A Grammy winner in our store!

Back in 2008, I wrote about meeting Sasha Cooke, the mezzo soprano, who was singing Kitty Oppenheimer in Doctor Atomic at the Met. Well, Doctor Atomic won a Grammy for Best Opera Recording!

Here is Sasha with her Grammy.

And here's a clip from Dr. Atomic.

I am so happy for her!

Concerto for piano and derder

Gene's plea: Don't take the heart out of toilet paper
by
Gene Weingarten, Washington Post, January 16, 2011

As a credentialed member of the liberal media elite, I bow to no one in my support for lunatic environmental causes. Shut down a cancer-medicine factory to save the habitat of an endangered worm? Sure, why not! But every once in a while, something comes up that makes me say: Enough is enough.

Take Kimberly-Clark's new eco-friendly "Scott Naturals" toilet paper. It's like any other toilet paper roll but without the cardboard tube at the center. When you get to the end, the paper simply slides off your spool. This product rollout (haha) was accompanied by an analogy-intensive advertising campaign pointing out, for example, that the number of cardboard tubes consumed annually "weighs more than 250 Boeing 747 airliners." But there's one thing it didn't point out.

I'm on the phone with Doug Daniels, Kimberly-Clark brand manager, and Joey Mooring, a company PR guy.

Me: Can you explain why this allegedly "improved" product is not just another insidious assault on traditional American family values?

Doug: Well, because it's the right thing to do. American consumers discard 17 billion tubes a year, and the majority of them are tossed immediately into the garbage. It's enough to fill the Empire State building twice. Laid end to end, these tubes could reach to the moon and back, twice.

Me: Noted! Are you aware of the special, cherished place that the "derder" holds as a source of wholesome family entertainment?

Doug: The what?

Me: My God.

Doug:

Me: You are the brand manager for a leading American toilet-paper manufacturer and you do not know what a derder is?

Doug: No.

Joey: I do!

Me: Swell. Doug, a derder is an impromptu kazoo-like musical instrument fashioned by placing one's mouth on the end of a toilet paper tube and tunefully going "der-der-der" into it. This cheap and innocent toy has delighted children of all ethnicities and socioeconomic strata since the invention of the toilet paper roll in 1877. That is what you are throwing out as though it were garbage. That is this thing you never heard of! How old are you, Doug?

Doug: Uh, 36.

Joey: I'm older.

Me: See, there's the problem. It's generational. The derder is an endangered species. Like Yiddish, or good penmanship, we have been slowly losing it to cultural indifference. The very concept of "fun" has become commercialized; its no longer a spontaneous product of individual ingenuity, but a commodity to be purchased in the form of, say, "apps." My 20something friend Caitlin knew what a derder was but not how it got its name. That is because when she was growing up, her mom used it not as a musical instrument, but as a humane yet effective way to discipline the family dog, Gretel. Such is the enduring, versatile magic of the derder. Would Kimberly-Clark prefer that dogs be punished with ball-peen hammers?

Doug:

Joey: Okay, I'm going to jump in here. The launch of this product is a great opportunity to reduce waste.

Me: So, can we agree that your company advocates abusing animals and is philosophically opposed to nurturing imagination in little children?

Joey: It's good for society and good for the environment.

Me: Boy, you guys know how to stay on message!

Joey: At end of the day, from a sustainability standpoint, taking steps to reduce our carbon footprint is the right thing to do.

So that was that. I didn't budge them an inch. I think they may not have understood that I was a serious journalist, making a serious point. Or, possibly, they may just be too focused on, you know, the bottom line, such as moving Scott's market position in toilet paper from number two to number one.

How to play teh banjo

by

FLICKER!

Oh, hai. Today I tell u how to play teh banjo. First, u must find a comfy place to play teh banjo. Mommie Michele haz left a banjo on teh table. Are u comfy? I am!

Tehn u must get someone to ask, "Iz u in voice, Winstead?" Tehn u say, "I believe Im in voice." LOL!

Tehn u can scrape ur teeth across teh stringz or pat tehm with ur pawz. Oh, how pretteh iz teh banjo music!

How to stay warm at teh concert

by

FLICKER!

Oh, hai. Im FLICKER! I haz told u how to stay warm in teh winter and how to go to teh concert. Now I will tell u how to stay warm at teh concert.

First, u must make sure teh coast is clear.


Good. No Frankey. Go to teh concert room. In teh winter, teh balcony is too cold. U must sit in teh orchestra to stay warm when u haz a concert of Mommie Michele's guitar music. Teh Frankey cooties from teh previous concert haz died, so it is safe to sit in teh orchestra seat. Be sure ur tummeh is warm.

Oh, how pretty is teh music!

Peacherine Rag

Presenting the St. Luke's Bottle Band, St. Luke's Lutheran Church, Park Ridge, Illinois, and "The Peacherine Rag" by Scott Joplin.

Absolute-LEE!

Thanks, BobBIE, for posting the Dickey Lee tune.

When I was little, I thought the singers on the radio were singing live down at KRSN. Normally as tranquil as a September morn, I remember going to pieces one day when I heard Peggy Lee singing, because if we didn't get downtown really fast, she'd be gone.

Years later, P and I went to Opryland and saw Brenda Lee. I remember seeing her on TV and being enchanted by her voice and the fact that she was only a few years older than I. Her show in Opryland was fabulous.



