Tales of a Yankee Hobbit

The Silly Season Starts Early

2011-10-11T01:21:00.003-05:00

I don't remember when I first heard it referred to that way, but some pundit somewhere started calling the election cycle the Silly Season. Wikipedia says it's a British term for the slow late summer news cycle, but it would appear the term has been re-purposed on this side of the pond.

Just like Spring, its heralds are brightly colored and often blustery-- and rarely mistakable. Strident public discourse, sniping among differently minded friends who, in saner times, get along swimmingly, the wholesale retiring of senses of humor, gotcha political cartoons and commentaries (although, what one considers "gotcha" depends, really, on whether or not the item in question supports or denounces your view, right?).

Really, this quadrennial's (?) silly season might be deemed to have begun with the debt-ceiling debate. (Actually, debate is far too grown-up a word for what was essentially a mud-pit tug of war with both ends tied to tractors, but I digress.) It was certainly here by the time the GOP started their primary debates (again, a strong word for a bunch of people trying to sell you different brands of the same cereal. I was going to say corn flakes, since they are the most generic of cereals, but I would not wish to be misinterpreted as casting specific aspersions upon the GOP aspirants. And, again, I digress.). No matter how you slice it, we are in full silly season mode more than a year before the General Election.

Who I want to win and why I want him to win is likely apparent, but also irrelevant. It is as irrelevant as the facts that are and will continue to be trampled in what my friend calls fact-free rhetoric; as irrelevant as the straw-man arguments that will continue to draw attention away from our real and pressing issues. You know, the ones where people-with-way-more than-most try to pit the various flavors of the have-not-so-much against one another for blood sport, hoping we won't catch them absconding with our nation's promise. That was definitely not a digression.

Anyhoo, looks like we're in for the longest, ugliest haul of our Union. I really hope our better angels take flight. But I am also a child of the 70s who had a Magic 8 Ball:* "Very doubtful."

*FYI, Mattel has an online Magic 8 Ball here.

Remembrance of things past

2011-09-08T23:40:00.002-05:00

Ten years have passed and people are asking once more, "Where were you when it happened?" No need to qualify that question with "when the planes hit," or "when the towers fell."

On that freakishly bright, beautiful September morning, I was listening to NPR and getting dressed for an audition when the first plane hit. I listened to the report, incredulous-- certain that it was an accident. Secure in that certainty, I went on to First Pres, where I was meeting my friend and pianist, Joby Bell. We had just gotten to the media control room when the second plane hit; we were sure, now, that it was no accident. While we were sure that something horrible had happened, we were not yet sure what it all meant; whether or not our worlds were meant to stop-- whether tasks and errands planned for that bright, beautiful day were to be given over to disbelief and stunned numbness.

Because we weren't sure, we went to the audition at Houston Baptist University. We drove down US 59 under a bright, blue sky absent of the contrails that usually betrayed the presence of the (usually) ever-present air traffic of the country's fourth largest city. We drove, wondering what would happen next-- unaware of the planes bound for the Pentagon and that field in Shanksville, PA. As we drove, we wondered: would the music faculty of HBU still be there? Were we still expected? Whatever could be the use of auditioning for a teaching job when the world could end at any minute?

We were met at the University by the (still) calming and beautiful presence of Dr. Ann Gebuhr, who has since become a treasured friend and colleague. She shared our sense of being unmoored, of going through the motions in the absence of... of the right-side up, unassailable country we lived in when we woke up just a scant few hours earlier.

I managed to get through the audition; sang a few of my favorite things, worked with a student, and got the job. Much later, Ann (and one or two others) told me that my singing that day had been a balm for the confusion we were all feeling. I don't recount that to toot my own horn in any way. There is a long piece by Karl Paulnack, his 2004 welcome address to the Boston Conservatory. In it, he argues for the singularity of music as the one thing we use to relate to and express those things we can't necessarily verbalize. It's an amazing piece; you should read it. He writes, in part:

In September of 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. On the morning of September 12, 2001 I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn't this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.
And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn't shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn't play cards to pass the time, we didn't watch TV, we didn't shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, on the very evening of September 11th, was singing. People sang. People sang around fire houses, people sang "We Shall Overcome". Lots of people sang America the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.

So, here we are- here I am, ten years later. Ten years of teaching and "raising" singers at HBU; a tenure that began on a hugely momentous day. I have always believed that what I do is important and necessary. I try to teach my students that what they are learning is important and necessary. I think, sometimes, that my sense of the importance of what I/we do is heightened by the backdrop of 9/11, of having begun this journey with these people while it was still happening and being able to use music to minister to frayed souls in those shattered moments.

There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul...

Time in a bottle...

2011-08-19T00:58:00.002-05:00

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you
[...]
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do once you find them...
- Jim Croce

I used to love this song when it was out. Well, still do.

What is the point, you ask? I recently purchased a new computer. My first new desktop in 8 years (laptop is 5 years old). This thing is beast (as the kids say). Anyhoo, my soon to be excessed desktop has a 3.5 floppy disk drive. Some of you have no idea what that is. I had to add the drive, even in 2003. Not even an option now. So, this is literally my last chance to clean out the box of old floppy disks. This box used to represent the high point of technology. 2 MB high- density floppys. Wooooooo...

As you might imagine, the files on these antiques date back as far as 1992. And what a treasure trove it is. Some highlights:

- June 1995: Made an invitation to a friend's son's 11th birthday party
- August 1995: That same friend and I ran into Clyde Drexler in the Downtown Tunnels and he actually stopped to talk to us. So I sent him a thank you note.
- May 1996: My apartment on Castle Court was burglarized and my fancy new (then) cell phone was stolen. Required the cancellation of my account with GTE Mobilnet (anybody even know what that became/was absorbed into?).

Now, I'm on the 1994 disk. One of the first things? "30 things to do to relieve stress from Jon Mittelhauser's personal page on the NCSA Mosaic." So many archaisms in it! For one thing, web pages were still called personal pages. Another? Number 30: Do your assignments in binary code. (Yes, I know all modern computer applications boil down to binary code.) Also found the funeral bulletin for the friend of a dear friend. Whose cremains would ultimately spend an inordinate amount of time in my trunk— a story for another day.

1993: Apparently, I did a lot of typing for friends. I found complaint letters of all kind (from me, as well as from said friends) and several REALLY old recital programs. One letter I composed for a colleague was an application for her son to "Moo Montana's Posse." A letter to an old friend overseas– who is still overseas and still a good friend. Very chatty, that letter. My bill-paying schedule (before the mortgage, if only I knew then how good I had it...). The proof of an interview I gave to the UT Health Science Center staff newsletter about being a desk jockey by day and opera chorister by night. A letter I wrote to my mother while recovering from a vocal fold hemorrhage (I couldn't talk, so no phones– this was before widespread home use of the interwebs).

1992: Recipes! (Didn't cook then, don't cook now) Ratatouille enjoyed with Shepherd School buddies. Italian Nut Balls from my friend Claire's fabulous mom, who also made a mean Pineapple Stuffing.

Lots of memories, good and bad. Some are now permanently disapparated; others live to fight another day on another storage medium.

G'Night Hobbit Fans!

Ah, youth (and other non-terminal diseases)!

2011-08-17T20:03:00.003-05:00

It's been far too long, Hobbit Fans! I confess that some of the itches this blog was meant to scratch have been soothed by the beast that is Facebook. I can fire off a bon mot or some trifle that catches my attention soooo easily with a link or a status update. But I haven't forgotten you. And yes, the dissertation is yet unfinished. But soon, my pretties, soon!

Facebook also has a blog-ish function called Notes, but that doesn't go out into the wide world (which is what I call the 4 of you still paying attention). These posts go there, too, thanks to the miracle of RSS. I guess what I'm trying to say is, sorry for leaving you to languish.

What Facebook has also afforded me is a glimpse into the hearts and minds of friends and acquaintances. I think a lot (vs. alot) of people forget that what goes on the 'net stays on the 'net and that privacy doesn't always mean what you think it means. So, people say what they mean and it's sometimes something they wouldn't say if they know who all was reading it.

Today was a prime example. Someone I consider a friend has a friend I would never consider a friend. I don't know this third party, but I know what's in his heart, since he used a word I find abhorrent to describe someone I greatly respect and with whom I share an ethnic heritage. This is not the first time this has happened and it probably won't be the last. Were it not for Facebook, I would not know that this person even exists and certainly would not know what he thinks of uppity black people. Because of Facebook, however, I was assured that other people I know and respect (and even love) also find not only the word, but the uncouth discourse, as abhorrent as I do. So it's not all bad.

Another time on Facebook, I commented on a Houston political issue that also concerned issues of LGBTQ equality. If you don't know, I have pretty strong views on it and am wholly supportive of it. Especially as LGBTQ rights equate to the Civil Rights movement.

Now, I know a lot of young people. I'm even related to some. One of them jumped into the fray with both feet, perhaps being unaware that I have a lot of friends who are well-versed in the art of rhetoric. They kind of ate my young friend alive, perhaps being unaware that he was a young person. I didn't agree with his standpoint, of course, but I found this to be a teachable moment.

What I (later) told him had less to do with his views and beliefs and more to do with the fact that those things can and do change with experience (experience also, hopefully, allows one to make more elegant arguments, but I digress). So here's what I said:

You kinda jumped into it over there on my status. No hard feelings. I applaud the fact that you have a strong faith that guides you.

What I want for you, though, is to entertain the notion that things are not as black and white as it is convenient to believe they are.

As you grow and get older, you will find that it is in the gray areas that we need to forge who we are and what we stand for. I have learned so many things and had so many of my beliefs and assumptions challenged. It is in those challenges that I was forced to look at my beliefs and assumptions, really examine them and their foundations. Then I was able to truly own them as my own— tested and found to stand.

Please do not ever allow fear and misunderstanding to guide you. And if you find yourself challenged, do not hold tight to a position just because it's the position you've already held— or because others have given it to you.

Fear is just that, and usually it comes from not knowing that which you fear. Believe me when I say being black and being gay are very much the same issue. Go back through your history books and look at the reasons— some of them Biblical!!— why white people said blacks were not full members of humanity, why servility was the only thing we were good for, why we were genetically inferior to whites, why we were demonized, and why, even in 2009, you can scare some people by even inferring that a black person could be in charge of them and theirs.

No human created by God is wrong, inferior, or bad. You may not like some peoples' actions or behaviors, but their personhood is a gift from our Creator God and born to His glory.

Just like you cannot assume what people will do because they are a different race or gender from you, you cannot assume (and therefore fear) what they will do because they are not built with the same sexual orientation as you.

I think my counsel applies to a lot of issues— and probably to a lot of people. So I'm sharing it.

Now, back to that dissertation...

Oh right, this thing...

2009-12-02T00:12:00.003-06:00

Yes, I disappeared again. It happens, apparently.

I attribute it mostly to the quick and dirty allure of the ubiquitous social networking behemoth that is Facebook. I can dash off a little bon mot of a status and thereby unburden my soul of that which I would have heretofore left here.

Yeah, that's it.

Wellll, there's also the incredibly wild year that commenced right about the time I stopped visiting with you all, which hasn't quite ended-- even though it's been over a year.

There's the school thing (pesky little as-yet-unwritten dissertation), the ballet thing (for which I more or less forsook the dissertation thing until fairly recently), the teaching full-time thing (which is by no means new, but seems to take more time these days. Is that a good thing?), and just the overall too much in my head to get some out thing.

Rest assured, a full accounting of all the wonderful things you missed will find a place here. Right now, though, I have a proposal revision to attend to...

Hope your (almost over) 2009 is/was everything you wanted it to be. There is still time, but not much!

A little something for your trouble. The first Halloween costume I actually planned in some years:

Peace, be still...

2008-09-12T14:50:00.002-05:00

So, every once in a while, the Big Guy leaves a message on my inner answering machine. This is one of those times.

If you know me, you know that I am a little bit of a control freak. Pretty much the worst thing you can hand me is a situation over which I have absolutely no control.

For those of you not currently residing on Planet Earth (or admittedly, someone outside the US bereft of the blessings of CNN International), a GINORMOUS hurricane by the completely non-threatening name of Ike is bearing down on the town I call home, Houston.

As Pops Sanford would say, "This is the big one, Elizabeth!"

A little bit about my current nemesis, Ike. He's a big guy, around 800 miles across, runs a 11-12 minute mile (give the guy a break, he's HUGE!), and a big wind bag. One hundred mile an hour winds, to be exact, and tipping the scale at Category 3. He plans to party on the Galveston Sea Wall tonight. After he trashes that, he's gonna come see about Houston.

Aaaand as luck would have it, I am in Brussels. As in Belgium. As in 5000 miles from where I'd rather be, putting up my dukes against this unwanted visitor.

Hence my celestial voice-mail. Once I got the text message saying that British Airways had cancelled all flights to Houston for Friday and Saturday, September 12 and 13, I was in overdrive. Trying (vainly) to get in touch with BA to see how close to Houston I could get (should I fly west of Houston and bypass Ike? Or fly to the east and try to outrun it? If I stay in Brussels, when will I be able to go home? Home? What about my house? Who is going to watch it? Omigodomigodomigod what am I going to do???

It quickly became clear that nothing could be done until the morning, since the European offices of BA keep banker's hours and the US and UK offices have toll-free numbers that, alas, can only be dialed from the US or the UK (there's something vaguely wrong about that, but I digress).

After a fitful night full of tossing, turning, and dreams of storms and missed flights, I awoke at 9 today (Friday) to see what I could do.

The short version is, sit my generous butt down and wait it out.

BA was more than willing to fly me anywhere they flew, which helped me not at all. Sure, I could go to Phoenix, Chicago, NYC or LA. But then what? Whilst some of those options came with free couches on which to pass the night(s) until I could get to Houston, none came with free tickets to Houston or the nearest alternatives, San Antonio or Austin. And then what?

I realized I was listening to the light packer's panic over running out of clean underthings and daily meds; at which point cooler heads reminded me that access to both was likely readily available in the first world capital city of Brussels.

Which left me to accept BA's offer of a rebooking to fly on Sunday and pray that Houston isn't closed down for too long.

From which the careful reader would then infer that the aforementioned sitting and waiting is now in force.

In my 40 (almost 41!!!) years on this earth, I have been "involved" with 2 other hurricanes. I experienced Hugo, my first, also away from home, at a camp in South Carolina in September, 1989. We knew a hurricane was coming, but a) it was forecast for landfall in Savannah, GA and b) even if it hit further up the coast, York, SC (where I was running a retreat) and Charlotte, NC (where my roommate was home alone) were several hours inland and not considered to be in the path of the storm.

Like my boy, Ike (can it be a coincidence that I comes after H?), Hugo had his own plans. He came onshore at Charleston, SC instead and ran full bore through both York AND Charlotte.

I never want to endure another hurricane with nothing between me and nature's fury but a log cabin. Really!

My second, Rita, was more of an epic journey of futility. In September, 2005, coming right on the heels of Killer Katrina, she had the attention of the entire city of Houston when she led the National Hurricane Center on and made a date to tango on our turf. So I left town, along with a million of my closest friends. It took 11 hours to make the 3-hour trip to Austin (a long story I would have blogged about had I been blogging then), where I watched Rita make a late-stage shimmy to the East and pretty much miss Houston entirely.

Did I mention that both the hit and the miss, like Ike, fell on or around my birthday? It really is enough to make one wonder. If nothing else, about mid-season hurricanes.

(For the record, Gustav's Labor Day near-miss threatened to delay my departure for Brussels. Hmmm.)

All that to say, I am personally very well aware of what can happen. I would like nothing more than to be hunkering down in my cute little house, waiting for the inevitable and being at the battle stations should defensive action be required.

But I'm here, in Brussels, in a 4th floor walk-up apartment (evilly considered 3rd floor here on the Continent), on a borrowed laptop, scanning news websites and...

...waiting.

Be still and know that I am God. - Psalm 46

I am so working on that.

A Flemish Postcard

2008-08-05T15:03:00.002-05:00

[This title makes me giggle, thanks to an old opera chorus inside joke from HGO's Don Carlo that would take too long to recount. It has to do with Flaming Flamingos.]

Greetings from Ghent, which I am told is in Flanders!

While I have mentioned that this summer is essentially a European tour, I've posted no dispatches, and am correcting that situation prontissimo!

Just for a sense of perspective, I remind you that I had my surgery on 4 June (see? I'm being all European with my dates). On 4 July, I left for Belgium I. Returned to Houston on 14 June, left for rehearsals in Austin on 17 June, left Houston (via Austin) for Copenhagen on 21 June and returned to Houston on 27 June. Then, on 3 August, I returned for Belgium II, from whence I will return on 9 August.

Are you tired yet? I am...

The first thing I have had to orient myself to (since I essentially don't get jet-lag-- don't hate.) is the keyboards. In the US, we have what we call QUERTY keyboards, which I vaguely recall were developed based on letter usage frequency. I never completed an actual typing class; as with piano, I suck at memorizing fingerings and dropped my high school typing class before I failed it. That said, on a QWERTY keyboard I type pretty quickly and mostly accurately, having essentially memorized the keyboard layout and can quickly navigate it.

Here's what the letter layout of a Euro keyboard is:

a z e r t y u i o p ^ $
q s d f g h j k l m ù µ
w x c v b n , ; : =

Additionally, all the numbers and symbols on the top row are flipped: symbols are default and numbers require the shift key. To give you an idea of how slowly this is going, I will type this sentence with my "keyboard memory."

To give you qn ideq of hoz lsozly this is going; I aill type this sentence zith ,y £keyboqrd ,e,ory;£

Yeah, like that.

Anyhoo, back to the (slow) dispatch.

GHENT
Ghent is lovely. It's about 35 miles from Brussels. The best way to get here is train; about 50 minutes and only about 15 bucks (no dollar sign on this puppy). Since I was on various restrictions during the first trip, I took a cab. That was about 200 bucks (thank God Les Ballets is so generous with its singers!). Once I arrived at the Hotel Astoria, Frank, the very lovely proprietor said a cab ride could be had for more like 100 bucks. When we arranged one ahead of time for the return trip, it ended up being 150 bucks. Ah well.

The hotel is not in the center of Ghent and there is little in the way of restaurants without going in to town (tram ride: buck-fifty. food choices: priceless), but there are a few. Places in the area where I have dined during my two trips:

- Kam Kwok (Chinese). OK, nice waitress, fairly inscrutable menu in "Engrish," German and Dutch (the lingua franca). I ordered a crab pancake, sweet and sour pork and lemonade and received an eggroll, the pork and a sprite. Now I know. The rice was excellent, by the way.

