The Fredösphere

I'm listening to the Holy Sonnets of John Donne -- just following orders.  The library had a recording by tenor Philip Langridge (and pianist Steuart Bedford).  A fine performance, but I am undemanding; in this situation, my motto is A.B.P.P.:  Anybody But Peter Pears.  I can't really relate to this "O my blacke soule" business.  My soul is charcoal grey with a tastefully subtle pinstripe.

Elsewhere in the blogöpshere... my friend Jeremy, who suffers from sleep apnea, is taking a week off from work in order to switch to a polyphasic sleep schedule.  It's weird and fascinating:  you get your sleep from a number of short naps rather than once through the night.  This means the rest of us are monophasic sleepers, which sounds like we're a bunch of deep-cover agents for an ancient eastern heresy.  Jeremy is blogging his experience, naturally....Meanwhile, Divertimenti has found the Gallery of "Misused" Quotation Marks and NPR's Piano Puzzler.  Of the latter, I recommend you skip to the "Hear the Entire Feature" link...Finally, the Well-Tempered Blog links to this story of a North Korean jazz pianist, and a song called "A girl innovator dashing like a steed."

The members of Vox are Ann Arbor's early music champions.  They invited Peter Phillips of the Tallis Scholars to lead a masterclass today, which I attended, at the Chapel of the Trinity at Concordia.  The chapel provides an ideal acoustical environment for voices, which Phillips noted.

Phillips commands the best from singers because of his phenomenal ears.  In fact, when they are unfurled, the span eight feet.  Seriously, he (gently) lets singers know they will get away with no error of pitch, timing, or vowel.

The wifeösphere and I will be at the Tallis Scholars' concert tonight with some friends.  Hope to see you there, at St. Francis Catholic Church, the acoustics of which are slightly less than perfect.  Oh well.

A hearty thanks to Robert Gable of Aworks who overcame a disliking of choral music to attend my premiere and write a review.  Robert:  you da mensch.  Now that it is clear I won't be able to attend any of the performances, this peek into what the concert is like is a treasure.

Gable says one audience member reacted verbally at one point.  Let me make clear that I totally disassociate myself from such raucous, unseemly behavior.  I hope all future classical music concert goers remember to restrict themselves to properly-timed clapping -- gentle clapping, as I wouldn't want them to wrinkle their white gloves in the process.  If classical music is to die, let it die with dignity; that's what I say.  Everyone can agree with that, no?

The Cylons of Battlestar Galactica built what is called a Resurrection Ship.  In a confusing blend of physics and metaphysics, a dying Cylon uploads its memory to the Resurrection Ship, which transfers it to a new copy of that Cylon.  Thus, in a sense, Cylons cannot be killed.  The resurrection ship's designers gave it a Gothic vibe, boosting it's awe factor nicely.  In fact, I'd hazard to guess they drew inspiration from E. Fay Jones' inspired sacred spaces.  Someone else sees in it more than a little bit of the USAF Academy Cadet Chapel.  You make the call.

Today I steal a theme from Texas Best Grok by blogging military aircraft.  We'll look at the strange world of WWII experimental designs, including a few with rear-mounted pusher propellers.  (The pusher propeller seems innovative only in retrospect; the very first airplane ever had a pusher propeller.)

* The Dornier Do 335.  It had two centrally-aligned propellers, one in the front and another in the rear.  It was the "fastest production piston-engined fighter ever built."  I assembled a model of this one when I was a kid.  I think my parents still have it in their home.  My model was of a version that had two canopies -- the second (also forward-facing) located behind, and higher than, the one you see in the picture.  The Dornier P59 is a variant, seen in this long, fascinating list of models. 

* A long article on the strengths and weaknesses of the German military-industrial-engineering-research complex.  I've have not finished it yet, but it looks good.  As usual, Hitler's unique management style gets a good share of the blame for what went wrong -- but bureaucratic paralysis also played a big part.  The Nazis ended the war with the same airplanes that they started -- an astounding stat.  (Well, actually, they ended the war with no airplanes whatsoever, but you know what I mean.)

* The Swedes had there own WWII fighter with a rear propeller and a twin tail.  Very odd.  Blohm und Voss (whoever they are) also had a rear-propeller fighter in the works for the Germans.  After the war, the U.S. brought out the long-range, six-engined B-36 bomber, the largest airplane the USAF ever flew in active service.

