Time for a Correction, Perhaps?

Each time I observe a couple in public both staring at their phones vs. interacting with each other, I'm newly grateful for my wife. And that gratitude further extends to meal times together. When we're home, her phone is often in a different room. When we dine out, the phone remains in her purse vs. face up on the table next to her. It would be hard to over-state how happy it makes me knowing my wife is not so attached to her phone that she allows it to take precedence over our interactions.   

Because my daughter grew up in the I-phone era, her norms about having it nearby - often face up - are different than her mother's. But as attached as she can sometimes be to her phone, when the three of us are together - or when it's just the two of us - I rarely feel in competition with it. I know her livelihood frequently depends on rapid responses to texts or calls; I respect that and try to be sensitive. In turn, just like her mother, my daughter almost always shows me that our time together is more important to her than all those pings designed to distract her. 

I realize my distaste for cell phones puts me in a rarefied and cranky minority. However, I've been part of more than a few conversations over the past several years that have shown me there are plenty of folks who long to return to a few pre-cell-phone norms. Like enjoying a meal with friends or loved ones without multiple screens pinging continuously. Like waiting for a suitable amount of time (you define suitable but how about longer than ten seconds?) before someone uses a phone to Google an answer to something that someone in a group of three or more might come up with, if they had time to search their brain for longer than those ten seconds. Like the people we enjoy spending time with showing us our company is enough. 

Buzzing at Seventy-Four (and beyond)

"I hope I die before I get old."

Do you suppose Pete Townsend is relieved his lyric wasn't prophetic? Based on all the good music he's produced since writing My Generation almost sixty years ago, I'm guessing Mr. Townsend is as grateful as I to be among the living in his eighth decade. Given how many of our contemporaries have already left us, either of us would be fools to feel otherwise. Just knowing I'll be playing music for people next weekend - no matter how much anyone is paying attention - has me buzzing in advance.  

Of course, there is buzzing and then there is BUZZING. This past week, watching the live show of two musical giants, I was buzzing as a listener. On Tuesday, Jackson Browne's vibrant show at the Beacon Theatre exceeded my expectations. And Bruce Springsteen's show in the Meadowlands last night was a reminder of why his reputation as a premier live act is well deserved. If I was buzzing as a listener, can you imagine the kind of buzz these two get before an adoring audience? Browne is seventy-four and Bruce is almost the same age. Any chance that lyric at the top of the page has any resonance for them? Based on the wistful tone of their between-song musings and anecdotes, and particularly based on a new song Bruce played called Last Man Standing, somehow I doubt Pete's words ring true for either of them.  

Mr. Townsend is four+ years older than Browne, the Boss, and me. I suspect that young-in-life lyric of his may sound a bit naive to him nowadays. But even if he never gives it a second thought, I further suspect he is just as pleased as I to be buzzing with his music, old age aside. 

A Kazuo Ishiguro Sandwich

https://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2022/08/always-on-lookout.html

Although I suspect no one except me cares about which authors have ascended into my one-year-old-constantly-evolving-destined-to-never-be-complete list of 100 favorites, it is a list. For any reader who hasn't yet figured it out, lists are semi-sacred to me. Thus, immediately upon finishing The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro was elevated into my august group. Anyone keeping track? Right. But just in case, Ishiguro is author #31, the fourth author added to that list since the post above was published last August. 

I'm guessing many of you have seen the remarkable film adaptation of Ishiguro's eponymous novel starring Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson. If you revere that film as I do - and you are a reader - I urge you to return to the even richer source material. Ishiguro's understated prose and attention to the nuance of character cannot be over-praised. He is a master of detail, a shrewd observer of class, and an astute student of history. Each of the three books I've read demonstrate his total command of craft. And for my money, much as When We Were Orphans (2000) and A Pale View of Hills (1982) both floored me, this novel from 1988 is a notch above, fully worthy of the Booker Prize it won.   

