December 2019
Featuring...
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From a Song and Sidney Bechet to Olivier Franc Along the Way
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Quote of the Month
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Anatomy of a New Yorker Cartoon
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Year Ending Poem 1
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Faced
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Year Ending Poem 2
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
I sometimes wonder, how many virtuosos are “out there” of whom we’ve never heard? And that some of them are carrying forth a legacy from a prior generation? Also of which, you haven't heard? In this case, you have two men. Same instrument. On the same musical page. Recently discovered and connected. By way of a song.
Let all others who have tooted their horns and are favorites of mine, for the moment, step aside. At a geriatric age, my partner and I have become Franc-ophiles. And we look forward to his next performance, here or wherever. Playing Bechet or his own compositions. Or even "Mary Had a Little Lamb." He's that good.
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*Sidebar: As to whether audience appreciation of a Woody Allen film, or any artist's creation for that matter, be kept apart from their questionable personal lives, can lead to a complicated discussion best saved for another day.
I seek out the drawings/cartoons on a first pass through. And to be honest, some weeks when I’m busy (doing what exactly, escapes me), there is no second pass through. Or maybe nothing more than a quickie in “The Talk of the Town.” Putting the magazine aside, there’s always the vow: “I will get to it later.” Later sometimes never comes. And the stack gets higher and higher. As if a reminder that the best laid pretentions of mice and men, oft go awry.
I wonder if I would still be a subscriber if there were no cartoons? It certainly would clear some more space on my nightstand for those books I will never get around to reading. But it’s hard to imagine a “cartoonless” New Yorker, as they were a building block in the DNA since the magazine's birth in 1925.
I would miss hearing myself laugh aloud (ok, on rare occasions), or chuckle, or chortle, or guffaw (on many occasions). Or simply smile benignly in polite acknowledgment of that which is so dry as to fall short of droll. And I would even miss scratching my head when I didn’t get the joke--- “Huh?” To no one in particular.
Often enough, these cartoon with their sparse captions, result in an extended pause before turning the page. Because they’ve nailed it! Because the intelligence behind the concept and execution, verily jumps off the page (or screen for those who have eschewed hard copy). Which leads to a question one (me), might ask: what makes for humor?
Groucho once said--- and one always returns to Groucho when trying to get to the heart of the matter--- “Humor is reason gone mad.”
Another take I read elsewhere that particularly speaks to me, says that humor “… derives from the 'theory of incongruity.' ” Which is what we have here below: a convergence of past and present cultures; the zeitgeist of their times. A 1942 classic movie scene meets the current state of AI. Of course. So obvious. Need more be said?
Then suddenly it’s 1:30 in the morning and I’m reminiscing about high school while simultaneously watching clips of Titanic on YouTube.
Are others able to resist the temptations to Google and Facebook? My best friend was not. She was delighted to discover that her boyfriend’s ex’s had thick forests of hair under her arms. “Look,” she whispered, pointing a perfectly manicured nail at her computer screen. Her delight could not be masked.
This is not a healthy use of time. Especially when I discover that a former classmate of mine has a career I would pillage for. That’s right, pillage. As in plunder, pillage, rifle and loot. Real pirate shit. But instead of feeling happy for her and moving on with my own lovely life, I grit my teeth and click “next” to see more photos of her with Quentin Tarantino.
Her boyfriend’s ex’s Facebook page was practically the Ark of the Covenant. Questions that she didn’t want to ask her boyfriend—is she prettier than me? What did she like? What did you two have in common?—were immediately answered with a Facebook profile and an album titled ‘Morning Hike.” It’s all out there. Sometimes, curiosity kills.
Ninety percent of the Internet is full of things that you did not need to know and wish you had never known. There’s the Pink Heart of Doom. When someone changes their Facebook profile to read that they are (or are no longer) in a relationship, a pink heart appears next to their name. When I was single, it seemed like all I saw were the fresh pink hearts of exes and flings past who had found love and wanted everyone to know it.
