Music is such a personal, touchy subject—as is worship. Put them together and you might as well be mixing sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Nonetheless I will boldly go where too many have gone before, in order to draw attention to “Pop Goes the Worship,” an interview in Christianity Today (March 2011) with T. David Gordon, author of Why Johnny Can’t Sing Hymns: How Pop Culture Rewrote the Hymnal.
I wasn’t expecting much when I began the article (who writes these titles, anyway?), but was quickly drawn in. A sure way to my heart is to say what I’ve been saying myself, or wanted to say, only much better and with authority. The article is worthwhile in its entirety; here are a few excerpts to whet your appetite—or raise your blood pressure. [Emphasis in the following is mine]
T. David Gordon argues that modern worship choruses have trumped hymns in many congregations because for decades, we have been inundated with pop music—to the point that many of us don't know better. If you eat nothing but Big Macs, Gordon says, you will never appreciate a filet mignon.
Regarding church music, Gordon says, media ecologists should ask how music, "once a participatory thing, became a passive thing. What happens when people who used to sing folk music around the house are now surrounded by Muzak? How does that alter our sensibilities of music?"
Many are promoting an "aesthetic" that it is our duty to patronize living artists and not artists who are dead. Should we also not read books that are more than 50 years old, or enter buildings that are more than 50 years old? Christians aren't abandoning their buildings, and they haven't stopped reading Spurgeon or Edwards or Luther or Calvin. We haven't rejected other art forms that are not new. We've done so only with music.
Unless an individual chooses to listen to different kinds of music, the only thing that individual will hear (most of the time) is pop. Sure, one's sensibilities can be shaped deliberately, and many of us have developed tastes that we once did not have. (I spent years cultivating a taste for Brahms, whom I now love, and I spent about two years cultivating my appreciation for jazz.) If I did not believe that sensibilities could be cultivated, I wouldn't have written the book; it is, in some senses, a plea to shape them differently from the way commercial pop culture shapes them. But for people who do not take ownership of the cultivation of their sensibilities, other cultural gatekeepers will shape them for them—and in this case, they will shape them to prefer pop.
Piazzolla: Tangazo
Mozart: Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major, K. 297b
Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 4 in F minor, op.36
Alondra de la Parra, conductor
Nikolay Blagov, clarinet
Jamie Strefeler, oboe
Diane Bishop, bassoon
Mark Fischer, French horn
Alondra de la Parra. Thirty years old, and already an exciting conductor. Watch out for her. Seek out her performances.
As OPO supporters, we are invited to attend one of the open Friday night rehearsals before a concert, and we chose this one for the compelling reason that it was the only one scheduled for when Porter was able to attend. What a fortunate Hobson's choice!
Back when Janet was in the Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra, we enjoyed listening to rehearsals because the orchestra would play, the conductor would make some suggestions, and then the orchestra would play again—with obvious improvement. Orlando Phil rehearsals are not usually fun in that way, because, of course, they are better players.
And then Alondra de la Parra came as guest conductor. I don’t know how the musicians felt, being treated like youth orchestra students—for Maestra De la Parra stopped them, and worked them, and even at one point had them play to the accompaniment of a loud and disconcerting rim-tap metronome sound from the percussion section. She made them play chords again and again, until she heard the right balance: “I need more of the C!” She ran late, much to the annoyance of the union rep, who checked his watch every minute and a half.
But what a difference the work made! The before and after contrast was as discernable as it had been with the students, and the next day's performance was even more brilliant. I have always loved the OPO, but I had no idea they could play like that. I loathe the “grade inflation” that has led to standing ovations at nearly every concert, but this time I was one of the first on my feet.
De la Parra is fun to watch, too. With the baton she is as commanding as a four-star general, and yet she dances her directions, playing the orchestra like a beloved instrument, coaxing out the sound.
