I read this morning on the BBC that opera singer Dame Kiri Te Kanawa says she will never sing in public again. “I don’t want to hear my voice,” said the soprano, 71, whose career has spanned more than half a century.
“It is in the past. When I’m teaching young singers and hearing beautiful young fresh voices, I don’t want to put my voice next to theirs.”
I don’t listen to much opera, but I do love Kiri Te Kanawa, whom I became a fan of after being introduced to her voice in Merchant-Ivory’s brilliant A Room With A View. Listen here to Dame Kiri singinging Puccini’s O Mio Babbino Caro” (“Oh My Beloved Father”), and Chi il Bel Sogno di Doretta.
Could anything be more beautiful? Thank you, Kiri Te Kanawa.
PARIS CAN WAIT
Bonjour my friends!
Last night I watched the movie Paris Can Wait as a mindless diversion from Rachel Maddow’s frustratingly futile plans for a Trump impeachment and the continuous Harvey-Irma hurricane disaster reports. This cable news diversion was a bit more mindless than I could tolerate, however. Although I loved the many French restaurant dining scenes (particularly the Châteauneuf-du-Pape pouring into oversized wine glasses) and the footage of a curiously unoccupied Pont du Gard, I’ve seen better stories on The Hallmark Channel, watching with my 87 year old mother, while both of us drown-out the romcom dialogue with talk about our Red Sox. Mom loves Mookie.
This is the first feature film from Eleanor Coppola (the wife of Francis Ford Coppola) and the story is somewhat autobiographical, with lovely Diane Lane playing a recently empty-nested “Anne” (Coppola) who undertakes a surprise road trip from Cannes to Paris, alongside the flirtatious Frenchman Jacques (Arnaud Viard), who is a business associate of her husband (Alec Baldwin as the Francis Ford You-Know-Who character).
Will Jacques be nimble and quick enough to grab some nookie with Anne? After about 30 minutes you’ll stop caring about either of these graying cuties, and your only concern will be if the local wine shop is still open.
MACRON, LUMBERGH AND THE SLACKERS
Reuters News reports President Emmanuel Macron faces the first challenge on the streets to his business-friendly reform agenda today, when workers from the hard-left CGT union will march through French cities to protest against a loosening of labor regulations. Macron told French business leaders: “I am fully determined and I won’t cede any ground, not to slackers, nor cynics, nor hardliners.”
Slackers? Mon Dieu!
My French friends – don’t fall for this shit! Ask any American worker if they would prefer your 35 hour work week and many holidays to our 24/7/365 days-a-year model. Only the most jealous and/or deluded will claim ours is superior to yours in terms of overall health and happiness. Don’t allow Macron to become President Bill Lumbergh. You’ll be working Saturdays, mes amis.
BILL LUMBERGH, OFFICE SPACE Speaking of Office Space, here’s some great clips from YouTube.
GROUNDHOG DAY EXPERIMENT Yesterday I rewatched a favorite film, Harold Ramis’ Groundhog Day (1993). I’ve seen this Buddhist-themed movie dozens of times. After last night’s viewing, I decided to attempt an experiment whereby I would try to experience each day as if I was revisiting each moment and encounter.
Superficially, Groundhog Day is a about a cynical, egocentric weatherman Phil (Bill Murray) who repeats the same day over and over again (February 2nd, aka Groundhog Day) until he convinces Rita (Andie MacDowell) to fall in love with him. On a deeper level, it is a profound work of contemporary metaphysics, albeit, with occasionally hilarious sight gags (“Am I right or am I right? – Needle-nose Ned Ryersen)
Yesterday, as I fiddled with my cable remote to find something entertaining on the tube (Springsteen underestimated, “57 Channels And Nothin’s On,” there’s more like 257) I stopped at an infomercial selling a “Golden Oldies” multi-cd package. The product’s celebrity hawker was none other than Sha Na Na’s “Bowser,” who performed his trademarked Bowser muscle pose at the end of the spot.
Despite my deep aversion to Bowser (hated the 1970s syndicated Sha Na Na TV show – especially Bowser doing his muscle pose) I couldn’t stop listening to the commercial, as each ’50s-era song brought back memories of listening at night to Boston’s original golden-oldie radio station, WROR.
As a teenager, I was nuts about these records, even though many of them were recorded before I was born. While Sha Na Na always sounded like phonies to me, I preferred the originals I would hear every night listening WROR: “A Lover’s Question” by Clyde McPhatter, “I Only Have Eyes For You” by the Flamingos, “Mr. Blue” by the Fleetwoods, “Sleepwalk” by Santo & Johnny, “Susie Darlin” by Robin Luke, and “Stranded in the Jungle” by the Cadets. On my morning drive into Pilgrim High School, my 1964 Pontiac Tempest station wagon had only AM reception, so my favorite oldies on FM’s WROR weren’t an option. Instead I was forced to listen to the AM radio hits of the mid-’70’s: Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles, Peter Frampton, and the discofied Bee Gees, None of these performers were speaking to me the way The Five Keys did in their classic “Ling Ting Tong”
Even though I hadn’t yet discovered that this song was actually about smoking reefer (I sa mok em boo di ay, I sa mok em boo.) I instinctively knew “Ling Ting Tong” was cooler than, say, “Rhiannon.”
Wouldn’t it be nice if every dollar made from the sale of this CD collection (or any oldies compilation) would miraculously appear in the pockets of each of the remaining Five Keys? And not just in their pockets, but in the pockets of every living musician and singer who made these wonderful records: Lee Dorsey, Dave “Baby” Cortez, Bill Doggett, Little Willie John, Buddy Knox, Bruce Chanel, The Hollywood Argyles and Gogi Grant.
“Saturday Night Fever?” I remain unimpressed. Ling Ting Tong? He would never be wrong.
While in line for our return flight boarding pass at Paris-Charles de Gaulle, I was in the unfortunate cue position directly in front of Mr. Blowhard d’ American, who blabbered-on without mercy about his amazing travel acumen. At an unreasonably high a decibel level, I and everyone else within 20 feet learned about Mr. Blowhard’s brilliant car rental arrangements, how he avoids crowded beaches in Spain, how he orders food cooked just the way he likes it at home, and how smartypants knows the correct way to do pretty much everything.
As I prayed quietly to St. Jude for the appearance of a giant sock filled with cow manure to clobber this guy with, I noticed a boy standing with his mom’s suitcase. The little guy was adjusting the suitcase’s travel handle, so it would be exactly his height, which was about three feet tall. He would adjust and then move his flattened hand from the height of the handle to the top of his head. It was perfectly parallel. And he had an expression on his face that said, “The handle is not just for wheeling the suitcase through airports – it also measures the exact height of people like me. Voila! This is my great discovery.”
And I thought, my brain works much more like the little french boy’s than Mr. Blowhard’s.
And that’s fine with me.
Here is a poster of a photography exhibit that I really wanted to attend, but missed – one that appealed to the little guy in me. Next trip to France, maybe.
Pas De Merde 