Allons Enfants
The French national anthem is arguably the most recognized piece of music worldwide. Composed in 1792 for the French-Austrian war, it became the national anthem three short years later, and nicknamed “La Marseillaise” in honor of the volunteers from the city of Marseille who sang it in Paris. From Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” to Lennon/McCartney’s “All You Need Is Love” it has made guest appearances in numerous symphonies, operas, ballets, songs, plays, and movies. In fact, its playing becomes a pivotal plot device in “Casablanca” when resistance leader Victor Laszlo has the band at Rick’s “Cafe Americaine” strike it up to drown out the Nazi officers singing in German (This becomes the reason for the bar being shut-down by the collaborating Inspector Renault, who famously declaims “I’m shocked, shocked, to find out gambling is going on here!” )
The tune is stirring, evocative, and altogether inspiring. However, most of us English-speaking people have not paid much attention to the lyrics, which are very much worth examining and understanding. There were seven verses originally and officially, (including a “Children’s Verse” in which kids could sing about their future military careers and sharing the coffins of their elders) but typically only the following is sung:
“Arise, children of our nation, the day of glory has arrived!
Against us tyranny’s bloody banner is raised,
The roar of those ferocious soldiers?
They’re coming right into your arms
To cut the throats of your sons, your women!
To arms, citizens, form your battalions,
Let’s march, let’s march!
Let an impure blood soak our fields!”
La Marseillaise is the quintessential militaristic anthem, albeit quite a bloodthirsty one. Throats are slit, mothers’ breasts are torn, heroes fall and new ones emerge from the earth, and so on. Gory, somewhat anachronistic, and not at all what you’d expect to hear at a soccer match or the Olympics.
Until the recent terrorist attacks in (and on) Paris.
French President Francois Hollande had summoned a rare joint session of Parliament to announce that France was “at war”. Following his speech and a moment of silence for the fallen, the entire French parliament burst into a glorious and altogether defiant “La Marseillaise”, and suddenly, the ancient, archaic lyrics made complete sense to me, and having come a full circle, were entirely contextual to our times.
After the press conference on the Capitol steps following the September 11, 2001 attacks on the US, members of Congress spontaneously sang “God Bless America”. That was our nation’s “Kumbaya” moment. Our true “La Marseillaise” moment was a few days later, at the memorial service at the National Cathedral in Washington DC, where services ended not with “Amazing Grace” or some other comforting spiritual, but rather with America’s great fighting song, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, where God with his “Terrible swift sword” will “crush the serpent with his heel” while we aspire to “die to make men free”. As President Hollande stated, we are (and have been for quite some time) at war. Aux armes, citoyens!
Civics 101, Redux
This Fall our lovely town of Cary held elections. We were voting for mayor and town council. At about 2 PM my wife and I moseyed over to the school, where we were greeted by no less than twelve extremely bored poll workers. In response to my inquiry I was advised that we were more-or-less the fiftieth voters to show up. I believe that our precinct has anywhere from five hundred to a thousand registered voters. We thanked the election workers and volunteers, and naively reassured them that “it’s still early” and probably most people will vote after work. While in our district the councilwoman was running unopposed, and our beloved part-time mayor Harold Weinbrecht was equally uncontested, there were some close races town-wide. The next day I was utterly shocked to learn that voter turnout in our highly-educated, civic-minded town was eleven percent. Out of about 55,000 registered voters, our esteemed mayor has received a mandate to govern us from 5,001 residents. That, my friends, represents the core problem of our body politic: abysmal voting participation.
Before you argue “well, those were local, off-year, uncontested elections”, please realize that voter turnout for the most recent national elections in 2014 was 36.6% of the voting-eligible population. That’s right, almost two-thirds of the eligible population didn’t bother. And as for those exciting, heavily-contested, all-important (if you believe the PAC’s messages…) presidential elections? Why, those barely pulled-in 58%. Clearly, even the elections for the highest office in the land don’t “attract” an overwhelming majority of eligible voters.