To extend the glow of this peak reading experience, I'm planning to re-watch the faithful Merchant-Ivory film adaptation, soon. If you've seen the film once, why not read this brief but terrific book, then re-watch the film. Then we can compare our Kazuo Ishiguro sandwiches.   

https://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2013/08/revisiting-hypothesis.html

https://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2023/04/book-backlog-stunning-field-goal-at.html

A Legacy of Love

"The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love." - Henry Miller

Over your lifetime, how would you say the love you've sought vs. the love you've given supports or refutes Miller's wise words? Pretend for a minute that a scale exists. much like the one we've all seen held by the blind-folded woman measuring justice. If you were able to put all the love you've sought on one side of that scale and all the love you've given on the other, in which direction would your scale tip?

Months ago, I first noticed that Miller quote under my new son-in-law's e-mail signature. Ever since, the questions opening and closing my first paragraph above have been gnawing at me. And I wasn't fully comfortable asking you what your scale might look like until I was ready to formulate an answer for myself.

I've always considered myself a person who loves easily and openly. But if that scale I'm asking you to envision actually did exist, I suspect mine might tip more on the seeking side vs. the giving. On the other hand, maybe none of us are capable of answering questions like this about ourselves. Instead, is it possible the people closest to us are the ones better equipped to provide an answer? If that is so, I've got some folks to talk to, and you can do the same if you wish. I'll look forward to hearing what you discover. 

In the meanwhile, I do hope this much: If, after I'm gone, those who were closest to me say my scale was at least evenly balanced, being remembered that way is a legacy I welcome. You?  

"And, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." - Lennon & McCartney

Please, If You Must Compare ...

The obnoxious groaning you heard in the movie theater watching that documentary was probably me listening as some pop or rock celebrity compared the music of one of their contemporaries to Mozart, again. How many of you are with me for establishing some common sense guidelines here to help us  avoid the ridiculous comparisons we've all endured? I'll start; please join in and offer either your ideas or your objections to mine.  

If comparisons must be made - and I'm not sure they must - how about we compare any artist's work - author, filmmaker, musician, etc. - only to their own work? For example, wouldn't it be preferable if an undeniably great song like If I Fell were compared only to other Beatles songs?  Overnight, we'd avoid the entire Beatles catalogue from ever being compared to third-rate pop mediocrities or .. to Mozart. Think of it: If I Fell = A+; In My Life = A; Why Don't We Do It in the Road = F.  We level the playing field by agreeing George Gershwin compositions be compared only to other George Gershwin compositions and not say, Steve Miller compositions. This way, if you want to declare Take the Money and Run a musical masterpiece, have at it, but don't stack it against Embraceable You.

OK, now about that word masterpiece. Unless I'm etymologically challenged - and I don't think I am - that word gets to be used just once across an artist's whole oeuvre. And actually, having an artist's masterpiece as a standard to assess all their other work against is a handy way to ensure comparisons are not made between say, Tolstoy and Tom Clancy. If you claim Anna Karenina as the Count's high-water mark, and Hunt for Red October as Clancy's, great. Start there, I say, and put each of those books against all the respective subsequent and prior work of the same author, but don't compare the two novels to each other. I'm also all for allowing anyone to change their mind about any author's (etc.) masterpiece if a newer work by that author (etc.) ups the artistic ante in the view of the assessor. 

Need to acknowledge the insights of a reading soulmate in helping me midwife today's reflection. In our recent discussion of A Line in the Sand - an astonishing new novel by Kevin Powers - my friend and I digressed a bit when she spoke of her love for author Lorrie Moore. Because Moore's most recent work has been slightly less satisfying to my fellow bookworm, our conversational tributary meandered to If I Fell vs. In My Life, briefly. From there, this post began to take shape as I recalled how The Yellow Birds floored me when I finished it. For me, that debut novel by Kevin Powers stands as his masterpiece. Which takes nothing away from A Line in the Sand, a book so assured I'd be beyond proud to have written anything even close to it. Just as proud as I'd be if any song I ever wrote approached the majesty of say, In My Life.  

 https://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2013/05/healing-bravery.html

Sixty + Years of Evangelism

Could it be that I'll never run out of ways to evangelize about music? What passion of yours infects you enough that you can't imagine a time when you won't want to convert others?  

