Queen of Galilee

I’m not entirely sure how to categorize today’s Advent offering. I mean, it’s Christmas music, no issue there. But it’s not praise, or a lullaby, or rejoicing…

Moreover, I can’t find anything out about it. Google has ceased to be my friend here.

"Mary Was the Queen of Galilee" is from the African American tradition, and it strikes me as...mournful. And that’s all I got.

Here’s a recording of it from Smithsonian Folkways, featuring Elizabeth Mitchell.

The high untrespassed sanctity of space

Yesterday we lost one of the real heroes of the past 70 years. John H. Glenn, Jr., the last of the Mercury Astronauts, died at an Ohio State University hospital, age 95.

Glenn was a son, a husband, a father; an aviator, an engineer, a Marine, a politician—a man who took seriously the idea of public service. He flew Corsairs in the Pacific during World War II, and then Panthers and Sabres in the Korean War. During his time as a Marine, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross six times. After that, he was a test pilot until he was chosen to be one of the Mercury Seven, our first Astronauts.

He was the first American to orbit the earth, in 1962, in the craft he named Friendship 7. Retiring from the Marine Corps he was elected to the US Senate, where he served for 24 years. His aspirations for the Presidency were never fulfilled. In 1998 he returned to space, in the space shuttle Discovery, the oldest person yet to fly one of those missions. He was 77.

Just look at that face. Even though he's not flashing that signature grin, you can see the joy behind his eyes.

You can read about Glenn’s distinguished career in any of the twelve squillion obituaries that will be published today. But here are two things I want to say.

He was married to his childhood sweetheart, Annie, for 73 years, and that is not something you hear about very often.

And if any human could be said to have loved flying, it would be John Glenn. He has, one last time and forever, slipped the surly bonds of earth.

Rings a bell

There are many Christmas carols and songs of which I am not a fan. “Chestnuts Roasting”—meh. “White Christmas”—no thanks. Anything covered by Justin Bieber—pass the sick bag.

“Little Drummer Boy” holds a special place in that projectile vomit category. There's something about that “Bolero”-like repetition of the rum-pum-pum thing that just makes me want to knock heads.

Ditto “The Carol of the Bells”—it feels like three days of faux chiming, and there’s only so much ding-donging a person can take. I mean—there must be a clause in the Geneva Convention that prohibits this song.

However. Muppets.

Brevity is the soul of wit, dimwits and halfwits.

Dastardly deeds

Let us pause in our holiday preparations to recall the lightning strike by the Japanese navy on Pearl Harbor, what Franklin D. Roosevelt called “a dastardly attack” 75 years ago today. His speech is worth a watch and listen:

Every year, fewer and fewer frail old men make the pilgrimage back there to honor their comrades lost on that day. Two thousand, four hundred and three dead that day, 1177 of them on the USS Arizona. If you look closely at these old ones, you can see the 20-year-olds of 75 years ago, who were shocked out of their Sunday morning somnolence by the dastardly attack. Who grabbed cannon, machine guns and rifles in a desperate attempt to defend against the fighters and bombers that filled the skies over Oahu.

And you should look very closely indeed. There are 20-year-old men and women across the country and in outposts around the world who are standing watch in our behalf. Will they be coming back to some place of mass sacrifice in 50, 60 and 70 years because of policies set in place over the next few years?

Luna, mit silbernem Schein

Today’s the 75^th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, so I thought I might give you something Japanese and Christmasy. Well, I couldn’t find anything that fit that bill—yeah, a whole lotta schlock out there, but nothing I could sort through.

Then I thought I’d give you a Japanese soprano singing something Western for Christmas. But even that proved to be thin on the ground.

So then I thought, “Well, Sumi Jo is a Korean soprano. But in 1941, Korea had been occupied by the Japanese for more than 30 years, so let’s try her.”