Recently, elections were held for the first time in decades in Burma (I refuse to refer to it by the name the military junta gave it). It was heartwarming to see the lines and the excitement of first-time voters waiting patiently, and then proudly holding up their forefingers stained with indelible ink, which is how the developing world fights voter fraud. We all remember the images from post-Apartheid South Africa, where people waited eight, ten, sometimes twelve hours in line in order to exercise their franchise and vote. We should not take our rights for granted; too many have fought and died to create and protect them.
The easy answer is, of course, just go and vote. Unfortunately, there are all kinds of barriers: Economic and work-related constraints, registration complexities, transportation considerations, and pure laziness. We can overcome these (and other) issues not through education and “Rock-the-Vote” endeavors, but rather through a set of steps designed to solve this ever-growing problem. First off, let’s remove this strange artifact knows as “voter registration”. There is absolutely no reason for it, unless one desires to create a “gate” with which prospective voters may be screened out (such as during the Jim Crow laws era). Oregon already has a “automatic registration” system in place, and California is now adding its modified version, which includes an “opt-out” choice for the citizen. Second, instead of emphasizing going to the voting poll, let’s create secure mechanisms for remote, advance, and absentee ballots. I can buy a Mercedes-Benz securely online nowadays, surely I should be able to safely cast a vote for the local school board or dog-catcher? Third, the main Federal elections every two years should be Federal holidays – call ’em “Democracy Day”. This is very common around the world, and greatly impacts voting participation. And lastly, let’s follow the lead of some countries such as Brazil, Argentina, Australia and others, and make voting an obligation, rather than a privilege. Can’t stomach any of the candidates? No problem, simply vote “none of the above”. Refuse to vote? Pay a small fine (Hey, in Bolivia you can lose your passport for not participating). Voting is our civic obligation, together with taxation and jury duty, both of which mightily benefit from enforcement. Stated otherwise, before we can be assured of a government “Of the People, and For the People”, it first needs to be “By the People”.
Nuh-Uh
If you are in a service-oriented occupation, which includes ongoing interaction with the public, please note that “Umm-Hmm”, “Um-Hum”, or any other guttural sounds are most certainly not the correct response to my polite “Thank You” for whatever service you were kind enough to provide me with. “You’re Welcome” or “My Pleasure” are the only acceptable responses. Thank You (and yes, I’m Welcome).
Cervantes
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra has been finally laid to rest. The man who has done for Spanish as much as Shakespeare has for English, has just had his remains positively identified and interred at the Convent of the Barefoot Trinitarians in Madrid, in accordance with his Last Will and Testament. Cervantes, of course, is the author of the first (and possibly still greatest) Western novel, “The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha” or, as we refer to it nowadays, simply “Don Quixote”. Far be it for me to offer any literary analysis of this masterpiece, which I first heard of when I was four years old, when I used to ride my bicycle around the block, wearing my Superman cape, and singing at the top of my lungs the theme song from “Man of La Mancha” which was on Broadway at the time, starring the incomparable Richard Kiley. From this auspicious start emerged my life-long enchantment with Don Quixote (and possibly my fear of windmills). It’s a literary miracle that I “stayed” with it this long, as the first version I’ve read was the original translation into the Hebrew by the Hebrew National Poet himself, H.N. Bialik, who did not know a word of Spanish. Using Russian and German adaptations as his source, Bialik ended-up with a version in “High Hebrew” full of talmudic and biblical language and allusions. He also deleted 450 pages (leaving only 300 or so) in order to “cleanse” it for younger readers, and, presumably, the holy language. Years later I re-read it in English and realized how much I had missed, due to the dilution. Some time ago I picked-up the most recent translation (there have been four new versions over the past fifteen years) done by Edith Grossman, and found myself loudly bursting out in laughter over the escapades of the knight-errant and his squire, Sancho Panza.
