can be found
here.
I’ve always (by which I mean, for at least a few years
now) wanted to found my own university, which will be practically perfect in
every way and one hundred percent free of politics and only hire my
friends.Now I have reached a further
decision: Our graduates and deans and boards will never, never march to “Pomp
and Circumstance.”Gaudeamus juvenesdum summus!
And a final fun fact: This is the piece that is used as a leitmotiv for the delightful
and very Chestertonian movie People Will
Talk, which I described some time ago in another
blog post.(There, I called the
music Beethovenian—my sincere apologies to both composers.)If you haven’t seen the movie, find a copy—it
is delightful.Kitschy?Only if you decide it’s kitsch as opposed to
brilliance that you happen to enjoy.
And so it is with the Brahms.Play on, Johannes.
Bonus on top of the boni:
Bernstein a delight to watch.
There are worse hymns than “The King of Love my
Shepherd Is,” a text based closely on Psalm 23 (or 22? the DRV has ruined my
sense of psalm numbering
for life).The old text is indeed a gem:
1
The King of love my shepherd is,
whose goodness faileth never.
I nothing lack if I am his,
and he is mine forever.
2 Where streams of living water flow,
my ransomed soul he leadeth;
and where the verdant pastures grow,
with food celestial feedeth.
3 Perverse and foolish, oft I strayed,
but yet in love he sought me;
and on his shoulder gently laid,
and home, rejoicing, brought me.
4 In death's dark vale I fear no ill,
with thee, dear Lord, beside me;
thy rod and staff my comfort still,
thy cross before to guide me.
5 Thou spreadst a table in my sight;
thy unction grace bestoweth;
and oh, what transport of delight
from thy pure chalice floweth!
6 And so through all the length of days,
thy goodness faileth never;
Good Shepherd, may I sing thy praise
within thy house forever.
Unfortunately, the text they gave us on Sunday was …
well, not bowdlerized or demasculinized but certainly dumbed down.
1
The king of love my shepherd is,
whose goodness fails me never;
I nothing lack if I am his
and he is mine for ever.
2 Where streams of living water flow
a ransomed soul, he leads me;
and where the fertile pastures grow,
with food from heaven feeds me.
3 Perverse and foolish I have strayed,
but in his love he sought me;
and on his shoulder gently laid,
and home, rejoicing, brought me.
4 In death's dark vale I fear no ill
with you, dear Lord, beside me;
your rod and staff my comfort still,
your cross before to guide me.
5 You spread a banquet in my sight
of grace beyond all knowing;
and, oh, the wonder and delight
from your pure chalice flowing!
6 And so through all the length of days
your goodness fails me never:
Good Shepherd, may I sing your praise
within your house for ever!
Is it really so difficult for modern churchgoers to
understand words like “celestial” or phrases like “transports of delight”?Does the occasional “thee” or “-eth” burn the
ears of our modern Puritans?(Indeed,
I’m astonished that the word “perverse” escaped the censor’s snip.)Oh, those old fashioned words wouldn’t be relatable.Pardon me.That’s why we read two-year-olds books with only a two-year-old’s
vocabulary and grammatical structure: so the toddlers can “relate” to their
entertainment.
All sarcasm aside, here is a lovely polyphonic setting
of the psalm by Bach. And if Bach isn’t
quite to your taste, CPDL has a setting by Hassler,
if only some kind soul would record it!I think the words are appropriate enough for Thanksgiving, no?And also for funerals.Thus we hit all the end-of-November
stops.You may thank me when we meet … later.
Der Herr ist mein
getreuer Hirt, BWV 112 (Johann Sebastian Bach)
John Milton’s pair of longish poems, L’Allegro
and Il Penseroso,
are a beautiful depiction of mood.The
first joyful and the second meditative, sad, and even grim, they show the world—in
large part, the world of nature—through the lens of two mental states which in
their extremity might almost be called proto-Romantic.They are also the source of a few phrases
that the wide reader might recognize: “to trip the light fantastic” derives
from the following pair of lines:
Come
and trip it as you go,
On
the light fantastick toe …
… which hail, not surprisingly, from L’Allegro.