- The Rambler (standard euro-american fare). Meh. This one had an English menu (many do). Forgettable meal of shrimp scampi with a cute baby waiter.

- Casteel (decent restaurant of a 2-star hotel). Nice barmaid, excellent house-made sangria and a nice prix fixe steak dinner for 40 bucks. Odd cut of beef, but tasty, and the dessert was a plate of chocolate goodies: mousse, ice cream, cake and whipped cream.

- Salt & Pepper (Indian). Quite nice. Was craving veggies by this point and had sag paneer (creamed spinach) and calamari (very red and very spicy). Nice white wine.

- Cafe Parti (my favorite, thus far). It's a "slow-food" restaurant; locally obtained, organic where possible, cooked to order food. Couldn't get in the first time I happened by, but managed to eat there twice more that first trip as well as tonight. And tomorrow. My two favorite offerings? A cheese croquet (think fried cheese, only better) and minced pineapple with minted sugar.

[Note: that may seem like a lot of variety, but that was 85% (give or take) of all the possible eateries in a 3-square mile area. A similar type/sized area in Houston would have double that, I'm sure.]

I managed a few meals in town too: Amadeus (an all you can eat rib place, but they serve the ribs BY THE SLAB so there's not so much second plate action) and Passion (basic European- they had Belgian specialties, so I had Waterzooi- a creamy chicken stew).

We did a lot more than eat, though it probably doesn't look that way! I've been here rehearsing a show, "Pitié," with Les Ballets C de la B (The Contemporary Ballet of Belgium). There are about 12 or so dancers and a band (drums, bass, trumpet, violin, accordion, alto sax, cello- I think that's all). The music is a remix of sorts of Bach's St Matthew Passion for soprano, mezzo-soprano and counter-tenor. Hard to describe, but it works. Fabrizio Cassol arranged the music and Alain Platel choreographed. This production opens at the end of August and tours through next June. Three casts of singers (including one of my faves, Laura Claycomb and a new fave, Maribeth Diggle) share the singing duties. (Curiously, there are several American singers in this production, although I am the only one living in the US.) We rehearsed in a lovely Art Deco theater called the Vooruit from April till July and not are in Minnemeers, part of the Ghent municipal theater from now till opening.

Haven't done much more than rehearse and recharge, but I did stroll through town one Saturday and almost saw the Van Eyck bros.' "Adoration of the Mystic Lamb" at St. Bavo's Cathedral. It had closed for the day, but I'm planning to return tomorrow.

COPENHAGEN
I think I mentioned in the previous post that Conspirare sang at the 8th World Choral Symposium, which is why I was there. We sang our own program twice (to general acclaim, I hear) and also premiered one of the Symposium commissions, a Light Mass by Lithuanian composer Vytautas Miskinis. From what we hear, he's a big deal in Europe. We performed in the Royal Opera House (LOVELY venue) with a jazz trio and our own Faith DeBow playing the other piano part. We sang it well but there were mixed reactions to the piece itself. It had a homogeneity of sound and texture that apparently wore on some listeners.

Once again, accommodations were outside of the city center. This time though, they were outside of the city itself, in a suburb called Kastrup, near the airport. The hotel (I think they left the "s" off of hostel") is a budget chain called Zleep Hotels. Not recommended by this traveler (don't be fooled by the sunny website). While I freely admit that my idea of roughing it is a Motel 6, this was um, sub-basic. Teeeeny tiny rooms and beds and a "power-shower:" basically a combination toilet/shower/sink. Breakfast was nice though!

By this point in my travels, I was quite tired, so I did little more than was required. I managed to see a little bit of Copenhagen. One day I'd love to go back when I can better cope (hahahahaha).

I am also grateful for our two amazing Symposium hosts, Martin and Carsten!! They kept us sane and amused...

I loved spending time with my Conspirare buddies, especially as this upcoming season is pretty much all Les Ballets. It was the same old, fabulous crowd with one exception. One of our regular members had a death in the family and had to cancel at, literally, the last minute. He was ably seconded by a new friend, John Proft, who is my new hero. Our rehearsals started in Austin on 18 July. John got the call on 14 July, got the music on 15 July and managed to arrive virtually completely memorized AND with a brand, spranking new, theretofore nonexistent passport. On top of that, he had to travel alone on his first trip outside of the country. He rocks; basically.

Sigh, I've abused your eyes (and the backspace key) for long enough. There are more tales to be told and I'm sure they'll end up in some future dispatch from your favorite Yankee Hobbit.

If Europe is in your travel plans at some point in the next 11 months, check the website and come see the show...

Later, peeps...

Singularly Breathing Together

2008-07-20T23:17:00.006-05:00

Hi Hobbit Fans!

Yup, been AWOL. How rude of me to tell you I'm having major surgery and then just disappear into the void?

I'm not too worried, since I'm pretty sure that the four of you who read this already know that all went exceedingly well. And since this is not a post about hysterectomy, for the two of you who might not know that all went well, I will say that All. Went. Well. Four hours of surgery, walking within two hours, home and walking around Whole Foods Market the next day. No pain, no pain meds, no lingering effects. Perfectly lovely, actually. Enough of that.

What I am posting about today is one of my favorite groups of people, namely, Conspirare, the professional choral group with which I sing and with which I am traveling to Copenhagen for the 8th World Symposium on Choral Music this week.

In order to prepare for the Symposium concerts, the 30+ of us gathered in Austin this weekend to touch up the memorized version of the program we sang in January in Austin and San Antonio.

[Let me say this off the bat in case any of my students are reading this. Conspirare usually performs its concerts from scores, that is to say, un-memorized. While it has been a challenge for some of us who are unused to memorizing concert music, I think we all agree that it makes for far more immediate and fulfilling music-making once the task is achieved.]

I want to share with you a particularly unexpected and deeply moving moment from this afternoon's rehearsal. One of the songs we're performing is "Soneto de la Noche," the second piece in a triptych by Morten Lauridsen to a text by Pablo Neruda.

As a group, we have had experience with Neruda before. One of the commissions on the soon-to-be-released Conspirare CD of Tarik O'Regan's music is "Tal vez tenemos tiempo." (Shameless plug. Look for it in September. The title is Threshold of Night.)

I digress. We had all read the text of the piece, and some, who like me cannot memorize foreign texts without translating them (another hint to my students), were quite familiar with it. Be that as it may, most of us had a few spots tripping us up as we worked towards complete memorization.

It is a beautifully touching poem. I will include it here and hope it gets to stay (not for nothing have I learned how to cite sources in Grad School 2: The Return):

Cuando yo muero quiero tus manos en mis ojos: When I die, I want your hands upon my eyes:

quiero la luz y el trigo de tus manos amadas I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands

pasar una vez más sobre me frescura: to pass their freshness over me one more time:

sentir la suavidad que cambió mi destino. I want to feel the gentleness that changed my destiny.

Quiero que vivas mientras yo, dormido, te espero, I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep,

quiero que tus oídos sigan oyendo el viento, I want your ears to still hear the wind,

que huelas el aroma del mar que amamos juntos I want you to smell the scent of the sea we both loved

y que sigas pisando la arena que pisamos. and to continue walking on the sand we walked on.

Quiero quo lo que amo siga vivo I want all that I love to keep on living,

y a ti te amé y cante sobre todas las cosas, and you whom I loved and sang above all things

por eso sigue tú floreciendo, florida, to keep flowering into full bloom,

para que alcanses todo lo que mi amor te ordena, so that you can touch all that my love provides you,

para que se pasee mi sombra por tu pelo, so that my shadow may pass over your hair,

para que así conozcan la razón de mi canto. so that all may know the reason for my song.

Pablo Neruda, "Soneto LXXXIX" from Cien Sonetos de Amor (trans. Nicholas Lauridsen),

in Morten Lauridsen, "Soneto de la Noche," Nocturnes. New York: Songs of Peer, Ltd./

PeerMusic Classical, 2005.

This particular text caused more than one person to choke up or actually tear up at one point or another in the rehearsals. It is undeniably a touching text. But today was different.

Today locked it in for pretty much everyone. Craig (Hella Johnson), in his infinite wisdom, had us listen to the Spanish being spoken phrase by phrase, repeat the Spanish back, and listen to the same text spoken in the English translation. A brilliant pedagogical moment that is probably not unique to us, but here's the masterstroke: We then sang it, while one of our beloveds, David F. spoke the text over our singing.

No one was prepared for what came next. Maybe all of our defenses were broken down by 3 days of all day and into the night rehearsing. Maybe it was the combination of a powerful text, set powerfully by a master composer. Maybe it was the addition of that last layer of the same powerful text we were singing being rendered pitch perfectly by a reader we all love in a language we comprehend on a heart level, versus the head level of an acquired tongue. Maybe Mercury was in retrograde.

But almost to a one, the room erupted, spontaneously, in sniffles, sobs, hitched breaths. Tears streamed down faces-- even faces one never expected to see bathed in tears. It was not everyone at once, but nearly everyone by the end of the song. I know some were shocked by their response. I know that I was.

In that moment we were all touched by something rare. Something ineffable. There is no way to know what each person experienced in that singular moment; although I believe its outward manifestation was the kind of deep intimacy one can experience in collaborative music. I do not believe that any of us left that room unchanged. I also believe that we will never sing that song the same way again-- or hear it sung the same way, by ourselves or by another choir in another lifetime.

The name Conspirare was chosen for our group because it means "to breathe together." It is the most basic premise of any choral ensemble. In a larger sense, it is a fine premise for any community of people, when you stop to think about it. (Surely it is no mistake that the verb "conspire" is related?)

Today, Conspirare did more than fulfill our mission of breathing together. We, with the help of Messrs. Neruda and Lauridsen (and Johnson and Farwig), were able to be together, in a way that was both deeply personal and deeply communal.

Thank you, Gentlemen.

The Gory Details (aka The End of a Career)

2008-05-29T19:37:00.003-05:00

So, you really want the gory details? OK! After a 30-year, mostly unproductive career, my uterus will be taking permanent retirement via hysterectomy next Wednesday.

I say "mostly unproductive," because rather than doing nothing, like I intended for it to do, it's been brewing fibroids. More on that later.

Here's the e-mail I sent to my support squad (family & friends):

[If you got that e-mail and want newer, more fun information, here are some sites I found helpful:

Referential measurements for fibroids
http://www.geocities.com/tiggernut24/Fibroids/MeasureFibroids.html

A hospital site with VERY graphic pictures
http://www.jeffersonhospital.org/obgyn/article9361.html

A support site with good articles. Requires membership to post, but not browse.
http://hystersisters.com

There are tons more, but I've got to get after other things!]

... after a prolonged, but not necessarily hateful battle with my uterine fibroids, my Dr and I have decided that a hysterectomy is the best option. After seeing to 3 doctors and talking to/reading from others "in the know," I will be having a laparoscpic procedure on Wednesday 6/4 at noon (by Dr. Carl Giesler), unless it gets bumped up earlier in the day. The surgery is at St. Luke's Episcopal Hospital in the Medical Center and I will be staying overnight.

That's the short version. As for more info, requests, etc:

- This is clearly not a secret, so if it comes up or anyone asks feel free to share. There is actually a limit to how many addressees can go in one e-mail!

- If you are in town and can spare some time in the next few weeks, I will be needing some assistance with driving and meals and such, and would love to press you into service if you are willing. The lovely and phenomenal Amy Winstead is coordinating that effort. If you are able to assist, please contact her at [info deleted]. None of us has food allergies, but we are lactose intolerant, so easy on the cream & cheese, please ;-} !

- Who is "we," you ask? Of course, my Mom is coming down on Sunday. My middle sister, Janessa will help her out from Tuesday through Sunday, and then my baby sister, Alexa will come over the weekend and stay for a week or so, by which time Mom and I ought to be ok on our own. I don't think any of them will be doing any driving-- they've been here before and their families want them back in one piece.

- Can I visit? Likely not in the hospital, as I don't plan to be there very long. We'll see how I do at home. Call the house and "my people" will let you know the 411. [info deleted]

If you have more than enough information, STOP READING NOW!!! I mean it. Here's where it gets gross and/or TMI. But I know some of you will or have asked these questions, so better to answer them in one place. Really, if you are tender of stomach or easily embarrassed, stop reading. If I left something out, feel free to ask. I am a veritable font of gynecological information by now.

****

******

**********

OK you were warned.

Why hysterectomy?
- It is the only permanent cure for fibroids, short of menopause, to which I am not sufficiently near enough to be useful. There are other procedures (embolism, laser, hormones, surgery to take out the fibroids only); either I am not a candidate for them for one reason or another and/or they are not permanent.

What are fibroids?
- Benign tumors of muscle and connective tissue that are present in most women. They can be so small as to be unnoticeable, or very, very large. There have been reports of single fibroids upwards of 10 inches across. The stats say that 25-40% of all women have symptomatic fibroids of some sort (pain, pressure, excessive bleeding, bladder and rectal issues, nerve impingement), and at autopsy, nearly 77% of women were found to have fibroids. They feed on estrogen, and sometimes they grow fast and sometimes slow. They are hardly ever cancerous.

Why do fibroids happen?
- Why not? I guess it's what happens when nature gets bored. Uteri were meant to produce humans, so maybe this is weird uterine wish fulfillment.

Why YOU for hysterectomy?
- I have several large fibroids, ranging in size from a tangerine to a softball. One is even attached to the top of my uterus by a stalk (pedunculated). All told, they have occupied my uterus to the point that it is the size of a 16-18 week pregnancy (now you know what I'd look like 4-5 mos. pregnant-- just the same. But I can feel them. Not so much fun).

How is it being done?
- There are basically three ways. Old fashioned "open" abdominal, kind of like a C-section, Vaginal (remember the old joke about the OB/GYN who goes to auto repair school for fun and repairs the entire engine through the tailpipe?), or laparoscopic, where the surgeon uses instruments inserted into holes or "ports" in the abdomen. I'll take #3, Alex, for the win.

How do you take it out through small holes?
- It gets cut up (de-bulked) with a morcellator, and the rest is done through the uh, tailpipe.

How long is the surgery?
- He says around 2 hours if there are no problems.

Problems? What kind of problems?
- The usual and very rare ones that could happen anytime one goes in for abdominal surgery; organ injury, bleeding, etc. Panic not.

What about your ovaries?
- Staying as long as they look good once the Dr. gets in there.

Will you go into early menopause?
- Not if my ovaries remain unmolested. It is possible that I will go into it earlier than I would have otherwise, but not significantly.

Sooooo, does this mean no babies? You ok with that?
- Yes, this means no babies of my own flesh (other than my amazing nieces and nephews). Yes, I'm quite ok with that. No periods either. BONUS!

What about your vocal cords?
- My surgeon has specifically requested an anesthesiologist with good experience in this area, it is written all over my orders, I will tell everyone I encounter in Pre-OP and I may even tattoo it on my forehead with a Sharpie. I'll likely have a size 6 or smaller cannula and extreme care will be taken in intubation and extubation. On top of that, I will prophylactically go on vocal rest for 3 days following extubation. So don't call before Friday unless you want to talk to one of the fam, who I imagine will be willing to give reports.

I think that does it. Your prayers and good wishes are coveted.

The light at the end of the tunnel... is NOT a train.

2008-04-26T20:07:00.002-05:00

Sigh. Has it really been since February 4. I'm not gonna lie; it's been that crazy.

First I thought, February is going to be pure hell. I have WAY overscheduled myself, and I may just die. But if I can get through Febuary, it's gonna be relatively smooth sailing.

That belief got me through February, which was-- as expected-- hellish. But then came March.

See, I didn't think I had all that much going on. And besides, Spring Break is in March, I don't have a church gig anymore, so the fact that Easter was in March didn't faze me. I came into March full of a sense of accomplishment from having survived February.

Silly girl. March was when the UH opera was in full swing. And HBU opera was gearing up and guess who agreed to design the costumes? Spring Break? What Spring Break? You mean that week I spent teaching lessons and researching papers? And there were Passions to sing (ok, only one, but we did it three times). Ack. I could tell you more, but it would upset us both.

But I knew I could look forward to April. I had no gigs scheduled in April, and I could spend the whole month working on my 4 papers and learning the music for the Houston Choral Society world premiere Adolophus Hailstork piece as well as the 2 cantatas for Ars Lyrica Houston.

Nice plan, really. But not horribly realistic.

See, although the work of the UH opera happened in March, the shows were the first weekend in April. And although it seemed like a no-brainer, costuming The Magic Flute as set in Hawaii during WWII was not a walk in the park. It ate up fully two weeks of my life. And the papers took a lot of time and effort (as we speak, 2 are in progress RIGHT NOW!). And I had to prepare a student for her pre-recital hearing, which meant extra lessons to make up the ones that the UH opera stole in March.

So, here it is late in the day on April 26. I have felt a great deal of guilt (ok, strong word. Maybe let's use complusive responsibility) about not having updated the blog and today it just seemed like 14 minutes could be spared.

Started the Hailstork yesterday. One paper is going out tonight, dammit, if it kills me. Tomorrow is 15% Hailstork and 85% Scarlatti theory paper. 'Cause next week is rehearsals out the wazoo for HCS and finishing the last requirements for completing the coursework for my DMA! And so on.

I think the maelstrom is coming to an end. But I already know May is booked solid as is July. During June I have to memorize Conspirare and Ballet music. And August is the last bit of cramming before comps. Which are the week before school. One week into which the Ballet tour starts.

Crap. Maybe I should add a question mark to the title of this post...

Epiphany (non-liturgical)

2008-02-04T01:20:00.000-06:00

Hi Hobbit Fans!

So, I have had an Epiphany. Convenient, as (if I'm not mistaken, though I likely am) we are technically still in the season of Epiphany. For those of you not familiar with the liturgical calendar, Epiphany is the period after Christmas representing the revelation of Christ to the Gentiles, in the person of the three directionally-challenged monarchs who clearly couldn't be bothered to to come to the party on time. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Really, it is about Jesus being revealed to the nations and all of that.

But I digress. It's called Epiphany because that's what it means. According to Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th Edition ('cause I'm too tired to deal with Bartleby.com today- even though the print would have been much kinder to my aging eyes.) Epiphany is "3. a usually sudden manifestation especially of the essential nature or meaning of something. (2): an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple or striking (3): an illuminating discovery." (1 and 2 have to deal with all the liturgical stuff I mentioned earlier).

Back to my epiphany. About 20 minutes ago I understood something I had heretofore not understood and had yea verily even mocked.

I know why people order Diet Coke with meals that have little or nothing to do with health or weight management.

