#if the choir is saying DIES IRAE that's the most friends!

[batbobsession]

So I saw the Hunchback of Notre Dame to alleviate the isolation...

Spoilers ahead.

With @lumiereswig‘s recent reblog of her Hadestown experience, I thought I’d share a musical that I saw virtually—the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  This was not a Disney adaptation, I repeat, they took the good stuff from the movie and then told the story straight from the book.

And oh my gosh, it got dark, so spoilers ahead.

Frollo got humanized and it makes him more terrifying.  First off, he’s played by Patrick Page, who, thanks to my recent research, plays Hades in Hadestown, and if that doesn’t draw parallels I don’t know what will

Anyway, Frollo has a brother who is actually a good person and elopes with a Roma woman.  Frollo finds him dying and he gives Frollo his child, who is disfigured, and Frollo, giving us the first reason why we should hate him, tells his dying brother “wow, this thing is a monster because of your sins” and then his brother dies.

Of course, they sing the Dies Irae directly after—an indirect foreshadowing of Frollo’s death by Quasimodo’s hands

“The saints blessed him and the monsters protected him.” my GOODNESS what a line!

And my gosh, the way they introduce Quasimodo is so freaking genius.  Michael Arden comes out like any regular man and then SMEARS HIS FACE WITH BLACK PAINT as Frollo ties the hump to his back (THE SYMBOLISM THERE OMG) and the bells descend from the curtains above as the chorus swells.

Also the chorus plays the statues and each one has its own personality.  It’s so obvious that the statues’ voices are all Quasimodo’s inner psyche tugging him one way and then the other, and every time they speak they use small bells or cymbals to accent their words.

Also Quasimodo can barely speak…UNTIL HE SINGS.  Arden has such an amazing, youthful voice, and I could feel his anxiety for freedom in “Out There.”

And then Frollo comes upstairs and RUINS EVERYTHING.  He uses this kind but CONDESCENDING tone that just makes me want to throw something. Instead of ABC’s, Frollo tells Quasimodo the story of the flight into Egypt, when Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus fled from the persecution of the firstborn and were protected by St. Aphrodisius—MORE FORESHADOWING.  But they are so RUDELY interrupted by the Feast of Fools, and on that note

Phoebus is actually a cocky SOB—like sure, they sent me in just in case the festival goes awry, but all I’m really here for are the ladies, rest and recreation!

AND THEN CLOPIN SHOWS UP and introduces ESMERELDA and she dances and Phoebus is like “I’ve seen the face of an angel! I’ve been forever changed!”

With Quasimodo’s arrival they announce the contest for the king of fools, and that scene is pulled straight from the movie.  Aside from a few little details, they didn’t change much.

And after all that Esmerelda chases him down and tries to apologize, but is stopped by Frollo, who’s like “ew, I know your kind, you practice dark magic” and Esmerelda’s like “if I had magic, I’d use it to save my people!” and Frollo is like “well shoot she’s smart” and then gets tempted

Esmerelda says something very Christian-like and Frollo is like “oh, you wish to be saved? Stay until the end of the service I’d be happy to teach you” and leaves and she sings “God Help the Outcasts” and holy moly does Ciara Renee have a voice or what

But at the end of the song she sees Quasimodo watching her and runs after him, and the statues are yelling at him to find a place to hide, quickly, quickly, she’ll see you

But she finds him and finds out he’s nearly deaf because of all the bells he’s been ringing all his life. He tells her he was talking to his friends and then berates himself, and Esmerelda’s like “No, that’s wonderful, I like your friends.”  And Quasimodo’s face just lights up and immediately starts ringing the bells and telling them to sing for her—if that’s not the most wonderful show of affection I don’t know what is.

They both sing “The Top of the World” and throughout the whole thing Quasimodo slowly realizes that she’s not going to berate him like Frollo would and you just see him become more and more animated throughout the song.  At the end of the song she kisses him on the cheek and you can tell, you can tell that’s the first time he’s been kissed at all

And then Frollo comes upstairs and RUINS EVERYTHING. “Quasimodo what were you doing ringing the bells off-schedule?” He turns and sees Esmerelda and is all like “oh, I thought you had left! I can still teach you the ways of the church, just stay here forever.” And Esmerelda, bless her soul, actually turns him down politely.  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Frollo reaches for her hand and she backs away.  “I see the way you look at me.”

Frollo jumps back like he’s been stung by the most overdramatic wasp in the world “hOW DARE YOU! Your soul is so unclean you can’t see goodness in others!” And calls the guards on her.

