Pure Philology

I woke up this morning at 2:30 with my brain on fire. That happens to me from time to time, particularly if the events of the previous day have been provoking. I went to choir practice in the afternoon and my friend Gordon spent part of the time trying to help the members of the choir comprehend that the words of hymns are not merely sounds to be articulated, but sentiments to be conveyed by the meaning of those words in combination with one another. As we went through the several verses of “Precious Savior, Dear Redeemer”, a hymn that we are going to sing on Easter Sunday, he asked about each noun, verb, adjective, and adverb, soliciting from us the meanings attached to them. Our practice was considerably improved.

Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Thy sweet message now impart.

May thy Spirit, pure and fervid, Enter ev'ry timid heart;

Carry there the swift conviction, Turning back the sinful tide.

Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, May each soul in thee abide.

Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, We are weak but thou art strong;

In thy infinite compassion, Stay the tide of sin and wrong.

Keep thy loving arms around us; Keep us in the narrow way.

Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Let us never from thee stray.

Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Thou wilt bind the broken heart.

Let not sorrow overwhelm us; Dry the bitter tears that start.

Curb the winds and calm the billows; Bid the angry tempest cease.

Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Grant us everlasting peace.

H.R Palmer

During the latter part of the Third Watch this morning, I began to think about my own response to language. I wondered if I, like J.R.R. Tolkien, could consider myself a pure philologist. “I like history”, he said in a letter to his son Christopher, “and am moved by it, but its finest moments for me are those in which it throws light on words and names.” Tolkien frequently spoke of his “linguistic aesthetic”, his predilection for certain kinds of sounds and rhythms in language that particularly pleased him. I find that I am not particularly satisfied with anything that I have writtn unless it can be read out loud, no matter how long a sentence may be, no matter how lengthy an essay may be; good writing is a joy to read out loud. In conjunction with the sounds and rhythm of any piece of prose or poetry is the flow of ideas that illuminate the mind and heart. This only comes when a writer actually has something to say, when he has felt or understood something profoundly. This, more often than not, is the great stumbling block for most erstwhile writers. Shakespeare’s MacBeth laments something of this meaningless prattle that many writers choose to serve up to their readers.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

This, of course, is Gordon’s point exactly. To sing without the accompanying intended emotion subverts the whole point of performing.

I wrote earlier of John Denver’s “Perhaps Love”, a piece that was originally performed by Denver and Placido Domingo. Many years after the song first aired, John Denver performed “Perhaps Love” in a live concert somewhere in Southern California. A friend who was at the performance commented afterward that for some reason that particular version, just the singer and his guitar, had moved the audience more deeply than anything that he done that night. Denver smiled and said, “It was something that I learned from Placido. He sang his part with emotion, each word having its own articulation, its own sound, its own emphasis, according to its meaning. ‘Cloud’ and ‘warm’ should be sung differently than ‘storm’ and ‘steel’ and I have tried to do more of that when I perform.” Imagine that! Many people cannot abide the duet and prefer the solo, but the power of Denver’s solo performances derived directly from the collaboration. Domingo helped Denver get inside of his own creations.

There is a point of diminishing returns, however. I write songs to express feelings that I have bubbling up inside of me. Sometimes the feelings are so strong during the composition that I cannot publicly perform the song until I have sung the piece over and over again, pushing the emotions down. Sometimes I get so far inside of a song that I forget what I am doing, even failing to play the chords properly on the guitar. I frequently have to practice a set for months in order to strike a balance between the sentiments and the skills.

When the choir first gathered to practice the three hymns that we are going to sing on Easter, Gordon asked me to talk to the members of the choir about the historical setting for “Peace Be Unto Thy Soul”, a work that he had composed based on a passage of scripture. I did so with some expertise. The effect on the altos, where one of my daughters was performing, was dramatic. Jennifer said afterwards that the women around her could not sing, they were so deeply moved by what I had said. As we rode together to the practice yesterday, Jenny said, “Hey! Gordon didn’t ask you to talk about the hymns this week, did he?” I replied in the negative. “Good,” she said. “I would really like to get through the thing this week.”