Moving the propeller away from the airplane's nose allows the designer to mount guns in that location with unobstructed lines of fire.  Locating propellers in unexpected places also comes in handy when one is engaged in a fist fight and wishes to score a quick win by taking off one's opponent's head with the whirling blades.

* Finally, branching out, there's the not-to-be-missed German Flying Discs.  Those Nazis!  They sure were smart!  Although kind of arrogant, I think.

A few years ago I got into my head the idea that it would be fun to wear a long overcoat with some kind of bold, tweedy pattern.  I was hoping for some fat-yarned thing, ideally in a coarse, high-contrast herringbone.  After searching in vain for a long time, and wading through vast piles of beige raincoats, I finally found a something I could live with:  not high-contrast, but a dark herringbone of brown and black.  I wear it as my everyday winter coat.  I'm happy with it.

Until yesterday, when the wifeösphere and I attended the University of Michigan's production of Michael Daugherty's Jackie O.  I noticed Bright Sheng in the crowd -- and he was wearing a fat-yarned coarse-patterned black and white herringbone overcoat.  Sheeeeeeeeeng!  Once again, the advantage is yours!  You are a worthy opponent indeed, but do not think you can defeat me forever, oh no.  I shall have the last laugh, ha ha!

Anyway, I've been looking forward to seeing Jackie O, and it did not disappoint.  The opera is hugely entertaining.  The students did an excellent job.  I'd especially like to mention Seth Mease Carico in the role of Aristotle Onassis, who had to memorize a list of dozens of cocktail names (Affinity, Angel Face, Barbie's Special, Beachcomber, Betsy Ross, Between-the-Sheets, Bloody Mary, Boomerang, Cablegram, Chanticleer, Cloud 9, etc. etc.) then sing the list again in a revised version, and dance and sing falsetto and whistle (the pressure!).  He did it all and enjoyed himself in the process.

One part surprised me because it is not on the CD.  The second act began with a recording of JFK's inaugural address, while three paparazzi tap danced.  Classic post-modernism, and just a little impious.  Still, the Ann Arbor crowd gave a lusty, partisan cheer to the stirring words of the slain president, no doubt reminding themselves as they did that he was an anti-communist tax-cutter.

So, you complain my blogging has been light, lately?  Of course you mean that as a compliment, right?  Light, as in a delicate filo pastry, baked to perfection, then injected with helium and flung via FTL jump into the weightlessness of deep space?  That was exactly what you were thinking, right?

Today's blogging will be heavy -- dense as a homemade loaf of whole grain bread.  Because it is a homemade loaf of whole grain bread.

A month ago, I started baking bread, and it has been a complete, total blast.  I am a maker by nature; a craftsman; baking bread satisfies all maker-related urges.  With each recipe, I iterate, converging with each modification on the optimum artifact.  There are variations in moisture, temperature, time, steam (which helps the crust to form) and slashing patterns to keep the baker entertained indefinitely.

More than cutting into the bread, or even eating it, I love beholding the finished loaf as it comes out of the oven.  I love the sensuous curves of the complete loaf -- like a Frank Gehry building, but not capricious, because one can intuit the various surface tensions and internal pressures that combined to produce a crust that domes just so.

Credit goes to the Third Holiest Site in Judaism for opening my eyes (and the eyes of lots of people in the Ann Arbor area) to what bread can be when it is done right.  Credit is also due to chef Mark Bittman, who in turn recommends Charles Van Over's The Best Bread Ever.

I almost mentioned yesterday how pleased I was that the results of that Dumas quiz put the dreaded Richelieu at dead last.  Now, my friend Alan informs us he is ... Richelieu.  Quelle horreur!

And really, what's with this quiz calling me a sensualist?  Ridiculous.

But now, please excuse me; there's a bathtub full of warm chocolate pudding waiting for me upstairs.

(Hat tip: Mixolydian Mode.)