And then he berates Quasimodo for having impure thoughts and the gargoyles whisper around him, like snakes in the shadows as Quasimodo promises to never again think about her.

AND THEN STALKS HER TO A TAVERN. Okay, it’s indirect but stalking all the same.  And watches Esmerelda and Phoebus fall in love.

Then we get into Heaven’s Light, and Quasimodo has seen the true face of God, because there is a human down there who isn’t afraid of him, who touched his face and suddenly the darkness is filled with light, a light so bright it must be from Heaven…

And the next song is literally the flipside of Heaven’s Light; while Quasimodo sings about how pure and open Esmerelda was to him, Frollo clutches Esmerelda’s scarf and sings of Hellfire.  And I mean, Hellfire was the most dramatic part of the movie for me, so this part was a little underwhelming…but Page carried that entire scene.  My GOODNESS his voice.  And him stumbling around as the saints look down on him and berate him while Frollo just keeps repeating “It’s not my fault!” Like, you can tell he believes what he says but he knows there’s evil in him now (I mean, there was evil in him before, but the sneaky kind) as the lights slowly change from blue to red, closing in on him until everything is bathed in a hellish glow…

And for the rest of the musical he wears a black and red cape over his otherwise white robes, showing how he has fallen and is acting on his own urges.  

He visits the prison—literally swoops in like a bat from hell with his new cape—and King Louis XI is there overlooking the prison and he just looks at Frollo and goes “oH! My astrologer told me I would have an unexpected guest!” Frollo just…. dies inside.  I lost it.

Anyway he manipulates the king to give the church military power and now soldiers are going left and right searching for Esmerelda; they come to a brothel and the women refuse to talk and Frollo’s like “fine, burn it down.” and Phoebus is like “whoa, hell no.” and Frollo shrugs, stabs him in the back, and blames Esmerelda

We interrupt this moment to remind you that everyone in the chorus is literally an angel and together they sound like an actual cathedral choir, thank you for your time.

Meanwhile Quasimodo’s like “oh shoot, what do I do? I want to protect her” and the statues tell him to go after her, find her and protect her like St. Aphrodisius protected Mary. Quasimodo is still unsure, but St. Aphrodisius himself comes out of his stained-glass window and gives Quasimodo his blessing (and a bit of unneeded comedy along with it).

Esmerelda makes Quasimodo take care of Phoebus, Quasimodo lies to Frollo for the first time, and Frollo’s like, well, we found her hideout, we attack at dawn.

Phoebus and Quasimodo have the same chemistry in the musical as they do in the movie.  “You can barely speak!”  “You can hardly walk!” Their arguments are funny, but just like the movie, Clopin finds them and is like “well, they’re gonna hang!” Esmerelda stops it, and Frollo shows up and RUINS EVERYTHING.

Frollo has her locked up, he confesses his love in literally one of the most horrifying ways a person can confess.  He starts out soft, believing that he can save her, rescue her from dark magic and be her sanctuary forever.  He says Esmerelda has made him feel human…and then tries to force her to kiss him.  She strikes him. “Help, a demon! Help me, please!” (FINALLY, someone shows him the respect he deserves)

Phoebus and Esmerelda grieve over what’s going to happen, and when they sang “Someday” I cried.

But the song that shook me to my very core was “Made of Stone” where Quasimodo is tied to a post while the statues plead for him to do something and Quasimodo yells back, “I’ve wasted my faith believing in saints of plaster, but the only one worth believing in was my master”

“Take all the dreams you’ve sown, take all your lies and leave me alone!”

“All right, Quasimodo, we’ll leave you alone All right, Quasimodo, we’ll trouble you no longer You’re right, Quasimodo, we’re only made of stone We just thought that you were made of something stronger.”

And when he sings the last line….HOLY. HELL. I just…I don’t have words for that.

But he quickly changes his mind and rescues Esmerelda from the fire.  The choir swells again, singing the Dies Irae, as Quasimodo lays waste to the crowd outside Notre Dame with giant rocks and molten lead.  Phoebus rallies the crowd into rebellion.  As chilling as this scene is, I think “Oh, now it’s gonna be like the movie, right?” NO.

She dies.  The smoke got to her or something.  But she definitely dies.  And Quasimodo’s talk with Frollo doesn’t end with Frollo pulling a knife. It’s sad, and slow, and Quasimodo finally comes to the terms with the abuse he’s been living with while they both grieve over her death in different ways.  The shock on Quasimodo’s face as Frollo repeats the same pious talk of sanctuary just after killing someone…at this point, I want Frollo dead, obviously.