I've talked about it - to anyone who would listen - since the drum break in He's So Fine set me on fire in 1962. I've continually performed - many times horrendously, especially early on, i.e., a kind of perverse evangelism, I suppose - since 1963. I've made mix tapes since, well since people first started making mix tapes back when cassettes were the rage. And then I switched to making CD mixes and have done that - sometimes without being asked - ever since. I've taught privately for over thirty-five years. I've blogged about music here on the bell curve since 2010. (Rough estimate: 250 posts.) I've taught continuing education classes at local colleges - and elsewhere - since 2014. 

My latest evangelism began when a fellow hiker innocently asked me if I would recommend some jazz tunes to help ease him into that world. Poor guy - he had no idea what a mistake it was making this simple request of me. We are now about thirty songs - at three songs per week - into my most recent evangelistic endeavor. I'm confident saying this unsuspecting "student" is likely wishing he'd never had a conversation with the man he is now calling "professor". I can't help myself. (Wait, do I hear Levi Stubbs wailing?)

See what I mean?    

Call Me Scab; Not!

Call me a crank - or something worse - but if you were going to invent a stage name for yourself, wouldn't you come up with something better than Flea? 

I mean no disrespect to this fine bass player from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And actually, until I was recently reminded of his stage moniker as the film credits rolled at the end of Babylon, this crabby thought had never crossed my mind. Then, I considered Archibald Alec Leach becoming Cary Grant. 

I know Grant had help making up a stage name. Still, even if suave Archibald/Cary had made up his own, somehow I doubt he would have settled on Turd or Scar or Snot - bass player in a semi-punk band or not - don't you? Seems to me there's a tiered system when it comes to invented names. See if you agree.

Let's start with classy, like say, Cary Grant. Who else would you put in the highest tier? A step down we get to semi-cool or just OK, like say, Sting. Although I've always been tempted to give Sting either the first initial "B" or the last name "Ray", to me, his alias is still a clear step up from the goofy/silly Edge. Again, a fine musician and probably nice enough guy, but how can anyone resist giving him either a first name like "Cliff" or a middle and last name like "Of Tomorrow"? Who are your nominations for stage names in tiers two and three? Or, would you place Sting and Edge - with or without the "the" - in the same tier? 

Either way, unquestionably, in the bottom tier goes Flea. Got any others you'd lump in with him?      

Words for the Ages, Line Twenty-Seven

"We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

On occasion, I have no doubt the universe is speaking to me. When was the last time something like I'm about to describe happened to you?

Less than a week ago, I finished Wonderstruck (2011), Brian Selznick's captivating young adult novel, which was made into an exceptional film in 2017. I'd known immediately after watching the film that the book needed to go onto my "must read" list and said so in the blog post directly below, written just days later. I then promptly forgot my reading pledge until a few weeks back when a reader unearthed my five-year-old post. With me so far? 

https://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2018/02/synaptic-sparks-of-wonder.html

Within hours of re-reading my post, I had the book in my hands and raced through it. Then came a Wonderstruck sandwich when I insisted my wife join me - she's my witness here - as I re-watched the film, loving it more the second time. OK, now get ready and try convincing me this is a coincidence. 

Yesterday, I'm driving and listening to the radio, and as is my habit, paying attention to lyrics because I never know when some words for the ages might jump out at me. A 1981 song called Message of Love - written by Chrissie Hynde, performed by the Pretenders - comes on, containing the words that open this post. Want to take a guess why Hynde's aphoristic gem stopped me cold? Because those words happen to belong to Oscar Wilde and are featured prominently in Wonderstruck, both the book and the film adaptation.  

Given the way this came together, doesn't the word wonder strike you as perfect for this particular iteration of words for the ages?