She gave most of her rehearsal attention to the Tchaikovsky, and it was consequently the most stunning. But the Mozart was delightful because of the players: Jamie Strefeler handled the oboe part with skill, Mark Fischer is always good on horn, Nikolay Blagov would make even Heather like the clarinet, and Diane Bishop’s bassoon playing amazes me every time. (To be completely honest, my favorite part of the Tchaikovsky was some exquisite solo bassoon notes.)
The Piazolla was fun, all the more so because we recognized both the name and the style from a concert in Japan a few years ago. There we had heard his Libertango played by a talented cellist, who, like other notables such as Diane Bishop and Janet Stücklin-Wightman, graduated from the Eastman School of Music. She is now teaching at an arts school in Africa. This completes your It’s a Large World trivia diversion for today.
We capped the evening by enjoying some drinks (okay, it was water) and cookies (oatmeal) at a table by a fountain, while the rest of the crowd struggled to get out of the parking lot. Twenty minutes later the way was clear; we packed up our belongings and drove home in peace.
The Olde Cup & Saucer, Jamestown Place, Altamonte Springs, Florida
This is for our friend, Nancy: I'm taking you to tea at The Olde Cup & Saucer. All you have to do is figure out how to get here from North Carolina.
It's a pity the Olde Cup & Saucer is in a storefront rather than a garden setting, but if you sit with your back to the window and ignore the fact that you can read the menu, you can at least imagine you're sitting in a European café. Better, because no one's smoking.
The restaurant serves lunch and afternoon tea; we went for the former, and will be back to check out the latter. There's a good assortment of teas available, though we chose the specials of the day for the cheaper price and free refills. True, even $1.25 is a lot to pay when we have a store of many excellent teas at home, but hey, I once spent four Swiss francs for a cup of tea in Bern. (As that cup came with shelter from a storm, as well as a cookie, the price was not too high.)
It was a good Irish Breakfast, served in a lovely cup that brought instantly to mind the above-mentioned friend. (Porter enjoyed the Arctic Raspberry, iced.) From the lunch menu, I chose the Classic, with a cup of the soup of the day and two tea sandwiches. The cheddar cheese and bacon soup was served as hot as I like it, which is rare in restaurants, and I could have happily eaten a large bowl. For the sandwiches I chose curry chicken salad, and spinach. They were out of the spinach, so I substituted cucumber. Both were delicious and creatively presented. Porter couldn't resist the dish named for our mutual ancestor, Henry II: shrimp salad, and a side of hearts of palm with Vidalia dressing. Again, the food was creative and delicious: the shrimp salad included, among other, less-identifiable treats, walnuts and olives. Quantities were decidedly un-American, a "tea sandwich" being the size of half of what I'd call a sandwich, and thus even smaller than normal restaurant fare. But it was enough, just right. Smaller portions lend themselves better to savoring.
The Olde Cup & Saucer also sells a modest selection of loose teas; my only disappointment was discovering that what they call Russian Caravan is noticeably smoky, unlike the other teas I've had under that name. Ah, well—we know people who pass through the Basel train station now and then....
Although I generally prefer to have people come to our house to share meals, sometimes folks would rather meet at a restaurant. I'm confident enough in my cooking not to let this bother me (much), but heretofore I've not had a suggestion to make when asked, "Where would you like to meet?" Now I can't wait for the next opportunity.
When will I learn not to trust product labels? I tasted these delightful cocoa almonds at the Daleys' and didn't resist when our local Publix had them on a buy one, get one free sale. They were just as good as I had remembered, and Porter agrees with my assessment.
The problem? Hidden away at the bottom of the ingredient list—which otherwise is agreeably small, for a snack food—is that hateful word, "Sucralose."
Now, I'm not opposed to artificial sweeteners for those who want to use them. Xylitol, for example, is an important part of my dental care, and I don't want any well-intentioned busybodies trying to ban it.