And so does Quasimodo. He stands up straight for the first time and we see…he’s taller than Frollo, and that scares him.  “The wicked shall not go unpunished,” he says.  “The wicked shall not go unpunished,” echo the statues.  The Dies Irae swells one final time as Quasimodo drags Frollo to the balcony, lifts him up—“I told you, master.  I am very strong.”

“You don’t want to hurt me!” Yes you do, whisper the monsters.

“Quasimodo raised his two huge hands, and with a great bellow threw his master over the edge of the roof and into the abyss below!”  And I am chilled to the bone.  Thanks for that.

And then Phoebus arrives cuz he missed everything. He can’t even lift her up, and they’re both grieving.

Then the chorus—they are seriously the best chorus in the history of ever—approach Quasimodo one at a time, smearing black paint on their faces and hunching over.  Quasimodo sets Esmerelda down and turns his back to the audience. The ghost of Quasimodo’s mother sings for him. Esmerelda gets up and walks through the doors to eternal salvation. She turns back to look at him. He stands up and faces the audience, no longer hunched over, not a speck of paint on his face. 

“What makes a monster, and what makes a man?”

And the chorus swells, and they all bow, and I want to see it again.  So I watch it again, because that’s the beauty of the digital age.

[madcapmoon]

Highway to Hell: My Life on the Road with the Dead Kennedys

by Amy Linden

In 1981 I moved back to New York City after spending four years in San Francisco. I was 22, and a childhood friend and I shared a two bedroom apartment—rent $300 and change—on East 4th Street, just off Avenue A, kitty-corner to the building where Madonna lived back before she actually was Madonna.

One day, I got a phone call from my friend Klaus Fluoride, the bass player for the seminal punk group the Dead Kennedys. During my last 18 months in SF, Klaus, his girlfriend, three other roommates, my boyfriend/we-got married-for-his-green-card husband, and I shared a huge flat in the Mission District. I wasn’t as close to the other members as I was to Klaus; I had spent a decent amount of time with Darren, (a.k.a. DH Peligro), East Bay Ray, and the inimitable Jello Biafra. It was great to hear from Klaus, especially since he had good news—the Dead Kennedys were embarking on their first East Coast tour.

“We’re coming to New York!” Klaus exclaimed. “You should come out on the road with us!” And why not? I could drink all the band’s beer! I could go backstage. And most of all, I could meet cute punk rock boys! Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about giving my boss notice because I barely had a job.

After arriving in NYC, the band took the Amtrak down to Washington, D.C., where the mini-tour was going to kick off. On the ride down, Klaus raised the possibility of my helping out in some way. Maybe I could write up setlists, maybe arrange the guest list, maybe help move equipment, or maybe I could get up on stage and do “security,” which consisted of grabbing the mic back whenever singer Jello Biafra propelled himself into the audience, keeping the flow of stage divers moving at a brisk pace, and tossing—or more specifically shoving—anyone who climbed up on stage and showed little inclination to move.

That I was totally ill-suited to do security for anyone at anytime, least of all for a high-energy aggressive band with high-energy aggressive fans, should have been obvious. Clearly, none of this mattered. Just like that, I was on stage at the legendary 9:30 Club, wearing a short kilt, beat up cowboy boots, and bandanas wrapped around my wrists, looking out at a packed house of pumped up fans, and trying my best to look butch. Pushing sweat-soaked twenty-year-olds off the stage was not my idea of meeting cute punk rock guys.

Arguably, punk rock’s birthplace was New York. However in 1981, D.C. was the epicenter of the East Coast hardcore scene, with much of the momentum coming from a tight knit, committed crew—many just out of their teens or still living at home—who adhered to a DIY philosophy/lifestyle known as “straight edge.” Being down with straight edge meant just saying “no” to liquor, cigarettes and drugs, which at the time were three of my four basic food groups.

The leading lights of the straight edge crew were Ian MacKaye and Henry Garfield. Ian’s resume included Teen Idles, Minor Threat, and later Fugazi, in addition to founding the influential indie label Dischord Records. Garfield, who worked at a Häagen-Dazs in Georgetown, was the front man for S.O.A. In time, he would change his surname to Rollins, join Black Flag, and become a heavily tattooed, singer/spoken word artist and actor. Henry and Ian looked a bit scary, but like most of the D.C. crew, were as sweet and courteous as their music was aggressive. When they weren’t following me around like I was Bo Peep and they were lost skinhead sheep, Henry and Ian took it upon themselves to protect me from whatever it was they thought I needed to be protected from.