You scored as Aramis. You are Aramis, the Musketeer priest. Two natures war within you: one full of high-minded ideals and the other a sensualist. Your love life is an art form, and you are a Romantic who places great importance on the perfect date. Sometimes you manipulate people and events a little too much, but your heart is good nevertheless. Aramis 80% D'Artagnan 50% Mercedes 40% Edmund Dantes 35% Athos 35% Rochefort 30% Porthos 30% Richelieu 25% Which Dumas character are you? (pics) created with QuizFarm.com

I should blog Alex Ross' visit to U-M.  He gave the keynote address at a Shostakovich symposium jointly sponsored by university historians and musicians.  No doubt the event's organizers felt they needed to give Alex pride of place as the out-of-town expert, but it may have been better had the talks been given in reverse order:  last came a professor who gave the political context (constant repression and surveillance under the Soviets); in the middle came a doctoral student who described Shostakovich's tendency to disguise his true thoughts, which make his descriptions of his own work unreliable; leading the way was Alex Ross, who seems eager to move beyond the political implications of the music by looking at literary influences upon Shostakovich.  It was fun to be in a crowd with a fair number of Russian speakers.  I should also mention the presence of two Kirov Orchestra members, one of whom is old enough to have played while the composer was still around.

One thing I couldn't understand:  all the speakers continually referred to stalling.  It was always "Shostakovich and stalling."  Apparently stalling was his biggest problem.  Alex Ross is tired of this topic, saying he wanted to write an entire article about Shostakovich without mentioning stalling.  I'm very confused.  I never dreamed Shostakovich was a procrastinator.  Everyone describes him as very prolific.  I guess I still have something to learn about him.

I introduced myself to Alex afterwards, but kept the meeting brief; others were waiting to talk to him, and frankly, the thought of playing the role of annoying fanboy horrifies me.

What I really wanted to do was live-blog the event, but technical limitations prevented me.  It would have been so cool for me to do so, since we all know that all live-blogging is at all times compelling.*  If I reconstruct the event from the copious notes I took, we can get an idea of what the live-blog would have been like.  Here's an excerpt:

1:24:05 p.m.  Alex just paused mid-sentence.  Something is going on.
1:24:12 p.m.  Alex is raising his hand.  A dramatic gesture??????
1:24:17 p.m.  Unbelievable!  He's picking his nose!  Update, 1:24:20 p.m.:  oops, my mistake; he's scratching his nose.  Without a doubt, all finger-nose contact is of an exterior nature.  Whew.
1:24:24 p.m.  He's putting his hand down now.  It appears he will resume speaking any moment.

*Hey:  he wrote "all" three times in one sentence.  That's odd.

Midnight hath its Iron Tongue, and its latest post very kindly promotes the upcoming concerts of the San Francisco Choral Artists which includes the premiere of a piece by li'l ol' me.  Sadly, naught but deafening silence emanates from the Galvanized Uvula of Noon, the Tin-Plated Palate of Tea Time, or the Metallic Molars of Morning, but I concede they have a legitimate excuse:  they don't exist.

My piece is an a cappella choral setting of The Evidence by 17th century Anglican mystic Thomas Traherne.  Part of his appeal is in the story of his poetry, how it was forgotten, then rediscovered by chance in the late 19th century.  His great insight is a variation on what W. H. Auden identified as the Vision of Dame Kind:  Traherne urges us to live in a state of constant wonder at the beauty and richness of creation, and calls each individual to appropriate all good things.  His message so strongly asserts that all creation was made for "my" happiness, it borders on solipsism.

Back in November I hinted I was writing the piece, but I didn't want to say much for fear of jinxing it or looking foolish.  SFCA was choosing some of this concert's repertoire by means of a competition.  I have entered composing competitions a few times before, and the experience usually turns into a species of Howling Into the Void:  you mail the score, you wait, and finally you find out someone else won.  Did I come close?  Did I loose because of a mere stylistic or programming decision?  Was my music simply too hard to learn?  Did the selectors choose an inferior piece?  Or do I suck?  You rarely find out.  In this case, the my text fit the concert theme, and most significantly, they were choosing several winners.  Thanks to Magen Solomon, SFCA director, for giving me a shot.

I just listened to Hubert Parry's Jerusalem.  Four times in a row.  I think the tune is gorgeous.  I find the text, although founded upon a deeply wrongheaded idea, to be weirdly moving.  I love this song.

Deal with it.