Two weeks ago I had no trouble whatsoever singing “Peace Be Unto Thy Soul”. Yesterday, I could not finish the piece at all. My knowledge, my preparation for my little talk two weeks ago, had steeled me somewhat against the power of the lyrics. With that knowledge fading from my mind, my heart unabashedly accepted the significance of what Gordon had written and I was undone. Hopefully I will do better next week and the week after that.

Words mean things. They represent little pieces of who and what we are. They allow us to share the innermost parts of our private sanctuaries with each other. Communication is, in the end, “communion” with all of the power that particular word can convey. We invite others to drink from the living waters of our soul and by so doing we are mutually and eternally bound to each other. If done properly, the union is accompanied by brotherhood and love. I am glad that I know Gordon Jessop.

Perhaps Love

When I first started performing in the early 1960's, the songs that I wanted to play were those of my era. I was not a Beatles fan by any stretch of the imagination. I own all of their music today, but not because I enjoyed them then, but because I have since learned something of musicality from them. I learned Buddy Holly songs. It took me six months before I could play any one of his pieces, but once I did I discovered I could play them all. I remember my friend Bud Peterson saying to me one night after I had played at a Church social, "Well, It was nice that you could play the same song three times tonight." I decided that I needed to expand my repertoire just a little. I settled on folk music, in particular the early music of Bob Dylan. I learned to play guitar in just about the same location in the country that he did, and his music had just a little bit of northern Minnesota stuffed into it, a stuffing that I seemed to enjoy a lot. I went away to Mexico for a couple of years and while I was gone, little Bobby Zimmerman reinvented himself. I found that I was not really in a frame of mind to play and sing his new material.

I was a Peter, Paul, and Mary fan, an Ian and Sylvia fan, a Bud and Travis fan, a Pete Seeger fan, a Joan Baez fan, having no idea as to where they were politically, or even that they were politically active. I just liked the music and the meaningful lyrics that went with them. I suppose that one of my favorite pieces at the time was the "Ballad of Springhill, Nova Scotia" by Peggy Seeger and Ewan MacCall. I sang it often as a young folk singer, but there came a time when I just simply did not include it in my sets. I was reminded of it again, however, a year or so ago when the Crandall Canyon mine disaster took the lives of six men initially and then a second collapse killed three of the rescuers. The bodies of the six Utah men were never found. The final lines of MacCall's period piece had application.

Eight days passed and some were rescued,

Leaving the dead to lie alone,

Through all their lives they dug a grave,

Two miles of earth for a marking stone

After returning to Utah, I found myself playing the songs of Gordon Lightfoot, simply because they were beautiful. Others of his pieces I learned because he touched a part of my past. The ore boat "Edmund Fitzgerald" wintered in Duluth, Minnesota, while I lived there and I saw that great ship many times I went over the High Bridge to Superior, Wisconsin. Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" is fourteen verses long with a wonderful chord sequence for the guitar. I performed it many times to receptive audiences, especially in the Midwest. I remember being invited by one of my children's elementary school teachers to come perform it for her class. In the middle of my rendition, the woman broke down in tears; one of her relatives had gone down with the ship.

They might have split up or they might have capsized

They may have broke deep and took water

And all that remains is the faces and the names

Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

At some point I made a connection with Henry John Deutschendorf and began playing his music, and the music that he borrowed from other songwriters. I guess that it was about that time that I figured that I never needed to become a recording star because everything that I wanted to do and thought that I could do, had been done by this fellow. Of all his songs that I have learned, this one that follows is by far and away my favorite. It was originally released as a duet with Placido Domingo.