By the time the Dead Kennedys finished up the first of two D.C. shows, I was a cross between big sister and mascot, the affection strictly platonic. There may have been lots of unity, but not many of the D.C. kids were coupled up. All of the passion was directed at the “cause.” It was as though sex, like drugs and alcohol, indicated a lack of discipline.

I remember an odd but telling conversation with Henry. He had invited his friends, the DKs, and me to his small apartment in Alexandria, Virginia. He asked me to come to the kitchen. With utmost sincerity Henry, who was at most  two years my junior, said that he really didn’t like girls, but he liked me because to him I wasn’t really a girl. If memory serves, it was then that he opened the freezer and showed me a dead rat. Touched as I was by Henry’s attempt to let me into his world, I let him know that I was enough of a girl to find a rat-cicle kind of gross. Bless his heart, but this whole meeting cute punk boys was clearly not in the cards.

Ian on stage 3:28

Ian, Henry, and my new skinhead besties travelled to the Baltimore show where they stood in front of the stage, their arms reaching up towards me and sang, “Amy, dance with us!” I might not have been the best security detail but I sure was the most popular. Such displays of affection only served to make my already rocky relationship with Biafra even worse. It was bad enough that Klaus had brought me along, but to Biafra my being serenaded undermined his punk cred, not to mention that he had no interest in sharing the spotlight, especially with some girl in a miniskirt and cowboy boots.

Oddly enough, Biafra’s ire grew even more pronounced when I developed a nasty cough and took to swilling cheap, high-octane cough syrup. Convinced that I would get him sick and that my fits of coughing somehow made the band look lame, Biafra turned mean. He decided that part of my job description involved looking after the equipment, and therefore I had to sleep in the van parked on the streets of the nation’s then-murder capital. This edict was quickly and angrily squashed by Darren, Klaus and guitarist East Bay Ray, who generally paid me no mind, instead concentrating on picking up women. For the remainder of the tour, Klaus and Darren chipped in for a hotel room and kept Biafra off my case. He was a charismatic front man, but Biafra’s actions further convinced me that he was a dick.

Before heading down to Charm City, we drove out to a farm in Virginia to meet the Bad Brain’s explosive lead singer H.R. The Bad Brains were and remain a sheer force of nature, but H.R. could be, shall we say, strange. His home was a punk rock crash pad/Rasta commune filled with kids, women, the other three-quarters of the Bad Brains and the ever-present smell of weed. The Kennedys were there to finalize plans for the punk pioneers to open up at the first of two upcoming NYC dates. Unbeknownst to us, H.R. was in the midst of a verbal fast, something that he did to cleanse himself of negative energy. Instead of talking, he gestured wildly and occasionally scribbled down notes. The next time we saw H.R. and the Bad Brains, they came “this close” to blowing the Dead Kennedys off stage. In fact, they just might have done so.

We encountered a bit of drama in Boston. The concert tickets and local advertising said “DKs” rather than the “Dead Kennedys.” Was it censorship? Maybe. It wasn’t uncommon to shorten the group’s name, yet it wasn’t lost on anyone that the name change had happened in the home of the actual Kennedys. Looking back, I think that Ray, Klaus, and Darren knew that taking umbrage over the promoter’s decision was not worth the energy. But with his customary lack of concern for anything but his own agenda, Biafra became furious.

Adding insult to perceived injury, Biafra began the set ranting and making snarky comments about imprisoned IRA martyr Bobby Sands, who had either just died or was dying as a result of a prolonged hunger strike. It was not one of Biafra’s most sensitive moments. It was also in Boston that the band picked up Microwave, a good natured, muscley young fan who approached them after the show. Microwave was a far better fit for tossing skinheads and guarding amps than a sleep-deprived and tubercular girl. Much to Biafra’s delight, Microwave took over most of the heavy lifting. Literally.

After six cities in two weeks, the traveling circus ended at NYC’s Irving Plaza. An old Ukrainian theater, Irving Plaza was largest venue, and that night it was packed with hundreds of bodies, including the D.C. Straight Edge Boy’s Choir/Amy Appreciation Society. Even though Microwave was now head punk-in-charge, I was in my customary spot off to the right of the bass amp, poised to help out if needed. The energy level was off the charts and the crowd roared, sang along and danced as the Kennedys tore through songs like “California Über Alles,” “Kill the Poor,” and “Holiday in Cambodia.” 