Go ahead, alert the papers. This is big. I finally get this, because I have had an analogous experience. I just (literally– Anne, this is for you- 9: 30 inside the Houston city limits, 10 p.m. in my driveway after a stop at Whole Foods) got back from a week in Austin with Conspirare. It was a relatively tough rep. Not so much on the Conspirare end, because they're always fabulous and Craig is a complete love, but on my end, because I have so very much on my plate right now. I spent breaks memorizing Mendelssohn, mornings off correcting papers and learning Scarlatti and Bolcom and late evenings (the ones I didn't spend drinking wine and laughing at the Internet with Wendy) writing lectures and memorizing Gershwin. There's a lot going on, I tell you.

So, are you done alerting the media? What I mean is, I got home. I unpacked my suitcase. I put everything away and laundered my dirty clothes. Now, this may seem normal for the rest of you. But I can assure you (and so can the very few visitors to my house) that this is not the normal order of things. An open returned suitcase can languish on the floor at the foot of my bed for months. Since I did laundry before I left for Austin, I could have gone weeks without the clothes I wore there. But now, I put everything in the place that everthing has (thanks, Gram).*

As I removed the last bit from the dryer, I thought, "At least I accomplished something tonight." Honestly. That's what I thought. There are so many things demanding my attention (and yet, here I am, prattling on at you) that the one, simple act of having an empty suitcase and hamper was enough to make me feel like I could check something off.

I am now going to call this, "The Diet Coke Effect:" you might be scarfing down the 30-ounce Porterhouse at your favorite Way-Too-Expensive-But-Giant-Portions restaurant, or working your way through the All-You-Can-Eat-Big-Assed-Feed-Trough, but dad-gummit, by dint of that Diet Coke, you have "Made an Effort."

In the spirit of full disclosure, I 1) did neither** and 2) despise Diet Coke.

In fact, this post is an example of "The Diet Coke Effect." I still have MOUNDS of work to do, but the laundry is done and this long awaited (by at least one of you, anyway) post is en route and therefore checked off the list.

Is there other news? Of course. You are overdue for a Shameless Self-Promotion post, but one is imminent. If I don't get around to it in time, make sure you check out Mukuru: Arts for AIDS show "The Soul of Mukuru" this Saturday, February 9 at 7:30 p.m. at St. John's Baptist Church (Beyonce and Kelly's church) on Crawford and Gray. It's FREE and I'm singing Mendelssohn love songs whilst others hold forth on African-American Art Song, Spirituals, Gospel, and Hip-Hop. Don't be afraid, it'll be hot.

In other news, it would appear that I have arrived. Or something like that. One of my students started a Facebook fan group for me. I'm not entirely sure what to make of that. I have gleefully joined other fan groups dedicated to friends of mine, but now what to do that I have my own? I joined it, of course, it seemed only prudent. Or gracious. Or just weird.

In more compelling news, it looks like 2008-09 will be a big CD release year. Naxos has picked up the Ars Lyrica Scarlatti CD I'm on and Harmonia Mundi is not only releasing Conspirare's new Tarik O'Regan CD, but they are re-releasing the Requiem CD that was nominated for a Grammy last year. As the kids say, woot! I do not have exact release dates, but rest assured, it will be posted here. Somewhere. Sometime.

Ok, the "effect" is wearing off. I either need to do something else productive or go to bed.

* Gram always said (I'm sure yours did too), "A place for everything and everything in its place." The world would be a safer place if we all adhered to that more often.

** I did have a couple of lovely, but not obscene meals in Austin, including a revelatory lunch at Fogo de Chao. One could do damage there, but I think we were, in the main, ok.

Like Dimetapp– only different...

2008-01-15T20:59:00.000-06:00

Yes, I know, I have been remiss. Quite remiss. On several fronts. Posting in general and posting on the Project in particular.

It was the holidays, don'tcha know. And everyone does some hiring over the holidays. I just did some re-hiring. And since I am an exceptional person, I starting re-hiring, oh around August.

Nothing drastic, but enough to put me in a serious blue funk for the last several weeks. It was just so easy. So insidious. A birthday cocktail here, a celebratory dinner there, a trip out of town, somewhere else. And then all of the sudden (ha!) I was cursing my (essentially new) washer for shrinking my new, smaller clothes.

This gave me an epiphanous revelation. Perhaps the reason so many miners died in mine shafts back in the day is because they ignored the canary. You know, the canary they kept in the mine to monitor deadly gases. No canary, no breathable air. Early warning system.

Which we all know is only as useful if people pay attention to it.

My canary croaked and I ignored it.

Again, nothing drastic. One of the Baptist students is even convinced that I've lost more. I'm convinced she's blowing smoke up my ass (pardon my French– I'm working on that too).

Anyway, that and any number of small and (on their own) insignificant things have conspired to keep me pissy for a while. But this one is completely and (ha!) easily remediated.

Another (not so new) revelation. I have issues with food. I have known that for a while, but managed to, um, forget while the Project was fully on track. I realize that if I am not completely and totally diligent, I revert to my habit of entertaining myself with foodstuffs. This too, pisses me off.

Sigh. I guess rather than thinking of food as entertainment, or even fuel, perhaps I need to think of it as medicine. Necessary for a chronic condition, but not to be overdone. Remember Dimetapp syrup? When I was growing up, it was new. Imagine the novelty of a cough syrup that was grape flavored; that kids would imbibe without struggle. If I recall correctly (and if I don't, humor me), there was initially an issue with kids faking colds to take the tasty Dimetapp.

Clearly this was not the intent.

I have to find that place: food can be tasty, it can certainly be healthy. But it is only to be used in certain quantities and at certain intervals. And everyone can't take every drug. Period.

I reserve the right to not divulge where we are at present. I promise to let you know when we're out of the re-do!

Happy Holidays!

2007-12-18T15:06:00.000-06:00

Hello Hobbit Fans!

Hope this finds you well and well endowed with the Christmas spirit. I'm working on it, as it seems to be quite slow in coming this year, despite a steady dose of holiday tunes from the 24-hour Christmas music station in Houston.

My niece, the Bean, is reading this over my shoulder. I should say something pithy so she'll be impresed. Except she doesn't know what pithy means. She should go and look it up. My other niece, Alex, is on the phone (of course) proving that the more things change, the more things stay the same. Pre-teen angst and drama haven't changed since the early 80's. This is either a good thing, or a bad thing, depending on whether one is seeking evolutionary change or hope for the future of our nation. Whatever.

For the record, I believe #3 is off being beautified.

Anyhoo, like I said, not much in the mood this year. I forced myself to buy a wreath for the house. I figure that as a new homeowner, I should do some kind of decorating. Couldn't muster for the tree thing. I think that had more to do with the fact that last year's tree (obviously artificial) didn't get un-decorated until June. And only then for a party.

Actually, I think my Christmas spirit is fine. What I am lacking is enthusiam for the merchandizing, commercialistic c-r-a-p.

In that spirit, enjoy this season of expectation and joy. Visit family, renew friendships, bake a really tasty cake.

See you in 2008. Oh, and if you want to bring 2008 in style, come check out Ars Lyrica at the Hobby Center on the 31st!

Pun-kin Pie for the Holidays

2007-11-19T10:12:00.000-06:00

Yes, I know. You don't hear from me for weeks and then all of the sudden, three in a row. Sometimes it be's that way.

We all know how much I love a good pun. Lately I have been meeting virtual maestros of the form. One of my colleagues at HBU, Jason Lester, got some really bad (by which I mean, good) ones off at NATS last week (an entirely different post about that one day), and of course, John Yarrington would be nothing without his witty repartees.

Anyhoo. I'm singing a concert version of Porgy and Bess in February with the National Philharmonic. With such, the challenge is always how to pare a 4-hour opera into something that will fit on the bill for an orchestral concert. Let me tell you; I envy no one that task. Gershwin was absolutely brilliant and crafted a beautiful show with not a lot of extra, um, extraneous stuff.

Long story short, what often happens is that roles get compressed and combined. I must admit to a bit of astonishment when I was asked to sing both Clara and Maria. Again, for the uninitiated (which included me until this past May), there are not two more wildly divergent roles in the piece. Well, except perhaps, Clara and Porgy. My two ladies are diffrent people, different voice types and oh yeah, they often appear in the same scene.

But you know me. I went with it, figuring all would become clear when the cut list came out. For the most part, it did, although I was left with one page on which I was to sing both people, in conversation. To wit:

Maria: Why been out on that wharf so long, Clara? You got no cause to worry 'bout yo' man. Dis goin' be a fine day.

Clara: I never see de water look so black. It sits there waitin', holdin' its breath, list'nin for dat hurricane bell.

Un peu de schizophrenia, to be sure.

Since the conductor, Gary Schneider, invited me to ask any questions I had, I did. It was a short list of little, easy things requiring clarification, and my little Three Faces of Eve moment. This being me and it being around 4 a.m., I got a little punchy. Here's how it went down:

MEG
[blah, blah, blah...] Thanks for the "clara-fication" (pun
definitely intended)!

I awoke to an e-mail from the conductor, clearly a like mind– only more awake:

GS
Hope this completes all of your necessary Clara-fications. We all want to give our very Bess performance so that the audience doesn't feel like we are Robbins them. I know that having no outstanding confusion will allow you to give a Serena performance. I hope you have a very Happy Thanksgiving and a very Maria Christmas.

God, I love what I do. Thanks to Mo. Schneider for his permission to post!

Not dead yet! (The Classical Music Version)

2007-11-18T22:50:00.000-06:00

God, I love what I do!

I am fully aware that I am extremely blessed to be able to say that. I am similarly fully aware that I occasionally need reminders, as I am easily annoyed, made gruff, or otherwise prone to be pissy about the day-to-day turns of my life. It is indeed strange that an abundance of the very thing one seeks often causes one to begrudge the thing.

I digress. It seems particularly appropriate as Thanksgiving nears, to take stock of one's life and express one's gratitude. I have rather a lot to be thankful for!

In absolutely no particular order:
- I am well.
- I am housed. In a home I own (or rather, am in the generation-long process of owning).
- I am employed.
- I am singing. A lot.
- I am appreciated for the singing I do.
- I am teaching others to sing well and enjoy the gift of singing.
- I am appreciated for the teaching I do.
- I am blessed with amazing family whom I love dearly and miss terribly.
- I am blessed with friendships I in no way deserve, and treasure all the more because of it.
- I have seen and continue to see parts of the world others can only dream of.
- School has not yet killed me. And is almost over.

So yes, I love what I do.

One of the reasons I love what I do is because I am able to see it in all of its glory and ugliness. Which requires, among other things, a seriously healthy sense of humor.

In my Bach Cantatas class we discussed various methodologies for studying the cantata canon, and really, classical music as a whole. One of the controversies is whether to view/study/perform the literature as museum pieces or as living entities with relevance to our current age and lives.

I hope that what I do and what I teach others to do is the latter. Informed by the former. Yeah, I like it both ways sometimes.

In other words, in order to perform Bach (per esempio), do I need to immerse myself in 18th century German Lutheranism as practiced in Weimar, Muhlhausen and Leipzig, or do I need to look into the music and see what Old Johnny has to say to Divameg in 2007?

Here's a perfect example:

There are some who would look at that and faint dead away, aghast that such a travesty had been perpetrated upon Puccini's most perfect aria (a.k.a. Soprano National Anthem #1). To their credit, none of my friends and colleagues have reacted that way thus far.

Another way to look at it is to applaud the ingenuity that lead two (sets of) people to find a common ground between their (apparently) divergent musical performing genres. Or to listen exceedingly carefully to the "Pips," hear that they are perfectly translating the gist– nay, the essence– of the text of the aria (fortunately, there's also a scrolling supertitle), and rejoice that they are making a "dead" art relevant to a generation that frequents the Galleria more than the Wortham.

Or you could just be me and scream, "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant," while laughing hysterically.

Happy Thanksgiving, Hobbit Fans! I am also extremely grateful for you. All four of you.

Vive la difference(?)

2007-11-15T22:43:00.000-06:00

Hello Hobbit Fans!

Greetings from the Four Seasons Hotel in Austin, TX. This most definitely qualifies as one of the nicer perks of the itinerant singer biz. This weekend I am singing the Soprano I solos in the Bach Magnificat with the Austin Symphony. I get to sing with 3 singers I adore and one I am getting to know-- and adore. And of course, I adore the conductor, Peter Bay. It's a lovefest. Really.

I stay in a lot of hotels in this business. Sometimes I get lucky. This is one of those times. Moscow was another. Loved that hotel. And the one in Prague was pretty hot too. I got a suite, that time.

One thing you notice, is that different, shall we say levels of hotels have various pros and cons. One would think that all the pros would be on the side of the high-end hotels, but one would be wrong. Some are downright counterintuitive.

Take internet access, for one. This post is coming to you via the hotel's high-speed connection. Which I have to pay for. A not-quite-nominal fee. Last weekend, I was in Dallas, at a mid-price hotel. And the internet was free. And fast. Go figure.

On the other hand, there's the housekeeping services. At mid-range hotels, one basically has to vacate or otherwise allow housekeeping to do your room fairly early on in the day-- or plan to not have it done. As is quite often the case when I am away, I was in my room all day until I had a late afternoon appointment. At my current place of lodging, they called me to inquire as to when they could service the room-- and offered to do it at my convenience. Which in this case was 5:30 p.m.

About that appointment. I managed to pick up a nasty neck/shoulder spasm yesterday. Not sure how, but I would not be surprised to find that stress was a major culprit, this being the end of the semester and all. I've had these before, but not in a long while. Don't miss 'em either. One of my colleagues suggested I try acupuncture. I had never done it before, but figured, short of finding and convincing my doc to prescribe me some Flexeril, I might as well give being stuck a try.

It was a cool experience. Took about a hour. Needles in my neck, back and shoulder-- some attached to an electrical muscle stimulator, a heat lamp, and cupping. If you don't know what that is, it's dozens of small suction cups vacuumed onto your skin. I'm told it will leave bruises. So far, not so much. Good thing my gown has a mandarin collar. After all of that and some massage, I actually feel tons better. Not completely relieved, but at least my ear doesn't hurt and I can move my arm and neck.

And I never thought I'd say this: Austin's traffic makes Houston look like a backwater. What the hell? I've been driving in Austin for a while now, and I've never seen it like this. Rumor has it the toll roads-- or rather opposition to them-- is crowding the free roads.

Anyhoo-- off to bask in my amazing king bed with the down duvet and watch Law & Order on the jumbo flat-screen. I could seriously get used to this!

100% Shameless Self-Promotion

2007-10-24T23:37:00.000-05:00

Hello Y'all!

Life is still nutso, so postings are yet sparse. But– if you are in the Houston metro area, or can get here relatively easily, here's a plug for my Doctoral Recital! Details:

THIS FRIDAY - OCTOBER 26, 2007
8:30 p.m.
Dudley Recital Hall
Fine Arts Building (behind Blaffer Gallery, across the courtyard from the Moores School Building)
University of Houston - Entrance 16
FREE!

What am I singing, you ask? The recital is titled "Let Evening Come: Songs of the Night." All the songs are, literally or metaphorically, about night. Bolcom's Let Evening Come for soprano, viola and piano opens the program (with Austin Symphony Principal Bruce Williams doing the honors). Rounding out the first half is a Scarlatti Serenata for 2 violoins and continuo called, Hor che di Febo ascosi (Now that the Phoebus has hidden). That one is assisted by Andres Gonzalez and Alan Austin on violin and Valdine Ritchie on cello. The second half starts with a mixed set of French and German art songs that form a narrative about night by Fanny Mendelssohn, Massenet, Debussy, Wolf, Chausson and Richard Strauss. The recital ends with Barber's Knoxville: Summer of 1915 in the composer's piano reduction– artfully played by Keith Weber, who is handling all of the keyboard duties.

If you are really bored, here are my program notes:

Let Evening Come: Songs of the Night is an exploration of the many aspects of night, for night is more than just part of the circadian cycle; more than simply the period during which beings allow their bodies to experience the restorative powers of sleep. In this program we have gathered together works representing these several aspects: The night of the soul in mourning, the night in which uncertainty gives way to acceptance. The night of lovers, both requited and unacknowledged. Night as the backdrop for romantic assignations and for searching: for love, for understanding of one’s innermost self.

Three of the works are stand-alone cantatas/large-form works. For the remaining set, I created a song cycle to tell the night love story I wanted to tell, but could not find in an existing song cycle.

We begin with William Bolcom’s Let Evening Come. Written in 1994, it was commissioned as a duet for Benita Valente and Tatiana Troyanos. When Troyanos unexpectedly died, it was determined that the commission should go forward and a viola part was written in homage to and in stead for the deceased mezzo-soprano. Bolcom selected texts by three dynamic American female poets: Maya Angelou, Emily Dickinson and Jane Kenyon. All possess powerful voices expressing in wholly different, yet wholly compatible ways, the experience of life, and loss: literally, the “dark night of the soul.”

The fiery, raw opening motives depict a soul in the deepest throes of grief, parsing the relationship between the life and memory of the departed soul to those left behind. Ultimately, we are reminded, “we can be, and be better, for they existed.” The setting of Dickinson’s poem finds us in a middle place, where grief or fear can paralyze us; trapping us in a place of perpetual night until we are at last persuaded to move on. Bolcom uses a hypnotic ticking motive, reminiscent of a clock-hand ticking off the hours of the night, to great effect in this movement. He follows this movement with an instrumental interlude that ties in the themes from the two prior movements and introduces the theme for the final movement. This third song, the Kenyon poem, brings to a close Bolcom’s exposition of loss and acceptance and exhorts us to embrace all of the things that happen in the night; as “God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come.”

Once invited into this nightscape, we turn to the unrequited lover, a staple character of the Serenata (night song), and of night songs and stories of all kinds. In Scarlatti’s Hor che di Febo ascosi the unnamed lover watches night fall and his sleeping beloved. Talking to the night he says all of the things he wishes he could say to his lover during the day, but does not. Scarlatti’s swain seeks refuge in the night, praising its powers of concealment, but ultimately choosing to remain undeclared, telling the beloved, “Sleep… in peaceful oblivion. Let your splendor sleep, for I am leaving.”

This cantata is but one of the hundreds Scarlatti composed. Apparently dating from 1704, it is part of his Roman repertory, which includes a number of Serenatas on pastoral themes similar to this one. One interesting feature is the progressive deconstruction of its formal structure. After two standard da capo arias, Scarlatti closes the work with two through-composed arias. The first of these emerges from an arioso, rather than a strict recitative, which itself proceeds from an instrumental ritornello ending the previous aria. Finally, listen carefully for the ending of the cantata, which Scarlatti treats quite literally; perhaps providing inspiration for later works, such as Haydn’s Farewell Symphony.

