Last May found us in the islands and highlands of Scotland, and it was in the highlands that we had one of those unexpected and unforgettable experiences - in a small church near the River Dee, not far from the front gates of the Queen's Estate at Balmoral. The Church of Scotland is Presbyterian and is proud of its independence, and when we're in the area, we like to attend the Sunday service.
That particular morning, I was surprised to find a "Prayer Of Confession" which I had never come across before, and at the end of the service, I made sure I departed with a copy of the program. I don't know who wrote it or how long it's been around, but I thought it might be of interest to others who may not have read it.
So from "The Parish of Braemar and Crathie," here is that prayer:
Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you have created a world filled with wonder and abundance, while we make do with dull monotony and self-inflicted shortages.
Forgive us.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you have entered into our world with grace and truth, but we have created a culture of judgement and deception.
Have mercy upon is.
Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you have touched our world with power and presence, and yet we live in the midst of despair and loneliness.
Grant us your peace.
AMEN
After saying that in unison - even after reading it silently - I felt and continue to feel its cool truth sink in. Its essence comes to mind regularly and motivates me....
Verily
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The iPad, uh, My iPad
There seemed to be an awful lot of sturm und drang over the birth of the iPad. I read most of the articles which guessed that it would be an incredibly well designed brick and good for not very much; I also read most of the ones which predicted that it would make and deliver a hot breakfast and that it would be expensive.
Taking the middle way, I reflected on all this and decided to order one partly, I must confess, I am intrigued by new gadgets, especially anything that Apple creates, and at my age you want to learn about this new stuff before the large hand comes out of the blue and takes you off to the happy hunting ground (call it what you will).
I thought that the iPad would be very good for reading books, magazines, and some newspapers. I also felt that it would be more than adequate to deal with television, via the web, via Sling Mobile, or via Netflix. and finally, I thought that for the under 40s, the prospect of games on the iPad would be of interest. And I figured it would be excellent for showing photos. To that end, I acquired the Wi-Fi only version in the belief that enriching AT&T with yet another data plan wasn't a high priority in my world.
That you could wander the web relatively easily and deal with email on a larger screen seemed a great improvement over the limitations of the iPhone (but it does have a place). Finally, no matter how many apps that the 12 year old geniuses come up with, the iPad will not replace a laptop...well, not yet.
The book on the bookshelf when you start up the iPad is "Winnie The Pooh," and the colorful Ernest Shepard drawings are so much more lively than they would be in black and white. A friend whose vision isn't as good as it once was looked at the large type available on iPad books and pronounced it of greater interest to him the Amazon's Kindle. My sister has a Kindle and has enjoyed it immensely, especially when she travels.
But the point is that digitization of print materials like a tsunami. I now subscribe to four newspapers online, and the paper recycling bags at the end of the driveway on Monday morning are now but one.
And yes, I get that there's nothing like the feel of turning the page of the New York Times or of a book whether old or new. Having thought about it some, I've decided that I'll hold out for the printed editions of The New Yorker and Cook's Illustrated, but that's about it.
I think about getting on a plane to London next month with an iPad which will replace the usual four or five books I usually squeeze into the carry-on, and I smile.
My conclusion is that you'd better get on the stagecoach before you find yourself under it. But now I have to return to the most recent episode of Spartacus, on my iPad courtesy of Netflix, and then find some time to leave the electronic world to admire the daffodils at the end of the drive. Nothing compares, even a nice high density image of them on a small screen, and nothing ever will.
Taking the middle way, I reflected on all this and decided to order one partly, I must confess, I am intrigued by new gadgets, especially anything that Apple creates, and at my age you want to learn about this new stuff before the large hand comes out of the blue and takes you off to the happy hunting ground (call it what you will).
I thought that the iPad would be very good for reading books, magazines, and some newspapers. I also felt that it would be more than adequate to deal with television, via the web, via Sling Mobile, or via Netflix. and finally, I thought that for the under 40s, the prospect of games on the iPad would be of interest. And I figured it would be excellent for showing photos. To that end, I acquired the Wi-Fi only version in the belief that enriching AT&T with yet another data plan wasn't a high priority in my world.