I wanted to slam my laptop down and smash it against the wall into shards, then use those shards to key cars in parking lots. Would I have found out about their new relationships if not for Facebook? And why was I still Facebook friends with them anyway? Why is it that we’re friends with people on the Internet that we would even give so much as a courtesy nod to in “real life”?
The madness needs to end. I’m going to hang up my Indy edora. It is actually not my job to uncover these precious artifacts of people’s personal lives. It’s like the climactic scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where Indy and his friends are tied up and the Nazi’s open the Ark, unleashing pure evil. “Shield you eyes!” Indy shouts. “Don’t look directly at it!” I’m shielding my eyes from Facebook.
Year Ending Poem 2
Finito
Year Ending Poem 1
This gig in conjunction with what I’d read, is where I realized how it all comes full circle. To wit:
“Daniel Bechet, Sidney’s only son, has put together a quintet to pay tribute to his father... he partnered with the Olivier Franc orchestra. Franc is noted to be one of the major exponents of traditional jazz in France and widely recognized as the most talented disciple of Sidney Bechet. He has even had the fortune to play on Bechet’s personal saxophone.”
Aside from carrying on Bechet’s legacy in various venues, Franc’s passion for the music is such, that he will play anything, anywhere, any time. He has no inflated ego. Rather an ebullience exhibited on and off the stage.
A couple told us that they had hired him on the spot to play at their wedding which took place on a boat. And in that, Franc can be said to have straddled Lincoln Center and the deep blue sea. (Or was it the East River?).
Coming up next this month…
Quote of the Month
“Here, right matters.”
Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman
Anatomy of a New Yorker Cartoon
Hardly elite or effete, or out of any conceit, I self-confess to reading The New Yorker. Yes, The New Yorker. (An old ad campaign slogan some might remember).
In part, this comes out of a penchant for plowing through snowbanks of nuance and interesting obscurity. Which can often be tough sledding in the avalanche of words. (And can lead to an excess of wintertime metaphors, as the season approaches).
The New Yorker is not a publication for those who like it short and Tweet. You need to get in shape before you’ve fallen into epic piece from which there is no escape, and with little supportive illustration in sight. This wasn't lost on Lauren Palmer, a writer for the American Institute of Graphic Arts in a 740-word piece entitled: "1 picture, 10,000 words: How “The New Yorker” is designed to lure you into longform reads." ( I've topped out at 1,300 in these musings, if anyone is curious).
And don’t even try the poems in TNY without at least an MFA from an accredited East coast college.
Ah, but the cartoons. So sublime when they connect. And though in the frontispiece of the magazine they’re referred to as “Drawings,” don’t be fooled. They indeed are cartoons containing a species of humor not found elsewhere. And all within just one panel. Save on occasion, something by Roz Chast, who too can be a bit wordy for a cartoonist.
From a Song and Sidney Bechet, to Olivier Franc Along the Way
Let’s start with the song. An instrumental titled, Si Tu Vois Ma Mère. Which translates… "If You See My Mother." Played in a gentle rhythm on soprano saxophone, and perfectly synchronized with a 60-shot opening montage in the 2011 Woody Allen film Midnight in Paris,* it immediately transports one to Paris.
This side of Breakfast at Tiffany’s (That Breakfast…That Opening…That Song, OCTOBER, 2011 MUSE-LETTER), the Midnight in Paris opening is the best I think I’ve seen for immediately capturing and enrapturing an audience.
Since first viewed some eight years ago, I’ve “YouTubed” it many times. It’s just three minutes long and worth a look if you’ve never seen it.
Si Tu Vois Ma Mère was composed in 1952 by Sidney Bechet (Baa-shay); a man I’d never heard of until not all that long ago. A thumbnail on him reads…
“…an American jazz saxophonist, clarinetist, and composer. He was one of the first important soloists in jazz, beating trumpeter Louis Armstrong to the recording studio by several months. His erratic temperament hampered his career, and not until the late 1940s did he earn wide acclaim.”