But I'm also in favor of full disclosure when it comes to food products, and hiding artificial sweetener behind small print is cheating. One ought to be able to assume that a product is sweetened naturally unless otherwise clearly informed. They could at least have used the same upper case letters that boldly inform me that this product "CONTAINS ALMONDS." Really? A product named "Cocoa Roast Almonds" contains almonds? What is the world coming to?
How did you celebrate St. Patrick's Day? We braved the crowds and streets awash in green beer to see Freud's Last Session at our favorite Mad Cow Theatre. Once again I must be grateful to my husband who drags me to such things when I'd rather stay at home because my revision of Phoebe's Quilt is bumping up against its April deadline with an unthinkable* amount of work still remaining.
There are perhaps a thousand wrong ways to craft a play about a hypothetical meeting between Sigmund Freud and C. S. Lewis, but playwright Mark St. Germain achieved the impossible: a show that is intellectually honest, fair, and respectful of both the character and the viewpoints of each man. Similar respect, fairness, and honesty shone through the performances of Steven Lane (Lewis) and Terry Wells (Freud) under the direction of Mad Cow's Rick Stanley. As it turns out, St. Germain's inspiration was Harvard professor Dr. Armand Nicholi's The Question of God, so if I'd only remembered my own blog post from six years ago, I wouldn't have been so surprised at the excellence.
After the performance we had a chance to ask questions of the director and the actors, and if there was one overwhelming impression I took home from the audience's response was their appreciation, tinged with astonishment, of an example of two people with strong, heartfelt, and opposing ideas engaging in discourse that is both substantive and respectful. In truth, I was a bit shaken to realize that ordinary civility has become a thing at which to marvel.
You can see excerpts from the play at the official New York site. I have to say that I liked the work of Lane and Wells better, though it's not fair to judge based on small clips.
Oh, and what does this have to do with St. Patrick's Day? Well, C. S. Lewis was born in Ireland. Not that St. Patrick himself was....
I mentioned Speculoos à Tartiner before, when in January this unusual Christmas gift caused both U.S. Customs and the TSA concern on my return from Switzerland. Now that Porter and I have been in the same city long enough to broach the jar, I find it deserves a post of its own.
The giving and receiving of this liquid gold at Christmastime should become a tradition on the order of stockings hung by the chimney with care.
Speculoos à Tartiner looks and spreads like peanut butter, and tastes like a Biscoff cookie. Thus far we have only sampled it on bread—plus a small, furtive spoonful this morning in the interest of journalistic accuracy. For the future I'm thinking pancake, waffle, and ice cream topping, fruit dip, frosting for a creamy vanilla cake, and a new twist on cinnamon rolls. What would you suggest?
It was with much trepidation that I looked at the nutritional data on the label, but it's quite comparable to peanut butter, being higher in sugar, but with fewer calories and less fat.
I'm curious to find out if any of my readers can obtain Speculoos à Tartiner at a local store. Wegmans, for example, is my court of last resort when it comes to unusual foods—what a pity the nearest store is 800 miles distant. But there's always the Internet, where you can buy this confection under the name "Biscoff Spread": $12.95 plus $5 shipping (continental U.S.) will get you two jars. One could easily replace the marshmallow chicks in an Easter basket.
Or you could schedule your own trip to Europe. True, that is somewhat pricier, but also infinitely more rewarding. And in all likelihood it will earn you personal attention from Customs and the TSA upon your return.
How to Be a High School Superstar: A Revolutionary Plan to Get into College by Standing Out (Without Burning Out), by Cal Newport (Broadway Books, New York, 2010)
If I could recommend two books to help a 12-15 year old student prepare for college, it would be Alex and Brett Harris's Do Hard Things and this one. Some of the political and religious views expressed in the former set my teeth on edge, but it's well worth the effort to get past that reaction, because Brett and Alex write well, and what they are saying is incredibly important, not just for teens who share their beliefs, but for everyone, of any age.