Cervantes did not originally know how good a writer he was, and sold all publication rights from the onset, a grave financial error. The novel was such a success that Cervantes was forced to write “Part II” as many fake “Part II”’s were being written to satisfy the readers demand for new adventures. In fact, “Part II” actually includes a statement confirming that this is the genuine article, and to beware all imposters.
Don Miguel himself led a life that would have been unimaginable today. Born to a perpetually impoverished family, he was forced to flee Spain for Italy, possibly as a result of a duel gone bad. A great patriot, at age 23 he enlisted with the Spanish Navy Marines based in Naples. A few years later he was severely wounded in combat against the Ottoman fleet, and lost use of his left arm, yet he remained in the service. In 1575 his galley was attacked by Algerian renegades, and he was taken prisoner. He spent five years as a slave, and tried four times to escape, until he was ransomed by his family. Returning to Spain he worked as a purchasing agent, a tax collector, and as a banker. He was also incarcerated for a few months after a bank he was affiliated with went under. Needless to say this was a man’s man, and thankfully all of his adventures found their way into “Don Quixote”, if even only as the escapades of others. Sadly, many of his works, including multiple plays, have been lost. Cervantes died of diabetes on April 22, 1616. For years we were taught that he died on the 23rd (his burial date), as that was also the day William Shakespeare “shuffled off this mortal coil”. By moving Cervantes “up” by one day we have established a certain symmetry and link between the two literary giants of western civilization. If only it was that easy: in 1616 Spain was already using the Gregorian calendar, while England, which would have nothing to do with the Pope, was still on the Julian one, a good ten days behind the rest of Europe. Still, in their honor UNESCO has declared April 23 “World Book Day”.
As the world of literature (and the Spanish Ministry of Tourism) are gearing-up for the 400th anniversary of Don Miguel’s death, we can note with satisfaction that while the old warrior is finally at home in Madrid, all one has to do nowadays in order to embark on such amazing adventures is simply head to the nearest library. Just stay clear of those windmills.
No Direction Home
An important music milestone passed us by this Summer: August 30, 2015 was the fiftieth anniversary of one of the most important and influential records of all time, Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited”. A fascinating voyage down the highways and byways of the American underbelly, the album is both a cornerstone and a drinking well for all the Rock ‘n Roll which followed it, domestic and otherwise. Starting with Bob’s complete transformation into rock’s supreme singer/songwriter, continuing with texts that transcend his original Folk/Protest lyrics and evolve, at times, into pure poetry, and ending with an unparalleled musical and performance quality.
“Once upon a time, you dressed so fine,
threw the bums a dime, in your prime,
didn’t you?”
It’s no coincidence that the first track, which starts with the “snare-shot heard ’round the World”, is also the most famous. “Like a Rolling Stone”, Bob’s best-known song, almost never saw the light of day. Bob was unsure of the arrangement and, as he rarely instructs his musicians on how to play, they, in turn, did not quite understand what he wanted from them. It started out in a three-fourths (waltz) tempo, which sounded horrible. A few additional takes fell apart mid-recording. Guitarist Al Kooper snuck into the studio, only to find legendary guitar player Mike Bloomfield already there. Looking to do “something”, he placed himself near the B3 Hammond organ. Al was not an organ player, but he had an idea. The producer noticed him in the studio, started laughing, and told him to leave. Al used the general confusion in the session and stayed. Bob called for another take and Al vamped chords on the Hammond. He didn’t know the progression and had to look over at the other players to identify the chords used, resulting in the organ being played an eighth of a note behind the rest of the band. The producer hated the result, but Bob loved it and it stayed. They had anywhere from eleven to sixteen additional takes, and abandoned the song. Only after additional review they realized that take four, with Kooper’s studio-crashing organ playing, was good enough, giving us Rock’s greatest “break-up” song, with which a few weeks after its recording Dylan famously “went electric” at the Newport Folk Festival, essentially turning the world of popular music on its ear (and causing fans to yell “Judas” at him onstage). It also earned Al Kooper an invitation to participate in the rest of the sessions, launching his illustrious career.
