THE MUSIC MAN

The theme of "Redemption" is one of the most powerful and oft used plot devices in  Western literature.   There is something innate in us that finds a sweet reward in the experience of a character transformed by some redemptive power.   Is it related to our shared Christian ethos?   Is there a spiritual element, aside from that Christian ethos that is innate in all mankind?  

The story of the prodigal son provokes such strong reactions in people, even in non-believers because they can identify with their own children's loss and return.  And we root for the ex-criminal who is trying to live his life on the straight and narrow.  It is everywhere in films, in opera, in literature.   There is nothing so satisfying, so fulfilling of drama, and so final it its import.  

And so, we stumble upon "The Music Man," which is delightful enough without any thought of the redemptive power of drama.    But here, there is the redemptive power of music, and it is this aspect of the musical I would like to focus on as it plays out in the hands of Meredith Wilson's text.  

Harold Hill, or, "Professor Harold Hill," is presented to us as a charlatan, a mountebank, who cannot lead a band or teach anyone to play an instrument, yet sells a whole town on the idea.    There's something there.   Something profound.   Something, I think, most of us miss when we see the show, even those of us who really love the show.    How does Harold Hill sell the town on the idea of allowing him to lead a boys' band?

Is it that he convinces them that their boys are in trouble as the famous number suggests?  Yes, but that is only a partial explanation.    The threat of the pool table is simply a tool that Hill uses to introduce himself.  It is not what sells the town on him, for that is what he is truly selling:  himself.   How does he do that? 

Well, first we must ask, why a boy's band?  Of all the things he could sell the town on, he chooses a boy's band?   Seems and odd choice for a flim-flam man, a shyster, a crook.   But we are given subtle but powerful hints to his choice and thus to his success along the way.  

His friend, Marcellus, refers to a past incident when "Greg" (Hill's real name, apparently) would "imitate that Italian band leader," in Joplin.  At the mention of this Hill reproduces his conducting and drifts away for a moment.   It was a telling moment for us.   It showed us that Hill had some kind of great love of music and a desire to lead a band.    Inside him, he was a band leader, that was his truth, and we are shown just how badly he wanted to think of himself as such.   

In another scene, he is waiting at the footbridge and sees a big brass band in his mind reflected in the water.   He takes a stick and, again, momentarily loses himself in an imaginary conducting moment.  

Lastly, during the "Trouble" number he recalls an "electric thrill that he once had," when Gilroy, Conway, Creatore, W.C. Handy, and (with great reverence) John Philip Sousa, all came to town on the very same historic day.    This was no fiction no "sales tool," or gimmick.    This even HAPPENED, and it happened to him and it burned a hole in his heart and mind.    This is why he is able to sell it so well, and that is why the town's people bought it.   It was truth.    They were buying the truth of his experience, the electric thrill, the joy of music, and they wished their children to have it.    In fact, they not only "bought it," they envisioned it, seeing a marching band where there was none: "The man's a by-God spell-binder."   Yes, in this sense, he is in the tradition of the shaman of history or of more remote cultures.    He can see into other realms and make you see it, if he chooses to, or relates it to you.   The you are transformed along with him.  

But Hill, poor man, is not a real teacher and is, in fact a criminal, about to face his accusers at the end of the film.   He has a chance to escape.  He chooses not to, and in that choice is his redemption.    He is redeemed by love, that same theme we find in Wagner's Ring, in Bogart's "Casablanca,"  and in Cagney's, "Roaring Twenties."   But it is not just his love for Marion, nor is it Marion's love for him, both of which play a significant part.  

Hill's redemption comes directly from his  love for music and the power latent in music to transform, which he recognizes, and has always sought, although without knowing it.    He has finally found a place where he is accepted as a "Professor" of Music, not in the conventional sense but in a more important one; he is accepted for what he had to give of himself, out of the TRUTH of himself, his knowledge of the redemptive power of music.  This he gave freely and someone, finally,  took and understood and loved him for it. 