How to Be a High School Superstar is altogether different in focus, but I can boil the best of both books down to this: Life doesn’t begin when you graduate from high school. or college, or grad school. You can do hard things, good things, amazing things, now. Or, rather, in a little while from now, if you are willing to put forth some effort in the right direction. (More)
Ender's Shadow, by Orson Scott Card (Tor, New York, 1999)
Having read Ender's Game and Speaker for the Dead while visiting one son-in-law's library for the birth of a grandchild, it seems only fair to read Ender's Shadow while visiting the other son-in-law's library for the birth of the next grandchild.
Although I liked Ender's Game a lot, I was disappointed by the sequel and thus did not pursue the series any further. But Ender's Shadow is Ender's Game as seen from the point of view of Bean, one of my favorite characters, and was recommended to me, so when I found it on the bookshelves here I couldn't resist.
It's good. Maybe better than the original. Not great, but fun to read and hard to put down for anything less than a grandchild.
Bad Science: Quacks, Hacks, and Big Pharma Flacks, by Ben Goldacre (Faber and Faber, New York, 2010)
Bad Science was hard to read. Not because the material is difficult (it's not), nor because I disagree with the author's positions (though sometimes I do), but because it is 258 pages of sneer. Since Goldacre repeatedly states that he is bending over backwards to give his adversaries as much credit as possible, perhaps the sneer is unintentional, but it is no less an impediment. (More)
What You Think Is What You Get: An Introductory Textbook for the Study of the Alexander Technique, by Donald L. Weed (Third Edition, ITM Publications, Bristol, UK, 2004)
I wish I understood this book well enough to review it. The Wikipedia article on Alexander Technique is currently flagged, “This article may be confusing or unclear to readers.” Much the same could be said for the book, though I have to say that having read the book makes the article, if not clear, at least familiar.
What You Think Is What You Get is a keeper; it’s just not for beginners, despite the word “introductory” in the title. I would not have read very far if I had not already seen the Alexander Technique in action. However, not only do I know how much it helped Janet with her overuse injuries, but I’ve observed several classes and even had a few short lessons myself. Janet’s Alexander Technique teacher studied under Donald Weed, and her classes are nothing less than remarkable. Who would have thought that a gentle touch and the suggestion that the student relax a certain shoulder muscle would suddenly make his singing voice deeper and richer? Or that an almost imperceptible postural change would make a pianist’s music come alive? Or that being asked, “Do you really need to contract that arm muscle to help you walk across the room?” would visibly improve my walking as well as relieve arm pain I’ve had for years? (More)
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001, PG-13)
Rarely do we spare the time, effort, and expense to watch a movie in the theater, but back in 2001 we ventured into the cold of a Massachusetts winter, in my eagerness to see what the filmmakers had made of one of my all-time favorite books (and Porter's eagerness to see New Zealand, one of his all-time favorite countries, the setting for the film).
I was prepared to be disappointed, as I've yet to find a movie more appealing than the book on which it is based. I was not prepared to be bored. I don't bore easily, but this film succeeded: I couldn't wait for the three hours to be over.
Nine years later I decided it was time to give the film another chance. Whether I like it or not, this version has entered the popular consciousness, and for most people, The Lord of the Rings IS the movie. Having recently re-read the book, I ordered the first of the trilogy from Netflix, determined to watch with a more open mind. (More)
Confessions and Reflections of a Traveler, by Brett R. McLean (Iona Press, Vancouver, 200)
If you can't judge a book by its cover, you can't judge it by random samples, either.
Both of our book-loving girls married book-loving men, so a visit to the grandchildren often leads to picking up random books, which might be found anywhere in the house. This particular book was on the bathroom reading shelf, and I found myself picking it up several times a day. In this manner I read many small samplings of the book, taken randomly from the middle.
