Lingering Recommendation from a Stellar Monday Night

Normally, my Monday nights are without particular interest. I've plodded home from the goat rodeo which is my hourly employment (not to be confused with teaching, more on this at some point), slapped an egg on some toast and called it a day. Not this Monday. I mean, yes, the pigmy goats and their three ring exploits were all in full attendance earlier, but my life took a nice little upswing at 3pm today.

Intrigued? You should be.

I told my good friend and Ikebana sensei into going with me (and thus, catching a ride with her car-owning boyfriend) to scope out this flower warehouse I'd heard about only yesterday. This was a spectacularly good move. They've got fabulous glass vases of multitudinous sizes and shapes, fresh stems at really reasonable prices, and a whole warehouse full of silk flowers, notions, floral ribbon, everything you could possible think of with which to construct an arrangement. And it's CHEAP. Very, very impressed. I forgot to ask when they get their flowers delivered, thus to go when they have the greatest selection of stems, but we'll get there.
BoyShoes (the ka-driving boyfriend) gave me a lift back to the Eyrie, where I discovered a mail slip saying I had a box waiting for collection just around the corner with the friendly local post office. Turns out, it was a collection of things I'd left behind from my sojourn with Coco and her peoples-- a cardigan, a skirt, some socks, useful things all. Lovingly enclosed as well was a box of store brand wheat thins and some miracle whip. It was inaccessible food nirvana. It means I can make a tuna salad with carrots and celery and onion and actually ENJOY IT. In short, I have the best friends in the whole. entire. world.
So I whipped up a lovely dinner completely devoid of mayonnaise (a fact for which I can scarcely express my unbound joy) and looked up the times for the Chamber Music Concert tonight at Cowdray Hall. Recently returned skirt straightened and stockings checked, I ambled forth into the night.

... It was wonderful. The Gould Piano Trio were absolutely stellar. They played to perfection three pieces, the first a set of ten variations by Beethoven which I'd never heard before; the Kakadu Variations are really a tour de force on the part of the composer, playing with various moods, trying them on with the main theme like a woman donning scarf after scarf in a shop window. The tone goes from dreamy and languid to skittish, almost shy, playful at points, and the contrapuntal variation was spot on. An appropriate flourish ending brought heartily deserved applause.
Second up was the Dvorak Piano Trio no.1 in B flat op. 21 (catchy, right? rolls right off the tongue) and the common thread became evident. Vacillating back and forth, sometimes wildly, between moments of tremendous lightness and powerful dark, this set had undeniable folk elements, rippling introductions, a dancelike quality and the paired-octave unity and unison for which I love Dvorak so well. Again, the playing was marvellous. I found myself completely absorbed in the curve and pale of the cellist's cheek and the quickness of her fingers-- simply marvellous.
During the interval I popped out to my favourite store in all of Aberdeen: Peckhams. And what did your fair heroine acquire there? Orchard Cola. Fabulously delicious, it's really what cola should be. Wow.
But the best touch of the night came next. The Shostakovich Piano Trio no. 2 in E minor op. 67. Heart-stopping. The whole arrangement of piano/cello/violin naturally lends itself to memorial, and this one is apparently dedicated to the brilliant polymath and musicologist Ivan Sollertinsky (so says the programme note). The real action is in the concealed homage to Shostakovich's pupil, Viniamin Fleischmann (gee, might he be jewish?) who was killed in the Battle of Leningrad. The piece opens with an astronomically high introduction on the cello, which the aforementioned cellist did not disguise or pretty-up in any way. This is not to say that it wasn't artistic and graceful, because it was, but as only a cello can sound when taken out of its normal range, the rasp and scratch of the notes shone through as sunlight and bone shards. Perfection. The creaking and teetering cello was joined eventually by both the piano and violin, outdoing both their registers. The pairings were exactly balanced in fugue. The whole piece sways with foreboding, the piano with one hand high and the other low, enfolding the strings between the hammered octaves. The scherzo was garish, flung quickly into the dances of the dead, dying and forever haunted, like a posey sprint through a crematorium. False gaiety laid aside, the third movement almost sounds like an ancient passacaglia, the same movement of eight scant piano chords repeated six times each, with the strings lamenting in overtones before the nightmarish violence of the work finally realises itself. The twisting danse macabre swirls through motif after motif of jewish dances, forming a grieving dialogue with no discernible answer before evaporating into but a puff of ash and echo.
I was left sitting mute in my folding chair, eyes unwittingly bright with tears I had no power to conjure nor dissipate. That, that, my dear reader, is what chamber music should be.