For many years I had known of the poems, but not known
much about their reception or what effect they had on subsequent artists—until one
afternoon when, working on one writing project or another, the baroque music
blaring from my husband’s speaker system set a synapse firing in my brain.What was
that line? I asked myself.Fortunately, in songs lines are generally repeated; the tenor gave it
again:
Come and trip it as you go,
On the light fantastick toe …
“What is this?!!” I demanded out loud.
It was George Frideric Handel.Yes, that
Handel, whose other accomplishments apparently include the composition of a “pastoral
ode” entitled L’Allegro, il Penseroso ed
il Moderato and, you guessed it, inspired by Milton’s poems.I highly recommend the piece.You can hear the light fantastic toe around 10:50. (Full libretto here.)
Handel: L’Allegro, il
Penseroso ed il Moderato, Gardiner,
At
the urging of one of Handel’s librettists, Charles Jennens, Milton’s two poems,
L’Allegro and il Penseroso, were arranged by James Harris, interleaving them to
create dramatic tension between the personified characters of Milton’s poems (L’Allegro
or the “Joyful man” and il Penseroso or the “Contemplative man”). The first two
movements consist of this dramatic dialog between Milton’s poems. In an attempt
to unite the two poems into a singular “moral design”, at Handel’s request, Jennens
added a new poem, “il Moderato”, to create a third movement. The popular
concluding aria and chorus, “As Steals the Morn” is adapted from Shakespeare’s Tempest, V.i.65–68.
Oh, Handel.How
very Aristotelian of you, to demand the addition of a moderate man!Poor Milton is probably turning over in his
grave, much like the librettist for Messiah,
who (the story is possibly apocryphal, but too good not to repeat) complained
that Handel had destroyed the poetry with his music.
It has become faintly fashionable to complain about the Christian art scene, and specificallythe Christianmusicscene.
I’ve made my share of complaints, and will plead guilty to possession
of a possibly snobbish suspicion of any artists marketing themselves as
“Christian” or “Catholic”. So when the band Scythian was noised about a few years back, I was dubious. Surely they were either not really Catholic, or not very good?
Well, my apologies to Alexander, Danylo, and Larissa Fedoryka; Nolan
Ladewski; and Fritz McGirr. You all make solid music. And I’d be hard
put to find a group of people that takes their faith more seriously.
It was a couple of weeks ago now, and I was trying to figure out why the phrases of the reading sounded so familiar ... Well, there's a Mendelssohn piece of the same name, which I had known for a number of years, embedded within this oratorio ... which I only just discovered.
... but you really have to listen
to a recording of Joseph Hadyn’s The Seven Last Words of Christ.
You didn’t know Papa Haydn wrote
serious stuff, did you? Except maybe for his Creation (which is still
perhaps a bit too “pretty” to be altogether serious—angels singing lines like “With
verdure clad the fields appear”? I ask you!), and maybe his Nelson
Mass. Well, The Seven Last Words of Christ is different.
Haydn wrote several versions of the
piece, the first being an orchestral work commissioned for a 1783 Good Friday
service.In 1787 Haydn produced a
version for string quartet; finally, almost twenty years later in 1789, he
turned out an oratorio.It’s the oratorio
that you’ll find below, in a version conducted by Harnoncourt (all apologies
for the ads).
... Actually, I never post twice in one day. But how could I not?
“Encore! Encore!” he says ...
Now, for Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and Cornwall ... And France doesn't really need Brittany, do they?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Pardon
me, pardon me, President,” said Barker, warmly; “my sympathies are with no
nation. You misunderstand, I think, the modern intellect. We do not disapprove
of the fire and extravagance of such commonwealths as yours only to become more
extravagant on a larger scale. We do not condemn Nicaragua because we think
Britain ought to be more Nicaraguan. We do not discourage small nationalities
because we wish large nationalities to have all their smallness, all their
uniformity of outlook, all their exaggeration of spirit. If I differ with the
greatest respect from your Nicaraguan enthusiasm, it is not because a nation or
ten nations were against you; it is because civilisation was against you. We
moderns believe in a great cosmopolitan civilisation, one which shall include
all the talents of all the absorbed peoples—”
“The
Señor will forgive me,” said the President [of Nicaragua]. “May I ask the Señor how, under ordinary
circumstances, he catches a wild horse?”