Leaving behind the scene of a lover languishing in the night, we observe the course of happy love in the night. Or do we? In six songs, essentially tracing an arc through the second half of the nineteenth century, we see the lover out in the night searching (Nachtwandrer), finding and wooing a suitable partner (Nuit d’Espagne), consummating the affair (Aimons-nous et dormons), marveling at the wonder of true love (Heut’ Nacht erhob ich mich), reveling in the maturation of the affair (Cantique á l’Épouse), and finally, fearing the loss of the loved one in the night (Nacht).

These songs share the ethos of the period, conjuring images of nature to express deep feeling. Here too, we see the various guises of the night: a time of potential and possibility, a place of concealment, a covering of safety, a place of repose and a dangerous place where loss lurks behind every shadow. It is interesting to note that while there is a definite undercurrent of languor in the songs of this “cycle,” it is offset, often simultaneously, by a sense of movement or change. For example in the Debussy, the relatively slow (sometimes static) harmonic motion is overlaid with a near constant sixteenth note motive. In the Chausson, the languid affect is almost usurped by the constantly shifting harmonies.

Our last night journey takes us into the labyrinth of memory. Barber’s Knoxville is a beloved work in the soprano repertoire. On its surface, the night in question here is literal, “It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently.” After the first two sections of the piece, however, it becomes clear that these pleasant twilit memories also unearth something darker and more painful, something more akin to the dead of night.

Though not explicitly expressed, the author (and by extension, the composer) is working his way up to and through the processing of a huge loss—his father’s death. The text is from James Agee’s autobiographical novel, in which his father is struck and killed by a car one evening. In the interludes, Barber deftly foreshadows the event, which is ultimately realized in the narrator’s prayer for God to “bless my people… now, and in the hour of their taking away.” Knoxville was commissioned by soprano Eleanor Steber, but also touched Barber deeply, as he lost his own father while composing it.

The end of Knoxville, and indeed, of our night voyage, brings us back full circle. Musically, Barber comes back to the material of the beginning as the narrator describes being put to bed by his family. What follows however, returns us to the beginning of our evening, to the place where realization and loss meet: in broad musical strokes, the narrator laments that no matter how “familiar and well-beloved” he is, these people about whom he has reminisced, and for whom he still mourns, “will not, not now, not ever, but will not ever tell me who I am.”

Dispatches from the edge, part the Nth

2007-10-10T22:21:00.000-05:00

My goodness! Has it really been since August 29th? I'm even more behind than I thought. As usual, there's a really good reason. Well, really several really good reasons, most of which I alluded to in the previous post. You don't remember? Those performance dates, yeah those.

To catch you up on the last month and change. I moved into my lovely midtown Houston abode on September 8. I still love it, although there are lots of boxes everywhere.

The Ars Lyrica concert on the 7th went really, exceptionally well. We got a great review and had a nice, nearly full house. As usual, there are musical moments I'd love to have back for a do-over, but given the madness of that week and the incredible lack of sleep the night before, it was nothing short of miraculous. I especially enjoyed getting to make music with a former HGO colleague, Marie Lenormand. She's quite amazing.

School, of course, is taking up a lot of mental and temporal real estate, but it's only for another semester-- then I can start writing. Ack. Good classes, fairly reasonable schedule, and not nearly as much back and forth between UH and HBU.

Speaking of HBU, life as an Assistant Professor is not too bad. I have 16 students, we all seem to be getting along (translation: they do what I want, for the most part), and my colleagues are great. Haven't had to endure too many faculty meetings, but I suspect that has more to do with not hearing about them and being gone for two weeks.

Where'd I go? It's fall and that means it was Conspirare time. We did a new thing for us, concentrated the entire rep on the works of one composer; 29-year old British-American Tarik O'Regan. Great music, lovely command of text and sound and good ideas. I can only imagine what he'll do in the future. We sang two of his major works, both with strings, and some smaller a cappella works, including three we commissioned from him for these performances on texts of Emily Dickinson and Pablo Neruda.

Not only did we sing this stuff (with Tarik present for a good bit of the rehearsals and all of the performances), we recorded it, back in Troy, NY for Harmonia Mundi. It's the same place we recorded the Requiem CD (the um, Grammy nominated one). The Troy Savings Bank Hall is still lovely, but unfortunately Troy has become a bit of the metropolis in the intervening two years. We had to redo some rather magical takes that were marred by traffic noise. I think the universe will be pleased with the results though.

The time has also been taken with preparations for my upcoming recital. Since it's a degree recital, I have to have it all ready two weeks before for a jury. That's tomorrow. I am experiencing not exactly mild trepidation, but I think I'll be OK. The recital itself is on Friday, October 26 at 8:30 p.m. in Dudley Recital Hall on the campus of the University of Houston. Y'all come. And bring your friends!

I'm sure I'm leaving something out, but I must attend to some of the juncture points in Knoxville. It's a different piece when you have to memorize it!

More later. Not as later as last time. I promise...

One more thing: if you're not busy this Saturday, October 13, come check out the Maggini String Orchestra. They are doing a Concert for Peace at St. Philip Presbyterian Church, and I'll be making a cameo appearance singing Schubert's "Ave Maria" in the original German translation of the Walter Scott poem. It's free, but I suspect there may be an offering involved. Or maybe not.

I, Homeowner

2007-08-29T22:50:00.000-05:00

Well, I did it. I bought a house. In one fell swoop– well actually several swoops of a lovely pen in the rendering of an increasingly illegible signature– I became a member of the landed public. Or as the Maestro would say, the landed gentry. Not sure how PC that is. And for a few short days, I'm also a landlord (technicalities and such). Wow. Doesn't take much for one's entire world to shift.

While I don't advocate such behavior, I have heretofore been able to remain blissfully ignorant of things like bond initiatives, school boards, property taxes, gentrification, homeowners associations— all manners of things. This is gonna be one hell of a steep learning curve. There is now a real price to pay for not paying attention, rather than the moral/karmic price previously exacted.

And since all of this is happening against the backdrop of the beginning of student school (the Music place) and teacher school (the Baptist place–replete with my first ever faculty meetings), not to mention a fairly busy performing schedule, your Yankee Hobbit is apt to "go dark" again for a while. Fear not! Lo, I am with you, even when I am silent.

If you're in Houston (or Austin, for that matter), come and check us out. Lots of upcoming opportunities:

September 7, 7:30 p.m.
Ars Lyrica Houston: Mad Women. Zilkha Hall, Hobby Center for the Performing Arts, 812 Bagby. www.arslyricahouston.org

September 16, 11 a.m.
Morning Worship, St. Philip Presbyterian Church, 4807 San Felipe, Houston, TX 77056

September 21, 8 p.m.
Col Canto: Freundliche Vision - The Songs of Richard Strauss. Christ the King Lutheran Church, 2353 Rice Blvd (@ Greenbriar), Houston, TX 77005. www.colcanto.org

September 22, 12:13 p.m.
Yankee Hobbit turns 40!!

September 24 - 30
Conspirare: Threshold of Night. Concerts as follows, more info at www.conspirare.org
Monday, September 24, 2007, 6:00 pm - Choral Conversation at The Crossings (Dinner and open rehearsal)
13500 FM 2769, Austin. Tickets: $25 *Please note: Deadline for purchasing tickets is September 19th.
Thursday, September 27, 2007, 8:00 pm (Choral Conversation at 7:00 pm) - Tickets: $30 General Admission, $15 Youth
University Presbyterian Church, 2203 San Antonio Street, Austin.

Friday, September 28, 2007, 8:00 pm (Choral Conversation at 7:00 pm) - Tickets: $30 General Admission, $15 Youth
St. Martin's Lutheran Church, 606 W. 15th Street, Austin.

***Saturday, September 29, 2007, 2:00 pm - Tickets: $20 General Admission, $10 Youth
St. Philip Presbyterian Church, 4807 San Felipe, Houston***

Sunday, September 30, 2007, 2:30 pm (Choral Conversation at 1:30 pm) Tickets: $30 General Admission, $15 Youth
St. Martin's Lutheran Church, 606 W. 15th Street, Austin

October 1 - 5
Conspirare Recording Sessions, Troy Savings Bank, Troy NY

October 7, 5 p.m.
Bach Society of Houston: BWV 205, Aeolus Appeased, Christ the King Lutheran Church, 2325 Rice Blvd (@ Greenbriar), http://www.bachsocietyhouston.org.

October 26, 8:30 p.m.
Melissa Givens, Doctoral Recital, Dudley Recital Hall, University of Houston, Entrance 16 from Cullen Blvd (from I-45). Works of Bolcom, Scarlatti, Barber, Wolf, Chausson, Strauss and others. Free.

November 4, 5 p.m.
Ars Lyrica Houston: Love and War. Zilkha Hall, Hobby Center for the Performing Arts, 812 Bagby. www.arslyricahouston.org

November 16 & 17, 8 p.m.
Austin Symphony Orchestra: Bach Magnificat. Riverbend Centre. www.austinsymphony.org.

December 31, 9 p.m.
Ars Lyrica Houston: Clandestine Classics (New Year's Eve Gala Concert and Auction). Zilkha Hall, Hobby Center for the Performing Arts, 812 Bagby. www.arslyricahouston.org

A few of my favorite things

2007-08-12T22:40:00.000-05:00

Deep sigh. I am moving. I hate moving. If all goes according to plan, I will be moving into my very first house. But regardless, thanks to the rampant capitalism of inner-loop leased real estate, I will be moving from my abode of 4 years. That rampant capitalism thing was not actually the impetus for the home buying thing, but merely a confirmation that the time had come.

Anyway, I am going through the apartment trying to have as little stuff to move as is Divameg-ly possible. A statement in which the Organist will find great humor– seeing as he played a significant role in the last two moves. Alas, he is geographically and temporally unable to reprise his starring role.

Anyway again, I find myself having to fight the urge to keep some things I really have absolutely no use for, simply because people I love gave them to me. My Mom would say, get over it! And I'm getting better. Probably another one of those maturity attacks. Somehow I doubt my loved ones center the measure of my affection on the stuff I've given them– with rare exception, thank you Maestro.

[NOTE: So I'm reading the above paragraph the next day and it reads badly. The aforementioned rare and notable exception is a good thing, and refers to a recent conversation about a particular gift. This is one of the drawbacks of late-night stream of consciousness writing.]

Anyway the third, one of the things I have no intention of getting rid of is technically detritus. It's a scrap of paper I ran across when I was going through our old 8mm films. Being the time before labelers and Post-its, folks were left to leave notations on actual paper. This actual paper is a "label" my Dad made for the film of my 3rd birthday party (this is actually not a shameless plug for my still-upcoming big 4-0 next month, just a coincidence. Really.).

Even before he died in 1992, one of my favorite things about my Dad was his handwriting. It was clean and elegant, always legible and completely identifiable as his. He always printed, never wrote in cursive. He could of course, and would do it as a parlor trick for his kids, who got a huge kick out of its femininity and non-Dad-ness.

Another thing he was great at was calligraphy, which he taught himself to do. I would spend afternoons and evenings in rapt attention as he got out the inkpots and quills and set to intricately scripting who remembers what in Old English and Zapf-y fonts. Friends and groups would ask him to do fancy stuff for special occasions.

Dad was also into woodworking, and could use a router (I guess that's what would be required) to carve those same beautiful fonts into wood, creating very artful albums and keepsake boxes.

Finding that scrap of paper was a wondrous gift and window back into one of the many lovely moments from my childhood. Of course, the films were great too, and eventually I had them turned into video for the family Christmas gift. The kiddos had a blast seeing their Moms and Aunties at their ages and younger.

Besides that scrap, one of the mementos I have of Dad's calligraphic talent was the announcement he made for my sophomore recital. It was a joint recital with my roommate. He was unamused when he realized that he had misspelled sophomore (like father, like daughter), but it was already printed and we weren't about to recall or redo it (like father, like daughter). The universe kept spinning, of course.

Here's a peek at some of my treasures:

It's a Woman's World!

2007-08-10T12:40:00.000-05:00

Welcome to all the new girl-babies in my life (and one boy-child)! It has been a bumper crop this summer. All of you have been wanted, prayed for, fretted over and eagerly awaited. We thought some of you would never come! But here you are. I know how happy you have made your parents, grandparents, aunties, uncles and other villagers, and we villagers are happy to have you and your parents in our lives!

First and middle names only and drum roll please...

Lauren Malone, July 16 at 5:14 p.m., 7 lbs 6 oz, 20 in. - Gainesville, GA
Kathleen Madelyn Boudica, July 18 at 5:06 p.m, 7 lb, 2 oz; 20.5 in. - Houston, TX
Isaac Alexander, July 23 at 10:58 p.m., 8 lbs. 8.8 oz. - Houston, TX
Rachel Kathryn, August 7 at 3:19 p.m., 6 lbs, 11 oz. 19.75 in. - Lubbock, TX

Wow! You mamas have been busy. And dads too!

It's interesting, these four babies are from parents I claim as friends from almost my entire span of adult life. One is the first child of one of my dearest college friends. One is the first child of a woman I have sung with for the last several years. Two are the children of good friends I never would have met, but for treasured friendships with the amazing people who introduced me to them.

And there are more coming. There are at least two friends of mine ready to pop as we speak.

My mom recently asked me if I had any desire to have children of my own. I carefully considered her question and said no. It is not for lack of a maternal instinct. Anyone who knows me well will tell you I have a "mama streak" a mile wide and I'm not afraid to use it. But I have never felt that desire, that "ovary twitch" as some of my friends call it, to birth my own children.

As one who is (or at least, has been) gifted at burying deep feelings and/or denying fairly primal desires, I have occasionally doubted the veracity of my assertions. But nothing, not poring over all of the baby pictures I have been sent, visiting the babies in the hospital, not even the wondrously enjoyable play time I got to spend with my kiddos in Buffalo has made me feel vacant, or unfulfilled or desirous. I like that sense of certainty.

I am fast approaching 40 (44 days and counting), which I believe was what prompted my mom's inquiry. There are a lot of things I have been evaluating as this milestone approaches. I have been deciding what works in my life and what doesn't. What I have that I need and what I don't have that I want.

Yes, the Project has been part of that process. More on that later. Ultimately, getting this degree is part of that process. I am (deep shudder) in the process of buying a house. More on that later too.

I don't even think that my lack of a procreational desire has anything to do with my persistent singlehood. While the traditional progression is nice, if I truly wanted a child, I'd have one by now, with or without a partner. I dated a guy with a kid once, and I was ok with the idea of stepmotherhood. The older I get, the more likely the prospect that a man I marry would have his own children, for whatever that's worth. I'm way ok with auntiehood. I love that to pieces!

Of course, all this is well and good. The last chapter on all of this has yet to be written (there's always a news story about an ill-advised sexagenarian pregnancy). But I feel safe in saying that babymaking is like (insert honorable but not always desirable pursuit here): great idea, just not for me.

As for the Project? No releases, but no rehirings either. I have been in a travel- and way funky schedule-induced holding pattern. Fear not. Progress is just around the corner...

300 Lutherans walk into a bar...

2007-07-11T09:14:00.001-05:00

Several things have happened this week that really filled my tank, as it were. I sang a funeral this week and for some reason hearing testimonies from the son and the granddaughter about being loved and raised by this remarkable woman just got me to feeling all warm and fuzzy. And dang near impaired my usual emotional remove in such situations, singing-wise.

A friend of mine, after a few unsuccesful attempts at same is about ready to pop with a healthy baby girl. She's on Facebook (a mindless addiction I'd hate to recommend, but on the other hand, it's summer, right?), and reading about her preparations there and on her blogs has been so beautiful. She (like her husband who also blogs) is wickedly funny, and on several occasions I have hurt myself laughing at their dead-on observations. One of the most touching things they've done is made movies, more or less weekly, in which they talk to their soon to be daughter about goings on in their lives and her development. What a treasure that will be her whole life long!

And then there's those Lutherans! This week the Association of Lutheran Church Musicians is holding its national conference in Houston. At least the rain has stopped, but now it's hotter than, well, the hot place. Great for welcoming guests. Anyhoo, among the many worship experiences they planned for the conference was a presentation of Bach's Magnificat by the Bach Society of Houston. It's one of the groups I sing with, based at Christ the King Lutheran Church (known affectionately as Christ the Lutheran King Church, for reasons that are apparent when viewing the sign outside). I tried to find a picture of the sign, but alas, I could not. If you're in Houston, it's on the corner of Greenbriar and Rice. It's a stylized font, landscape orientation, two rows of text reading "Christ the King" on the left side and "Lutheran Church" on the right. Which, when read left to right like most folks do, reads:

Christ the Lutheran
King Church

All that to say, we did a Bach Vesper service for the assembled Lutherans. That would be Lutheran musicians. Choir directors, organists, ministers of music. People who sing. VERY well. There is nothing more exciting than hearing a live room resonate with the sound of people singing well together in large numbers. One forgets what hymns and responses can sound like when, well, civilians are singing. Not that there as anything wrong with that. But there is a lustiness, some extra dimension of sound that occurs when (for lack of a better word) professionals are the worship participants. When the ministers are being minstered to, there's a special feeling in the room. I've only gotten to experience this a few times, at similar conferences. And each time I am amazed, humbled and renewed.

Maybe I should go to more conferences! I suspect that might dim the experience. Not for nothing did the sages opine that familiarity breeds contempt.

In other news, the luckiest day of the century came and went almost without notice for me. I did not get married (ha! not even close!). But between the huge and near constant thunderstorms I did manage to get to the grocery store for provisions. Part of the simplification of my life has included avoiding carrying a purse whenever possible. Usually this entails pockets. In my haste to dodge rain splatters, I went out in one of my– pocketless– lounge/workout ensembles. Somehow, while attempting to keep and umbrella, keys, a shopping list and a credit card in my hands, I managed to drop the credit card. Not once, but twice.

The first time, in produce, a nice lady saw me drop the card and handed it over. To my great relief. The second time, somewhere between seafood and meat, I didn't feel it go, nor was there any savior-like shopper in my vicinity. I realized I was without a means to pay for my groceries when I was nearly at the check-out. After taking a moment to panic (and dreading the thought of having to go back to the poultry counter to return the painstakingly measured chicken), I went to the customer service desk and inquired about my lost card. One of the associates had picked it up. They had even paged my name over the PA. Never heard it. I was one very grateful customer that day, let me tell you.