And shades of Josephine Baker…
“He finally called it quits from the US, and well into his 50s, he moved to France. There he found a home and recorded many tributes to that city.” He had much bigger hits with French titles, especially ‘Petite Fleur.‘”
The first time I’d ever been aware of his music, was at an event billed as “What If Sidney Bechet Met Django Reinhardt,” here in New York at Symphony Hall. But the name Bechet didn’t really stick until I was able to associate it with that opening song of the Midnight in Paris soundtrack. Which wasn’t played that night. What did catch my attention, was this ordinary-looking guy of modest stature in the band, who looked as if he might have dropped in after a long day’s work at a car rental office; his tie all askew on a short-sleeved open white shirt. Yet when he put lips to reed for a solo turn, he really took off! And hardly came up for air.
Enter a virtuoso on soprano saxophone, , playing the only instrument in the sax family not “J” bent. You learn something every day.
Cut to Paris several months later. “Le monde est petit,” I would say to him in my high school French (as if he didn’t speak English), when we happened upon him playing on Saint-Germain des Prés, across the way from Les Deux Magots. His son Jean-Baptiste--- a swing, stride and blues virtuoso on piano in his own right--- in accompaniment. They usually play together. Of such chance encounters are trips made, that go far beyond the travel guides and Rick Steves.
The occasion was “Fête de La Musique” (Music Festival), which takes place outdoors each summer solstice and runs all day. I took this picture of him and his son alone; I don't do selfies.
Last month at a small downtown club in “Alphabet City,” we had the pleasure of meeting him again. And once again, he was great. But don’t take my word as to what makes for greatness in an soprano saxophonist. Take that of Wynton Marsalis, who regularly invites Franc to sit in with his band at “Jazz at Lincoln Center.” In this clip, Marsalis introduces Franc, who proceeds to break into a classic rendition of “Summertime.” It's rather incredible. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sAGj8cElOKU)
He told us afterwards that night in the club, he was heading back to Paris for a performance. It turns out to have been in honor of Sidney Bechet.
Faced
Facebook has been in the news a lot in recent times, owing to issues of security, Russian hacking, fake accounts, and again last month, dealing with “microtargeting” political ads that dispense misleading or false information. All pretty heavy stuff.
For some lighter stuff on this largest social networking site, I recall a satirical piece on the role Facebook can play in the lives of Millennials. And why they may have need to escape it. And Googling as well. It may not seem as dire as Russian hacking to us (OK, Boomer), but it is to them when it involves, well... I'll let the piece speak for itself.
Written almost a decade ago by a writer who has contributed to these Muse-Letters before, “Faced” first appeared in GENLUX; a high-end lifestyle magazine published out of Beverly Hills. I reprise it here in full, preceded by a brief bio of its author.
I am an insecure person. I am also a jealous person. These two
comments are not necessarily related, though they go together like anger management and Sean Penn. Basically, I am the type of person who should not be on Facebook, but I am. And it’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to ask a trusted friend to change the password for me so I can’t get into it.
Almie Rose is a pop culture columnist, who more recently has been a contributor and “talking head” on an entertainment show “50 Minutes Inside” which airs in France on TF1. She has had a popular blog, “Apocalypstic” which ran for 10 years (and is still available in “reruns” online), that focused on dating and being a young single woman living in LA. From which a digital-book was born, “I Forgot to be Famous” (available through Amazon). During this time, she also freelanced for years on a site called “HelloGiggles.” In the aforementioned GENLUX magazine, she also did cover-story celebrity interviews.
I know, this seems drastic. But the internet is getting out of control. I can Google anyone and discover anything: members of my high school class who now have awesome jobs, my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends who have effortless styles, and an ex-boyfriend who now looks like a Great Depression-era farmer. Thank you, Internet, for this wealth of useless yet somehow unbelievably important information.
I like to think my Googling not as insecure, insane stalking, but more like I’m Indiana Jones
of search engines; it is my job to sift through the ruins of ancient relationships (personal,
professional, and romantic), deftly switching to precious facts I’ve gathered with a bag of uselessness, before the giant stone ball drops behind me and threatens to run me over.
This is purely archeological. I need to see photos of former close friend’s boyfriend to see
if he’s cute (he’s not). I need to know if my ex-boyfriend is still in that band that kind of sound-
ed like The Cars (he’s not).
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