Ian and Henry Rollins dancing onstage during Too Drunk To Fuck

By now I was so in sync with the band’s rhythm that I could almost predict when Biafra would dive into the crowd. And when he did, I ran to the front of the stage to reel him in. Suddenly an over-eager fan grabbed the mic and refused to loosen up his grip. Biafra was floating on top of a sea of bodies, and I had lost control of the mic. A tug of war ensued, and the next thing I knew, the fan got a hold of the mic stand and clonked me. Unfortunately, I was a little drunk; having hit the end of the already-frayed rope, I lost it and tried to kick the fan in the head. Before I could make shoe-to-forehead contact, my opponent put his hands around my left foot and twisted it.

Microwave sprung into action, secured the stand, got the mic and brought Biafra back to the stage as Klaus pushed me behind an amp. The skirmish took less than a minute. As soon as the show ended and the band headed to the dressing room, I became acutely aware of a nagging, swelling sensation radiating from the side of my foot. The pain was intense, so I kept drinking in the hopes that beer would make it all better. I didn’t want to look like a baby or miss the fun—Saturday Night Live’s John Belushi and Mr. Bill were there!

When I was unable to move my toes, it was clear that something really bad had happened. I needed to get it checked out immediately. Ever the gentlemen, Henry and Ian carried me ten blocks down 14th Street to St. Vincent’s Hospital and stayed in the waiting room while I was examined. By now, my foot was completely swollen, and the only way to take x-rays was to cut the boot off, which I begged the doctor not to do. Turned out that I had a severely broken left toe. I was given something a bit stronger than cough syrup, a pair of crutches, and just like that my road trip was over. The Dead Kennedys went back home. I’d had fun. I was littered with bruises but I’d had fun. I never did meet any cute punk rock boys...

*Both videos seem to be from the same 1981 Irving Plaza show but they are dated wrong*

[fanchonmoreau]

Yuletide Letter 2017!

Greetings friend! Thank you for writing this for me, and I hope you have a good time with it!

Generally, I love ladies, I’m always here for femslash content. I live for small moments of connection that seem ordinary but have deep emotional resonance. You can find info about Do Not Wants in the optional details of my sign up, but to repeat the biggies: no graphic description of sexual assault or rape, no adding non-canonical sexual assault or rape, and no non-canonical major character deaths.

Prevailing theme seems to be “and then what happened” for this year. But if that’s not your deal, feel free to go somewhere different! I feel like these prompts should give you an idea of what I care about in each fandom; they are more for guidance than for tracking your path for you :D

So, here we go... 

BBC River: River ended beautifully and perfectly, without the need for another series. That said, how is River (and Chrissie and Ira and Rosa, if you’d like) doing a little further down the line? One year after Stevie’s death? Two? Three? I don’t really want romance with this; as the show says, there should be many more ways to say “love” to encompass all the kinds of love in our lives. How is he discovering these inexpressible kinds of love as he tries to heal? 

Teachers (UK): So Jenny and Susan left the show with no explanation after both Nina Sosanya and Raquel Cassidy decided to move on to other things. What happened to them? I’m convinced they went somewhere together, and I’m also convinced that their jealousy of each other’s sexual partners meant something was simmering just below the surface for them. So, yuletide friend, tell me what happened to Susan and Jenny (listen, you don’t HAVE to make it gay, but gay is encouraged!) 

Der Rosenkavalier: I feel like most people who sing in this opera are asked, at some point, what they think happens after the curtain comes down. The general consensus is that Octavian and Sophie don’t last (there’s actually some clues in the score that this is pretty likely), and the Marschallin moves on to other lovers. You don’t have to follow that example for your Act IV, yuletide friend :)

Le Nozze di Figaro: I saw this opera live for the first time with my choir in Chicago. I remember very specifically that my section mate asked after why Rosina forgave the count after everything that happened. I couldn’t answer that, she shouldn’t have gone back to him. But Rosina says something crucial: she says, I know I am better than you, so I forgive you. It’s an important first step toward freeing herself from a bad relationship. What are the next steps? How does Rosina get out, or not get out? 

The Worst Witch, 2017: The relationship between Mildred and Miss Hardbroom, and what they learn from each other, is one of the engines driving the show. Any insight you can give me on how they misunderstand each other, or how they eventually reach an understanding, would be incredible.

Aaaand if you want to add some gay content with HB and one of the other adult ladies, that would not go amiss. 

All right, happy writing, have fun, and THANK YOU! 