That you could wander the web relatively easily and deal with email on a larger screen seemed a great improvement over the limitations of the iPhone (but it does have a place). Finally, no matter how many apps that the 12 year old geniuses come up with, the iPad will not replace a laptop...well, not yet.
The book on the bookshelf when you start up the iPad is "Winnie The Pooh," and the colorful Ernest Shepard drawings are so much more lively than they would be in black and white. A friend whose vision isn't as good as it once was looked at the large type available on iPad books and pronounced it of greater interest to him the Amazon's Kindle. My sister has a Kindle and has enjoyed it immensely, especially when she travels.
But the point is that digitization of print materials like a tsunami. I now subscribe to four newspapers online, and the paper recycling bags at the end of the driveway on Monday morning are now but one.
And yes, I get that there's nothing like the feel of turning the page of the New York Times or of a book whether old or new. Having thought about it some, I've decided that I'll hold out for the printed editions of The New Yorker and Cook's Illustrated, but that's about it.
I think about getting on a plane to London next month with an iPad which will replace the usual four or five books I usually squeeze into the carry-on, and I smile.
My conclusion is that you'd better get on the stagecoach before you find yourself under it. But now I have to return to the most recent episode of Spartacus, on my iPad courtesy of Netflix, and then find some time to leave the electronic world to admire the daffodils at the end of the drive. Nothing compares, even a nice high density image of them on a small screen, and nothing ever will.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Olympic Afterglow
During the last couple of weeks I found myself in a number of long meetings, and not just Monday through Friday, but on the weekends as well. I'm not complaining, mind you, just describing this last chunk of time.
Yessir, those winter Olympics can eat up a lot of time, what with NBC using a fistful of channels to bring all the delayed action to us. Oh, there were a few things live, but you had to be on the ball to figure that out. But I digress.
Every four years, there is an opportunity to see young athletes at the top of their particular game, and accompanying those performances are stories which are so good, so touching, that i just plop a large box of Kleenex next to my chair and get ready to weep.
This year, a luger from the Republic of Georgie died on the track at Whistler Mountain. It was a terrible tragedy - casting a deep shadow on the judgement and competence of the Canadian engineering. Kleenex.
Joannie Rochette's mother died of a heart attack days before her figure skating competition, but her daughter decided to compete, and was she a wonder, earning the bronze medal with performances of great beauty, skill, and emotion. More Kleenex.
In that same competition, the young Korean skater Yu-Na-KIm took our collective breath away with an incomparable perforance in the long program. She had wonderful lines, enormous grace, and she swept away all her ebullient, enthusiastic, and far less graceful competitiors. It was a night to remember. Kleenex again, just for the beauty of it all.
On the men's side, Evan Lysacek defeated his Russian competition by his careful competence, clear understanding of the judging rules, and a sense of caring which put him ahead of Evgeny Plushenko. Fists in the air but no Kleenex.
The story of the American bobsled driver whose vision had been so poor, he was legally blind and drove by instinct soon came to the fore. Recent daring eye surgery had given him near perfect sight, and in three runs, he took home the gold. The art and science of medicine, plus a patient's courage, made for a very happy ending. Kleenex during the playing of the national anthem at the award ceremony.
But the hockey, both men's and women's games, was a source of considerable delight. Both USA teams ultimately lost to Canada in championship matches, but the games were as intense, competitive, creative, and exhausting as any I've ever seen. Too involved for Kleenex until the end of two men's games against Canada and the women's final contest.
I'm learning about the half-pipe and am amazed by the athleticism of the competitors, and curling is beginning to intrigue me more than ever before, but now I have four years to wait before I can re-evaluate my interest. But speaking of curling, if there is a better play-by-play person for a sport than John Duguid, I don't know who it would be. He treats the audience with respect and understands the game thoroughly so that you feel that you understand what the participants are thinking before making every strategic decision. And Mike Emrick did a terrific job with the hockey play-by-play, but often I felt as though as was sitting under an enthusiastic and endless cascade of words, words, words.