And yes, we are re-evaluating our purslessness.

It has been time for my annual woman's worryfest over the, um, girls. They being what they are, questionable mammograms are more the rule than the exception. Of course, my life being what it is, I kind of skipped a couple of years. [NOTE: I COMPLETELY DO NOT RECOMMEND THIS. STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING. IF YOU ARE A WOMAN OF APPROPRIATE AGE, CALL YOUR DOCTOR NOW AND SCHEDULE YOUR EXAM. IF YOU ARE A MAN, CALL THE WOMEN IN YOUR LIFE AND GET THEIR EXAM SCHEDULED. PRONTO. I MEAN IT. GO. NOW!] This year though, the skipped years (3) combined with the changed (i.e. smaller) landscape, meant the good doctor found some new areas to worry me about. Fast forward through the obligatory (and inconclusive) ultrasound and he sends me to a specialist.

Let me say here that this is summer. I've had a lot of traveling to do. All of these visits and tests are happening in a very extended manner, taking place between May and July instead of the oh, week in which they could have taken place, travel notwithstanding. Just a small added stressor.

She, the surgeon, is a lovely woman. Great treatment manner and trustworthy. She sends me to a hospital for a Dilon scan. If you don't take the link, it's a nuclear medicine test with scary accuracy. It is able to definitively rule out cancer, and can detect lesions as small as 1 mm. I am surprised more people don't know about this, which is why I'm telling you. I'm clean, by the way, so no worries there.

Project update: With all the traveling (Europe was grand, another post, another day), my task has been pretty much maintaining. Which I have managed to do. So we stand at 63.5 lbs released.

Gotta go see my babies. More later!

When worlds collide

2007-07-03T00:16:00.000-05:00

Hey there! Yes, I have done a good job of maintaining radio silence. No, it has not been because of 1) a lack of things upon which to comment, 2) a lack of time in which to comment upon the aforementioned things or 3) those pesky black helicopters.

That last one was a joke. Really.

So, since the hour she be late and the diva she be tired (despite having done absolutely nothing to earn said fatigue), this will be a brief post. Mostly to tease Peter, who (unless he gave up on us completely) has been out of his mind waiting for just such a tasty morsel as this post.

Two news items slid across my consciousness a short while ago. They are essentially unrelated. Neither was unexpected. Both are extremely distressing to my being. And both are timely in their own way.

Once upon a long time ago I saw a movie with Demi Moore called The Seventh Sign. Or maybe The Seventh Seal. One is by Bergman and is Art. The other is Not. Anyway, the Creepy Harbinger Of The Apocalypse Knowingly Intoned By A Very Odd Stranger is about a thing called the Guff, where souls wait to be reborn into babies. The Guff thing is sometimes infinite, but for some reason unremembered by me, it is now finite and nearing Empty. And when it's empty, the first baby born without a soul will be the Antichrist or some minion thereof. (Sorry, it's been a while.) Something about dead birds being the tip-off and such.

Well, I haven't seen any dead birds (but I'd love to see some dead damned spiders– a tale for another day), but as for the Harbingers, they be about. Back to those news stories:

1) Famed Opera Singer Beverly Sills Dies of Cancer at 78

2) Bush Commutes Libby Prison Sentence

Both of these were the proverbial other shoe dropping. I'd read a news item that Sills was ill and checked in at Opera-L (those folks know EVERYTHING there is to know about the world of opera–and if they don't, they know where to send the hounds), discovering that she was pretty much days away. I had hoped against hope that Bush wouldn't intervene in the Libby case, but again– foregone conclusion.

This is not an original thought, but it is about the biggest possible kick to the arse of a country in the throes of a hotly contested war that is allegedly about democracy to essentially set aside the democratic process because it "isn't fair." Here's a news flash. Lying in court is wrong. If you get caught lying in court, the chances are really good that the punishment will involve incarceration. "Fair" is not part of the equation. Try that "fair" crap on people who can't afford high powered Washington lawyers and even higher placed friends. Actually, friends is kind of a strong word. It was those same highly placed friends who hung old Scoot out to dry on the whole Plame thing in the first place.

As for the sadly late Ms. Sills, her death did not make it onto the pages of CNN.com; which is more or less the news source of record for the country these days. Couldn't even find it on the entertainment page, which was prattling on about the movie Transformers and Larry the Cable Guy. This woman sang, entertained and educated this country for decades. She was Britney (pre-nutso Britney, to be sure) before Britney was Britney and was better at it than all of her wannabes put together. Has opera become so marginalized that the death of one of its brightest lights is less news than 7-Eleven changing its name to Kwik-e-mart for a movie promotion?

Maybe these are the birds.

Addendum/update

2007-05-16T23:45:00.000-05:00

Oops! Forgot to let you know where we are on The Project. As of when I left Houston, the total number of pounds fired from their previously tenured positions was 61.

The astonished looks have begun. Woot!

I'm hoping at the very least to stay there whilst I am away-- if not actually send a few more packing...

Porgy-- that's a fish, right?

2007-05-16T23:14:00.000-05:00

Hello all! Greetings from colder-than-it-oughta-be-but-no-one's-surprised-because-it's-lakeside-Minnesota-in-May Duluth!

Yes, it has been a while, but there is an incredibly good reason for that. I have been completely and totally out of my mind accomplishing the end of the semester/quarter and lots of work besides. Yea, even now, whilst sharing a little bit of my world with you, I should be learning music. Or sleeping. Or both.

When last we met ourself coming, we were in the midst of paper presentations. Well, got through those. The papers were a little more of an issue. The George Crumb Ancient Voices of Children paper for Performance Practice II was due first. I thought I'd have trouble reaching the minimum of 15 pages. Ha! Following my outline (a novel concept– I should have tried it years and degrees ago), I was not even 2/3 done and already at 17 pages.

Between that and impending dawn, I whittled down the focus and topped out at 21. The kicker? I belatedly took the Conductor's advice to contact Mr. Crumb for my paper. I didn't really expect to hear back, but the day after I turned the paper in, I heard from his "people." Becky S. said I could "call George and ask him" my questions. !!!!!!!! Of course I called. He's just as sweet and laid back as the books and articles said he was. We spoke for about 20 minutes about singers and music and Jan DeGaetani and AVOC. It was great.

Before I did that though, I took my Italian Madrigal final. There was also a concert with the Bach Society that weekend with the concomitant rehearsals.

So, the madrigal paper, the one I thought wouldn't be so hard, was truly kicking my butt. Maybe because I was focusing on a socio-political aspect rather than a musical one. I don't know. I also lost some time to some, um, unexpected rehearsals. At any rate, the night before the thing was due I was in near hysterics with absolutely nothing to go on and no brain power to get there. I broke down and asked for my first extension ever! Extension granted. Finally got that sucker in last week.

Of course, that was the week I had planned to solidify my Clara and Mary Magdalene for those fast approaching performances. Alas, they had to wait too. But I got through the Handel-- after which I had to finish packing for a 7 am flight to Duluth for Porgy.

Although I am having a blast and getting to know/be reacquainted with some fine singers, this Porgy thing (yes, there really is a fish called porgy– it's one of the few fish my non-pescatorial gustatationally inclined mother would eat when I was growing up) is turning into an object lesson in why I need an agent. Of course, all of the other singers are managed and they're still here, so maybe not. But I digress.

This show was supposed to be a concert presentation of the opera Porgy & Bess. For those of you who don't know, that means you take an opera (sets, costumes, staging, movements, props, etc.) and perform it like an oratorio (stand and sing, looking stunning in a fabulous gown). Then they said, well, we'll make it semi-staged, with just a few entrances and exits and a little "business" to establish some of the drama. We get to Duluth and find that it's essentially a fully staged production, only without costumes per se, and with limited props/set-pieces. And I am BEAT, I tell you! They've got me dancing and carrying a baby (yes, they were able to find a baby of color at the KMart), and running around and whatnot. Ack. But it'll be great. The cast is pretty amazing!

As usual, I had some great observations over the last few weeks that I wanted to remember and share with you, but as usual, they've left the building. Rats.

Now I lay me down to sleep. Catch you on the flippers...

Like Camelot, only different

2007-04-26T22:09:00.000-05:00

OK, I couldn't resist. I am in the middle of this paper on George Crumb's Ancient Voices of Children (1970)– give me strength, Lord– and I have no business posting an entry, but the Universe demanded it.

I'm clearing a space in my "office" so that I can organize my notes (OK, so I'm not actually in the middle of the paper, more like the razor's edge of the beginning). While moving a pile of– actually, not quite sure what's in that pile, but it's made of paper– I found one of the many dust/lint life-forms that share my living space with me.

But this is Divaland, and everything is musical. Even the dirt. This particular particulate matter was shaped in the form of the most lovely calligraphic eighth note– perfect for some illuminated score. I'd take a picture, but like I said, I'm quite busy at present. You'll just have to trust me. Or come over some time. It's not in any danger of being re/moved any time soon...

Kai-o-ka-kai-o to you all....

Dispatches from the edge...

2007-04-23T20:33:00.000-05:00

This will be quick. Lots to do and no time (as usual!). For those who require specifics, that's 2 papers to write, 1 exam to create, 1 exam to take, juries to (endure?) at 2 schools, upper divisional exams to oversee at HBU and LOTS of music for this summer to continue learning. Where's my stunt double?

So, I saw this great comic in the paper today while I was stalking my UH students to sign up for juries. It was unfortunately way too autobiographical for my liking as I survived presentations today and this past Friday.

While trying to find a copy of the Conspirare CD (somehow managed to give away my last copy), I put my name in the search field on Amazon.com. My CD showed up! Some guy here in Houston is selling it used there for $55.95! Whaaaaaaaaat????? Some c-r-a-p about it being "rare and collectable [sic]." Whatever. Since I didn't have time to lodge a complaint, I listed it for sale for $13.99 for a new CD. That oughta fix his/her little red wagon!

Total released: 54. Here's a picture from the HBU Opera Gala this past weekend. The guy in the picture is one of my sophomore voice students, Jarrett Buffington. His mom took the picture.

Why the Imus Thing is a tragedy

2007-04-15T10:08:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine asked me what I thought of this latest mess with Imus. I'd heard about it, but here in "End-of-the-Semester Land" it didn't get a lot of traction. But I owe him an answer and here it is.

It's not that it's okay for Black people to call other Black people what Imus called the ladies of the Rutgers basketball team (I'm not putting it in here– there are plenty of other places to find it if you haven't already). It's that it is definitely not okay for White people to call them that.

Why?

Interestingly enough, this idea came up in an entirely different situation this week. Text requires context to acquire meaning.

An older White man making racially and sexually suggestive comments about much younger Black women still calls up all kinds of cultural and historical wrongs, pain and shame. America has not sufficiently dealt with the racial divide and reactions to events like the curiously simultaneous Imus-gate and the acquittal of the Duke lacrosse team make that painfully clear.

That's the tragedy. In 2007, that kind of visceral reaction still exists. And it is likely to continue.

The argument that it's "all just funnin' around" and that people are just trying to make a living doesn't cut it for me. There has got to be a better way to entertain than to demean. And don't think this disregard for people in general and women in particular is victimless. Any number of studies shows that things in your environment affect your outlook and actions. Sound is part of our environment; particularly in the age of iPods, YouTube and 24/7 video channels.

One of the less obvious reasons why the use of such speech by the hip-hop crowd is such a bad thing (caveat: not all hip-hop is like that, just ask my brother-in-law Edreys) is that some of the primary consumers of hip-hop are affluent young White men. Who then grow up to take their place in the prevailing power structure (it is what it is until it isn't) having been steeped in this miasma of misogyny. What then?

This could be a really long post, but chicken, George Crumb and the Ferrarese madrigal eagerly await my attention.

Other firings in the news this week? Four more pounds. Total released: 51.5.

It's Just Nice to Be Nice

2007-04-09T18:20:00.000-05:00

Happy Easter, Hobbit Fans!

Way back in my youth I had a pastor who used to follow certain admonitions with the phrase, "It's just nice to be nice." I got the gist of it; sometimes you do right by people just because. As I've gotten older and crabbier, I realized that it also means that sometimes you do right by people just because– and in spite of the fact that you much rather punch them out.

Today I got to be on the receiving end of the "just because" part (at least I hope there's no punchage involved). On Saturday I purchased my usual bucket o' chicken breasts from the grocery behemoth we affectionately refer to as Whole Paycheck; known to their investors and board as Whole Foods Market. I used to only shop there occasionally. Usually for really healthy things like Truffle Mousse or Very Rich Cheese. Oh, and really lovely sausage. Everyday shopping there just wasn't an option given the a) fairly steep prices and b) irksome practice of only carrying "green"/non-branded household products (sorry, I'm partial to certain soaps and paper products).

Since the Project though, I have become a regular there. When your day consists of a fairly intimate relationship with fresh produce, seafood and meat, you do whatever it takes to make sure that it's the best you can get. It just looks, cooks and tastes better from there. The seafood people know me and hail my arrival. The meat people? Probably not so much (maybe that's where the slap-ation will come from?). Not because I'm mean or anything, just precise. The Project requires that my chicken breasts be 8 oz raw weight (yeah, it's a lot, but I deal with it). Jones, one of my nearest and dearest, introduced me to the time-saving advantages (if not the joys) of cooking in bulk. I tried just getting x pounds of chicken and divvying it up into 8 oz parcels, but that was tedious and resulted in lots of piecemeal servings. So I gently request that they weigh the pechugos separately.

Anyway. I get home with my bucket o' breasts and in the trimming process (that alone is worth another post), I discover that one of them looks, well, off. And it kind of has a bit of that smell you get if you leave raw chicken parts/juice unattended in the trash for too long (never happened to you? Count your blessings!). So I call Whole Paycheck. The nice person at Guest Services (we'd damn well better be "guests" at these prices) tells me to trash the bad breast and bring in my receipt for a refund.

Which I promptly did this afternoon. Now, I was quite clear on the phone that only one piece of pollo was suspect. I was equally clear when I went to the service counter. I even showed the guy my phone calculator where I had figured out that the 11 oz breast was 0.6875 lbs of the 3 lbs. I purchased. To which he does not respond, but refunds me for the entire 3+ lbs. of chicken. It was like, $34!

I guarantee you the $34 they refunded me is but a modicum of what I spend there on a monthly basis. Or what they make in sales from the always crowded store. I also guarantee you that that little investment of theirs ensured that I will not only continue to shop there but will be quite likely tell my friends how honest and upright they are (QED). See? Sometimes it is just nice to be nice.

In other news, they say it takes a village to raise a child. I submit to you that it also takes a village to shrink a diva. This is a major thank you to all who send notes, offer to alter party menus, make exercise dates, offer congratulations, condolences and advice, and generally make the Project as painless as such a thing can be. A very special thank you to another of my nearest and dearest, the Übermezzo. She was pressed into service by the Easter Bunny, who has apparently heard of my travails. To wit:

This Easter was radically different for me. For the first time in my adult life, I had no obligation to be anywhere for Easter services. I thought about accepting one of the offers I received to gig somewhere, but I wanted to leave my options open. Namely, my option to do the unheard of: stay home! This is actually part of a trend in my life to "de-fest" holidays. I'm just spending a lot more of them working at home. Or doing nothing at home, but basically stepping back to experience what various feast days mean to me without their external trappings. And food and drink. Thus began this Resurrection Day. I got up late, baked my bucket o' breasts and some dinner fish, ate lamb chops for lunch, cleaned a little and went to the library to do some research. It was this first departure from the house, at the bright and early hour of 5 p.m., that led to my discovery of the Easter Bunny/Übermezzo's handiwork.

Suspended from my doorknob was an Easter basket! I'll admit that my first reaction was grumbling. Not having yet taken the time to actually think about whence this bounty might have come (or to even look into the basket), I was thinking, "The entire world knows I'm on a major diet– who would leave me candy?" Upon further inspection I was delighted to see that the basket was made up of brightly colored eggs– which turned out to be cloth napkins– and a purple flower bath wand. It was so lovely, and thoughtful and creative– just like her. Again, it's just nice to be nice.

In addition to being pretty much my only celebration of the holiday, it was also just the thing to lift my, shall we say, annoyance at my slow release week. Didn't make the mini-goal, but got closer. And I'm totally still in the game. Laid off another 2# for a total of 47.5 after 3 months. But also set another 3 various inches packing (18 in all), so woo-hoo after all.

Long post, I know, sorry! Are you happy now, Peter? :-}

Foolery

2007-04-01T01:51:00.000-05:00

April 1. How can I resist posting on April Fools' Day? I would love to come up with some elaborate story with a great ending and "Ha! April Fools'!" tagged onto the end, but I hain't got the energy.

I spent the day (or at least way more of it than I intended) at the NATS (National Association of Teachers of Singing) Houston Chapter student auditions. That's what we call the "competition" we have at the local and regional level every year. When I competed, way back before the earth cooled, I wondered why they called it "auditions" when everyone treated it like a competition. Being new to Texas, I was already behind the curve when it came to the religious fervor of vocal competitions and was disinclined to get het up for it to begin with.

Now that I'm a voice teacher and get to read the magic book of rules for myself (now there's a byzantine document), I see the logic. The preliminary round is the allegedly non-competitive part. You sing for a panel who (ideally) grades you on your performance that day on a scale of 1-100. Again ideally, this is an assessment of your progress based on the expectations for one at your stage of vocal development, versus in terms of the other singers in your division. If you manage to get an average of 90 (or 2 scores above 90— but who's to quibble), you "advance" to the semi-final round, in which you are actually competing against those in your division who successfully made the cut-off. From there a small number advance to finals and then you have "winners" in first through (insert variable cardinal number of finalists here) places.

Having said that I get the logic, there's still some slight disconnect there. Not sure if it's the theory or the practice. Maybe it's the hybrid nature of the thing. Or more likely, the nature of the profession. Sometimes, even when singers say we aren't in competition with others, we really are. Maybe if I were running the world I would call the first round the auditions and the subsequent rounds the competition. Maybe I'd change the apparently misleading appelltion of auditions and just call it the student competition.

Although, if I really were running the world, there would be far more pressing matters to which I would attend.

Well, that was longer than I planned. I could have gone ahead and done something foolish. It'd be a first.

By the way, I had six singers entered. One was a no-show (grrrrrr). They all sang well, or so they tell me. Jarrett Buffington made semis in Sophomore Men (non-competitive at the local level, but an achievement) and Jessica Reyes won 2nd place in Beginning Adult. Way to go, Studio!

I judged the 11th grade girls category. Trust me people, the profession is in good hands. These kids blew me away. No way high school girls sang like that when I was in high school (when dinosaurs roamed the earth).