McLean and a college companion decided one summer to travel across the United States on half a shoestring. Since this is what Porter did some 20 years earlier, I thought the book might be a good gift for some upcoming occasion. To be certain, I decided to borrow the book and begin at the beginning. (More)
The Vintage Bradbury: Ray Bradbury's Own Selection of His Best Stories, by Ray Bradbury (Vintage, 1990) (original copyright 1965)
I picked this book out from my son-in-law's collection because my nephews had recently read Something Wicked This Way Comes for their book club, and I realized I hadn't read any Bradbury in a long time.
Now I'm probably done for another five years or so. Some of the stories were enjoyable, but most I found too weird and depressing for me. Tales of bizarre "healers" whose treatment of choice turns out to be rape, and of children plotting to kill their parents—not to mention babies murdering their mothers!—are not worth spending precious reading time on. I'm very sensitive to the content of what I read and watch—One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest troubled me for years—and find it better not to give my mind too many dark ideas upon which to brood.
On the other hand, nobody writes like Ray Bradbury. I wish he had put his imagination and incredible descriptive skills to a more uplifting purpose; he’s a genius, without doubt. His stories are about as close to poetry as prose can get—at least not without falling into the outlandish world of James Joyce.
And family is family. Ray Bradbury is my sixth cousin twice removed. 
Now I'm probably done for another five years or so. Some of the stories were enjoyable, but most I found too weird and depressing for me. Tales of bizarre "healers" whose treatment of choice turns out to be rape, and of children plotting to kill their parents—not to mention babies murdering their mothers!—are not worth spending precious reading time on. I'm very sensitive to the content of what I read, or watch—One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest troubled me for years—and find it better not to give my mind too many dark ideas upon which to brood.
On the other hand, nobody writes like Ray Bradbury. I wish he had put his imagination and incredible descriptive skills to a more uplifting purpose; he’s a genius, without doubt. His stories are about as close to poetry as prose can get without falling into the outlandish world of James Joyce.Inconstant Moon, by Larry Niven (Orbit, 1991; original copyright 1973)
One of the advantages of having our son-in-law's book collection at hand is that I can indulge in my passion from a previous stage in life: science fiction. The disadvantage is that I'm beginning to suspect that my tastes have changed.
I thought I remembered liking the works of Larry Niven, and maybe I did. But now, this collection of stories was one-for-seven for me. The last, Death by Ecstasy, is an interesting mystery, but most of the tales are dated, with an embarrassing 1960s flavor—not surprising, since that is when they were written. There's just too much of the holier-than-thou, making a point that the characters are of different races (racial tensions were a big problem in the 60s), and 'way too much emphasis on how in the (enlightened) future, the one-husband, one-wife, faithfully-married-with-children kind of sexual practice, so reviled by the sexual revolutionaries of the time, will be such a rare variation as to be almost unmentionable. This might have been daring, titilating writing 45 years ago, but today it gets old fast.
On the other hand, I enjoy observing the ways in which the old science fiction writers mis-called both scientific and social changes. As they say, anyone can predict the invention of the automobile, but it takes a genius to anticipate the traffic jam. In a world of interstellar travel, enormous lifespans, and pleasure-stimulating brain implants, the computers are still huge, and ashtrays common in every home, hotel, and office.
Into the Silent Land: A Guide to the Christian Practice of Contemplation , by Martin Laird (Oxford University Press, 2006)
The physical benefits of meditative techniques are well established, and I’d like to be able to take advantage of them. What has hindered me is that many—though not all—of the studies have focused on Transcendental Meditation (TM), the Eastern religious aspects of which have led me to keep meditation in general at arm’s length since I first learned of it some 40 years ago. It will not do to gain a physical benefit at a spiritual loss—I can’t help thinking of The Magician’s Nephew, in which Digory was tempted to steal an apple that would have cured his dying mother, but if he had done so, both he and his mother would have later “looked back and said it would have been better to die in that illness.”
Yet Digory, having passed the test, was eventually given another apple, one that healed his mother in the right way. (More)