From there we are taken to the surreal world of “Tombstone Blues”, replete with biblical references and political commentary. “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry” is not only one of Bob’s best titles, and a brilliant one at that, but also is informed by and quotes a variety of older American blues songs, a common device for Dylan. Steve Jobs’ favorite song, “From a Buick Six”, is essentially his version of the classic “Milk Cow Blues”. Closing out the record’s side “A” is Dylan’s most enigmatic song, “Ballad of a Thin Man”. To this day we have no idea who is the “Mr. Jones” this is sung to, but we do know that:
“You’ve been with the professors, and they’ve all liked your looks.
With great lawyers you have discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read, it’s well known.
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?”
Side “B” commences with another break-up song, albeit softer than the snarling “Like a Rolling Stone”, “Queen Jane Approximately” is thought by many to be about Joan Baez, the acclaimed “queen of folk”. However, Bob himself in an interview stated that “it was written about a man”. Onwards down the highway we roll…
Oh God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son”
Abe says, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on”
God say, “No.” Abe say, “What?”
God say, “You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin’ you better run”
Well Abe says, “Where do you want this killin’ done?”
God says, “Out on Highway 61”
The record’s title track starts with a gut-punch of a lyric that brings a version of the biblical story of the Binding of Isaac to the road that runs from Dylan’s hometown of Duluth, Minn. down to New Orleans. This is further complicated by the fact that Bob’s dad was also named Abram (Abraham’s original name). He then continues to describe crime, poverty, the eroding of family structure and the politics leading to a possible World War III, all occurring on this cross-continent highway. Mike Bloomfield’s guitar riffs are legendary, as is the police whistle Bob plays instead of his usual harmonica.
We step down to Mexico for a nightmarish visit to Juarez, courtesy of “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues”, replete with references to Edgar Allan Poe, Jack Kerouac, Rimbaud, and Hank Williams. We are totally in agreement with Bob, as he closes the song with:
“I’m going back to New York City
I do believe I’ve had enough.”
But he’s not quite done with us, not yet. The electric instruments and drums are put down, acoustic guitars are picked up, and Bob Dylan turns into a full-fledged member of the Beat Poets, with an astonishing eleven minute homage to Allen Ginsburg. Starting with an allusion to a 1920 lynching in Duluth (which his father witnessed) Dylan embarks on a tour of the seamy underbelly of either Eighth Avenue in Manhattan, or America’s, invoking a kaleidoscope of characters, among which you will find Cinderella, Romeo, Bette Davis, Cain and Able, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Noah, Einstein, Robin Hood, The Phantom of the Opera, Casanova, and T.S. Eliot, to name a few. No phrase describes the futility of mid-Sixties American political party allegiances as well as
“Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
“Desolation Row” is really about us, and everything we think it is: our disintegrating society, corporations taking over our country, corrupt politicians, and the hedonism of the wealthy. This is poetry, prophecy, and a lament, rolled into one.
Fifty years later, “Highway 61 Revisited” is as musically fresh and lyrically evocative as the day it was released. Next time you have 51 minutes and 26 seconds available, put it on and listen to it all the way through.
How does it feel?
A Painted Pool
Like many husbands, I had a great story about my wife’s best foot-in-the-mouth moment. It occurred about sixteen years ago, when she was pregnant with our youngest. Having decided that the family crib could use some freshing-up, we strolled into our local Home Depot’s paint department and inquired about the appropriate product for the job. After receiving directions to the correct shelf, my wife then explained to the gentlemen at the counter that it was for re-coating a baby’s crib and that she wanted lead-free paint. Upon hearing this information the man turned his head and called out to his colleague: “Hey John, when was the last time we had leaded paint here?” To which the co-worker responded “1974, I think”.