Perhaps Love

Perhaps love is like a resting place

A shelter from the storm

It exists to give you comfort

It is there to keep you warm

And in those times of trouble

When you are most alone

The memory of love will bring you home

Perhaps love is like a window

Perhaps an open door

It invites you to come closer

It wants to show you more

And even if you lose yourself

And don`t know what to do

The memory of love will see you through

Oh, love to some is like a cloud

To some as strong as steel

For some a way of living

For some a way to feel

And some say love is holding on

And some say letting go

And some say love is everything

And some say they don`t know

Perhaps love is like the ocean

Full of conflict, full of pain

Like a fire when it`s cold outside

Or thunder when it rains

If I should live forever

And all my dreams come true

My memories of love will be of you

John Denver

I was watching television tonight, after Trillium and I finished another Inspector Morse episode, and one of the PBS stations was presenting a program on Denver's music. In the particular segment I watched, John Denver explained how the song came to be written. He and his wife, Anne Martell from St. Peter, Minnesota, were having troubles in their marriage, a separation had taken place and they were staring down the long, lonely highway of divorce. The song was a tribute to her; in spite of all of the misunderstandings and distresses that they had experienced, she was his real love. That, I think, was the spirit of all of John Denver's music. He had a way of looking at the very worst of situations and finding the very best that could be said. There was talk of a possible reconciliation of their marriage shortly before his accidental death off the coast of California on 12 October 1997.

At the heart of every marriage there are sentiments much like those John Denver had for Anne Martell. We sometimes forget those wonderful sentiments, much like Denver did when he and his wife separated. The trick is to remember, to keep before our minds and hearts, the reasons and the feelings that we had in the beginning. Always.... always... always....

Half of the Story

My two sons have done this little quiz and I decided to do the same. I found that the great fallacy of this exercise is that more frequently than not, I could have answered the questions either way. The "either/or" argument is deceptive. I do believe that there is a large part of my personality that is quit "scientific", but I have stewed in the cauldron of the Humanities so long that I have absorbed much of that flavor. Additionally, I believe that the test assumes a basic "Aristotle/Plato" philosophical dichotomy. What I find interesting in this is, because of my religious background, Platonic philosophy has a more active role in my life than most Aristotelian scientists would like to admit to. I do not find this a confliction; I perceive it as an enhancement.

. You Are An INTJ

The Scientist You have a head for ideas - and you are good at improving systems. Logical and strategic, you prefer for everything in your life to be organized. You tend to be a bit skeptical. You're both critical of yourself and of others. Independent and stubborn, you tend to only befriend those who are a lot like you. In love, you are always striving to improve your relationship. You have strong ideas of what love should be like. At work, you excel in figuring out difficult tasks. People think of you as "the brain." You would make an excellent scientist, engineer, or programmer. How you see yourself: Reasonable, knowledgeable, and competent When other people don't get you, they see you as: Aloof, controlling, and insensitive

What's" Your Personality Type?

Music for the Living and the Dead

I was sitting in choir practice a few weeks ago when someone brought up the prospect of the choir singing at a funeral. I do not recall who the subject of the conversation was, but I began considering my own death. Not that I was perturbed at or desirous of the effect, I was simply contemplating my own funeral. Now that Trillium and I have settled on where we are to be planted when that magnificent day arrives, I began to think about the program for the service. I thought that since I was to be the focus of attention, I ought to have a say in what transpires before I have no say at all.

I have only had one piece of music on my mind and heart when I have thought of the concluding ceremony. I fell in love with it the first time I ever heard it performed.

Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen !

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills ?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills ?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire !

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.

William Blake

I am an Anglo-phile. I have been my whole life. I prefer English literature over American, even though I have studied both. I have stood at the top of Sears' Tower in Chicago, but I prefer looking up at the facade of Queens College or contemplating the lovely interior of Radcliffe's Camera. The legend is, had my family remained in England instead of coming to the New World, we would have owned Oxford and we would have a larger burial plot than the one we presently have under a set of stairs in Westminster Abbey.

So as I sat there, contemplating my funeral, I said aloud, "I know what I would like you to sing at my funeral."

"What's that?" said our director, who can make broom handles sing and turn the meanest poem into musical glory.

"William Blake's 'Jerusalem'. You know, that same piece that was played at Harold Abrahams' funeral at the end of 'Chariots of Fire'."

