#147 Musings Beyond the Bunker (Saturday September 18)
Good morning,
MUSIC
A few weeks ago, The Emerson String Quartet announced that they will be disbanding in 2023 after nearly 50 years together. For those of us who purchased their CDs over the years, this is like the breakup of one’s favorite rock band. Here they are playing Beethoven:
And for more recent music, here’s the Emerson String Quartet playing Shostakovich. It’s only a few minutes and worth the effort to experience a modern string masterpiece:
WEST SIDE STORY
Among the best dance sequences, the acting/dancing/singing of Rita Moreno, and the genius of Leonard Bernstein in America:
LYRICS TO CRINGE TO
I’ve written about some truly praiseworthy lyrics from rock and roll songs—lyrics that rise to the level of poetry. Yet there are some that, even if the tune is catchy, are frighteningly banal or incomprehensible. In the struggle to appear “deep” I think the lyricist is simply drowning in his (her her) self-absorption. The group America is among the worst offenders. I’m not saying I don’t like some of their music and don’t find myself humming along (or worse yet, singing along) when their music is played on the radio. But the lyrics, much less the meaning of the tunes, are lost in lyrics such drivel as:
“Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, sister golden hair surprise”
Or…
“Wishin' on a falling star
Watchin' for the early train
Sorry boy, but I've been hit by a purple rain
Aw, come on Joe, you can always change your name
Thanks a lot son, just the same…”
Or… While I understand that Oz never give anything to the Tin Man that he didn’t already have, I hope he didn’t also give him this lyric:
“So please believe in me
When I say I'm spinning 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round
Smoke glass stain'd bright colors
Image going down, down, down, down
Soapsud green like bubbles
Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn't, didn't already have
And cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of Sir Galahad…”
Soapsud green like bubbles? The tropic of Sir Galahad? I’m aware of the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, but Galahad?
POETRY
One Art
By Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Have a great weekend,
Glenn
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