Meanwhile ... Mixolydian Mode found a new blog devoted to Christian science fiction, called Old Testament Space Opera.  (That's science fiction that happens to be Christian; not fiction that happens to be Christian Science.)  Also, we are told a cappella music is getting creepy:

I admit it. I have a near-psychopathic hatred of a cappella, tormented by smug, smiling singers who, too mean to pay for real musicians to accompany them, commit diabolical acts on unsuspecting songs. There are exceptions: usually people who are not all teeth, hair, cocktail dresses and Burt Bacharach songs. The Spooky Men's Chorale are nothing like that. There is no chintz, no bling and no kitsch in their routine. Instead this rugby team-size choir of boofy blokes settles for a healthy blend of eccentricity, scariness and laughs.

Star Trek:  The Next Generation
Episode 137:  Chain of Command, Part II

Captain Picard has been captured by the enemy. They have tried two direct attempts, truth serums and offering reduced punishment for cooperation.

The torture room:  Picard is still in the same position. His head slumps onto his chest occasionally as he cannot fight sleep.  Behind him, the door opens.  As they enter the room, the guards remove Picard from the bar on the ceiling and put the robe on him.

PICARD
I have told you what I know.

MADRED
I'm sure you have.

Madred gestures toward the ceiling.

MADRED
How many lights do you see there?

PICARD
(guarded) I see four lights.

Madred lifts his eyebrows... rises... and walks toward the fixture.

MADRED
Strange... I see five.  Are you quite sure?

PICARD
I see four lights.  But I could be wrong.  Four or five:  why should we argue about it?  If you say five, then okay, there are five.

MADRED
There are five lights.... (confused) Ah yes, as you admit, five.

PICARD
And they taste like lime sherbet.

MADRED
Perhaps you're aware of the incision ... what?

PICARD
The lights taste like sherbet.

Beat.

PICARD
Lime sherbet.

MADRED
They taste...?  You must be hallucinating.  Perhaps you're aware of the incision on your chest.  While you were under the influence of our drugs, you were implanted with a small device. It is a remarkable invention.  By entering commands in this PADD, I can produce pain in any part of your body... at various levels of severity.  (Looks at Picard with genuine apology.)  Forgive me... I don't enjoy this, but I must demonstrate. It will make everything much clearer.  Most people feel at first that they can steel themselves against it... but they are completely unprepared for the intensity of the pain. This will be the lowest possible setting. 

He looks down at the PADD. Picard steels himself, trying to prepare for what is coming. Madred taps a command.  Picard smiles gently.

PICARD
B flat minor.

MADRED
You felt no pain?

PICARD
It smelled like B flat minor.

MADRED
B flat minor?

PICARD
It's a name we humans give to a particular musical chord.

MADRED
Yes, I know.  You said it ... smelled ...?

PICARD
It smelled like B flat minor.

MADRED
This stupid machine!  Here, let me reverse the polarity.  Try this!

Madred taps another command.

PICARD
That time I heard mauve.

MADRED
You... ah ... (confused, then angry) I asked you ... how many lights do you see there?

PICARD
There are four...

Madred looks hopeful...

PICARD
... to five lights.  That taste like lime sherbet.

Madred's fingers enter commands. There is a cry of surprise from Picard.

PICARD
I feel loud!  I see cold!  Beethoven tastes redder than Mozart!

MADRED
Aaaaaah!  I give up!  Guards:  take this  ... this freak away!

Still holding Madred's look, Picard rises... starts to lose his balance but holds on... takes deep breaths of air... straightens himself, and walks close to Madred.

PICARD
The.  Lights.  Taste.  Like.  Lime.  Sherbet!

Madred stares at him briefly, and then, the slightest possible nod and smile -- in deference to a man he has come to admire.  Picard turns and walks out of the room, refusing help from the guards.

THE END

"The cultured public [of late 19th century Paris], no longer dominated by the salon, gradually came to realize that there existed a small group of people thinking and living and creating beyond the pale of ordinary behavior.  Today the persevering remnants of the avant-garde are generally scoffed at, often exploited, and occasionally glorified beyond all measure.  Modernism wrote into its scripture a major text, which demands, at least in retrospect, our gratitude:  the avant-garde we have with us always."

Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years

The University of Michigan's latest contribution to starchitecture is an eye-catching biomedical research building with an ostentatious glass screen and a gorgeous little bon-bon of an auditorium.  The complex is located on a bend in a busy stretch of road, so it's a perfect spot for a dramatic sculptural statement. 