I have enjoyed telling this story (to my wife’s ongoing irritation) for many years. Well, what goes around…
A few weeks ago I attended our annual homeowner’s association meeting. Amidst the usual chatter about cleaning up after the neighborhood dogs, reviewing the budget, approving last-year’s minutes and such, we were advised that our community swimming pool might be needing some costly repairs. Now, I am not a big fan of pools, and my typical usage is limited to lounging out there in the sun and reading a book, but having owned a private pool for many years back in the Sunshine State, I decided to offer-up some advice. Raising my hand, I embarked on a detailed explanation of the advantages of a salt water swimming pool vs. the traditionally-chlorinated one, pontificated on the refreshing feeling one experiences swimming in such water (as opposed to the irritation and eye-redness caused by high chlorine levels in old-style systems), how easy it is to rinse off, and suggested that the board consider implementing such an approach. I was publicly thanked by our board members for my recommendation, and was advised that it was exactly for those reasons our community pool was switched over to salt water six years ago.
If you bump into my wife anytime over the next sixteen years, tell her not to bother; you’ve already heard the story directly from me.
Why the Sad Face?
Alphabets have been with us since the 27th century B.C.E. Commonly defined as a set of “glyphs” for individual sounds (as opposed to symbols for syllables or words). Entire civilizations were developed on their respective alphabets, efficiently transcribing the DNA of culture, namely language. Millions of literary creations throughout the human existence have been thus recorded, some for posterity, others destined for the ash-bin of history. Nevertheless, written alphabets have been the building-blocks of our societies, documenting laws, science, art, and commerce. Unfortunately, it seems to be disappearing in front of our eyes.
First came emails, with their intrusive, poorly crafted (yet greatly response-demanding) immediate communications. Then came text messages, with their inherent “limit” of 140 characters, effectively reducing human interaction to a short, terse conversation set, usually significantly short of the aforementioned limit. (Recommended experiment: tally-up what percentage of your children’s text messages actually use more than sixty characters; you may be greatly surprised…) And now, Emoji.
Invented a couple of decades ago by a Japanese mobile-phone company, emoji have set the world on fire: they are used pervasively throughout social media and text-messaging, you may order a pizza using emoji, books are being translated into it (don’t believe me? Check out “Emoji Dick”, a 600-page version of the Melville classic), and now The Oxford Dictionary named emoji “Face With Tears of Joy” its 2015 “Word of the Year” (never mind that it’s not really a word…) as apparently it is the most-used emoji around. I was surprised to learn that there actually is an organization responsible for “approving” new emoji (the Unicode Technical Committee) and it is currently evaluating seventy-four emoji “candidates”, including “Sneezing Face”, “Lying Face”, “Mother Christmas”, “Juggling” and “Squid”, to join the 1,502 variants already in-use. Not an alphabet (which the ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphics system is) it becomes terribly difficult to decipher (pun intended) if one is not familiar with the nuance of, say, the difference between the “white frowning face” and the “slightly frowning face”, especially if immediately followed by “face with medical mask” and “eggplant” (don’t ask). While I have no problem with new communication metaphors (as long as my newspaper is still printed in English) the problem is that these are context-based emotional expressions, with unlimited opportunities for misunderstandings, unintended offensive statements, and significant ambiguity. I have no doubt that serious damage to relationships has already occurred as a result of unintentional, benign errors in emoji selection or sequence. Certainly a “disappointed face” would mean entirely different things if sent by a spouse, a boyfriend, a boss, or a medical provider. I certainly hope that we are wise enough to leave behind our generation’s equivalent of a Rosetta Stone so that future archeologists (whose work will be 100% comprised of data-excavating) will be able to effectively differentiate between your breakup note, your birthday wishes, and your pizza order. As to me, I’ll stick to the ur-emoji symbols my late aunt Ethel taught me almost fifty years ago: XOXOXO!