And who can forget Eugene "Porky" Lee of the Little Rascals?

How to listen to teh concert

by

FLICKER!

Oh, hai. Im FLICKER! Today I show u how to listen to teh concert. First u must find a concert. Mommie Michele plays her guitar, so u haz found a concert.

For teh best view and acoustics, u must sit in teh balcony.

Oh, how pretty is teh music!

If u do not laik teh balcony, tehn u can sit in teh orchestra, right up front.

Do not sit in teh guitar case, even if u are clean from a bath. When teh audience sits in teh guitar case, my tummeh is rigid with disgust.

Rain delay! Everybody dance!

This is why baseball is the greatest sport on the planet.

Psalteries are pswell

Michele and I drove to ABQ on Friday to take a load of clothes and a futon frame to the Albuquerque Rescue Mission, which ministers to the down-and-outest of the down-and-out. It's one of the charities I support. 

Then we went up to Apple Mountain Music so Michele could salivate over the various instruments. But I was the one doing the salivating. I saw the bowed psalteries and was intrigued. The proprietor played one. Then she handed it to me to play. I held it and bowed across the strings. Cooo-oool! I read the little instruction book. I didn't need to know how to read music to play a tune; I could use tablature, which I use when playing the harmonica or mountain dulcimer. Even cooler! So I bought one; the package included an instructional DVD. Yesterday I played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" at a tempo and spirit often used to augment grief at funerals.

Here is a picture of a bowed psaltery.

Here is a picture of how the bowed psaltery is held for playing.

Here are two guys playing "Sally Gardens" on the mountain dulcimer and bowed psaltery.

You gotta get a gimmick/if you wanna get applause: music by Samuel A. Ward

Here is a very talented musician.

If one in four Americans owns a firearm, one of the Lennon Sisters is packing a rod.

The discussion of shop class last month put me in mind of other "specials" in elementary school. I loved going to the library, art class, and shop. PE was okay if we were outside, but indoor activities, including rope climbing, tumbling, and trampoline, gave me the All Overs. Music was a trial. Before Mountain School had a designated music room, the music teacher, Mrs. Cherry (I'm using a pseudonym here, but you know who I'm talking about), visited each classroom. Have autoharp, will travel.

We all thought she was a little nuts. Our next-door neighbor John H. called her a hick. I asked what a hick was, and he hunched over and began stalking around the lawn, singing and snapping his fingers. He looked like a musical stork. He looked exactly like Mrs. Cherry.

She was dramatic and offensively jolly ("Polly Wolly Doodle" was always a laff riot for her), loved having us sing the descant to any song (and if the song didn't have a descant, she'd make one up), and conducted with all the fervor of Leonard Bernstein on meth.

One day in fourth grade at the end of the music lesson, she favored us with three chords on the autoharp and sang

Good-bye, everybody! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Good-bye, everybody! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed, my darlings!

We were to respond with

Good-bye, Mrs. Cherry! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Good-bye, Mrs. Cherry! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed, my darling!

"My darling"?! The rolling of our eyes was almost audible. She had left the room and closed the door by the time we reached the second "Good-bye, Mrs. Cherry, yes indeed!" Thirty fourth graders abruptly and simultaneously stopped singing. No way were we going to sing, "Yes, indeed, my darling!" a line that would have stuck in our little throats and made us the laughingstock of the whole school.

The door reopened with a bang like a rifle shot. It was Mrs. Cherry. Her nostrils were flaring. Her hair was waving softly from the draft. The strings on her autoharp hummed at the same frequency her body was quivering. She fixed us with her gimlet eye. "You will sing the entire song. You will sing it loudly enough that I can hear it from my office!" Her office was halfway down the hall; singing to be heard at that distance would require us to use our leather-lunged outside voices. Everybody in the school, not to mention the surrounding neighborhood, would know that we called Mrs. Cherry "darling." Three chords on the autoharp got us started, and she stalked from the room.

GOOD-BYE, MRS. CHERRY! YES, INDEED!
YES, INDEED!
YES, INDEED!
GOOD-BYE, MRS. CHERRY! YES, INDEED!
YES, INDEED, MY DARLING!

In sixth grade, we had music in the new music room. Gone was the autoharp. Mrs. Cherry had a piano now. She introduced the principles of harmony. We didn't get it. She urged us with her face. We sounded terrible. She demonstrated on the piano. We sounded worse. She appealed to something we all did: watched TV. "When you watch The Lawrence Welk Show, you see the Lennon Sisters. They harmonize so beautifully. Sing, boys and girls! Sing like the Lennon Sisters!" Thirty little heads thumped in disgust and dismay to the tabletops.

When you're down and out, lift up your head and shout, "La plomberie est imparfaite, et je suis incapable de se laver!"

One of my favorite channels on XM radio is 102, Sur la Route, which features French pop tunes. I love to listen to it when I'm feeling down. I never know what the lyrics are, but even if the song were about a school bus being hit by a train, it still makes me happy because the music is so great.

Today I was listening to Sur la Route on the way to work, and the song seemed vaguely familiar. The title wasn't much help, because my knowledge of French fits in the eye of a needle. When I got to work, I wrote down the title and the artist, used Google, and sure enough, the tune was the one we called "that breathing song" in college, "Je t'aime (moi non plus)." You can also find it on YouTube, but the recording is more vivid and erotic than the videos.