“I
never catch a wild horse,” replied Barker, with dignity.
“Precisely,”
said the other; “and there ends your absorption of the talents. That is what I
complain of your cosmopolitanism. When you say you want all peoples to unite,
you really mean that you want all peoples to unite to learn the tricks of your
people. If the Bedouin Arab does not know how to read, some English missionary
or schoolmaster must be sent to teach him to read, but no one ever says, ‘This
schoolmaster does not know how to ride on a camel; let us pay a Bedouin to
teach him.’ You say your civilisation will include all talents. Will it? Do you
really mean to say that at the moment when the Esquimaux has learnt to vote for
a County Council, you will have learnt to spear a walrus? I recur to the
example I gave. In Nicaragua we had a way of catching wild horses—by lassooing
the fore feet—which was supposed to be the best in South America. If you are
going to include all the talents, go and do it. If not, permit me to say what I
have always said, that something went from the world when Nicaragua was
civilised.”
“Something,
perhaps,” replied Barker, “but that something a mere barbarian dexterity. I do
not know that I could chip flints as well as a primeval man, but I know that
civilisation can make these knives which are better, and I trust to
civilisation.”
“You
have good authority,” answered the Nicaraguan. “Many clever men like you have
trusted to civilisation. Many clever Babylonians, many clever Egyptians, many
clever men at the end of Rome. Can you tell me, in a world that is flagrant
with the failures of civilisation, what there is particularly immortal about
yours?”
“I
think you do not quite understand, President, what ours is,” answered Barker. “You
judge it rather as if England was still a poor and pugnacious island; you have
been long out of Europe. Many things have happened.”
“And
what,” asked the other, “would you call the summary of those things?”
“The
summary of those things,” answered Barker, with great animation, “is that we
are rid of the superstitions, and in becoming so we have not merely become rid
of the superstitions which have been most frequently and most enthusiastically
so described. The superstition of big nationalities is bad, but the
superstition of small nationalities is worse. The superstition of reverencing
our own country is bad, but the superstition of reverencing other people’s
countries is worse. It is so everywhere, and in a hundred ways. The
superstition of monarchy is bad, and the superstition of aristocracy is bad,
but the superstition of democracy is the worst of all.”
The
old gentleman opened his eyes with some surprise.
“Are
you, then,” he said, “no longer a democracy in England?”
Barker
laughed.
“The
situation invites paradox,” he said. “We are, in a sense, the purest democracy.
We have become a despotism. Have you not noticed how continually in history
democracy becomes despotism? People call it the decay of democracy. It is
simply its fulfilment. Why take the trouble to number and register and
enfranchise all the innumerable John Robinsons, when you can take one John
Robinson with the same intellect or lack of intellect as all the rest, and have
done with it? The old idealistic republicans used to found democracy on the
idea that all men were equally intelligent. Believe me, the sane and enduring
democracy is founded on the fact that all men are equally idiotic. Why should
we not choose out of them one as much as another. All that we want for
Government is a man not criminal and insane, who can rapidly look over some
petitions and sign some proclamations. To think what time was wasted in arguing
about the House of Lords, Tories saying it ought to be preserved because it was
clever, and Radicals saying it ought to be destroyed because it was stupid, and
all the time no one saw that it was right because it was stupid, because that
chance mob of ordinary men thrown there by accident of blood, were a great
democratic protest against the Lower House, against the eternal insolence of
the aristocracy of talents. We have established now in England, the thing
towards which all systems have dimly groped, the dull popular despotism without
illusions. We want one man at the head of our State, not because he is
brilliant or virtuous, but because he is one man and not a chattering crowd. To
avoid the possible chance of hereditary diseases or such things, we have
abandoned hereditary monarchy. The King of England is chosen like a juryman
upon an official rotation list. Beyond that the whole system is quietly
despotic, and we have not found it raise a murmur.”
“Do
you really mean,” asked the President, incredulously, “that you choose any
ordinary man that comes to hand and make him despot—that you trust to the
chance of some alphabetical list....”