This too, is no fooling: 45.5 lbs. The mini-goal of 5o by Easter is within reach.

Happy, Lucky Me!

2007-03-29T22:25:00.000-05:00

OH. MY. GAWD!!!! One of my very favorite people surprised me with a "school's almost out" gift this week. It was one of the books I've been salivating over, by a guy I've been salivating over. That would be TV's Craig Ferguson. He wrote a novel. Something about a bridge. Rumor has it it's a great dark, romantic comedy. I don't care; it could be about green peas (which I loathe) and I'd want to read it. I swear, I don't know what it is, but I really have a serious celebrity crush on this guy! But alas, the book will have to get in line with the 2 papers and boatload of music requiring my attention between now and the end of May.

Speaking of which, I might ought to get busy with that.

As for The Project? Middle of week 13 and 43 lbs released.

Please release me...

2007-03-16T19:07:00.000-05:00

...leeeeeet me goooo. Yeah, it's a song. Pretend I'm singing.

So here's the mea culpa. I haven't been posting because I've been undecided about whether or not to address my big project, namely, weight releasing. Weight loss is what it's usually called, but I've decided not to call it that anymore. Mostly because just about anything I ever lose, I find. Weight is something I'd rather not find again.

Assuming I continue to lose it. I mean, release it. See, here's the thing. If you all know I'm on a reduction program, and the next time you see me, I look just like I did the last time you saw me, that makes me a loser. And not in the now bad, formerly good way.

Now, one could look at this as incentive or added accountability. Or one could be me and look at it as yet one more thing to fear. Or (another or), one could look at it as one of the myriad reasons why previous attempts at (see, here's how this works) weight loss didn't work.

The other thing is that it was never my intent for this to become a blog about weight release. But, as I said, the blog is about me and my ideas and experiences. This little journey of mine is taking up rather a large parcel of my life's real estate. Ergo, from time to time this blog will traverse the territory of my new job.

That said, the stats so far:
-Started January 5 (nothing like pictures of Christmas Past to jumpstart Christmas Future).

-Pounds released as of this morning, 38.5 (More than a 3-year old-- thanks Anlyn!).

-The program? Quick Weight Loss Center (can't change the name).

-The plan? Lots of protein, fruits and vegetables, moderated fats, sugar and salt. Some voodoo supplements thrown in for good measure.

-How long? Active weight reduction for 1 year followed by stabilization or maintenance.

-Why this just might work this time? Aside from quite literally losing some emotional baggage at the airport last Christmas, there is the little manner of my great propensity for parsimony. As a few of you might now, other than as regards gifts for others or accessories for myself, I am a tightwad. I hate spending and particularly wasting money. Which is not to say that I have not done a fair amount of that in my lifetime (a conundrum for a future post). But, one of the cheeky parts of this "program" is that they make you pay for it up front. It's cheap on a week-to-week basis, but for a whole year in one chunk? Not so much. And besides not wanting to face 40 the way I faced 22-39, one of my beloved Aunties tells me that 2007 is a year of completion. So there.

Thus begins my year of magical thinking (with all due respect and apologies to Joan Didion).

Why magical thinking? Because this is what the program is really costing me. Unfettered access to Chick-Fil-A, alcohol and sugar. Life with no planning (and therefore, no responsibility). The ability to not examine the finer details of my life and motives. Dying early and in decrepitude. Hmm. Maybe not so magical after all.

In other news? With the various Spring Breaks (the bonus of two, the negation of their being at different times), I have been watching waaay too much TV. I have a deeper insight into how sane people become psychos. If you watch enough TV, you begin to believe that you can predict the future. This may just be me, in which case it is proof either of my brilliance or the dearth of good writing. And all the positive self-esteem in the world won't keep me from believing it's the latter.

I try to kick myself for not being more productive. I know I will do so in a month or two when I am truly snowed under. But in my more rational moments I realize that this is the space (shall we say comma) that will get me through the oncoming blizzard.

You are getting sleepy. I have to use the 9th wonder of the world (that would be the George Foreman Grill) to make dinner. That's right— me, cooking. Take that, past life!

Not dead yet!

2007-02-23T01:33:00.000-06:00

Well, that's probably one of the few Monty Python quotes you'll get here. It's not that I am not a fan as much as I have never seen the movies. Have glimpsed snippets of sketches through sleepy and/or drunkenly half-closed eyes, but that's that.

All that to say, this is just a place holder. I've had lots of things to post, just no time to organize and write them. Life. Is. Busy!

Take care and talk to you soon!

Domestic Hilarity

2007-01-27T11:25:00.000-06:00

This will be brief. Come to the Moores Opera House tonight or Monday to see me sing Despina in Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte. It's your basic sexual farce. I am one of the manipulators who is being manipulated in turn by a duplicitous older man with his own agenda.

Yeah, she's a maid, but so what. She's running things. Power is relative. No matter your station in life, you can, to some degree, control your destiny by taking and wielding your own power. Even if it only extends as far as maintaining your own personal dignity. Therein lies one of the secrets of the universe.

7:30 p.m. Saturday, January 27 and Monday, January 29. Moores Opera House. University of Houston Entrance 16 off of Cullen Blvd (at Elgin).

Tickets are $15 or $10 for students and seniors.

www.uh.edu/music

Confessional addendum (also random)...

2007-01-10T00:18:00.000-06:00

I love Craig Ferguson. He is side-splittingly funny. No matter how tired or pissy I am at midnight when he comes on, I am laughing all. through. the. monologue.

Perfectly irreverent, just a bit salacious, and very clever. I want to bear his children...

(Oh wait. I don't do children. But you get the idea...)

I was trying to wake up Saturday morning and heard the tail end of Craig's appearance on one of my favorite radio shows, Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! Note to self. Gotta download that show.

Happy New Year (and other random things)!

2007-01-09T23:34:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year, Yankee Hobbit Fans!

Yes, I know it has been almost a month. But, I've been busy, I swear!

To those of you who braved the booze-fueled crazies for Ars Lyrica Houston's First Annual New Year's Eve concert and silent auction, thank you for coming and we hope you had a great time! The concert itself was, if I may say so myself, right nice. We brought in a Baroque flutist, Colin St. Martin, from Peabody. He was the shizznit! Just amazing! And a lovely guy to boot. I assayed one of Bach's less well-known Italian secular cantatas, BWV 209, "Non sa che sia dolore." What a lovely piece! And I enjoyed performing it with Colin and the rest of the band.

Afterwards we hosted a gala reception and silent auction. Rather well attended, successful, I'm told. Great things that got snapped up for (hopefully) lots of cashola.

Afterwards afterwards, a certain occasionally unwise soprano invited the performers and the board to her place for an afterparty. What was she thinking? But it was fun too. Even if I did have to kick the last person out at 5:45 a.m.

My first Amahl and the Night Visitors was also a phenomenal experience. Total shout out to my Amahl, 10-year old Adam Sadberry from Conroe. He rocked it!

Random things to begin your year:
- Cooked cauliflower and cottage cheese tastes like mashed potatoes. No lie!

- The Beefeaters are about to get the first female member in their 500+ year history.

- Where have I been on the George Foreman grill thing? Amazing.

- Sometimes things you buy from the television are good buys. Like the Ultimate Chopper.

- It is possible not to patronize Chick-Fil-A. Even when it's right down the street.

- The extra money it costs to shop at Whole Wallet is worth being able to get an actual butcher/fish person to "hep ya wit' yer meat."

- Arsenic used to be known as "inheritance powder" because impatient heirs would use it to bump off their elders. This would be before it was detectable in corpses.

- There was an indigenous Caucasian race in Japan called Ainu. They have been assimilated.

- Those last two are courtesy of one of my Christmas toys, the 2007 Fact or Crap calendar. They would be facts, not crap.

A Carol Primer...

2006-12-15T14:29:00.000-06:00

Hallo Yankee Hobbit Fans! I believe you now number 4!

So here's my Christmas/Hannukkah/Kwanzaa/Winter Solstice/End of the year gift to you, this primer. And that's pronounced PRIH-mer like Dick and Jane, not PRY-mer as in base coat. I would have done it in IPA, but this goofy thing doesn't support the font code. Rats.

Anyhoo! Here we go:

1) The First Nowell: Sometimes this is spelled "The First Nöel," which is wrong. Why? Because Nowell is an Old English term for "greeting" or "salutation" or "celebratory announcement." Which makes the opening line make sense: "the first announcement the angel did say was to certain (i.e. calm, reassure, keep from freaking out) poor shepherds in fields where they lay." I picked this random info up along the way, but I can't prove it– so if you know something, let a Hobbit know. But I did find this, and #2 on this post was already in there before I saw it...

Another bit of trivia about this tune, is that it appears in diminution (professor talk for really fast) in the opening of the Cafe Momus scene in Puccini's La Bohême.

The link for this text is really arcane, but has fun tidbits of info, including all of the 9 verses. Did we even know there were 9?

2) God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen: Note the placement of the comma in that title. The gentlemen in question are not modified to be merry, they are commanded by the imperative statement "God rest you/ye" to remain merry. This website (soon to be a favorite), lists as humorous alterations: "God Bless Ye, Anti-Spammers" and "God Rest Ye, Poor Small Businessmen" among others.

3) Do You Hear What I Hear?: OOOOOOh. This one sends me over the edge. In the third verse, the shepherd boy says to the mighty King, "Do you know what I know?" Then he elucidates that by saying, "in your palace warm, mighty King." Again, no vocal roadkill with that comma, folks. The shepherd boy is not ascribing qualities of warm fuzziness to the king, who he probably had to walk across fire and fight a bastion of bureaucrat types to see. He's contrasting the warmth of the palace in which the King lives to the cold manger in which the Baby Jesus is shivering. Makes me laugh in every single recorded version of that song!

4) It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year: This one's more of a question than a rant. Exactly which ghost stories are we supposed to be telling? I never understood that one. The only ghosts I associate with Christmas are the three from A Christmas Carol, which is only one story. Hmmm.

5) Up on the Housetop: Another curiosity. There's a line this one where the gifts each child has been given are described. Most of them make sense. But then there's Will: his stocking gets a "glorious fill." "Fill" isn't used much alone as a noun anymore, if it ever was. I imagine that it made sense then, or maybe it was just to complete the rhyme– and I have no problem with that. But the song has ben re-made several times since it appeared what sounds like 40 years ago and each incarnation mentions Will and his glorious fill. I get the giggles.

6) White Christmas: The preantepenultimate line begins, "with every Christmas card I write" More comma crimes– not that the text I've provided is punctuated, which also proves my point below. Here's your pre-quiz quiz: Does that line belong to the preceding text, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" or to the following text,"May your days be merry and bright..." Not sure? Look through the Christmas cards you've received this month and see how many of the have "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" written inside... This one sets up a WHOLE other discussion of music breaks vs. text breaks. We'll save that for later!

My point in all this, and I have one, is that all texts have a message to transmit. And even those of us whose sole singing experience involves soap and running water have a responsibility to what the song is trying to say. Since I teach people who aim to sing in places other than showers, that is the second most important thing I want them to understand. So, a little food for thought this holiday season!

As a bonus, here's a neat holiday carol quiz. There are a couple of tricky questions on here, but I got a 92%. Have fun, folks!

"Merrrrrrrrry Christmas, and to all a good night!"

Word of the day (short but sweet)

2006-12-12T02:24:00.000-06:00

So, I've been working on all of these analysis papers these last few weeks. And I had an epiphany. I love words. I love their derivations. Try this on for size:

ANALYSIS
Anal (meaning, referring to one's arse)
Lysis (meaning, to break down, usually in a violent matter).

SO, the little known meaning of analysis is "to bust one's arse."

Ok, ok, I'm kidding. Or am I???

G'nite folks!

You may touch me now...

2006-12-08T23:15:00.000-06:00

*Ahem!* Ladies and Gentlemen, I am thrilled to announce that Requiem: We Are So Lightly Here, the freakishly stunning CD from Conspirare: Craig Hella Johnson and Company of Voices, has been nominated for a Grammy Award in Category 99, Best Choral Performance. Get it while you can, folks!

Yours truly has a solo on said album (Stephen Paulus's "The Road Home." Great piece. Disc 2, Track 6, FYI). One might say, ergo, that yours truly is a Grammy-nominated artist. Hmmm. Gotta find a way to leverage that, right? Super congratulations to Craig and the rest of my fabulous, amazing, gifted, wonderful co-Grammy-nominated colleagues.

In other way cool news: My wonderful friend and colleague, pianist Melissa Marse and I had a rare chance to sit and chill the other day at the Baptist place (how many music schools can boast two Melissas on the faculty?). One of the framed pieces on her wall was a musical genealogy. Her dad had looked into who her teachers were and who their teachers were and so on to see how far back he could get. He has traced her musical lineage all the way back to Giacomo Carissimi, a 17th century composer. In her "family tree" are some of my favorite composers: Alessandro Scarlatti, Ludwig van Beethoven, etc. Mind blowing.

It started me to thinking. I have absolutely no idea who my musical forebears are. For that matter, I don't know who my biological forebears are either, for much the same reasons. That information pretty much died with the people who had it. Kind of makes me feel rootless-ish. I could count from my current teachers– one of them thinks he can go all the way back to Garcia, whose name I came across in researching that paper I had to do last week. That'd be pretty cool.

As for the "real" ancestors? My uncle gave that a shot once. Didn't get very far. Maybe when I retire I'll have time and better resources to hunt some of that stuff down. I'll bet my kiddos (that would be the nieces and nephews) would like to know some of that stuff.

In case we don't chat before then, Merry Christmas and Happy 2007!

Plus ça change...

2006-11-28T23:41:00.000-06:00

That's the beginning of a French phrase, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, meaning "the more things change, the more things stay the same." Boy, truer words were never spoken— in any language.

As usual, I am writing this blog entry at the expense of a bigger, more important, deadlined project. But this time I have an excuse— I'm actually blogging about the bigger, more important, deadlined project. Namely, my ginormous term paper for a little class called Performance Practice. Much as I do with my taxes, I am considering this part of my organizational work for the paper– which is due on Friday.

And on what shall I be pontificating, you ask? I shall be holding forth on a 1995 English translation of a 1757 German translation and annotation of a 1723 Italian treatise on singing. Officially, the Johann Agricola work, Anleitung zur Singkunst (Introduction to the Art of Singing), which expanded and updated Pierfranceso Tosi's Opinioni de' cantori antichi e moderni o sieno Osservazioni sopra il canto figurato (Opinions of singers ancient and modern or observations on figured singing). All this has been put into legible-by-me form by the great early music soprano Julianne Baird (who, I might add, is from Statesville, NC; home of The Organist and 20 miles north of my Alma Mater on I-77).

Wait! If you're thinking, booooooring, stay with me for a minute. I was relatively rapt while reading this book. For the two of you who don't know me, when I'm not being The Diva, I am a voice teacher. I'm also a doctoral student, but I digress. Imagine my shock at reading admonitions like the following:

[The student] should repeat his lesson at home until he is quite sure of it and it has become imprinted upon his memory. He will thereby spare his teacher the trouble of repeating it, and himself the trouble of learning it again.
[...]
The young beginner in the art of singing should try as often as possible to listen to the most famous singers and best instrumentalists. From listening to their performance he derives more benefit than from any other instruction.
[...]
He should learn to accompany himself at the keyboard if he wants to learn to sing well.
[...]
I might almost assert that all effort that is expended on singing is useless if not accompanied by insight into the composition.
[... ]
If he practices his lesson at home, he should stand in front of a mirror from time to time. Not to admire his beauty with fascinated vanity, but rather to guard against or to free himself from convulsive movements of the torso or the face... *

I kept stifling the urge to go back and look at the dates to see if this was some kind of joke. These are the exact things we voice teachers say all of the time! Granted, the thing was in translation, but I also have a copy of the Tosi original in facsimile, from which I ascertained that Ms. Baird was not making this up!

This could be viewed as a good thing or as a bad thing. On one hand, there is rather a bit of gratification in knowing that one of the most well-known voice teachers of 1723 had the same problems we do in 2006 and in spite of that, our art has not yet died off. On the other hand? Two-hundred-and-eighty-three years from now, some voice teacher (or the computer that has replaced us) will be slapping its forehead and saying, "Omigod, this sounds just like now!"

There are lots of other things in the treatise, and sharing them with you really would be like a booty call to Morpheus. Suffice it to say, I'm pretty sure I can accomplish the requisite number of pages and still get some sleep.

Hey! Check out the website and get some holiday cheer by coming to hear me sing...

*Johann Friedrich Agricola, translated and edited by Julianne C. Baird, Introduction to the art of singing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 184-187.

There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza...

2006-11-16T22:17:00.000-06:00

First I will explain the title. My beloved Dad, who passed away in 1992, used to be fond of singing silly songs to us girls when we were little. On the hit parade were gems like "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, sittin' in the corner eatin' worms." I loved it. One of my favorites, because we could keep it going for inordinate lengths of time was, "There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza, there's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, a hole." The next verse, equally repetitive, was "Well fix it, dear Henry, etc."

I'm not sure what I liked the best. That it was silly? That it could be neverending (after several back and forth suggestions and epithets, we come back to bucket with the same hole— you get the picture)? Or that, given my nascent quasi-feminism, Liza was having none of Henry's patriarchal b.s. assertions that it was her job to get the damned bucket operational.

Whatever the source of my enamorment (is that even a word?), I was reminded of it when thinking about what today's topic would be. I think about my blog waaaay more often than I get to actually write my blog. Every day, hundreds of bloggable thoughts enter my head. And apparently exit just as quickly (perhaps the accommodations are lacking?). I was trying to come up with a way to express the feeling these fleeting thoughts— well, they aren't really fleeting, they stick around rather for while, just not long enough for me to pontificate on them in print— give me. And then I remembered this song.

So! Enough about that! If you came to hear the Sirens concert in either Houston or College Station, thank you and we hope you enjoyed it. Bring even more friends next time. If you missed it, here's my wagging finger.

I was going to say something else, but it fell out.

News of the Anticlimax

2006-11-07T23:29:00.000-06:00

Yes, I voted. It would have been hypocritical of me to do otherwise. I hope you did too. When referencing the actions of voters of my political stripe, a friend of mine calls what I did this morning "pissing in the wind." So be it.

Rumor has it that the Dems took the House. I have but three words for my new Peeps-In-Charge: Don't. Screw. Up. You have been given a sacred trust and an opportunity to foster sanity and common sense in the public discourse. Oh, never mind.

Perry got re-elected. Omigod! Are you kidding? I never thought— right, never mind.