Gordon chuckled, "Well, good luck. We probably will not be practicing that anytime soon."

I replied, "I am not hoping to have it performed anytime soon, but perhaps we ought to work it up just in case." The score has not appeared in our folders, so I have not been holding my breath.

About the same time that all of the morbidity appeared in our choir practice, Gordon introduced a piece by Gabriel Faure, "Cantique de Jean Racine" arranged by John Rutter. Jerolyn, our more than accomplished pianist, had already mastered the piece and when she began to play, I said to myself, "I can live or die by this". Faure had written the music when but a young man of nineteen in 1864 to accompany his paraphrasing of St. Ambrose's hymn "Consors paterni luminis" composed in the 4th Century AD. I never tire of it. Perhaps no one can ever tire of something wrought in divine passion and preserved in the amber of pure love.

Mad Music Skills

One day, not so long ago, The Forest for the Trees were ensconced in the Dungeon practicing, or at least pretending to practice. I was attempting to work out some sort of accompaniment on one of the guitars when Jen said "Gee, Dad, you have some mad guitar skills". I was startled for two reasons. First, I had never heard the word "mad" used in that fashion. I have to say that I was somewhat pleased at the evaluation once I knew what she meant. Secondly, I didn't think that what I was doing was particularly "mad" or "skillful"; I was merely trying to make something pleasant to go with our singing.

I have thought about that phrase a lot during the last month or so. I have wondered what Jenny would have thought if she had heard me playing when I was practicing eight or nine hours a day, when I did have "mad skills". Even when I was merely practicing an hour or two a day, I found that I was able to do some things with my instruments that lack of practice has caused me to lose. When she made that remark, I had not picked up the guitar for more than a week. I began to have an old familiar groan rise up within me.

I have also thought about what I would consider "mad guitar skills" and who really had them. I know that there are rock musicians that are touted as being the great guitarists of our lifetimes, but for some reason none of them have really done it for me. Typically they have been loud and muddy, very little crispness in their performance. I have heard only one guitarist in my entire life who really had "mad skills". I was glad to have known him; he was my friend.

I am not sure when Jon Woodhead first picked up the guitar, but by age sixteen he was one of the finest guitarists in the country. Since then he has played with the likes of John Stewart (of Kingston Trio fame), Carlos Santana, Maria Muldaur, Leon Russell, Ace, Peach, and many others. We collaborated in the late 1980s and early 1990s, in part because Jon said he actually liked some of the songs I had written. We wrote a few songs together, he providing the musicality and I the lyrics. Some of the pieces I put on "Rollin' Home" several years ago; some of them bring just a little moisture to my eyes when I listen to them.

As we cut the tracks, I usually ended up on the twelve-string guitar and Jon did all of the rest. He was the master of the fret-less bass, the slide guitar, the keyboard, and a multitude of other instruments that I had never seen before, much less held in my hands. My particular moment of astonishment at "mad guitar skills" took place one evening as we were warming up in his front room. We started talking about music that we both liked, folk and contemporary blues and such. He asked me if I heard Cat Stevens' "Bona Mone Jakon" album. I told him that I had almost worn my copy out and that I thought that Stevens was one of the most innovative rhythmists in the business.

He then said to me, "Do you remember this?" He then played the clearest rendition of the guitar riff of "I Wish, I Wish" I have ever heard. He "out-Stevensed" Cat. I was thunderstruck. I had him play it over and over again. Here were "mad guitar skills" in person, in the flesh, sitting two feet away from me.

One of the great tragedies of Jon Woodhead's career is that he was never really appreciated the way that he should have been. He has had a life full of music, but he has not had the recognition that he deserved. Whenever I think about choices I could have made as a young man, desiring to be a professional singer, I think about that vagaries of the system that allows noisy, disharmonious, abusers of sound to come to the forefront and subjugate the real masters in relative obscurity. What could I have done in that industry that would not have eventually destroyed me? I have often felt like I had been on a battlefield, with shells bursting all around me, bullets whistling by, and I barely managed to get out of harm's way just in time.