[dear-saxifrage]

yesterday, I performed Caroline shaw’s “to the hands” and Mozart’s requiem in d minor with the collegium at Harvard. I don’t know what I'm going to do without collegium: an elite group of musicians who take it so, so seriously, and who dedicate significant portions of their life to this type of creation. of communication. how could it have really happened?

the choir concert was nearly canceled in full. due to the coronavirus pandemonium, Harvard put a halt to any 100+ gatherings, and that included our concert. we were informed of this only twenty-four hours beforehand; so, we ended up performing on-stage with our orchestra to eight camera, live-streaming and recording, and an empty house. it felt strange. it felt romantic. I couldn’t help but think of the moment as a true requiem. we sing to the dead who we cannot see, but ‘know’ are with us; similarly, we sung to a non-physical audience only reached through a camera. we sang to the dead; we sang to a nonexistent audience; we sang with ‘people watching over us’ from all over the world. it felt exhilarating. it was, in fact, the most exhilarating concert I've performed in. who was responsible for bringing the energy? the choir. we couldn’t rely on audience electricity, and at first, it was shocking! to turn to the right, to sneak a peek at the faces of audience members before your conductor runs out -- we couldn’t. I still tried to, anyway, and felt for the second time a puzzlement at the empty pews.

I think I blacked out during the concert. I went to that special place in my head -- the one all musicians have -- and sung there. it’s so strange, to immerse yourself in that zone so fully. it was a reverie of a type, I think. when I finished a movement, I'd “look up” at Andy and consciously think, “oh right. I'm here, in sanders.” of course, we’re canonized from likely the earliest age to the sound and style of Mozart -- everyone follows and copies him -- so when say that his music ‘feels right,’ it certainly does, because of how he rules the musical hegemony. in spite of that, though, I did feel a certain respite in the music. there was so much cooperation in the piece. not on voice part outshone the other. we all depended on the other to do well; yesterday may as well have been a masterclass in learning to let go. 

I don’t think I'll ever forget that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful melismatic line of the altos and trombones in the Kyrie of movement one. the dynamic and physical lowering of the choristers and conductor during this part too -- just so beautiful -- we all build up together. that’s what hope feels like, I think. an alto, a trombone, and a forthcoming bass line. there is something so heart-beatingly rhythmic in the sixteenth note ascents: da-da-da-da and da-da-da-da. it was actually during this part that I teared up. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be performing this gorgeous piece with this particular choir, under this particular director, with this particular situation: an empty audience. what is the music for, then, if no audience? CAN the music be for ourselves? I think... I think the music can be “for” anyone. it seemed to have special meaning though yesterday... who was I singing for, if anyone?

I have to think about this. right now, I think I was singing for past versions of myself; specifically, Sydney last year during this very time. I fell into a deep depression last year during this time, and I sung a requiem then, too. then I fell into it. I couldn’t stop mourning the dead. I couldn’t stop couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. grief took over my life -- grief for myself, for my utter resignation, to my disenchantment, for my cousin, for sora, for the kind of person I was allowing myself to become when I was with Tyler. it was all so shocking. that requiem inside of me lasted for a long time. hints of it would come out, too: I would just cry in my bd sometimes, wanting to just clench my toes and kick out, feeling absolutely helpless about my entire situation. that requiem came out when Tony stark died -- I sobbed that entire night, especially on my solitary drive to the gym. I was just throttled. so utterly hopeless and without light in my eyes. I didn’t think I would ever be myself again; I couldn’t smile, bring myself to experience satisfaction.

that requiem haunted me in South Africa, too, but a small part of it was opened by the friends I made there. to see that others cared about me -- were interested in me beyond sex -- that felt interesting. I am so thankful for that beautiful, gorgeous experience in life. I don’t think I'll fully comprehend its place in my life; the people I needed came to me, even when it felt like I would collapse inside of myself. scared, I left phoenix for boston and stayed in that airport for twelve hours, and met my choir for the first time in a month. I had jetted out of boston a month before because Chris had died and I just couldn’t take it. I had to leave. but when I saw my friends, it felt like everything would be OK, even if I wouldn’t be. I remember seeing Kat’s beautiful haircut and feeling at ease. (beauty and change and choices were still possible.) Emma said hi to me, and I breathed again. Hirsh hugged me hello and I thought that new friendships were possible, and even worth pursuing again. then I sat next to Jon on that extraordinarily long flight, then on the bus, and my world burst open. to have been in the proximity of such a thoughtful, smart human and to have never known! I am still so scared of the blinders we put up, as humans.