“And
why not?” cried Barker. “Did not half the historical nations trust to the chance
of the eldest sons of eldest sons, and did not half of them get on tolerably
well? To have a perfect system is impossible; to have a system is
indispensable. All hereditary monarchies were a matter of luck: so are
alphabetical monarchies. Can you find a deep philosophical meaning in the
difference between the Stuarts and the Hanoverians? Believe me, I will
undertake to find a deep philosophical meaning in the contrast between the dark
tragedy of the A’s, and the solid success of the B’s.”
“And
you risk it?” asked the other. “Though the man may be a tyrant or a cynic or a
criminal.”
“We
risk it,” answered Barker, with a perfect placidity. “Suppose he is a tyrant—he
is still a check on a hundred tyrants. Suppose he is a cynic, it is to his
interest to govern well. Suppose he is a criminal—by removing poverty and
substituting power, we put a check on his criminality. In short, by
substituting despotism we have put a total check on one criminal and a partial
check on all the rest.”
The
Nicaraguan old gentleman leaned over with a queer expression in his eyes.
“My
church, sir,” he said, “has taught me to respect faith. I do not wish to speak
with any disrespect of yours, however fantastic. But do you really mean that
you will trust to the ordinary man, the man who may happen to come next, as a
good despot?”
“I
do,” said Barker, simply. “He may not be a good man. But he will be a good
despot. For when he comes to a mere business routine of government he will
endeavour to do ordinary justice. Do we not assume the same thing in a jury?”
The
old President smiled.
“I
don’t know,” he said, “that I have any particular objection in detail to your
excellent scheme of Government. My only objection is a quite personal one. It
is, that if I were asked whether I would belong to it, I should ask first of
all, if I was not permitted, as an alternative, to be a toad in a ditch. That
is all. You cannot argue with the choice of the soul.”
“Of
the soul,” said Barker, knitting his brows, “I cannot pretend to say anything,
but speaking in the interests of the public—”
Mr.
Auberon Quin rose suddenly to his feet.
“If
you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “I will step out for a moment into the
air.”
“I’m
so sorry, Auberon,” said Lambert, good-naturedly; “do you feel bad?”
“Not
bad exactly,” said Auberon, with self-restraint; “rather good, if anything.
Strangely and richly good. The fact is, I want to reflect a little on those
beautiful words that have just been uttered. ‘Speaking,’ yes, that was the
phrase, ‘speaking in the interests of the public.’ One cannot get the honey
from such things without being alone for a little.”
“Is
he really off his chump, do you think?” asked Lambert.
The
old President looked after him with queerly vigilant eyes.
“He
is a man, I think,” he said, “who cares for nothing but a joke. He is a
dangerous man.”
Lambert
laughed in the act of lifting some maccaroni to his mouth.
“Dangerous!”
he said. “You don’t know little Quin, sir!”
“Every
man is dangerous,” said the old man without moving, “who cares only for one
thing. I was once dangerous myself.”
And
with a pleasant smile he finished his coffee and rose, bowing profoundly,
passed out into the fog, which had again grown dense and sombre. Three days
afterwards they heard that he had died quietly in lodgings in Soho.
The last semesters of PhD coursework and courtship, and the first of teaching and marriage—they are busy months. And to be honest, besides the time, I wasn't sure whether I still had things left to write. It turns out there are quite a few: they just needed incubating.
The only Respighi I can listen to with equanimity—and it is more than equanimity, I am ashamed to say: it is positively pleasure—is "Ancient Airs and Dances." The only Prokofiev I've ever truly enjoyed is the "Classical Symphony."
I was hankering after some Sigismund Neukomm, whose two-voice Mass in C was the first polyphony my siblings and I cut our teeth on. Unfortunately, the only version I could find on YouTube was painfully slow and over-vibratoed. It must be the heat.
... on 88.5 FM Sunday nights, you really should. Not only
will you get incredibly cheesy, gritty dramas like Johnny Dollar,
Dragnet, and Gunsmoke (yes, it is possible to be cheesy and gritty at the same time) interspersed with ridiculous commercials for
Brill Cream (and yet more unspeakable products) but you will
occasionally make amazing discoveries.
I'm prepping for a southern literature class this fall, and not enjoying it particularly much at the moment--unless you can use the word "enjoyment" to describe the sensation that accompanies watching a train-wreck.
