Damn! The feeder's empty.

As I am an old fart who feeds the birds and other critters, this one struck home.

Program Notes

I received the New Yorker this afternoon. This is high humor of the type that people like myself find quite amusing. "People like myself", he said...in that stuffy, New Yorker sort of way.

Claude Debussy—“La Mer” by Yoni Brenner

Though poorly received by critics at its 1905 première, “La Mer” (“The Sea”) has survived to become one of Debussy’s most beloved and enduring orchestral works. A brilliant exhibition of cascading motifs and shimmering orchestration, “La Mer” was a deeply personal project for Debussy, who had long been fascinated by the sea, having roomed with a langoustine at university. For years, he had sought to capture the majesty of the ocean in various quartets and sonatas, but he destroyed them all, explaining, “They never sounded wet enough.”

The opening section, “From Dawn to Midday at Sea,” begins with the plaintive call of the oboe, announcing the rising sun. The English horn and the trumpet answer in a minor key, as if to say, “Thanks for the tip, asshole.” The flutes quickly change the subject, introducing the famous surging triplet melody. The theme bubbles and courses through the orchestra, constantly elaborated and ultimately recapitulated in a massive crescendo of horns and trumpets, at which point the flutes are totally drowned out and seem not a little jaded and you have to wonder if they regret having introduced the theme in the first place.

“The Play of the Waves” is often described as a scherzo, light and humorous, although, as in much of Debussy’s work, the laughs come at the expense of the violas.

“The Dialogue Between the Wind and the Sea” pits roiling strings against strident brass, belligerent woodwinds, and unhinged timpani bent on physical reprisal. Again, the composer ingeniously juxtaposes regular and triple figures, a development that for many years was hailed as a breakthrough in modern composition, although it is now generally acknowledged to have been a printer’s error. Still, the layered rhythms create a spectacular lurching effect that vividly evokes the roll of waves, as well as a tremendous desire to urinate.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky—Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35

Tchaikovsky wrote only one violin concerto, or, as he himself said, “one too many.” Tchaikovsky had always had an uneasy relationship with the violin, which scholars attribute to a childhood nightmare in which he found himself violently and relentlessly rubbed against an enormous brick of rosin. Though he had already employed violins to magnificent effect in the Second Symphony and in “Romeo and Juliet,” he never trusted them, a neurosis that only intensified when an unbalanced concertmaster sucker-punched him during the first performance of “Swan Lake.”

The composer’s anxiety is manifest in the turbulent Allegro Moderato—among the most vindictive movements of the Romantic canon. The violin plays nearly continuously through the movement, introducing the theme and weathering a ferocious cadenza, while several other instruments, including the trumpets and the second bassoon, luxuriate in anywhere from thirty-five to forty-seven measures of rest. It is unclear whether this accommodation was made specifically to taunt the soloist, but many conductors will encourage idle instrumentalists to doze off or grab a sandwich or something to heighten the effect.

Quiet meditation gives way to exuberant pyrotechnics in the finale, in which the composer either eschews or forgets the theme from the first movement. Instead, the violin launches into a galloping melody that catches everyone by surprise except perhaps the basses, who had a sectional rehearsal earlier in the week. A brilliant, robust allegro follows, packed with dynamic swings, dramatic key changes, and a delightful murder mystery featuring an intrepid dowager and her endearing but accident-prone Portuguese gardener.The searing Andante has been variously interpreted as Tchaikovsky’s anguished confession of homosexual love for his nephew Vladimir Davydov and as a metaphor for the Resurrection of Christ. As always, the truth is somewhere in between: the movement is in fact a metaphor for Christ’s anguished homosexual love for Tchaikovsky’s nephew.

Johannes Brahms—Symphony No. 2, Op. 73

Little is known of Johannes Brahms. He is believed to have been Dutch and to have possessed at least a rudimentary knowledge of music composition and theory. No photographs exist, but he has been described as five feet seven or five feet eight, with small, piercing eyes—one green, one blue—and extremely annoying.

“A genius,” the Post-Impressionist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec once said. “His appetite for life was surpassed only by his appetite for food, which was surpassed only by his appetite for crossbreeding house cats with wild squirrels. Also, he smelled of cumin.” Although the two artists never met or corresponded—nor were they really contemporaries—their unique and idiosyncratic bond remains one of the most fascinating artistic partnerships of the nineteenth century.