In other news, Britney Spears apparently finally got around to that pesky divorce filing. When the impending divorce of one of America's most visible "stars" gets buried on CNN's waaaayy at the bottom menu, you know that it is not really news. File it under, "saw that one coming from a light year away." My only question is, what the hell took so long? In fact, what possessed you in the first place? I ask the same of Whitney Houston. Again, oh, never mind.

VOTE! And come hear me sing...

2006-11-05T22:52:00.000-06:00

Shameless self-promotion part whatever:

The week after Election Day (hint, hint), on Monday, November 13, you get to hear me and two amazing women (that would be Natalie Arduino and Tracy Rhodus) perform music written for the first-ever girl group, "The Three Ladies of Ferrara" as the next concert in Ars Lyrica Houston's fabulous 2006-07 season.

Where does this amazing and historic event take place? Why, Zilkha Hall at the Hobby Center for the Performing Arts, that's where!

Again, Monday, November 13 at 7:30 p.m. There are even student tickets available. This is a not to be missed event, so plan to come and bring at least 5 of your favorite people. "Butts in seats" totally needs to happen!

And if you live in the College Station area (this includes you Austinites!), we're doing a repeat performance on Tuesday, November 14 at St. Thomas Church in College Station. That one's even free.

Oh-- and by the way, go vote on Tuesday! Tell all your friends. Even the Republicans.

Arrested Development

2006-10-28T19:07:00.000-05:00

I just bought a set of major appliances. A washer and dryer to be precise. I might add, this was my first purchase of a major appliance. I felt like such a grown-up. Those of you who know me might find that odd since, as I am knocking on the door of 40 (an age some people actually consider "over the hill"), I have been a grown-up for rather a while.

But consider the usual rites of passage into adulthood. Home ownership. Marriage. Children. Major appliance purchases. Responsible employment. I have managed to avoid pretty much all of those for a very long time. That goes a long way toward demonstrating the old adage, "age is just a number; you're only as old as you feel." Many days I just don't really feel grown up.

Don't get me wrong-- I have certainly shouldered enough adult responsibilities. I vote, pay taxes and other bills, keep a roof over my head, contribute toward my (ha!) retirement, try to earn my keep, etc. And my friends are "grown-ups" with houses and children etc., so it's not like I don't have a peripheral/vicarious experience of all of that. But that feeling of being a "fully actualized" grown-up only comes in flashes-- like today, when I bought my laundry appliances. Or when I think it's time to seriously think about buying a house (which I'm doing again). Or when my friends talk to me about their young adult children and/or grandchildren. Or when people I knew as very young children invite me to their weddings.

Now that I'm in school again, I spend a lot of time around people who are somewhat to considerably younger than me. They will tell you that one of my popular refrains is "... because/but I'm old." I don't say it to get sympathy. I figure if I say it enough, I might convince myself.

Oh well.

Whatever you do, VOTE!

2006-10-27T13:20:00.000-05:00

That's it, essentially. Even if you don't vote for the people I want you to vote for (and you know who you are), it is our civil right and responsibility to participate in the annual attempt to make our governmental needs and desires known.

I remember being really excited about this time in 1988, when I was finally going to be able to go into one of those tiny booths and change the world. And to top it all off, my first election was going to be a presidential election. That's like having your birthday on the autumnal equinox or something (oh wait, I often do!). [Note: I was actually legal to vote in 1985, but since I was in college out of state, I didn't actually get to do an non-absentee vote until the presidential election, when I registered in NC. I think. It's all fuzzy now.]

Granted, my guy lost. Miserably. Was trounced, actually. As has often happened, given my personal political bent and the states in which I have lived since that fateful day in 1988. But this has not dampened my enthusiasm for the project. In fact, it has only strengthened it.

Have I voted every year? No. I must admit to being "too busy" a couple of times. Or not "bothering" to negotiate the byzantine system of polling places to find out where I was being shunted to once or twice. I always regret it when I don't vote.

So VOTE, dad-gummit! Make a difference somehwere, even if you don't think you can.

Topping off the tank.

2006-10-23T01:24:00.000-05:00

Ahhhh, if you can't have an actual vacation, you can at least have a gig where you get your batteries recharged.

I just (ok, a couple of hours ago) drove in from Austin, where I spent the week making music with the incredible artists known as "Conspirare: Craig Hella Johnson and Company of Voices." For the two of you who don't know, it's an Austin-based chamber choir with members from all over the country. Essentially all practicing professional musicians. We get together in various configurations 2-3 times per year for a 4 concert series. Rehearse for a few days, do a few shows, change a few lives.

Conspirare's big gig (our version of the Nutcracker, essentially) is Christmas at the Carillon. It's a collage concert where Craig comes up with a theme and finds ingenious ways to bring sacred and secular, classical and non-classical music together to give it life. Since it's at the start of HBU's winter quarter I've never actually sung one. I did however, get to attend one when they took it on the road to Galveston. It was really amazing.

I digress. This rep's title was International Masterpiece. Only three works on the program; Stanford's war-horse (but oh-so-beautiful) "Beati Quorum Via (Blessed are the undefiled in the way, who walk in the law of the Lord)," Daniel-Lesur's Le Cantique des Cantiques, a 12-part choral wonder juxtaposing the text of the Song of Solomon with various Latin chant texts, and Gretchaninov's All Night Vigil, a 40-minute marathon for mixed/double choir and soloists requiring the basses to sing F two octaves below middle-C.

Yes, we have the Basso Profundo Assoluto in our group. His name is Glenn Miller (really!) and he's an Organist/Choirmaster at a presby church up in Michigan. He is amazing. I want to see what his chords look like! He took those low notes and made the seats in the back of these churches vibrate. You don't so much hear as feel him sing sometimes.

Anyhoo-- Craig is right up there with Richard Bado in my book. Getting to spend a week away, really making a connection with the music and with the audiences reminds me of why I do what I do. And why it's so important.

And no, it's not always perfect. Six hours a day of rehearsal and standing through a fairly difficult 40-minute piece in Russian (excuse me, in Church Slavonic) is a workout. And since it's me, there were several misadventures along the way (including tossing my credit card in a garbage can at a Shell station on I-35 between San Marcos and New Braunfels-- ack!). But all in all, I think I'm ready to face the rest of the year.

I better be...

Friday the 13th indeed...

2006-10-13T22:55:00.000-05:00

Now, I am not the suspicious sort. Well, actually I am. But I am not usually superstitious. I didn't even think about it being Friday the 13th until someone pointed it out.

But now that you mention it, what better day for:

- A totally freak snowstorm shutting down my hometown of Buffalo, NY. Yes, I know we get snow, but not in October. And certainly not 2 feet in a day when just a few days before it was 60 degrees.

- An equally freaky Houston cold front that had us in the 60s this morning. Ok, not so much freaky as freaking great.

- Losing a cell phone not once, but twice in the same day? Lost by my mother's definition of, if I don't know where you are you are lost?

- Getting stalked by a killer mylar balloon which had heretofore been quietly residing (ok, lying in wait) on my dining room ceiling. It had begun to deflate; I presume the prevailing winds in my apartment kept it moving ever closer to me in different rooms. Eventually it met up with the ceiling fan. Again, not once, but twice. And it being a ceiling fan in my apartment, it had rather a nice build-up of dust. Dust which is now spattered all over my bed. Did it die? Of course not. I had to commit murder. But it was self-defense, officer, I swear!

- Speaking of balloons: the helium birthday balloons carefully inflated and released by the Maestro and myself in the Übermezzo's studio all falling by this morning? I'll just bet the helium was cut with some other nefarious gas. We are in the midst of a helium shortage, you know.

I'm just sayin'...

Like a fine wine...

2006-10-05T22:26:00.000-05:00

Mea culpa! Pretend it's not really been almost a month since we chatted! And what an almost-month it has been.

(This will be brief as, true to form, I am mid-important-daunting-nowhere-near-finished-task.)

The performances advertised in "Shameless Self-Promotion" went really well. The Zilkha Hall one could have had a LOT more butts in seats. So all you Yankee Hobbit Fans (ok, all 2 of you), call all your buddies and tell them to come to Ars Lyrica's next do in November. It'll be hot. I promise.

The "all about Divameg" show was fun too. Not very often you get to sing Chaka Khan, Richard Strauss and Thomas Dorsey in the same show.

Turning 39 was great! Had a wonderful day and an amazing dinner with a few friends. Lots of wine, lots of laughter, no song (well, the HB song, but that doesn't count).

The only bad thing (well, besides being swamped), was witnessing a rather horrific accident last week. I didn't see the actual impact, but I heard it. It was unlike any car crash I've ever heard before. From what I have been able to gather since, the "hitter" was traveling up to 80 mph and hit the "hittee" without slowing. Hence the sound. But heard it I did and turned in time to see the hittee (a car) fly vertically into the air and roll a couple of times when it hit the ground.

The people in that car didn't make it. The driver was drunk. You hear those two lines a lot, but until you see it happen, it doesn't really sink in. Two people, minding their own business, presumably following the rules and making safe, sane choices; mowed down because of the bad choices of one individual.

Besides not being able to shake the images from my head, I also can't seem to shake the feeling that I need to make my choices count more. Something about the possibility of being unmade by someone else's decisions makes making the most out of what you've got more important.

Be safe.

Shameless self-promotion...

2006-09-11T02:02:00.000-05:00

Extra, Extra, read all about it!

Upcoming Performances:

Sunday, September 17, 2006 4 p.m.
"The Singer's Voice" - A musical-autobiographical retrospective of MEG's life so far. Hosted by musician and raconteur Dan Chouinard and based on his long-running MPR show of the same name.
St. Philip Presbyterian Church (San Felipe at 610). Free.

Sunday, September 24, 2006 7 p.m.
Ars Lyrica Houston"Stravaganze" - Extravagant vocal and instrumental music from the late Italian Baroque, including vocal fireworks by Vivaldi and Handel and instrumental thrills by Alessandro and Domenico Scarlatti. Featuring Melissa Givens, soprano, Gerrod Pagenkopf, countertenor, and Timothy Jones, bass-baritone.
Zilkha Hall, Hobby Center (800 Bagby). Tix $25.

And it's not a performance, but without it, you'd not be reading this post right now:
Friday, September 22, all day (well actually, for about a week before and after) MY BIRTHDAY!

And there was much celebrating throughout the land...

Random thought for the day:
As I was lugging my belongings to the far reaches of the UH parking lot one afternoon, I noticed a neon sign on the side of the Blaffer Art Gallery. A neon sign was strange and random enough to behold. What it said was :

LAUGHTER

Then I saw a flashing letter to the left of it. I thought, typical school building. Put up a sign and the lights start to go. Then I noticed what the letter was. An "S," making the word

SLAUGHTER

I was literally taken aback. One measly letter was the difference between not only two vastly different pronunciations, but diametrically opposed concepts. Turns out it's an installation from London. Makes one think, won' it (arcane NC all-purpose slang, the exact orthography of which is anyone's guess. Means essentially, Right? Do you agree? Is that not the case, etc.)?

Through a lens, darkly

2006-09-05T02:05:00.000-05:00

We all have an official history of ourselves, kind of a snapshot version of who we are and how we came to be that way. I have now had cause to actually examine my "story." A friend and colleague of mine has roped me into a project that is essentially a musical "This Is Your Life" (Sunday, September 17, 4 p.m. St. Philip Presbyterian Church, y'all come!). In order to do that, one must presumably spend some time inside of one's head to nail down the flotsam and jetsam of one's formative past.

One of the prep questions I was asked was, "What has been the development of your identity as a singer? (When did it emerge? How has it changed over time?)" To which I replied (warning: long navel gazing ahead):

Hmmm. The funny thing is that I never really thought of myself as a singer, or planned to make it my life's work. If I thought of myself as a musician at all, it was as a pianist. Mostly, I wanted to be a doctor-- a neurosurgeon to be precise. But as I think about it, I have always been a singer of one sort or another. From children's choir, to school choir, to community youth choir, on thru college, and lots of singing around the house to boot.

In fact, one of my favorite books as a child was a book (I guess now we'd call it a graphic novel or such) titled "Melisande," about a homeless dog who becomes a famous opera singer. No words, just pictures and a "Foreword."

I've always said that no one really paid attention to me until college, but again, maybe not so true upon reflection. When I was 8 or 9 or so, my crazy (in a good, sane way) actress Aunt Edythe corralled me into making an audition tape for something or other that was being cast. She never told me what it was for and now she says she only remembers me doing it, but not what for. She had me sing Cole Porter's "Don't Fence Me In." My first official audition piece. We recorded it in my living room on one of those (rad for the time) portable cassette players.

In 5th grade I made my stage debut at City Honors School in Finian's Rainbow in the childrens chorus. I still love all of those songs from that show: "Necessity," "How are things in Glocca Mora," "Look to the Rainbow" and "Old Devil Moon." I almost did Music Man, but something happened-- don't remember what. Then, the summer after my freshman year in high school, I was supposed to be Marsinah in a production of Kismet for BuffaloArts & Music. Allegedly the funding fell through, but we had gotten pretty far in the rehearsal process. LOVE that show...

I did a couple random local scholarship competitions at the urging of my voice teacher. He thought I might be a mezzo (first aria: Faites-lui mes aveurs, from Faust), but gave me a lot of what I now know to be soprano rep (My Man's Gone Now, from Porgy and Bess). We also did a few standards, the one that comes to mind is "Come rain or come shine."

I actually got drafted into music in college. Davidson had a Freshman Talent Show every year, presumably to give the upperclassmen a good laugh. The custom was for the residents of each hall to do a joint act. The counselor for my hall, 3rd Richardson, came up with the lovely idea of taking the mattress covers, tucking them into our jeans- belted at the knees- and singing some song or another as dancing teeth. I was having none of that, thank you very much! At which point said counselor says the only way I'm avoiding "dental duty" is by singing alone. I am horrified. Me? Sing in front of these people I don't know? Sing what? My roommate tells the gathering that she hears me singing all of the time-- both in the room and through the open window when she is outside our dorm. My choices were stupid teeth or scary solo.

I hadn't brought any music with me (pre-med, what did I need with it?), so I had to sing a capella. The one thing I remembered from studying in high school. The aforementioned "My Man's Gone Now," aka, big, hairy, complicated aria without the very integral accompaniment. Just me, on an empty stage, in an auditorium filled with people. When I finished, there was complete silence. I thought, "I knew this was going to be a bad idea," just before the audience
erupted into loud, raucous applause. Subsequent arm-twisting into choir and voice lessons made me think, "Well, maybe I really am a singer..."

Since then it's been kind of a slow process. I think it's just been in the last year or two that I can say declaratively, "I am a singer," and not be fighting the urge to qualify that statment in any way. Like, "...but only part time." Or "... well, sort of. Really I'm a desk jockey but I sing on the side." I've known for sure that this is what I want my life to be about for several years.

Shortly after grad school, before it became apparent that fame and fortune were not in my immediate path, I was still holding on to the idealized "perfect" opera career. Start with an apprentice/young artist program, get discovered, international career. Later, as I began to do more and more gigs around town, I thought, well, this is good, but surely there's more for me. Eventually, I was reminded of the adage, "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." I thought, why are you trying to define "career" in terms of other peoples' lives and definitions of success? The bottom line was that I was successfully making a living as a musician.

Realizing that was what led me to cut the cord and go full-time as a musician two years ago. Even with the praise and encouragement of my mentors, colleagues and "fans," I still struggle to accept the fact that I'm pretty danged good and it's just a matter of time before more people figure that out.

To Err Is Human...

2006-08-27T18:21:00.000-05:00

I made a mistake last night. I know that comes as a huge surprise to any one who knows me. Probably the surprise is that I admitted it, right? OK, really! I was visiting a friend out in Tanglewood (for those outside of Houston, west of the Galleria) and had to go from there to a party over in 3rd Ward (again, non-Houstonians, just past the eastern edge of the Medical Center). As I am wont to do, I was trying to figure out the quickest way to get there without consulting a) my Key Map or b) my Human Key Map (aka, The Organist).

My initial thought was to take the 610 Loop south to 288 and around to Calumet. As I passed the exit for 59 I thought, hmmm. It would be far more direct to take 59 north to 288, as they intersect right at Calumet. Remember, this thought process occurred after I passed the 59 exit. So then I thought, well, it'd be a bit of a pain to turn around and catch 59. It'd be a bigger pain, plus a lot more time and gas (and therefore money) to stay on 610.

So I turned around.

In the U-turn at Beechnut, a thought occurred to me. How many times have we/I continued down a path that clearly wasn't the best one for us/me, just because we were/I was already on it? It comes down to the question of what is expedient versus what is best. Doing what ultimately turned out to be the right thing entailed a certain amount of inconvenience. I had to admit my wrong thinking, figure out how to reverse course, actually reverse course, make up the lost distance and finally, get where I wanted to be.

It sounds hard, but it wasn't. I was happy that I had saved a little time and gas and remembered, before it was too late, the best way to get from point A to point B.

Hmmm. I wonder where else I can apply this epiphany? My list is pretty long. Bet yours is too.

Flies time...

2006-08-24T15:52:00.000-05:00

Has it been a week already? Where did the time go? Well, that would be where school comes in. Ah, the beginning of a new academic year. When you're out of school for a long time, you forget that New Year's Day really comes in late August/early September. That sense of possibility, of a reasonably clean slate that we're supposed to feel on January 1. Well, depending on what you occupied yourself with on December 31.

Here's the beginning of our occasional series on the Yankee Hobbit's trip to China this summer.

As I expected, the foodstuffs in China were very different from America. And not just the "cuisine." On one of our in-country flights, we were served these hard candies. Since none of us read Chinese (need an abbreviation for that-- it will reappear a lot!) we didn't know until we ate it that it was some kind of fizzy soda candy. Really cool. It felt like that first sip of a really intense, cold bottle of soda. Spent the rest of the trip trying to find some to bring back to the States, with no success. Actually, very few of us intended to eat the things as we had already been fooled once. Turns out there's a flavor of hard candy with a picture of what looked like lemon on the wrapper. SNOURC, that's all we had to go on. Our trip leader, who actually did have some Chinese fluency, handed them out and told us they were lemon drops.

Now, you know what it's like to have prepared your head for one flavor and then your taste buds encounter another. And you know what it's like when those two flavors are not really related to one another. Now imagine that the one encountered by your taste buds is not only not related to the one you were prepared for, but is one that your experience tells you doesn't really belong in candy form. Now you know what it was like to suck on what alleged to be a lemon drop but was really a corn drop. Ack.