And how to end such a made-to-order Monday? Flower arranging! I'm hoping to take this little creation with me to sit in front of either the statue of St. Francis or the shrine to Our Lady of Aberdeen tomorrow after morning mass.

Not bad for shoving stems into a bit of water-logged foam.

Now, all that's left for today is a little Coco-cam and a hot cocoa nightcap. I say it, once more and with emphasis: Marvellous.

Something for Myself

I know it may not sound like much, what with all the novel posting on here lately, but it's been a damn long time since I've done something for myself. Because I wanted to do it. Independent of the opinions of whims or schedules of others.

So what did your embattled heroine do, you ask?

She went to a concert.

The BBC SSO (Scottish Symphony Orchestra) were playing the Aberdeen Music Hall (see below) to the tune of Overture and Venusberg Music from Tannhäuser by Wagner, a selection of songs by Strauss, and the real draw of the evening: Beethoven's 7th Symphony. It was fantastic. It was everything I could have hoped for-- the venue, my cheap ticket, my seat, my ability to listen, all of it. It was a fantastic evening.

I'd been to a ceildh or two at the Music Hall, and saw Buena Vista Social Club there with Alpha 6 months ago, but to see a Symphony which performs with such surgical precision, which plays so cleanly and responsively, was an unaccountable treat. The conductor, Donald Runnicles (below), danced and capered on the stand, his leonine hair bouncing and knees bent to the militantly happy strains of a symphony which can simply be described as a race of endurance.

The Wagner was well done. Now, I'm not the biggest fan of Wagner (certainly not a fan of the man, but the music must be considered independently) but this staging was clean, crisp and entirely well-turned. There was a riff about 4 minutes in which brought tears to my eyes and that symptomatic swelling in my chest that indicates just how visceral my reactions to this kind of music can be. It's not unlike the pinch I get for the strains of patriotic tunes or the pitches of bagpipes-- I'm conditioned for this response, I refuse to either apologise for it or deny it.

As far as the songs (Allerseelen, Wiegenlied, Cacilie, Ruhe meine Seele, Befreit and Zueignung), the soloist did a lovely job. I was a bit disappointed by the smirking of a fellow audience member who I later recognised from my Monday reading group-- these pieces require a bit of the gusto and wild vibrato and pulling the Brumhilde face isn't clever. Regardless, Christine Brewer has a set of pipes she's not afraid to use and I'm glad for it.

Now, what could I possibly say about the Beethoven? Other than that I love it, naturally. The massive opening movement was appropriately bright and bombastic. The second was held to precisely the right pace-- too slow and it's a dirge, too fast and it misses the tenderness of the motifs-- and the full section of double basses set my heart atwitter. There a glimmer of major in the minor movement that hits you like a ray of sunshine between cold buildings: not enough to break your stride, but with just enough weight for you to involuntarily turn your face towards it. The third and fourth movements were a delight, with the latter being held to just that hair short of breakneck. The look that passed between Runnicles and his first violinist was priceless as she lowered her shoulder and prepared for the onslaught. It's militantly, defiantly joyous-- a snow shovel of happiness to the face, one might say.

All that said, it was a lovely night. I walked back to the nest and basked in the rounded tones ringing in my ears the whole way.

Upcoming Excitement!

So, I'm obviously working hard for the Students' Association, skimming iGoogle and leafing through a booklet of local fine art acts that I found in reception, and what do I see??

Teitur will be at the Lemon Tree here in Aberdeen on 8 June and the tickets are only £7 each!

I immediately hit the internet, sure that there wouldn't be tickets left, that once again I'd be a quid late and 2 weeks short... but no! I was able to purchase 2 tickets (one for myself, one for Danger Muffin) and we are GOING.

*Breathless with antici...pation*

If you'll recall, dear invisible reader, I went on and on in prase of him back a while ago. And now I get to see him live... So, so happy!

And so, in conclusion, if you're in Aberdeen on the night or can manage to align your position relative to the sun so as to catch a different leg of The Singer tour-- DO IT.

All for now.

Will update/back date soon.

Right now, I just need to get this out of my system:

Everything I'm feeling right now, the being pulled by tides I thought I'd slipped, stretched ane torn along old fracture lines, all of it can be summed up in easy chords in this song.