So I sit once a week with two of my daughters and one of my son's-in-law and make music, laying down tracks on that old Fostex recording system that Jon and I learned to use many years ago. Occasionally, one of them will say "Gee, Dad, you have some mad guitar skills", and I feel part of something really grand.

Catgut Strings

A few days ago, The Forest for the Trees had a recording session in the Dungeon. Things went moderately well; they will continue to go better; I was encouraged. Everyone left to go home and I scurried about attending to a couple of other tasks around the house

On a sudden, I heard a muffled crash, followed shortly thereafter by a blur headed up the stairs past the family room, the finale supplied by Trillium: "What was that?"

"Something fell upstairs," I replied.

"No," said Trillium, "Something fell down here." She was in the Atrium.

I had forebodings. I went to the Dungeon and discovered that the Pevey mixer had fallen from the computer hutch shelf on to the 12-string guitar. Two of the strings had been broken and two of the bridge pins had their heads severed off. I was distraught. "How in the world did that happen? I said out loud.

"You left the door to the Dungeon open."

"And...?"

"And.... Miss Kitty went in exploring, apparently jumped up to the top of the hutch, walked out on the edge of the mixer, and then scared the daylights out of herself as the whole thing came crashing down. So, before you have any ideas about doing that cat in, you will have to admit that it was your fault for leaving the door open."

Trillium was right. That was exactly what happened, and I did have designs on Miss Kitty's innards. Only two things deterred me.

First, the 12-string is a steel-string guitar. I had to go down to Summerhays and picked up a new set of strings. I decided on a set of Elixir strings. I think that I put the Nanoweb coated strings on. They are beautiful, far more beautiful than what my first impression was on the method of replacing the strings. It has taken a week for them to settle in and the guitar may be ready by the time we get together again to practice. While I was there at the music store, I picked up six bridge pins. You can never have too many of those. The pins cost me a dollar; the strings cost me $30.00. As I paid for the items, my eviscerating finger began to itch.

Second, natural guitar strings are not made from feline entrails, a fact that I learned while trying to find a recipe for an e-string. They are made from the viscera of a variety of animals, all of whom must be lean and ill-fed in order to have the proper tonal quality. Strike two on Miss Kitty.

So, the cat is safe for now, so long as she leaves the Yamaha alone.

A Month of Sundays

Years ago, while living in Simi Valley, there came a time when I only had a few things to do on any given Sunday. We went to Church in the morning and I had the whole afternoon free. I decided that I would try to compose a poem each Sunday, a reflection of everything or something that had happened during the week. I have to say that I was moderately successful. Having been recently released from an assignment which has consumed my Sundays for the past five years, I found myself again with a little time on my hands. I thought that I might venture once again. I have chosen to provide you with the first one of this long series, simply because it is the first. It may be a while before I share in this vein again, simply because I know how most people respond to poetry. This has music to it; I need to have music in my head to produce metered and rhyming poetry. I doubt that I will ever set this to that music, however.

Paean

Before the dawn of our creation
Ere the sun shone on the sea
We were stars of anticipation
Singing perfect melody
Countless hosts rose up in Heaven
Angelic voices made the aire
The sons of God sang with elation
As their paradise appeared

Speak a word, the lights descended
Into a darkness without dreams
Speak a word the thoughts intended
Forming rivers, hills, and streams
In the mists the flowers blossomed
Every creature known to man
Filled the earth as God intended
From the mountains to the sand

From the dust, a son delivered
From his side a love was framed
In the Garden by the river
Every living thing was named
Lords of life, a grand dominion
Over all beneath the sky
With a promise from the Giver
That the Heavens would be nigh

Countless ages, fading stories
Separate us from that hour
When the dews still fell in glory
On every leaf and blade and flower
Bitter-sweet, a taste remembered
On every tongue from day to day
Singing angels stirring memories
As they guide us on our way

PNH
18 January 2009