So now Vancouver and Canada begin to recover from what must be the greatest national hangover in decades. I'll bet they don't regret the celebration one damn bit.
Yessir, those winter Olympics can eat up a lot of time, what with NBC using a fistful of channels to bring all the delayed action to us. Oh, there were a few things live, but you had to be on the ball to figure that out. But I digress.
Every four years, there is an opportunity to see young athletes at the top of their particular game, and accompanying those performances are stories which are so good, so touching, that i just plop a large box of Kleenex next to my chair and get ready to weep.
This year, a luger from the Republic of Georgie died on the track at Whistler Mountain. It was a terrible tragedy - casting a deep shadow on the judgement and competence of the Canadian engineering. Kleenex.
Joannie Rochette's mother died of a heart attack days before her figure skating competition, but her daughter decided to compete, and was she a wonder, earning the bronze medal with performances of great beauty, skill, and emotion. More Kleenex.
In that same competition, the young Korean skater Yu-Na-KIm took our collective breath away with an incomparable perforance in the long program. She had wonderful lines, enormous grace, and she swept away all her ebullient, enthusiastic, and far less graceful competitiors. It was a night to remember. Kleenex again, just for the beauty of it all.
On the men's side, Evan Lysacek defeated his Russian competition by his careful competence, clear understanding of the judging rules, and a sense of caring which put him ahead of Evgeny Plushenko. Fists in the air but no Kleenex.
The story of the American bobsled driver whose vision had been so poor, he was legally blind and drove by instinct soon came to the fore. Recent daring eye surgery had given him near perfect sight, and in three runs, he took home the gold. The art and science of medicine, plus a patient's courage, made for a very happy ending. Kleenex during the playing of the national anthem at the award ceremony.
But the hockey, both men's and women's games, was a source of considerable delight. Both USA teams ultimately lost to Canada in championship matches, but the games were as intense, competitive, creative, and exhausting as any I've ever seen. Too involved for Kleenex until the end of two men's games against Canada and the women's final contest.
I'm learning about the half-pipe and am amazed by the athleticism of the competitors, and curling is beginning to intrigue me more than ever before, but now I have four years to wait before I can re-evaluate my interest. But speaking of curling, if there is a better play-by-play person for a sport than John Duguid, I don't know who it would be. He treats the audience with respect and understands the game thoroughly so that you feel that you understand what the participants are thinking before making every strategic decision. And Mike Emrick did a terrific job with the hockey play-by-play, but often I felt as though as was sitting under an enthusiastic and endless cascade of words, words, words.
So now Vancouver and Canada begin to recover from what must be the greatest national hangover in decades. I'll bet they don't regret the celebration one damn bit.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Intersections Of A Different Sort
The fun in travel is discovering new intersections – not so much of roads – but of relationships. On our recent Christmas in England, we had several examples of the role serendipity plays in making travel interesting and often amusing.
On the flight to London, I happened to have brief exchange with one of the flight attendants, a jolly middle-aged blonde named Susan. It was about the fact that “cream” in airline lingo does not mean cream at all, but half-and- half. That was all they had on the flight, but then she asked when we were coming back. Upon hearing the date, she said she was assigned to that flight and would sneak some proper cream from the first class cabin so that my coffee would be as I liked it. Uh-huh, thought I.
At the cabin door ten days later, she greeted me as the “cream man,” and before take-off, we had a fine chat. Turns out she hadn’t been home much at Christmas, home being Salt Lake City, but she and her husband were coming to London early in the new year for a few days “without the kids.”
We did not know that our first intersection would be in the air enroute to England, but we shall treasure it, because she made us feel like good acquaintances and not like sheep in a pen heading for the abbatoir.
In fact her generosity of spirit was the first of several presents we received along the way.
Oh, and the cream was deeeeeeelish! Many thanks, Susan. Happy New Year to you and yours, and many smooth flights in the years ahead. You were delightful.