Caledonia
by Dougie Maclean


I don't know if you can see,
The changes that have come over me.
In these last few days I've been afraid,
That I might drift away.
I've been telling stories, singing songs,
That make me think about where I come from.
That's the reason why I seem
So far away today.

(Chorus)
Let me tell you that I love you,
That I think about you all the time.
Caledonia, you're calling me,
Now I'm going home.
But if I shall become a stranger,
Know that it would make me more than sad,
Caledonia's been everything I've ever had.

Now I have moved and kept on moving,
Proved the points that I needed proving,
Lost the friends that I needed losing,
Found others on the way.
I have kissed the lads and left them crying,
Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have travelled hard sometimes with conscience flying,
Somewhere in the wind.

(Chorus)

Now I'm sitting here before the fire,
The empty room, a forest choir,
The flames have cooled. don't get any higher,
They've withered now they've gone.
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear,
And I know what I will do tomorrow,
When hands have shaken, the kisses flowed,
Then I will disappear.

(Chorus)



Now please, let's not be melodramatic. However, it's late at night, you'll have to forgive my musical penchants. And honestly, I'll explain it all later. For now, just reread the pretty song and flex your fingers to the repetitive chords.

If you're in the neighborhood...

Danger Muffin and I just stumbled into the Drawing Room in Glasgow, across from the Kelvingrove which is lit beautifully in the nighttime hours, and had a ridiculously lovely dinner. She highly recommends the sticky toffee pudding. I recommend the chicken fillet with wild mushrooms. We both recommend the live music that sprung up next to our commandeered couch.

As I'm writing this, there a middle-aged man with a wicked guitar and a cabbie hat turned backwards on his head growling out a version of Lay Lady Lay while kids in skinny jeans and plaid shirts skitter in and out the door, moving between vices, outside for cigarettes and inside for half-price pints of fosters.

Earlier a pair of youngsters who look younger than I can ever remember being strummed out some inventive and original works, one on the guitar and the other on a wee, one octave argos-alumni keyboard. Pretty much adorable. I think one of their opening lines ran something like "Woke up with a headache, afraid to consult my phone." Hahahaha, oh dear. Just lovely.

I wish for all the world that I'd remembered to grab my trusty little camera out of my day purse and relocate it to the laptop bag. I guess you'll just have to take my word on this one, this place is worth the visit.

And the wireless which has enabled this posting is FREE! :)

Like Nothing Else Going...

I've been a bit heavy on the place recommendations lately, so let me pass along a singer/songwriter whose work has been exclusively on shuffle on the old iPod for the last week and there's no sign of it letting up-- I adore him, and he goes by the name of Teitur.*


Credit for this discovery goes to a very dear friend of mine-- let's call him Adam-- and to be fair he told me about him back in March. However, it took me ages to get my act together and really give it a listen. Needless to say, I wish I had been more attentive ages ago.


Originally from the Faroe Islands**, he was first part of a little band known as Mark No Limits, but has met with much wider success for his solo work. He's got one album out in Faroese (which I think is pretty outrageously cool) and another two in english. Despite Celan's statement that poetry is not bilingual, I've got to say that Teitur proves him wrong with well-written, subtle and delightful lyrics and a brilliant orchestration.


Albums include Poetry and Airplanes (July 2003), Stay Under the Stars (September 2006), Káta Hornið (May 2007), and The Singer (April 2008). Poetry and Airplanes contains such gems as the song that first hooked me, Sleeping with the Lights On. Other personal favorites include Rough Around the Edges and the title track, though I don't know who I'm kidding, I'm basically addicted to this entire album. The lyrics are just so damn perfect, and if you don't find his voice genuine, then sir, you have no beating heart within you.


Stay Under the Stars has it's fair share of memorable lyrics as well-- "May our minds lose the battle / May our hearts win the war" for instance, from Don't Want You to Wake Up, and several others.


Despite the fact that I don't know what he's saying, Káta Hornið is very much in heavy rotation on the Baby. If anyone knows what he's saying, I'll bake you a whole batch of orange shortbread if you enlighten me!

*His name, in Old Norse, means 'happy' and that is precisely what his songs make me--how lovely is that!
**Equidistant from Iceland, Scotland and Norway, I think my perfect summer house might be in the Faroe Islands, and if the men are as lovely as Teitur's lyrics, I might stay for a winter or two as well.