The Second Symphony was written at a moment of great trauma. Brahms had suffered from bouts of paranoia for years, convinced that a man named Meier was trying to steal the “h” from his last name. Just two weeks before the première, Brahms caused a scandal during a state dinner when he put Franz Liszt in a headlock and refused to release him until he confessed his homosexual love for Tchaikovsky’s nephew. Brahms was briefly imprisoned, but was granted clemency when Liszt intervened on his behalf. This led to a poignant moment, three years later, when a chastened Brahms visited Liszt at his summer retreat in Weimar, and solemnly resumed the headlock.

Even though Symphony No. 2 is believed to be Brahms’s first symphonic work, the composer demonstrates a sure hand from the outset, with a glowing thematic statement from the horns. The flutes answer with a supple ascending line, requesting that the horns be more specific. But the horns simply re-state the same phrase a half step up, which only serves to irritate the flutes, who promptly hand the melody to the violins, as if to say, “Here, you deal with them.” Brahms sustains this call-and-response pattern throughout the movement, a motif that he first explored in the little-known Variations on “The Dreidel Song,” Op. 34 together, the second and third movements constitute one of the most elegant and sophisticated symphonic interludes of the Germanic repertoire. Taken separately, they are cloying, derivative, and sort of hard to take seriously. Regardless, authentic performances are rare, owing to the difficulty of securing a bullfrog who can transpose to E-flat.

The last movement, Allegro con Spirito, is nothing short of a miracle. Lush, organic, effortlessly powerful, it resolves the major themes of the symphony with phenomenal grace and imagination. Like all great art, it imparts to the audience a profound sense of empathy and belief, as well as a tremendous desire to urinate.

Also, another plug for Jim's new Dakota Backcountry blog. Try it free for five days. If you aren't completely satisfied he'll refund your money.

Crazy Swedes

Peace Prize? A prize for what he might do? Someday. If he gets a chance. Maybe. Depending on circumstances.

My goals and intentions are good and noble too. Maybe next year.

P.S. A Gentleman pointed out that the decision is made by Norwegians. As my heritage is Danish I can safely say that we're all crazy. Not sure about the Finns though.

Ahhhh...I Forget

Old Toads

This is a little weird. I was checking the Toad's blog to see if he wrote anything. Naw, he has good intentions, but he never actually writes down any of his heavy thoughts. I love toads, particularly the large wizen looking ones. They always remind me of my grandfather, the late, great N.C. Berg. I like the picture (that's me on his head), but the copy was from an email that I sent to Todd. So I'm quoting Todd, who was quoting me. I'm not sure about the quotation marks?

"I was thinking about a nice toad or two to sit on the flat rock I propped on the edge of my "water feature" to give the birds and critters access. For years my namesake grandfather had a large toad he dubbed Molly. Molly? Anyway they had a dripping outdoor faucet beneath their bedroom window. The enormous toad would sit under it to stay cool. Grandma said she went to sleep to the thump... thump...thump of the waterdrops hitting the big toad on the back. Grandpa would pick up the old toad in the morning and take it out to the garden while he worked. He hoed; the old toad ate slugs. When he was done he'd pick it up and drop it off under the tap on his way to the kitchen."

Don't get a chance to use "wizen" very often.

Traditional English Touring

Dave Sears, a reader from England (how the hell does that happen?), sent these old film clips of traditional English touring. I thought that Mark Stonich, Alan Wenker and any other English 3-speeders would enjoy it - or any Freds with a more refined sensibility. (Where do you suppose they came up with the doodlie-doo background music in all those 50s film shorts? Did somebody actually select that style on purpose? Did musical kids grow up aspiring to get into the doodlie music field?)

Ref: Lake Pepin Tour.

Dakota Backcountry

My friend and sometimes commenter on this blog, Jim Margadant, finally gave in to the pressure and started his own blog yesterday. He is intelligent, insightful and full of bullshit - perfect blogging tools. As the title, Dakota Backcountry, would indicate I would expect it is going to be weighted toward the outdoors, that and the fact that part of this is being driven by his position as Regional Conservation Organizer for the Sierra Club. I'm not certain exactly what he does, but it seems to involve a lot of driving around in pickup trucks and hanging out in coffee shops - please keep in mind the bullshit factor. Give him a look if you have a little extra time. And you do... you're reading this for Chrissake. Next, we'll try to get Dexter to go public with his bullshit.

We Win!