One day, we were coming out of the tube and near the top of the stairs we saw a young woman struggling to get her bright yellow suitcase up that last step. “Old guy ready to help,” I shouted and manged to assist her in getting her case to the top and level ground. She was quite young and smiled in relief. “I have taken the train all the way from Switzerland today,” she exclaimed, “and I live just over there,” she added with a pointed finger in exclamation.” She thanked us and added “Happy New Year” with a great big smile and crossed the street on the way to her 2010.
The last morning, we were finishing breakfast at Carluccio’s just across from the South Kensington tube station (both highly recommended). In getting up, I inadvertently knocked over my chair which hit the floor with a tremendous crack and thus frightening the woman at the table behind. I apologized and noticed her son had an iPhone. So do I, so I asked him how many apps he had. “Too many,” interrupted his father.
I asked the lad if he had “Lumosity,” and when he said he did not, I encouraged him to get it so that he could beat his father and so get even more apps. Turns out the father attended the choir school at King’s College, Cambridge, an institution with which I have had a long relationship. More Happy New Years wishes and several variations of “Have a safe trip.”
Getting off the tube at Heathrow, we took a lift with a young woman who seemed very concerned. Once off the elevator, she started looking around for her flight. Karen sensed her concern and stopped to help. Her flight for home in Athens left several hours later and - like the rest of us - a new language and new airline procedures left her anxious and fearful. So Karen went to work, calmed her down, and as we had a flight to catch shortly, we headed off, but the young woman we left was now calmer, and the last thing she said to us was, "God bless you." Another gift happily received.
We have several friends in London, Cambridge, and Norfolk, and every one we saw during our adventure made a special effort to help us celebrate Christmas – not always an easy task so far from home. From leaving home in the suburbs to join us for a meal and events in London, to adding us to a Christmas celebration and preparing meals which were memorable. One of these included the following libations – sparkling white wine, aquavit, red wine, and whisky. That no one suffered a hangover after this was something of a minor miracle.
And the friends we travelled with were positive, supporting, curious, independent, kind, generous, and tolerant. While this Christmas had few of what most would describe as presents, we were surrounded by gifts from friends and strangers, and the result was a Christmas which will live in our memories forever.
Riding on waves of kindness from friends and strangers -there could be no better to slip into January.
Happy New Year to you and yours!
On the flight to London, I happened to have brief exchange with one of the flight attendants, a jolly middle-aged blonde named Susan. It was about the fact that “cream” in airline lingo does not mean cream at all, but half-and- half. That was all they had on the flight, but then she asked when we were coming back. Upon hearing the date, she said she was assigned to that flight and would sneak some proper cream from the first class cabin so that my coffee would be as I liked it. Uh-huh, thought I.
At the cabin door ten days later, she greeted me as the “cream man,” and before take-off, we had a fine chat. Turns out she hadn’t been home much at Christmas, home being Salt Lake City, but she and her husband were coming to London early in the new year for a few days “without the kids.”
We did not know that our first intersection would be in the air enroute to England, but we shall treasure it, because she made us feel like good acquaintances and not like sheep in a pen heading for the abbatoir.
In fact her generosity of spirit was the first of several presents we received along the way.
Oh, and the cream was deeeeeeelish! Many thanks, Susan. Happy New Year to you and yours, and many smooth flights in the years ahead. You were delightful.
One day, we were coming out of the tube and near the top of the stairs we saw a young woman struggling to get her bright yellow suitcase up that last step. “Old guy ready to help,” I shouted and manged to assist her in getting her case to the top and level ground. She was quite young and smiled in relief. “I have taken the train all the way from Switzerland today,” she exclaimed, “and I live just over there,” she added with a pointed finger in exclamation.” She thanked us and added “Happy New Year” with a great big smile and crossed the street on the way to her 2010.
The last morning, we were finishing breakfast at Carluccio’s just across from the South Kensington tube station (both highly recommended). In getting up, I inadvertently knocked over my chair which hit the floor with a tremendous crack and thus frightening the woman at the table behind. I apologized and noticed her son had an iPhone. So do I, so I asked him how many apps he had. “Too many,” interrupted his father.