This snapshot gives you the sidewalk-level view, and just barely shows the gentle curves of the walls and roof.  (You can see computer-rendered images at the Polshek Partners website.)  I find the auditorium far more appealing than Frank Gehry's buildings, which it imitates; Gehry's curves seem arbitrary and self-indulgent to me, but these curves are built up from easily-intuited rules.  Some people are calling it the Potato Chip.

I think the glass screen is ugly, but they say it is engineered to aid ventilation, being open in summer and sealed in winter.  It's facing south, but I'm sure the engineers know what they're doing.  My sources within the architecture community* inform me that the screen was something of an afterthought; former U-M president Lee Bollinger surprised everyone by raising a big chunk of extra money so they could do something impressive.  We're talking an amount on the order of $10 million extra.

*Wow.  He says he has sources in the architecture community.  Veeeery impressive.

As I posted last Friday's image, a shudder of self-loathing passed through me.  Another cheap attention-getting device, I thought to myself.  But hey!  It turns out that cheap, attention-getting devices have their reward!  A big welcome to Alex Ross fans.

Last week an old friend came into town and I took the chance to catch up with him.  Dave is something of a polymath; part scientist, part inventor, and part artist.  Lately he's been experimenting with infrared photography and he's achieving some strange and eye-catching effects by playing with the colors.  He's having fun selling prints of his work in cafes.  You can see examples of his work at his website.

Dave's previous creative foray was writing fiction.  He completed a novel and gave a try at web-based publication.  Unfortunately, because his genre was techno-thriller, the details of the plot became dated fairly quickly.  (It was a story of a serial rapist stalking his prey anonymously online.)  The novel was remarkable; it contained perhaps the most shocking violence of any techno-thriller written by a Mormon.

Alex Ross' recent post contains two connections to the University of Michigan.  Those of us who research such connections are not surprised.  The following diagram (only partly shown) dramatically documents what I'm talking about:

At last! Alan Young reappears as a celebrity guest contestant at the Fredösphere. You can read part I here.

WOBEGON BOY, PART II

My radio days started in the spring of 1980 in Fargo North Dakota when I took a part-time job at KDSU FM.  One of the programs we carried was Jazz Revisited-hosted by Hazen Schumacher and produced in the studios of WUOM in Ann Arbor.  Jazz Revisted was a 30-minute program devoted to jazz recordings from 1918-1948 (give or take a few years.)  Little did I know then that some day I’d be the vehicle for some of Hazen’s antics.  More about the show but first a bit of background information.

In the spring of 1982 after 5 years happy clueless years as an undergraduate I found out I had exhausted the available classes from NDSU and as such was forced to graduate and leave the comforts of the small but well-focused and established school with a Music Education Degree. Teaching in Two-Dot Montana or Pisek North Dakota seemed unattractive options so I followed up on a list of job openings in Public Radio that was displayed on the walls of the KDSU studio. I ended up taking a job at Blue Lake Public Radio, which had just started a new station.  After 2 years at WBLV-FM I moved on to the big time and a world of opportunities at WUOM.

One of my first assignments at WUOM was to run the board during the Jazz Revisited Request Night Program. This was an extended version of the weekly 30 minute program and aired only on WUOM/WVGR. The request night was a live show the second Saturday of the month. It ran from 7pm till 10:00pm and I never sweated so much in my life as those three hours. Well OK My over 30 Monday Night Basketball sessions don’t count…

I haven’t been in radio studio for nearly ten years but I can assume the that there is a great difference between an up to date digital studio with all the music on CD or better yet – hard drive and a fully documented data base at you fingertips. Compare that to the 1948 Collins Console Board I ran for this show.  These pictures are very similar to the set-up I ran. (I felt like the pilot of a B-17 in Twelve O’clock High.)

Every piece played required the operator to make several quick decisions:

The toggle switch controlled the spin direction of the turntable

Left for counter clockwise
Right for clockwise (I guess this was to see if there were any hidden messages when you played the recordings backward. We are taking WW II equipment and technology.)

The volume knob
The turntable speed (located on the turntable)

33 1/3 rpm
45 rpm
78 rpm

The microphones

The on-air mic of the host(Hazen)
The ambient studio mic
The inter-studio mic where I could say something off air to the host.

Studio Volume which carried The on-air volume

In my studio (Studio C)
Hosts Studio (Studio B)

All of these volumes, or components could also operate  “in cue”. This is an off-air signal that allows the operator to set needle to the right track on the recording. The operator would drop the volume switch to the cue position and set the needle on the appropriate “band”.  (Band being the line on the record Not the featured ensemble).