Okay—did not find anything specifically Christmas by her (yeah, “White Christmas”; yeah, “O Holy Night”…I have her Christmas CD. I just didn’t think any of it suitable for my goals here). So I’m going to conflate a lot of cultures and present Jo singing one of the many Wiegenlieder (lullabies) that frequently get co-opted for Christmas purposes. (In this case, one whose melody for a long time was attributed to Mozart, but now is believed to have been the work of one of his contemporaries.)

And she’s obviously singing at a Christmas concert. With a kid in pajamas playing a triangle.

Works for me. You got a problem with that, send a letter to the editor.

(Last year you got “Suo Gân”, which is a Welsh lullaby, so there’s precedent.)

The lyrics are lulling a little prince to sleep. This of course could refer to the Prince of Peace. But every mother thinks her baby is a prince. The mother here coos at her little one to sleep in the moon’s silvery glow, which is an image certainly in line with the birth in Bethlehem.

And Jo’s voice also has a silvery quality to it. Something to consider if you’re watching coverage of the Pearl Harbor anniversary.

A light blue convertible

Today is Saint Nicholas Day, the day when we commemorate the 4^th-Century bishop of Myra, one of the participants of the Council of Nicaea. This is actually the day he died, which makes a bit of a change for celebrations.

(Although his death is kind of a thing; at least his corpse was. Because about 600 years after he died, Italian merchants robbed his grave in Myra and took his body to Bari. I’m not touching the issues around what possesses a group of people to do that kind of stuff and expect to remain in God’s favor.)

He’s the patron of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, children, brewers, pawnbrokers and students. I’m trying to think of what commonalities connect those groups, but without luck.

We of course have conflated Saint Nicholas with major gift giving (which might explain the children, merchants and pawnbrokers; possibly the repentant thieves, too), via the Dutch version of his name, Sinterklaas. And today is the day (instead of the 25^th) when children in a number of countries get their gifts (if they’ve been good; if they’ve been naughty, they get coal or switches, depending on the local custom).

So it seems appropriate to me that today’s piece of music focus on Santa Claus, gifts and varying degrees of naughtiness. And who better to sing “Santa Baby” than Eartha Kitt?

Gratitude Monday: das Kindlein

One thing I’m thankful for year after year is peeling away all the crap associated with the holidays and finding the simple joys that kids can still muster up, no matter what’s going on around them. If you give them the least opportunity, they’ll find something to be happy about.

So here are a couple of Christmas carols that focus on the children, both from Germany and Austria.

I learned “Ihr Kinderlein kommet” in one of my German classes, and the harmonies have always struck me as just gorgeous. Basically, the song is inviting children to come to Bethlehem, to find another child in his manger cradle. It dates from the 18^th Century And here we have the Vienna Boys Choir singing it.

And since we’re speaking of a baby in his cradle, here’s a lullaby carol, from the Salzburg area somewhere in the 19^th Century. I like the notion of lullaby carols, seeing as to how the holiday's all about a baby and his mom. Last year I gave you several, including a Czech one, a Welsh one and a Swedish one. 

I did not know this Eva Lind chick, who’s singing "Still Still Still", but she’s an Austrian soprano, and evidently a big deal. This setting strikes me as being not dissimilar from a “Christmas with the Carpenters” kind of thing (if the Carpenters hung out in German Bierkeller), but I like the feeling of a soprano singing a lullaby, so I’m down with it, as long as I close my eyes.

P.S. I favor sopranos, so today I’m grateful for finding another one to add to my collection.

Or ecco ch’è nato il Salvatore!

Today’s Advent offering is a little longer than the usual.

Okay—it’s rather a lot longer: 25 minutes.

But if you’ve got a long drive, or have some time at home, have a listen to Ottorino Respighi’s “Lauda per la Natività del Signore”

You seldom hear Respighi, but I very much like the few pieces of his that you can catch on classical music stations. “Pines of Rome” and “Fountains of Rome”, the first two of his Roman Trilogy, are quite enjoyable. (I don’t think I’ve heard “Roman Festivals”.) But my favorites are “Ancient Airs and Dances” and “The Birds”.