I asked the lad if he had “Lumosity,” and when he said he did not, I encouraged him to get it so that he could beat his father and so get even more apps. Turns out the father attended the choir school at King’s College, Cambridge, an institution with which I have had a long relationship. More Happy New Years wishes and several variations of “Have a safe trip.”
Getting off the tube at Heathrow, we took a lift with a young woman who seemed very concerned. Once off the elevator, she started looking around for her flight. Karen sensed her concern and stopped to help. Her flight for home in Athens left several hours later and - like the rest of us - a new language and new airline procedures left her anxious and fearful. So Karen went to work, calmed her down, and as we had a flight to catch shortly, we headed off, but the young woman we left was now calmer, and the last thing she said to us was, "God bless you." Another gift happily received.
We have several friends in London, Cambridge, and Norfolk, and every one we saw during our adventure made a special effort to help us celebrate Christmas – not always an easy task so far from home. From leaving home in the suburbs to join us for a meal and events in London, to adding us to a Christmas celebration and preparing meals which were memorable. One of these included the following libations – sparkling white wine, aquavit, red wine, and whisky. That no one suffered a hangover after this was something of a minor miracle.
And the friends we travelled with were positive, supporting, curious, independent, kind, generous, and tolerant. While this Christmas had few of what most would describe as presents, we were surrounded by gifts from friends and strangers, and the result was a Christmas which will live in our memories forever.
Riding on waves of kindness from friends and strangers -there could be no better to slip into January.
Happy New Year to you and yours!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
When I began blogging some years ago, I was always surprised and delighted when a reaction to something I'd written arrived on the electronic doorstep. Seven years ago, I received a response from Terry Riley, this year's guest Christmas screedist. Terry remained hard to find, but each year he would send along his reaction to what I'd written, and I've always liked what he thought and his way of expressing his ideas.
My schedule this year made it difficult for me to think about writing something, but - for the first time - Terry beat me to it. I asked his permission to reproduce his message, and he generously gave it. I look forward to providing him with my reaction when I come up for air. All good wishes of the season to you and yours.
Nick Nash
16th December 2009
Dear Nick,
As you are closing early for Christmas this year I wasn’t sure if you were going to be able to squeeze in a 2009 Christmas Screed. And as it is my tradition to read and offer a (hopefully) thoughtful response I figured I better fire off a pre-emptive Christmas Screed note.
You may be wondering why I write once a year. To be honest I’ve always had intentions of writing more frequently. But I guess you know what they say about good intentions. But I think my motivation for writing comes from my interest in and desire to talk about Christmas and its meanings. Add to that the phenomena of changing attitudes to how we embrace (or not) the holiday season as we get older. I guess it’s a time for reflection, not just on Christmas itself but on our lives, relationships and ways in which we interact with the world.
I also write because I met you once. I actually interviewed for a job with your company back in the early 90s. I’ve since gone on to work at a variety of companies in the Twin Cities, and am currently doing market research-related work in White Bear Lake. I found you to be an interesting, thoughtful person, in addition to being brave enough to launch your own business.
At any rate, the first time I read one of your essays -- Christmas of 2002 I believe – I had a strong emotional reaction. You seemed to hit the nail on the head in terms of how I approach Christmas conceptually, but for which I am usually not articulate enough to express. I just had to say, in the form of a response, how much I appreciated your thoughtful words.
To me Christmas is a many-splendored, bittersweet, lovely and melancholy time, incorporating a variety of elements and emotions. Although I was raised as a Catholic, I’m by no means devout in the practice of that particular flavor. I’m in the believer camp, however, and certainly the Nativity and all its glories comprise a rather large chunk of my personal holiday hodge-podge. There are other elements as well, many of which date back to pagan times and which we still incorporate in our celebrating. And of course the feelings of warmth, generosity and general good will that seem to bubble up at this time of year. There seems to be a strong need to reconnect with friends and family at Christmastide that is not as strong at other times of the year.