He only then does he truly become, "The Music Man," and we seem him as the town does, as he has  seen himself, marching, triumphantly through the streets of the town, followed by that ever elusive marching band, now, like himself, no longer elusive, but real and full of life and power and most of all, joy.  

It was all around, all along, but he couldn't hear it singing.   

Strange Phenomena

STRANGE PHENOMENA

An Homage To Edgar Allan Poe

And a warning. . .

Or not.


There have been, of late, a series of events and circumstances which I call, for the present, "strange phenomena."    These have been taking place around the world and with ever increasing frequency.  Maybe.  These events are not discussed as such, but only as unrelated, dissimilar events, if they are spoken of at all, which, generally speaking, they are not.  Mostly.  Spoken about.  However, their frequency and unusual nature will cause one, upon cold reflection and contemplation, to conclude that something, something very unusual, indeed, perhaps even bizarre -- something either other worldly or metaphysical -- is definitely going on.   Or not.

One such phenomenon has been happening more and more often of late; it has happened to me, to others, countless others, I think, who do not make much of it or even speak of it themselves, as it may seem odd or not noteworthy enough for discussion or even reflection.  However, collectively many have concluded, probably, I have no way of knowing, really,  that there is a meaning to the whole of these events.  If this phenomenon exists then we are forced to conclude logically -- and frighteningly -- that they are real.

The phenomenon of which I speak is that of people falling out of their beds at night.

This odd occurrence is happening, as I said, with more and more frequency, if the reports I have been getting can be trusted, that is, if I were actually getting reports, of which can be verified and trusted, yes, with a good possibility, then,
yes, with great frequency.

Further and more crucially, I am a witness to this very occurrence. I have experienced it with clear and mindful observation it first hand and know that it
has happened.  

Let me relate to you one such case, in fact, the most recent one.

Having already experienced this exact same event several times (I think) in the recent past I was well prepared for whenever it would happen again.  I had and continued to repeatedly fall out of bed during the night while in a sound and deep sleep.

Thus, upon waking up and finding myself on the floor in the darkness of night and in some pain, I made sure to be particularly careful to observe the circumstances surrounding my situation.   Was anyone, or any thing, in my room that was not there upon my retiring? Had anything moved from its place?  Could I detect any unusual sounds that might render some hint as to what had happened?

After rubbing down the pain in the back of my head I examined the scene carefully.

And so, very cautiously, inch my inch, I made a detailed study of the room as it lay about me.   I went from object to object, observing all, and with the calm certainty of a surgeon I would determine if there had been any changes, any movement at all.

But there was none.   Nothing about the room had changed.  Nothing had moved. All about me was exactly the same as it had been when I retired earlier that night, although I thought the clock sitting on my nightstand looked suspiciously, possibly, out of place or, perhaps about  to move.

I spied it at great length.  For a whole hour I did not move, staring directly at the suspicious object,  but no, the clock had not and did not move.   I must admit, however, to having an eerie mistrust of the clock.    Similarly, I am also watchful of the ash tray and the floor lamp, which also fill me with suspicion.   One cannot be too careful in these matters, for at any moment any object such as these, in the silent, dead hour of the night, may suddenly move, on their own, even just slightly, almost imperceptibly and for no apparent reason.  

But finding all was as it was upon my falling asleep, I went back to bed and to sleep.

As I have said, in addition to my own experiences, I have heard of the same happening to others, how many others it is impossible to say, but I would imagine, that it is happening, possibly, to hundreds of thousands of people.  So the question is not "Is it happening?"  It is happening, of that there is no doubt, except for the doubt of statistical probability which does not inform way one or the other. I guess.

What could it all mean?

Why should hundreds of thousands of people around the world, perhaps,  suddenly become prone to falling out of bed as they sleep?   A rolling over, a slight lean, and then, a "plop"-- they are on the floor, sometimes in pain, having hit some part of their body in an awkward manner upon the hard floor or as in my case, a piece of furniture.    Why?

