On Facebook, Joe McKesson celebrated the birthday of Roy Harris (1898-1979) yesterday.
Part II is here. Harris’s Third Symphony (1939) is his most famous work, but I also like the music on the Louisville Orchestra’s recordings from 1960: his concert piece Kentucky Spring, Violin Concerto, and Symphony No. 5, all written in the late 1940s.
As Beth Levy points out, you’ll see the words log cabin, Oklahoma, and Lincoln in the opening sentence of almost every biography ever written about Roy Harris.
Although he was a Sooner for only five years, almost everyone in music circles identified him as being quintessentially Western. Arts patron Mary Churchill had this to say about her meeting with Harris in Paris, where he was studying in the late 1920s: “[he was] wild and worn; but gave off a wonderful western farmer air in the middle of the Place de la Concorde.”
Serge Koussevitzky said that “nobody has captured in music the essence of American life–its vitality, its greatness, its strength–so well as Roy Harris.” That Harris shared a birthday with Lincoln–both were born on February 12–only added to the mystique.
Harris (1898-1979) certainly didn’t dispel any of the myth making, and even helped cultivate it. He was a lot like Bob Dylan that way: both built personas to promote themselves that have ended up enveloping–and even overshadowing–their music.
As Drew McManus reminds us, the Detroit Symphony management said on Wednesday that they would cancel the season if an agreement wasn’t reached in two days.
There’s nothing funny about Darth Vader. Nothing. He’s the embodiment of evil. Have these people even seen Star Wars? I’ll have nightmares tonight.
http://www.hulu.com/embed/RWZOl8Dg037PpPx46KbaTQ
Two million dollars is what the Detroit Symphony and the union are fighting over. Management wants to keep that money for community outreach; the musicians want it for their salaries.
Once again, the musicians whine for the short gain instead of going for long-term engagement with the city and the people that, ostensibly, will help sustain their organization.
The orchestra says that they’ll need to cancel the rest of the season in “two days” if they don’t reach a settlement. I thought that ship had already sailed. It seems as if the strike has been going on forever.
“Running Back” is as close as my friend David Parks got to a football song.
A good bit of rock history, but not a football song.
I heard Kate Jacobs’s “Rey Ordonez” yesterday. It’s one in a long line of baseball odes, and there are lots of songs about hockey–but why doesn’t anyone write about football?
Maybe it’s because football isn’t fun. Baseball and hockey have crazy fun-loving characters and lovable losers (I’m looking at you, Maple Leafs). Football has psychotics that (literally) commit horrible violent crimes; winning’s not the main thing, it’s the only thing.
So, this Super Bowl Sunday (don’t sue me NFL), check in with Brian Wilson (who’s making a case to be the next Bill Lee, apparently), find out why Gerry Cheevers’s mask was so creepy, and listen to some music:
And if I’m wrong about football, let me know.
Christ and St. Stephen’s Church on West 69th Street in Manhattan is a great place to hear music, and this weekend you check it out for free: the North/South Chamber Orchestra is performing some new music there on Sunday at 3 PM.
You’ll hear music by Sean Hickey. He’s a friend of mine, but also a composer worth knowing.
Baby got Bach is back. Orli Shaham and her gang will be down in Greenwich Village at Le Poisson Rouge on Sunday–doors open at 11 AM.
It looks like a good time for all, and a nice balance of hands-on participation and top-notch performance. Make sure you hang around for the finale: Steve Mackey’s Sneaky March.
I got a couple of responses to my last post about creepy songs–thanks Robyn, Kappy–that both added this to the list:
On the Huffington Post this morning, Alida Nugent gives her list of songs that have left her thoroughly creeped out:
I have now changed my definition of love. After hearing these songs, Love, to me, is clowns at the circus, that weird guy who owned an emu farm and antique shops.
In some cases, the lyrics make you shudder, but in others, it’s about the context: Chris Brown’s horrible misogynistic rage issues ruin “Forever”; the video does in Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello.”
I’ve got my own list. What about you? Any songs that make you want to take a shower–or call the police?
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