The beginning of the piece could be heard as the turntable was manually oscillated back and forth. A tight operator would “back off” the start by as small amount of rotation as possible. If the needle was left too close to the beginning, a slow wind up to the opening would be heard.  If the needle was too far- then a gap in sound ie “dead air” was heard. Actually a lot of snap crackle and pop, as many of these were very worn recordings. (Incidentally this whole cueing process is a major percussive and rhythmic device used by many DJ’s in today’s Rap, Hip Hop and other popular music forms.)

Now here’s how the show worked. I sat in “Studio C” with the Collins Board in front of me.  I had a turntable on each side of me. Each one had a switch that set the table to one of three speeds.

In a separate room a few feet lower and in front of me to the right was the Jazz Library, which I could see through a window.  And to the left in a like wise manner was Studio B where Hazen would announce the show, based on requests that came in from listeners.  Hazen also had a group of friends he’s bring in for this show and they’d sit around the table and chat with each other and with him as part of the show. He could have anywhere from 4 to 10 guests on a given program. As the calls would come in the request was taken –down the given to “the runner” who would take the written requests and head of to the Jazz Library to search the Card Catalogues for their location on the shelves. This was pretty much the Dewey Decimal System for the library. After collecting as many as a half dozen records, the runner would bring the records to me where I would set them up and play them in the order Hazen called them out.  The recordings played on the program were probably 60% 45 rpm, 30% -33 1/3 rpm and maybe 10% were 78 rpm.  These variations had to be accommodated by the operator when the music was cued up on the turntable. If the previous piece was a 33 1/3 and the next was a 45 then the speed switch had to be changed. Another factor on the 33 1/3 was choosing the right band.  The 78’ s and most all the 45’s were single cuts only, but the 33 1/3’s could have as many as 6 pieces on a side.

The cuts were short. Most of them were just over two minutes in length. So many decisions had to be quickly and accurately executed. Left Turn table or Right?  Which cut or band? What speed?   Is Hazen taking to the group or to me? Is the on air cut skipping?

Hazen enjoyed pulling jokes on the operator. One was the “group record bash” He would usually have many old recordings that were unplayable for a variety of reasons, scratched, half broken etc. On more than one episode Hazen would pass these out guests at the table.  Then over the air he’s say something like

Our friend Art over in Kalamazoo was cleaning out his grandfather’s attic when he came across a box of recordings of Bix Beiderbecke. It turns out these recordings were made in 1924 and are the first he made with his band The Wolverines.  These recordings launched his career and enabled him to become a sought-after musician in Chicago, Illinois and New York City. These are truly valuable recordings for which collectors would pay top dollar.  We are very fortunate because Art has generously donated these recordings to the Jazz Revisited library.   Now Alan Young our Ace Operator is bringing them in to us right now…oops careful there Alan… Hey!  Watch OUT!

Then one at a time but in close succession  the people around the table would smash their records over the table making Alan the fool…

Sigh….I survived.

The public radio station at the University of Michigan is WUOM.  It's been in the news lately, not in a good way:  Donovan Reynolds, the station manager, revealed evidence of suspicious business practices.  He has subsequently resigned, not in an admission of guilt, but to "take responsibility" for what happened on his watch. 

(And what is the deal with Ann Arbor's non-profits?  Just a few years ago the public library was rocked when the money guy was caught in a half-baked attempt at book-cooking.)

Those of you with disturbingly loyal reading histories with The Fredösphere will recall a guest posting from the early days written by my friend Alan.  I referred to him as "Wobegon Boy," after the Garrison Keillor novel about a public radio station manager under pressure to dump a classical music format in favor of politically correct talk shows.  You can read Alan's story of working at WUOM here.

At the time, I promised more from Alan, but nothing the the intervening months has materialized.  Now I'm prepared to claim that promise will not go unfulfilled, since the news report has prompted Alan to write at least one more post.  (You will finish it this time, won't you, Alan?) 

In my tardiness and defensiveness, I remind myself of the Traveller in Walter de la Mere's poem, The Listeners:

'Is anybody there?' said the Traveller,
    Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
    Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
    Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
    'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
    No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
    Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
    That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
    To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
    That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
    By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
    Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
    'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote the door, even
    Louder, and lifted his head: -
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
    That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
    Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
    From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
    And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
    When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Here's a sermon announcing the Choir of the Future!  I'd like someone to translate it into Christian, please -- someone who speaks Nutjob.  And how many leopards had to die to make this choir of the future?