And I usually have no trouble conjuring up a decent dose of Christmas spirit and pride myself on being able to cut through the commercialism and extraneous clutter to keep Christmas in a personal way. This year, however, I’m experiencing extreme CSD – Christmas Spirit Dysfunction. I just can’t seem to get it going. I need to, however, as I have two small children who are still in the wonderment stages of their lives with respect to Christmas. But maybe my age (50) is working against me. Mid-life angst could be a drag on the whole thing I suppose.
I’m sorry if I’m telling you things you may have already experienced in your own life, like I’m the first one to experience them. I will say, however, that I’m not giving up yet, and will do my best to keep Christmas, if any man alive possesses the knowledge (to borrow from Dickens).
I'd like to close with a few of the words from what has recently become one of my favorite English carols -- "See Amid the Winter Snow."
Teach o teach us holy Child,
By thy face so meek and mild,
Teach us to resemble thee,
In thy sweet humility
I think we all would do well to consider these words this Christmastide and in the coming new year.
Terry Riley
My schedule this year made it difficult for me to think about writing something, but - for the first time - Terry beat me to it. I asked his permission to reproduce his message, and he generously gave it. I look forward to providing him with my reaction when I come up for air. All good wishes of the season to you and yours.
Nick Nash
16th December 2009
Dear Nick,
As you are closing early for Christmas this year I wasn’t sure if you were going to be able to squeeze in a 2009 Christmas Screed. And as it is my tradition to read and offer a (hopefully) thoughtful response I figured I better fire off a pre-emptive Christmas Screed note.
You may be wondering why I write once a year. To be honest I’ve always had intentions of writing more frequently. But I guess you know what they say about good intentions. But I think my motivation for writing comes from my interest in and desire to talk about Christmas and its meanings. Add to that the phenomena of changing attitudes to how we embrace (or not) the holiday season as we get older. I guess it’s a time for reflection, not just on Christmas itself but on our lives, relationships and ways in which we interact with the world.
I also write because I met you once. I actually interviewed for a job with your company back in the early 90s. I’ve since gone on to work at a variety of companies in the Twin Cities, and am currently doing market research-related work in White Bear Lake. I found you to be an interesting, thoughtful person, in addition to being brave enough to launch your own business.
At any rate, the first time I read one of your essays -- Christmas of 2002 I believe – I had a strong emotional reaction. You seemed to hit the nail on the head in terms of how I approach Christmas conceptually, but for which I am usually not articulate enough to express. I just had to say, in the form of a response, how much I appreciated your thoughtful words.
To me Christmas is a many-splendored, bittersweet, lovely and melancholy time, incorporating a variety of elements and emotions. Although I was raised as a Catholic, I’m by no means devout in the practice of that particular flavor. I’m in the believer camp, however, and certainly the Nativity and all its glories comprise a rather large chunk of my personal holiday hodge-podge. There are other elements as well, many of which date back to pagan times and which we still incorporate in our celebrating. And of course the feelings of warmth, generosity and general good will that seem to bubble up at this time of year. There seems to be a strong need to reconnect with friends and family at Christmastide that is not as strong at other times of the year.
And I usually have no trouble conjuring up a decent dose of Christmas spirit and pride myself on being able to cut through the commercialism and extraneous clutter to keep Christmas in a personal way. This year, however, I’m experiencing extreme CSD – Christmas Spirit Dysfunction. I just can’t seem to get it going. I need to, however, as I have two small children who are still in the wonderment stages of their lives with respect to Christmas. But maybe my age (50) is working against me. Mid-life angst could be a drag on the whole thing I suppose.
I’m sorry if I’m telling you things you may have already experienced in your own life, like I’m the first one to experience them. I will say, however, that I’m not giving up yet, and will do my best to keep Christmas, if any man alive possesses the knowledge (to borrow from Dickens).
I'd like to close with a few of the words from what has recently become one of my favorite English carols -- "See Amid the Winter Snow."