Ah, but back to the current work, “Hymn of Praise for our Lord’s Birth”. The text is attributed to Jacopone da Todi in the 13^th Century, and the main characters are the Angel who announces the Nativity to the shepherds, Mary, and the Shepherds.

The singing and such are fine, but I just love Respighi’s integration of the instruments in the orchestra. It’s so…I don’t know. But it is.

We drink to thee

It being 3 December, and the first week after Thanksgiving, I reckon that folks are pulling up their big-boy pants and cranking up the Christmas machine. Lists, stores, traffic…

You need a break.

And probably some alcohol.

So today we’ll have one of the approximately 12,347 variants of seasonal songs about mobs forming to rove villages in search of booze. This version is from Gloucestershire, because it’s called the “Gloucester/Gloucestershire Wassail Song”. I mean, I’m taking that as a clue.

Wassail, in case you are a little unclear, is one of the approximately 12,347 variants on mulled cider or wine or beer or mead. Mulling involves heating [mead, wine, beer or cider]; adding spices such as ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and the like; and topping it with a slice of toasted bread, as a sop. (Sop: you know—like the toasted slices of baguette or croutons on the top of soup. Think: French onion soup.)

Oh, and it’s drunk from one big, communal bowl. No germ theory here.

Wassail dates back to Medieval times. I don’t know when all the spices started to be added, because they would have been extraordinarily rare and prohibitively expensive during that period. And I’m not sure about the significance of the toast being white; white flour and bread were also very expensive, and therefore only the very wealthy could afford it.

I’ve never had wassail, to my knowledge; at least, never anything that announced itself as such. But every year around this time, I like to have a mug or two of Glühwein, which is pre-spiced red wine that’s served at Weihnachtsmärkte throughout Europe.

There is nothing like being out on a freezing December night, with a mug of Glühwein in your hand, wandering up and down aisles of stalls with Christmas gear of all types, and watching children go gaga.

The custom of wassailing—roving around the village singing and demanding booze—is bifurcated. In apple and cider country in the west of England, you go out to the orchards in mid-winter to, you know, wake them up. To serve notice that the trees will have to shake off their winter sleep in a couple of months, and get back to work, because those apples are key to the local economy.

Wassailing through the village focuses on a kind of jolly-faced exchange between the peasants and the landlord class: here we’ve come to wish you well (wassail comes from Old English, and means “be thou hale”), oh—and have you got any food and drink on you? Great. Hand it over.

This explains all the verses in the song about wishing the master all the best: a good year, a good piece of beef, a good Christmas pie, a good crop of corn, blah, blah, blah. Just the slightest bit on the toadying side, but hey—it’s Tradition.

I especially love this version, by the Utah State University Chorus, because—even though it’s a Concert, they’re having such fun with it. I also love the fact that, it being Utah State, and the composition of the performers and audience is probably heavily Mormon and therefore strictly tee-total, they’re totally delivering on the progressively tipsy nature of the piece.

I wonder if by the end of this their ale it is white and their toast it is brown…

As for me: I am not out contributing to traffic jams and jostling wild-eyed shoppers. Today is my day to hunker down and power through many batches of candy. Then I’m taking a blow torch to every surface in the kitchen to get the sugar off of it.

Achtung Hallelujah

If you don’t know by now what a sucker I am for a good flash mob, I just cannot help you. In the past, I’ve done entire series of “Hallelujah Chorus” flash mobs. I love the ephemeral nature of the musical flash mob, as people who look just like you emerge from a crowd, belt out something that sends chills down your spine, and then melt back into the crowd.

If that’s not magic, I do not know what is.

(Yes—it’s a boatload of work, rehearsals and logistics. But the result is pure magic.)

Viz. this experience at Köln-Bonn airport. Is there a less magical place on the planet than any airport during the holidays? So is this not the place where we most need it?

You listen and consider the notion.