Building a dance floor into your sanctuary?  Why, that could lead to... dancing!  (Via Iron Tongue of Midnight.)

The collegiate a cappella movement boats 20,000 voices and now has its own documentary, Rock and R.O.  The A Cappella News has more.

Well, shoot.  Some awfully nice folks in San Francisco want to perform something I wrote.

Illness has delayed my posting today.  In fact, spies from the office may leave vicious comments because I have written this short bit during my convalescence, as happened the last time I missed work.

Anyway, my downtime coincides serendipitously with my acquiring, through loan from my friend Mitch, the complete first season DVD set of Battlestar Galactica.  Wow.  Double wow.  Having heard all the hype, and having seen a couple of episodes along the way, my expectations were high, and yet they were exceeded.  This series is easily the best sci-fi in TV history.  The only question in my mind is whether it is the best thing TV has produced in any genre.

How do I love thee, Battlestar Galactica?  Let me count the ways:

1.  Commander Adama's face looks like something run over by a dozen Cylons driving earth moving equipment.  This guy's face is weathered.  He's far from the usual TV pretty-boy ideal, and the realness is a relief.  The contrast with the 1970s Battle Star Galactica, where even the men had Farrah Fawcett hairdos, could not be greater.

2.  Other character flaws are on display.  Adama is the commander of the oldest Battle Star in the fleet, due to be decommissioned.  Galactica's XO is a drunk.  The new president of the civil government is the only surviving official, the obscure secretary of education of one of the twelve home worlds -- and Adama's reaction is, "we're supposed to take orders from a school teacher?"  Starbuck, the most talented pilot is haunted by guilt over the death of her lover.  Adama's son, Apollo, hates his father so much, he can barely make it through a conversation with him.  These are real people.  Only Gaius Baltar's weaknesses (cowardice, arrogance, and sexual incontinence) seem over the top -- but even he's good for some laughs.

3.  This BSG has all the great themes of any war drama:  survival, fear, hard decisions under extreme pressure.  BSG's scenario is an extreme example:  a race of people are wiped out in one day, with their population reduced from many billions to 50,000.

4.  This BSG reconsiders our current political themes, just as Star Trek reconsidered the cold war.  The Cylon attack is a 9/11 on steroids.  The survivors pull together -- then tear each other's hair out.  How do you manage a threat you cannot completely understand?  When does caution bleed into paranoia?

5.  Needless to say, the production values are high and the dialog rarely embarrasses.  Sci-fi writers carry the heavy burden of building a plausible civilization from the ground up.  The BSG scenario is a bit easier to pull off because these are regular human beings with a distant connection to earth's population.  In any case, everything works -- well, okay, the use of "frak" as a cuss word always jars, and there's something slightly patronizing in the casting of a black woman in the role of priest.  Still, these are quibbles.  Sci-fi fans need to have strong stomachs -- BSG gives us very little indigestion.

6.  As always, I'm fascinated by the religion, and BSG treats it more thoughtfully than most sci-fi (which, sadly, is not saying much).  I can't help but envy this people's culture which is unified under one religion.  (A religion not always believed, to be sure, but always respected.)  Laura Roslin learns that she must be sworn in as the new president of the surviving government:  "we'll need a priest," she says.  Imagine that in the USA -- the mind boggles.  Only our English friends can relate, I suppose.  Are these people polytheists?  They talk about God, but pray to the Lords of Kobol.  Maybe the Lords are saints, or angels.  Turns out, there's a Mormon connection.

I've been trying to think of another TV series that affects me so strongly.  The only thing that comes close is the (brace for impact!) Pride and Prejudice miniseries from A&E.  Jane Austen has never been treated more respectfully.

Anyone care to declare their nominations for best TV series ever?