Teach o teach us holy Child,
By thy face so meek and mild,
Teach us to resemble thee,
In thy sweet humility
I think we all would do well to consider these words this Christmastide and in the coming new year.
Terry Riley
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Remembering Elisabeth Söderström
I first fell in love with the Swedish soprano Elisabeth Söderström as a teenager listening to a long playing record which my father played frequently. She sounded convincing and exquisite, but at that age, I was unable to learn much about her.
Decades later, I was working in public radio and on a trip to London discovered the BBC had made some spoken word programs with her, and I asked to listen to a couple of them. I did and fell in love with several quite different aspects of her voice - her intelligence, her sensitivity, her sense of humor, and her commitment to the art of singing.
In an instant, I decided that I needed to make a radio program with her...something to help people better understand both the art of song and the art song. Because I knew nothing about music, who better to open my eyes and ears than Elisabeth?
In her recitals, she often spoke about the next song to give the audience a perspective on it and to help deepen their understanding; I believe that she thought very carefully about what she was going to say, and the words were essential to the full appreciation of the performance. Her way of doing this helped the audience appreciate not just the voice and the performance but also the warm, funny, and intelligent person behind the notes.
About the same time, I met the Swedish baritone Håkan Hagegård; he was intrigued with the idea of working with Elisabeth, and then the American accompanist Warren Jones joined our group. I had developed some contacts with Swedish Radio, and they were intrigued and agreed to participate as the lead producer.
And so I fell in love with Elisabeth yet again. We made the programs in western Sweden, in Håkan's local church, and our time together was one of the highlights of my life - to work with highly talented performers, producers, and technicians was such a great privilege. Three one hour programs in both English and Swedish, culminating in a recital at Berwald Hall in Stockholm. I wanted to call the programs "Take Me To Your Lieder," but the Swedes preferred "Sing Me A Song," and they prevailed. (I still prefer my idea [naturally].
Our lunch break was not in the church but in a hostel across the road. The wife cooked, and the husband served, and at the end of the meal every day, Elisabeth would head into the kitchen. After a couple of days, I asked her why she did that. "To thank the cook," she said, adding, "It takes so little, and it seems to mean something."
Elisabeth was a consummate artist who could handle the great gestures of grand opera, but she provided all the little gestures, too. Her eyes were on the stars, but her feet were solidly on the ground. Always.
Hard to believe it was twenty two years ago because the memories are still so fresh. After the series was broadcast, I saw Elisabeth in Stockholm, London, and New York. Eventually she retired after a turn at running the Drottiningholm Court Theatre where she made her debut, and I heard that she had been having some major health problems.
She slipped off life's stage earlier this week, leaving many of us deeply saddened. If you saw her in performance you never forgot her; if you heard her tell a story, it remained indelibly told. No one's eyes sparkled like hers, no one had a laugh like hers. Just being around her made the day special.
She was one of a kind, and I feel triply blessed to have known her a little bit and to have been one of the multitudes of people who loved her for her art, heart, and, more importantly, for her humanity.
Decades later, I was working in public radio and on a trip to London discovered the BBC had made some spoken word programs with her, and I asked to listen to a couple of them. I did and fell in love with several quite different aspects of her voice - her intelligence, her sensitivity, her sense of humor, and her commitment to the art of singing.
In an instant, I decided that I needed to make a radio program with her...something to help people better understand both the art of song and the art song. Because I knew nothing about music, who better to open my eyes and ears than Elisabeth?
In her recitals, she often spoke about the next song to give the audience a perspective on it and to help deepen their understanding; I believe that she thought very carefully about what she was going to say, and the words were essential to the full appreciation of the performance. Her way of doing this helped the audience appreciate not just the voice and the performance but also the warm, funny, and intelligent person behind the notes.
About the same time, I met the Swedish baritone Håkan Hagegård; he was intrigued with the idea of working with Elisabeth, and then the American accompanist Warren Jones joined our group. I had developed some contacts with Swedish Radio, and they were intrigued and agreed to participate as the lead producer.