we sang every day. we sang in nelson Mandela’s house. we saw wild birds; sunsets burning red. hiked the drakensburg mountains and rejoiced in the exquisite beauty of hanertsburg. 

when that next semester started, fall 2019, I felt rejuvenated and okay. parts of me were still unkempt, but my friends had rejuvenated me -- as they have done, again and again, in different locations and at different times -- and I experienced a wonderful semester. started dating. failed in every dating scenario possible. failed some more. started a newer, more robust gym routine; wrote more; sang more; slept more. over December, I even tried out dating an ex; it failed, obviously, because he’s my ex for a reason, but I tried. it was fun, then it became irritating. I clipped its wings.

then something really amazing happened -- I was told we were to sing the Mozart requiem. I entered my spring semester scared of a few things: 1) that I might get sick like I did last year, with all those illnesses, 2) that I would become depressed again, 3) sinking into a pit of listlessness, 4) losing friendships, and 5) failing in my attempt to forge a meaningful sexual relationship. 

in order, I'll address these things. I have been exceptionally healthy; sleeping has done wonders for me, and it seems so basic, and it is. it is the panacea. I haven’t become depressed; for one, I didn’t play a video game that killed off my main character since I was seven. I also didn’t isolate myself; in fact, I became hyper-social, and started to seek comfort in rekindling friendships and solidifying others. this relates to my fear of losing friendships. I think I've finally learned that friendships don’t end, not really; they fade, and that’s it. you pick up where you left off. you text or call each other sometimes. but most of all, you don’t give up. you just don’t -- or at least I don’t. I'll never give up on my friendships; each and every last one is important to me, no matter how minuscule our interactions may seem. and lastly, I don’t want a partner; I can’t have a partner. I'm moving soon, and the last time I did some shit like this, it went awry. I know now, going forward, if I move, I must put a clean end to something in order to maintain the benevolence and integrity of the relationship.

yesterday, then, may have been a type of loving exorcism. I gave up the ghost, yes, and everything followed, in the midst of chaos. I sang my heart out in this requiem and prayed for my dead self. the self that saw no way out; she saw blackness and felt neither resistance nor encouragement. to the Sydney that thought it was over last year, it is not, and it wasn’t. I also think I sang to Chris, too. I have an image of viewing him from the top of the water, seeing his white face shocked at the cold and the roughest of the waves, hands reaching up. then I also have an image of his view: seeing the light filtering in from the waves, the bubbles gushing up -- everything but him rushing to the surface -- and realizing with horror that he is sinking as the water becomes darker and the waves slam him into the rocky cliffside. 

dies irae. it is the song of apocalypse; of death. but what followed this? what preceded it? following dies irae is tuba mirum, one of the most beautiful and triumphant trombone solos ever written. preceding it is the requiem and Kyrie itself; lord have mercy. I think the point is that death and the spark of life are literal seconds. they happen. a candle flick. it just happens, it means nothing good nor bad. and, god, the requiem has finally left my body. I needed it gone. I needed to let you go. 

because while the grief of losing you will come again -- a tidal wave, a one-hundred-foot wall of blue -- it will not be soon. it will come when I can sense it. I never want my grief to stop hurting, ever, but it needs to stop in its consistency. 

and that’s all I have to say for tonight.

-sm

[adrianvarelablog]

Post Brexit: what is, really, music without borders?

New Year's Eve 1989, atop the Berlin Wall with a hammer in my hand, was one of the greatest moments of my -and not just my- life. It wasn't only the Eastern and Western Germans, nor the reams of world citizens like me affected. I also witnessed embraces in more unexpected configurations, as in between Argentine and English strangers, fresh from the 'Malvinas/Flaklands' fallout, crying together under the Brandemburg Tur.

Like our instrumental technique which every day gets either a little bit better or a little bit worse, the distance between people, and peoples, is in constant motion. Brexit is a big, sad step in the opposite direction from the night on the Berlin Wall.

And yet people continue to hold the belief that 'music unites us'. A Beethoven 9 sprang up almost sponteously the next day in Trafalgar Square. Did the power of the music sway anyone's feeling on their vote? Did anyone who had not heard classical music before feel 'Wow, this is me now, I'll bin my Drum & Bass playlist'? I don't think so. I know many people who listen to an entire piece of good music (classical or popular) and feel it could not be further from their personal taste, and always will be. I know because I tried it: playing different music to my colleagues, students, friends, even my children. The beauty and message of Beethoven's unifying music would seem to be a separate issue to the recent political decision. 'Quite rightly!' I hear you say. But if a work that says 'all men shall be brothers' is loved by individuals on both sides of the divide, whilst half of those are happy to enjoy the music and theoretical message AND simultaneously negate that very message in practice, where does that leave us?