More another day. Must raid the reserve shelf at the library!

ta...

Addendum

2006-08-17T23:50:00.000-05:00

So, I fell asleep on the couch during the news tonight. Happens rather a lot. If I am supine and the TV is on, out I go. It's a sad thing. The point? I woke up during Letterman, who I like enough to stay awake for, assuming I have not gone horizontal. Woke up in the middle of Letterman, around the time of the musical guest, who tonight was FatBoy Slim. I've heard of him, courtesy of People, Star and other scholarly reading, but had no interest in his oeuvre. Didn't even know his professing genre.

He's a rapper, I guess. But it was very eclectic! Surprisingly and refreshingly so. He actually sang his rhymes all the way through, with a clever keyboard riff (courtesy of Paul whatshisname from Letterman and the band), a DJ, 5-member back-up vocals and a juggler. You read correctly, a juggler.

This being a rap-ish presentation, the juggler remained in my visual background. Besides, I was too busy being mesmerized by the gospel-ish back-up singers. But about a quarter of the way through, I started paying attention: the juggler, Chris Bliss, was juggling 4 balls in perfect synchronization with the singing and (during breaks) the music. Oh. My. Goodness. I was amazed and astounded.

I may just have to check them both out.

And the background light wash? Red.

The color is... RED!

2006-08-17T17:32:00.000-05:00

Anyone else remember that great '70s movie, The Wiz? You know, the African-American remake of The Wizard of Oz with an African-American cast featuring Diana Ross (pre-weave), Nipsey Russell (bless his soul) and Michael Jackson (before he was white)? Emerald City is set as this Harlem Renaissance-on-steroids kind of place with elegant people circling and dancing around at the whim of the Wiz, who declares what the color of the moment is. Once he says "The color is... [enter color here]," the entire scene changes color, costumes and all, and the denizens of Oz sing the virtues of the new color and of how passé the old one was.

I guess you had to be there.

Anyway, the color of the day appears to be red. Everybody dance now.

Seriously. We have a RED terrorist alert, thanks to those bozos with the liquid explosives. [Disclosure alert: now the threat is yellow, but don't freeze my flow, ok?] The forecast high today in Houston was 98 degrees with a heat index of 110, which gave us an Ozone alert of RED. It's August, so my bank account is probably riding rather close to RED. I have iritis, which means that my right eye is RED. I'm here in Texas, which as you know is a RED state (to my everlasting chagrin). You get my drift.

But don't misunderestimate me (speaking of red states). I love red. But the good kind. My dream home will have at least one wall in "Ming Red." My pedicure always ends in the application of some shade of red or another. [Lateral annotation: my nail salon uses OPI products. Their marketing people are completely, brilliantly clever. The shades have names like "Friar, Friar, Pants on Fire" and "Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ."] I am currently coveting the Le Creuset Demi Tea Kettle with Symphonic Whistle in red. There are several (ok, dozens) of red items in my wardrobe. In fact my favorite shade to wear is one I endearingly refer to as "Screaming Whore Red." I'm told that is a real shade, but for me it's more of a category. I heard it once and decided, for euphony alone, I had to make it mine. Not sure if it is supposed to be the red that a screaming whore would wear, or if there is a comma missing, as in a red that is both screaming and whorish. I by no means intend to indicate that I am in any way, shape or form a screamer, a whore, or a screaming whore. One can never be too careful where inferences are involved.

Speaking of being careful, I love the way this blog thingy lets you link texts to websites. I like it because it means I don't have to explain everything that might want explaining. The benefit for you is that if you don't need the explanation, you can skip it; which might be difficult if the entire explanation/illustration were in the blogbody (is that a word? You're on your own). Again, I digress. The website with which I chose to elucidate iritis (see above if you've been skipping around this post. Bad Yankee Hobbit Fan!) mentions the fact that it can result in blindess if it is not treated.

Now granted, this is a blog, so it is heavy on my ideas and personal experiences. And I've had iritis 3 times now. Each time it has been one of the more painful experiences I have had, a view I am told is fairly universal to the condition. Almost from the onset you have extreme sensitivity to light (my brother in law the pediatrician calls it photophobia, which is more descriptive) and even if you manage to elude the photons, you generally feel like someone is wrenching white-hot (or shall I say red-hot) pokers into the center of your brain. In exactly what universe would someone not seek treatment for that? Deep sigh of exasperation.

For those of you who do read and follow the illustrations, worry not. Most (80-90%) cases have no known cause, are not connected to systemic illness and resolve fairly quickly (thank God) with steroid drops. I am not, so far, in the minority in this instance.

Anyhoo, supper calls. Have a red-diggety day! In the best way....

Minority Report

2006-08-16T22:55:00.000-05:00

It is good to be back! We took an unintended vacation when we left town without our log-in information. Bad Yankee Hobbit. And so much happened this week! Thanks to my newly-minted Canadian sister-friend for pointing out the typo in "Kudos." It be fixed.

I am a minority. Not for any of the obvious reasons either. I am one of the very few Americans who can honestly say that I love my new driver's license photo! This is no vain-diva moment— it is an unusually pro-me moment! I loathe just about every photo of me in existence after about the age of 15 (I'm sure there's something Freudian about that. Or Jungian. Or Whoeverian.). But this photo, taken by some bored State functionary at the end of a very long work day, looks just like I wanted it to look. Imagine my surprise when I tore open that envelope today. And in just 2 weeks, rather than the promised 6-8. Progress, I tell you!

Whilst vacationing in the thankfully-not-melting North, I had the opportunity to attend my mother's Sorority's summer bash (technically my sorority too, BTW). A dinner dance. Those of you who know me know I was not necessarily looking forward to it; it was more of a filial duty kind of thing. Me? Dancing and socializing? With people I either a) don't know or b) haven't seen in close to 20 years? Yum. But fear not, Gentle Reader— I had a blast!

My mother and sister (Bob Vilette, aka The Feng Shui Queen and DIY Diva), both fabulously attired, "gently" coerced me into the Electric Slide. Other than my inappropriate footwear, it was fun. There was another line dance too. I think it was The Booty Call. My grandmother asked me if "they" did this in Texas. I said, "they" might, but I don't get out anywhere where such things might happen.

One incredibly cool thing was seeing all of these people, mostly women, many well over 60, dressed to the nines and partying down. In. Heels. I would love to look that good at 40, let alone 60+. And they looked, the ones I knew anyway, like they've aged Not. One. Iota. Life is completely unfair-- but way better than the alternative.

[Side note on that: Once upon a time, my quasi-long-lost friend the Organist was on an "I want to be a funeral director" kick. So we all went to the National Museum of Funeral History (bet you didn't know 1) there was one and 2) it's in Houston. Consider yourself enlightened). Can't have a museum without a gift shop and this is no exception. They have a line of products emblazoned with their motto: "Any day above ground is a good one.™" Hell of a way to gain perspective, n'est-ce pas?]

Of course, on the other end of the spectrum, today I had my eyes examined. (Head is next on the list...) The ophthamologist's assistant-ette, who looked to be barely 20, said something to me along the lines of, "I say that to a lot of my older patients." Me? An older patient? When the you-know-when did that happen?

My nieces and nephews probably find me old too, but they have an excuse— not a one of them is over 12. It was muy fabuloso to spend time with them. It's a great by-product of "ADG's Home for the Very Juvenile and Quite Aged." Since my mom watches the kiddos on weekdays, I got to hang out with them. They are all brilliant and stunningly beautiful— to a one. The aforementioned Bob Vilette has 3 girls, ages 7, 8 & 11 and my baby sister (aka The Entrepreneur and Jewelry Designer Extraordinaire) has 2 boys, 2 and 4. I miss being around them all of the time, but on the other hand, they are always very different than the last time I saw them.

We took the kids to the Butterfly Conservancy in Niagara Falls, Ontario. Not as large as the Cockrell Center in Houston (which, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have not actually been to), but verrrrry cool. They are everywhere in there. My 2 year old nephew is still in the vocabulary gathering process, so they were all "bees." As is pretty much any flying insectoid object. The older kiddos were as fascinated as he was. As we all were. I was particularly taken with the blue swallowtails. Lovely! Getting there was also fun; we took the scenic route along the Niagara River, which goes- as one might imagine- right by the Falls. When one lives so close to one of the great natural wonders of the world, one tends to forget their majesty. Thank you for the reminder— it was completely awesome. As was not wrecking the car trying to see them while driving.

Okaaay. Off to study modes, scales, Augmented 6th chords and the other instruments of torture known as Music Theory. Big placement exam tomorrow. Thanks for the link, Joan!

Kudos

2006-08-06T23:26:00.000-05:00

Brevity, being the soul of wit, dictates (thanks, Beth!) a short post today.

Big-ole shout outs to:
My student for singing one helluva great recital this afternoon. Anaemia rocked! (As did just about the entire affair.)

My dear friend of long acquaintance who has been recommended for tenure in the Diplomatic Service of the U S of A (Veuve, baby, Veuve!).

My Organist, who with a random call prevented me from completely having my first wedding blank-out.

My friend and coach KW who reminded me not to scream at the end of the Strauss trio.

My lungs for holding out during same.

Whoever finds (and RETURNS!) the pearl bracelet I lost at the Hobby Center this afternoon.

My various airport transport teams this summer!

As my nephew says,

Peace out...

Welcome to the Land of Expectations

2006-08-04T22:18:00.000-05:00

In fifth grade, I encountered what would turn out to be one of the most enduring loves of my life. No, not some hot pre-adolescent, but a book: Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth. My teacher, Mrs. Langmeyer, decided to have the class read it as a project. Ultimately, we turned it into a play and performed it for all of City Honors School. Or maybe just all of the fifth grade. Memory is a tricky thing.

There was once a boy named Milo who didn't know what to do with himself─ not just sometimes, but always.

When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. [...] Nothing really interested him─ least of all the things that should have. *

Talk about an opening hook. The book goes on to describe how Milo comes home from school one day to a large box with an enveloped addressed "FOR MILO, WHO HAS PLENTY OF TIME." The box turns out to be a tollbooth, complete with tokens, a map, three precautionary signs ("to be used in a precautionary fashion") and "One (1) book of rules and traffic regulations, which may not be bent or broken."*

And with that, he is off on the adventure of a lifetime, one that challenges all of his assumptions, shifts his paradigms and generally reorders his life. The first place he comes to is Expectations, where he is met by the Whether Man.

"What kind of a place is Expectations," inquired Milo... "Good question, good question... Expections is the place you must always go to before you get to where you're going. Of course, some people never go beyond Expectations, but my job is to hurry them along whether they like it or not."*

Wow. I tell you, I love this book. I've probably bought six copies, because I keep giving them to people. It's a book I read every couple few years, just because my understanding of it changes according to what's going on in my world. Like that last paragraph for example. I've been reading that one for 30 years and it has just now hit home. Probably because I vacillate between having a summer home in Expectations and driving past it completely.

I know summer is drawing to an end (well, calendar-wise anyway─ we're stuck with this weather 'till Christmas), but you have time to squeeze in one more book.

For the record, I portrayed the Undersecretary of Understanding. You'll have to read the book to get the details.

Some other books I adored (and have spent my adult life re-procuring):

Mélisande (Margery Sharp and Roy McKie), "the pictorial memoir of... a dog... who becomes a famous opera singer and the darling of musical society." I loved this book waaaayy before I ever considered being a singer. How's that for prophetic? (Well, obviously not the part about the Met.)

James and the Giant Peach (Roald Dahl), which was later turned into a Tim Burton film. Pretty much all of Dahl's books are on the list.

Horace, the Friendly Octopus (Richard E. Drdek), a way before its time tale of what really makes a family.

If you didn't already know, I am a serious reader. I will read just about anything. My middle sister the Feng Shui Queen and Home Improvement Diva teased me for years because I found the deed to the house and got into it. It is mostly my mother's fault. She is and always has been a voracious reader and got me started somewhere around the age of 2 with a love of words and books. Then in third grade, Ms. Clements (truly a hipper teacher than any class deserved to have─ even in the '70s), read to us most afternoons. By then I was truly hooked. And hope to stay that way.

OK. The running of the toilet is yanking me back to reality.

*Juster, Norton. The Phantom Tollbooth. New York: Random House, 1961.

Martyrdom?

2006-08-03T23:48:00.000-05:00

Clearly, martyrdom is no laughing matter, but on the other hand...

I have a friend who is the funniest person on the planet. She's the kind of person you never spend time with when you have a full bladder, because it is inevitable that she will make you laugh so hard that you find yourself in great danger of needing clean underwear. Actually, I have several friends like that, but I digress (imagine that, wouldja?).

Anyway my friend used to tell us how her mother (I think) would reply to some whiny comment made in her general vicinity by saying, "Yeah, Foxe's Book of Martyrs Page 17 ." Which I never understood, being unschooled in the ways of the early Protestant Reformers. Or maybe it was her mother who was on Page 17? Details, nevermind.

All that to say, I think I might be on page 954!

As I get older, I realize that I have a strong tendency to do things the hardest way possible and with the most sacrifice on my part. And to what end, exactly? Like in this sublime piece of music on which I am currently working, the final Act III trio from Richard Strauss' Der Rosenkavalier (I'm telling you, you can hear it live, live I say, on Sunday afternoon at 5...).

Strauss was fiendishly brilliant. Wrote lines that can make you weep to see them on the page, let alone performed. He was also really good at the big picture. To wit: on paper, a lot of the phrases he wrote go on for ... days. The key word here is "on paper." Apparently, according to my coaches and conductors, no one actually sings them that way in performance. Not even the iron-lunged Renée Fleming, my personal goddess du chant du moment.

Without that knowledge however, Ms. Page 954, 2006 beats her head against hard surfaces trying to make the line happen the way it looks, at the expense of the beauty intended therein. In short, a breath martyr!

But I'm a work in progress, and I take grace where I find it (or more likely than not, where it is thrust upon me). And with it the freedom that comes from knowing that things are even more beautiful and fulfilling when you can enjoy them whilst they are happening, rather than worrying about outcomes.

A musing on another topic (since I skipped Wednesday. And technically Thursday). What must it be like to have a visceral affirmation of the importance of something in your life? I don't know that I've ever experienced that. Likely because I have not yet, for any reason (please God), been deprived of anything I truly found important.

I have another young friend who is on a sabbatical from her music studies. I met her some time ago, after this sabbatical had been underway for a while. We discussed her musical inclinations and the fact that at some point she wanted to get back to them, but there was no urgency to the conversation.

Today, unbeknownst to me, she happened by during a dress rehearsal I was conducting. I took an unscheduled break and saw her there, visibly upset. We took a moment to chat and she said something to the effect of, "I just miss singing so much!" Her reaction to the musicmaking was a clear, gut-deep indicator that something integral to her being was lacking in her life.

For a moment I was─ I don't know─ envious? Assured? Awed? I presume that the things I do/am/have are what really keep me going, but how do I know? How do any of us know? Maybe in my case it's the little affirmations (ok, sometimes not so little) that let me know I'm on the right path. I have to admit though, a quasi-Damascus-Road-kind-of-moment would certainly make things easier!

For whom the bell tolls...

2006-08-01T18:37:00.000-05:00

Well, here it is the next day. Great record so far. And a great day. I taught a good voice lesson today. My student is doing a recital Sunday, so we've started rehearsing with her accompanist, an excellent Organist friend of mine. She (the student) is doing really well, so if she's reading this, fret not! You are not the direct inspiration. He (the accompanist) is also doing a fabulous job. (This means, essentially, that they more or less do what I want. And since I'm in charge...)

In addition to being really good, they are both really young. Which is the direct inspiration for this-- or at least the trigger that reminded me of a past "rant." Most of my students are college-aged or slightly beyond. Meaning that they are significantly younger than I. Basically, the next generation (as odd as that is to say). And I find, as I discuss with my friends who are old farts like me, that all of the technological advances we are witnessing are not being met by similar advances in what we used to call general/common knowledge. The bottom is dropping out!

My students and their contemporaries can tell me lots about IMing, HTML, blogs, music downloading, CG movie and game technology, but they can't tell me a story.

Once upon a time, a bear family lived in the woods. There was a Daddy Bear, a Mommmy Bear and Baby Bear...

Story-telling used to be something everyone did and everyone knew. Our parents told us stories, their parents told them stories. I know some of us tell our kids stories. But the kids I teach don't seem to know how to tell them. Sure, they've heard them, but they can't tell them.

Why is this important to a single chick who sings? As I tell my old fart civilian (i.e. non-musician-- actually in this case, non-singing) friends, story-telling is what separates singers from every other musician on the planet, at least technically. All musicians share notes, rhythms, lines, phrases, form. But only singers tell stories. Once upon a time, that was imprinted on our cultural DNA. You didn't have to teach that part in a lesson. But now upon a time, along with the nuts and bolts, I find myself teaching cadence, pacing, timing-- when and how to deliver a punchline.

Along the same lines, another of our lost cultural genes is the canon of great literature. My wonderful student (who I repeat, is doing a great job) is singing a Poulenc set this weekend. Both she while learning it and her accompanist today required an explanation about Jason, the Argonauts and the Golden Fleece. Another student had no idea who Anansi the Spider was. And I finally had to go out and buy Harold and the Purple Crayon for my studio because NOT ONE of my students had ever heard of or read one of the greatest stories about creativity and imagination that exists today. This is, lamentably, not a new thing for me.

Actually, just yesterday I was in a very tall, large chair in a doctor's office and I mentioned to the phlebotomist that I felt like Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann. She looked at me like I had two heads. "You don't know who that is, do you?" I said. "No," she replied blankly. I just sighed deeply and felt a sudden communion with my elders who probably had similar conversations with me about Milton Berle, or someone similarly iconic.

Sigh. Verrrrrry deep sigh. For whom does the bell toll? Cultural literacy, it tolls for thee.

Don't start none, won't be none...

2006-07-31T16:59:00.000-05:00

Well, I threatened, and now I have delivered. Welcome to the debut of my blog, Tales of a Yankee Hobbit. Those who are familiar with my occasional newsletters will recognize the title. And now you can check out my goings on and musings on your own. Self-service, if you will. Those familiar with my occasional newsletters will also not be surprised to know that this is happening whilst I am avoiding more pressing things-- namely, learning the Rosenkavalier Trio and writing an evaluation of my pastor. So-- Welcome!!!

UPCOMING: Houston Ebony Opera Guild 2006 Opera Gems Concert. Sunday, August 6, 5 p.m. Zilkha Hall, Hobby Center for the Performing Arts, 800 Bagby St. for tix: 713.315.2525 or uniquelyhouston.org.