And so I fell in love with Elisabeth yet again. We made the programs in western Sweden, in Håkan's local church, and our time together was one of the highlights of my life - to work with highly talented performers, producers, and technicians was such a great privilege. Three one hour programs in both English and Swedish, culminating in a recital at Berwald Hall in Stockholm. I wanted to call the programs "Take Me To Your Lieder," but the Swedes preferred "Sing Me A Song," and they prevailed. (I still prefer my idea [naturally].
Our lunch break was not in the church but in a hostel across the road. The wife cooked, and the husband served, and at the end of the meal every day, Elisabeth would head into the kitchen. After a couple of days, I asked her why she did that. "To thank the cook," she said, adding, "It takes so little, and it seems to mean something."
Elisabeth was a consummate artist who could handle the great gestures of grand opera, but she provided all the little gestures, too. Her eyes were on the stars, but her feet were solidly on the ground. Always.
Hard to believe it was twenty two years ago because the memories are still so fresh. After the series was broadcast, I saw Elisabeth in Stockholm, London, and New York. Eventually she retired after a turn at running the Drottiningholm Court Theatre where she made her debut, and I heard that she had been having some major health problems.
She slipped off life's stage earlier this week, leaving many of us deeply saddened. If you saw her in performance you never forgot her; if you heard her tell a story, it remained indelibly told. No one's eyes sparkled like hers, no one had a laugh like hers. Just being around her made the day special.
She was one of a kind, and I feel triply blessed to have known her a little bit and to have been one of the multitudes of people who loved her for her art, heart, and, more importantly, for her humanity.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Something Old, Something New
Having reached my three score and seven, I have pretty much given up on contemporary music. Hell, with the exception of Carly Simon, I gave up on contemporary music something over four decades ago. I have always thought that decision to have been a good one...until last week.
.
I was listening to Wake Up With Wogan on BBC's Radio Two. He's probably the best I've ever heard in morning radio (and I've heard and know some great ones), but next month he's retiring, even though he is clearly still at the top of his game. The Beeb is giving him some sort of weekly show, so that the next young bucko can come into the morning and try to hold onto Wogan's very large audience.
But I digress.
Last week, I was in my office working on some orders while I listened to Wogan, and he played a song called "Story." I couldn't quite figure out the lyrics, but the performance and arrangement knocked me over. I couldn't quite get the name of the artist, so I checked the play list on the BBC's web-site (thank you, thank you), and I found that the artist is Leddra Chapman (aka Anna Leddra-Chapman in some places), and she writes her own material. Based on what I've heard, she's off to a great start.
Last week, I was in my office working on some orders while I listened to Wogan, and he played a song called "Story." I couldn't quite figure out the lyrics, but the performance and arrangement knocked me over. I couldn't quite get the name of the artist, so I checked the play list on the BBC's web-site (thank you, thank you), and I found that the artist is Leddra Chapman (aka Anna Leddra-Chapman in some places), and she writes her own material. Based on what I've heard, she's off to a great start.
Her first album comes out later this month in the UK, and so, after all these years, I've succumbed - again - to the blandishments of the music of the young and talented and happily so.
Have a look-see and a listen....
Postscript: I downloaded a couple of tracks from her MySpace web-site, burned them to a CD, and I have found great pleasure in listening to them over and over as I drive around. Either some element of my own youth has been reawakened, or I am losing it sooner than I thought I would. But I'm reasonably certain it's the former.
Postscript: I downloaded a couple of tracks from her MySpace web-site, burned them to a CD, and I have found great pleasure in listening to them over and over as I drive around. Either some element of my own youth has been reawakened, or I am losing it sooner than I thought I would. But I'm reasonably certain it's the former.
I said reasonably.
Bottom line is that her CD will be out in the states next month, and when I'm across the pond for Christmas, guess what CD I'll be looking for....and hoping for printed copies of her lyrics to be included?
.
I'd be interested in hearing your reactions....
And if you think I've slipped my moorings, I'd like to hear that, too.
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