What then, is music without borders? Who can in all honesty agree with Duke Ellington that there are only two kinds of music, good and bad, no matter the genre? If you say you agree, are you capable of loving  Mahler's 9th Symphony or Debussy's 'Pelleas and Melisande' whilst equally appreciating and loving the genius and beauty of Aerosmith's 'Living on the Edge', or The Cult's 'She Sells Sanctuary'... or vice versa?

In my experience the vast majority of people, musicians and non, are forced to answer, despite their best wishes, a resounding 'No'. Duke Ellington's quote sounds to most people like a great ideal, but it i's rendered meaningless if one asserts it in theory, whilst in practice retreating back into the safety of one's current aesthetic camp. In this case they are words as empty as a politican's lies, and music has borders and distances. Very well defined ones, thank you very much.

Years ago I read the fascinating 'Danube' by Claudio Magris. Magris journeys from the sources of the Danube to its mouth, tracing a vast array of philosophical, historical, and cultural ideas which sprang from the areas he travels through, showing them in all their interconnected, inter-influenced, un-isolateable beauty. The great Uruguayan ethnomusicologist Lauro Ayerstarán said 'folklore laughs at borders'. And Magris manages to convey the idea that all these ideas, peoples and places really are part of an unbroken stream.

So what would really borderless music sound like? In the 21st Century we are less tied geographically and culturally to any given place than ever before in the history of Man, with instant access to any thing the power of our curiosity can think of looking for, on the internet. I'm an Uruguayan-born Uruguayan-Italian national, grown up in Rio, New York, Vancouver but mostly Detroit and later Montevideo and Buenos Aires, who has lived in London for 20 years and has gone round the world several times, from the usual international touring destinations the Philharmonia visits like Japan, continental Europe and the USA to Hawaii, Santo Domingo and Heraklion. What happens when, say, contemporary Classical music meets folk-interpretation of said Classical music meets Tango meets Milonga meets the Blues (all of which are deeply rooted en ancient Greek tradition) meets the proposition of a pictorical musical setting of a city-scape?

Well, a piece of music is composed. What is this piece? For whom? Originally 'Ciudad' Campo' Ciudad' was composed in the guise of violin duo, premiered by Patricia Kopatchinskaja and Zolt Vistonay within an international concert season in Madrid as a piece of 'contemporary classical music'. But it is the same piece that opens the prog-rock album 'Laberinto' with a sound that belongs more to Glastonbury or Wembley than anywhere else. Anyone who hears only one version would never dream such a massive aesthetic chasm has been crossed. Anyone who hears only one (either) version, may also possibly only relate to certain portions of CCC's aeshetics: Classical musicians have noted the Classical handling of Folk music and structure whilst the Tango, Milonga and particularyl Blues (!) have completely gone over their heads. Conversely, popular musicians instantly pick out the latter while missing the former.

The rest of the 'Laberinto' (Labyrinth) album works similarly. 'EmBruchado' marries Nuevo Tango to the Bruch Violin Concerto. 'Coriolan' is Beethoven's overture played as prog rock, re-investing it with its original violence, diluted in 200+ years of erudite listening. The title track 'Laberinto' is a time-tested Classical form of Gong-inspired prog-rock material. 'Escape From Buenos Aires' crosses Piazzolla with Baroque canonical and fugal devices, again in Classical form. And 'Héctor en Miami' is a Latin-jazz 'Symphonie Fantastique Part II', complete with Berlioz's use of the Dies Irae, Idée Fixée and tubular bells in which, after the pains of SF1, all now ends well. Incidentally, 'Héctor in Miami' was originally composed as the last movement of the 3-movement symphonic dance suite 'Danzas Fantásticas' for massive orchestra, which Philharmonia Principal Conductor and Artistic Adviser Esa Pekka Salonen had initially planned to perform at the Hollywood Bowl, but Street Orchestra London beat him to the premiere during SOL's first ever tour just a few weeks ago.

So music without borders. Music taking from our neighbours, our friends, ourselves, acknowlegding our differences and incorporating them into one complete, harmonious whole. A musical demolishing of the Berlin Wall. A coexistence that brings us more together, not more apart.

I hope you can join us on 29 July at the Three Choirs Festival where we'll be playing 'Laberinto' live.