After the hectic stretch run this probably wasn't too pressure filled for the young men. They were so far behind that every game, every inning, every at bat was crucial. Last year their run culminated in a one game playoff loss to the White Sox. Two #$&*% years in a row! But then again they have won the division five out of the last eight years. Of course the big problem facing them now is the series tomorrow (today, rather). They are snake-bit against the Yankees, even more so than most. In their early series this year they lost three straight hard fought, walk-off games to the lads from the Bronx. That was tough. Their steel has been forged in hell.

Knut Hamsun

For ten or fifteen minutes of my early life I attended a college where I studied, among other things, Scandinavian Philosophy. No shit. So this one caught my eye and jarred my memory. Hamsun may have been a fine writer but he was a scumbag of a human being - enough of a scumbag that he been filed under slime in the library and you've never heard of him. Unless you happened to attend an obscure midwestern Norwegian college. Now we have to ask ourselves the question. Can we separate the person from his works? Can we appreciate what he did rather than what he was? In this case, apparently not. He went over the line.

Knut Hamsun may lack name recognition in the English-speaking world, but the admiration of his contemporaries suggests the stature he once enjoyed. “The whole modern school of fiction in the 20th century stems from Hamsun, just as Russian literature in the 19th century ‘came out of Gogol’s greatcoat,’ ” declared Isaac Bashevis Singer. To Henry Miller, Hamsun was “the Dickens of my generation.” Hamsun received the world’s greatest literary honor in 1920. Summing up the modernist literary consensus, Thomas Mann issued a characteristically lapidary pronouncement: “Never has the Nobel Prize been awarded to one worthier of it.” more

The Twinkies

Minnesota was seven games down to the Tigers on Sept. 6. They finally caught the Tigers yesterday to move into a tie for first place in the American League Central. As I have said before, I am not the REAL fan in my house, but it's hard not to get swept up in the excitement. The Twins are a team of journeymen players with the exception of Joe Mauer (batting average .364 & beauty in a catchers mask) and Justin Morneau ( who has missed the latter part of the season with a stress fracture in his back). They develop sound ballplayers which then tend to migrate to major market teams because the Twins cannot match the money. Their pitching is only adequate except for closer, Joe Nathan. In baseball parlance they are "scrappy". They play "small ball" with speed and sound fundamentals. White Sox coach, Ozzie Guillén referred to them as the "Piranhas". He said they aren't like sharks that attack you, they are like piranhas that slowly nibble you to death. We Twins followers are viewing the upcoming one game playoff with Detroit on Tuesday as only a technical formality. Then they will face the Yankees and no doubt get blown away. But it's a short series and who know? Though I suppose they ought to deal with the Tigers first.

Freds and Fausto Coppi

A "Fred" is a disparaging term used by the Lycra clad, racer wannabes for the rest of us; that is, those of us who bicycle wearing comfy denim shorts, a loose t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Often you can spot a Fred riding an old ten-speed with an enormous soft saddle and the bars spun around backwards - not pedaling furiously with an anguished look on his face, just cranking along, enjoying the ride. The original Fred may have been Fred Birchmore who rode his bicycle 25,000 miles around the world in 1935. His bicycle Bucephalus (obviously a learned Fred) is now in the Smithsonian museum. In one hypocryphal incident in Italy he mistakenly got caught up in a bicycle race, passed the racers and finished first riding his loaded touring bike. Not likely, but a good win for the Everyman in all of us.

Fausto Coppi was the coolest man to ever mount a bicycle. While certainly not a handsome man, he had that sense of slightly arrogant style that only the Italians seem to be able to pull off well. He was a bit of a sinner, a ladies man, playing anti-hero to his longtime rival, the straight-shooting, religious Geno Bartalli. In the saddle he had what the French call souplesse, which translates as suppleness, but as applied to bicyclists it denotes balance, poise and grace. On his worst day Fausto was beauty on a bike.

What do Fausto Coppi and the Freds of this world have in common? It appears that beneath his suave veneer, Fausto was a closet Fred.

On the A.I.G. Collapse

If anyone wants to find out what really happened with A.I.G. and why we're all broke now, you can slog through this article in Vanity Fair (long).

Almost a year after A.I.G.’s collapse, despite a tidal wave of outrage, there still has been no clear explanation of what toppled the insurance giant. The author decides to ask the people involved—the silent, shell-shocked traders of the A.I.G. Financial Products unit—and finds that the story may have a villain, whose reign of terror over 400 employees brought the company, the U.S. economy, and the global financial system to their knees. More