When you google the news for the word "choir," you get the Oscars:

[...] things become so unbearably overwrought that it may as well have been replaced with a burning baby impaled on a fencepost while a choir of devils sing a song called War Is Bad and point at the audience in a menacing way. Will Munich win the Best Film Oscar? Probably not this year.  Current Best Film Oscar betting odds - 16/1

and Barbie:

George Cunningham was the nicest boy at school. George Cunningham was loved by all the girls because he was sweet, clean cut and good-looking. He sang in the choir, played guitar, starred in school plays and was just about the biggest simp any fifth grade had ever seen. The guy was just too wonderful. George was a big, continually smiling presence, a boy born without rough edges, a boy loved by teachers and praised by his minister. George Cunningham was, in short, exactly the kind of guy I hated and he might as well have been wearing a little tag marked KEN.

One of the many burdens of success:  unauthorized people listening to your music:

Presumably, the ramifications have pissed [David] Gray off. "Babylon" blared out hulky SUVs blowing fossil fuels into the atmosphere, damaging the Ozone, and increasing the threat of global warming -- cars driven by the trophy wives of wealthy bankers working hard making millions of dollars and exploiting third world countries. Apparently, the wounds have not yet healed.

Blues artist Howie Gelb felt stained.  Huh?  Is that a good thing?

"The next day they had me scheduled to play in a church, and when I arrived early to check out the piano, I was held spellbound by a rehearsing gospel choir. I was riveted by the next choir that got up, and the one that followed blew my mind. I left feeling dizzy and wobbly, as though I'd been injected with something. I felt stained by the experience."

Yet another critic finds the Vienna Boy Choir not living up to its reputation:

Perhaps because of the rigors of the road, the performance -- as charming as it tried to be -- often sounded rote. The choristers generated little excitement with their music making, and the pieces -- many just a couple minutes long -- did little to hold our attention.

Gene Simmons rolls out a reality show called "Rock School."  How original.

After the transformation, these musicians will have to perform in front of 5 000 rock fans as the support act for Motorhead. And wait until you see these thirteen-year-olds.

Josh ("The Emperor") plays trumpet, speaks elvish … and is not into rock ("I think it's vulgar.").

Rodney (Rods) plays piano, sings in both the school choir and its gospel choir. He was not impressed by "Gene's shallowness".

Dudley (Dudders) plays most instruments and wants to be a neurosurgeon. After the series he said: "Gene's not someone I would look up to."

Kwame ("Mr Cool") plays piano and also sings in a gospel choir. After the series he admitted rock music isn't "just noise any more".[...]

Will the 50-odd Simmons be up to the task?

Rock School's opening session finds him pulling up to the English boarding school in a limousine. He draws indifferent reactions from the students who find him "arrogant" and "middle-aged".

As one UK critic put it: "Think To Sir, With Love, starring Satan."

Unlike Simmons' kids, some move in a retrograde direction:

"Playing properly on a vintage machine will often eliminate a lot of surface noise and make the sound more realistic, as if the singer is in the room," he explained."

The singers heard in his room include tenor Enrico Caruso, who died about the time the teen's Victrola was made - about 85 years ago.

We've known about this theory for a while, but this juxtaposition somehow puts a new gloss on it (emphasis mine):

Both books hinge on the theory that Jesus married Mary Magdalene and they had a child, and that that bloodline survives to this day. The earlier book set out the notion that Christ did not die on the cross but moved to France.

Dang, this is heart-pounding fun!  But those New Urbanists, they are just heart-pounding evil:

Fellow New Yorkers, beware: There are New Urbanists among us, and they have started to organize. Eavesdrop has learned that, in their crusade to spread their radical brand of Main Street nostalgia, followers of the cultish Congress for the New Urbanism are starting a local chapter. [...] The agitator in question was New Urbanist blogger John Massengale, and “rarely have I seen such bluster,” continues our spy, who adds that the gathering quickly degenerated into “a hollering match over who was closer to [CNU president] John Norquist—as if he were Kim Jong Il or something. It was so scary it was comical.” [...] We, however, are still terrified. “It felt like being in a roomful of Republicans,” our informant says, “with their strange fanaticism and extremely bad haircuts.”

And Panopticist admires George Crumb's scores as beautiful artifacts in their own right.  (All of the above via Design Observer.)

Greg Sandow waxes rhapsodic on the multifaceted splendiferousness of the sport of curling.  I'm extremely pleased to announce I have tried the sport one evening, thanks to an invitation from a saucy, pert filly who eventually became the wifeösphere.  My reax:  fun once, but a bit too one-dimensional to hold my interest. 

I mean the curling, of course -- sheesh!  You people.