Is the question even being asked?   No, it most assuredly is not!   And why not?   And if not, who is not asking it?  And why are they not asking it?   What is going on here, if anything is going on?  Or rather, what is NOT going on here?   Who is not asking about what is not going on here?   You see how complex the issue is, and how easily one can get lost in the logic of it!  Or maybe not.

I an writing this with the hope of exposing these phenomena to the world, so that you may be careful and aware and with a concerted effort solve this mystery or at least, prevent any threat to our collective well-being, the well-being of the planet and its inhabitants.   Yes, it is that serious.  Who knows who or what is behind it?   What does it portend?   If anything. . . or nothing.

For myself, I can keep silent no longer!   No, I say, and no again.   It is no pleasure, I assure you, to awaken while headed, helplessly, straight for the floor.  

So, keep a thick pillow beside your bed.   Tell your loved ones to do the same, perhaps circulate an anonymous memorandum at the office.  (Anonymity is mandatory!  I have learned this first hand.)  Giving out pamphlets on the street is often effective in spreading the word.   A printed sheet hung, here and there, can do wonders to inform an ill-informed public.  Perhaps at the laundry.  Do not attempt this at a theatrical production of "Fiddler on the Roof," you'll only get
into trouble, as I discovered.

Also, talk about it when the opportunity arises.   Bring it up, slyly, at lunch, around the water cooler or the coffee machine.   Casually, of course, we don't want to alarm anyone.

Do not let this happen to you for it is real and it is happening.  Possibly.   Just be aware.   That's all I ask.  Be aware.

Together we can get to the truth of this very strange thing.  .

Good night.

POST SCRIPT -- Two weeks later:   I fell out of bed again.  The next day I reported the incident to the police.  A mistake. Something was, without a doubt, afoot, I think.   The police thought, or hoped, I hadn't noticed -- but I did -- the reaction of officer at the desk who was so taken aback by what I had told him that I became convinced that he had either been a victim of the phenomenon himself, or -- and this is what sent chills through the very marrow of my bones -- he knew of it already in detail and was forbidden to speak of it!  I could see behind his mocking smile and excessively polite manner!  Or some such thing.

Or maybe not at all and I'm wrong altogether.  

But it was a queer and ominous look that he flashed me.   I dared not push the matter further.  I left, not leaving my name or further details.   Nor, thank Providence, did I mention the clock.

On Watching the film, "Scaramouche."

The music swells, the horses gallop, one can feel the pulse quicken, and we are in the film, not just watching it, but in it, we have entered the world of 18th century France (by way of MGM Studios) and are now in the chase, or being chased.   We hold our breaths; we clench our fists.   The hero is about to be trapped, then, at the last moment, he escapes to safety.

We can relax.  For the moment, Andre Moreau, only for the moment.

But can we relax?   Can we ever relax again?   I cannot.   There was a time, watching this film, long ago on the huge screen at the old Thalia up on Broadway, that one could feel all those exciting things and then relax. But no more.   Those days are gone.

Andre Moreau is gone.    MGM is gone.  The music has gone silent and the horses graze in a field somewhere unknown to me.   For you see, the Romance of life is gone.  The Romance of life.   Interesting phrase and I just thought of it, just now. . . just now, just as I wrote it.   The Romance of Life.    Life is Romantic, or should be, or is at its best.   It is a Romantic journey, not always involving the chase of horses and men, but of little challenges, little joys, and big amusements, big accomplishments.

The lucky among us are able to maintain that chase, that sword fight.   Sharpened steel, the sun glinting off the blade, flashing brilliantly in the light, makes us alive and forces the blood through our veins.

But no more.   No more for me.   It is over, and I accept that the Marquis has plunged his sword deeply into my vital organ, and I fall to the earth, life's blood oozing out of me onto the cool grass.   My life is over for the Romance of life is over.

Music up. . . silent music.    Music only I can hear, as the theater darkens, and the audience begins to exit.

SILENT SPRING

I have developed the ability to distinguish the change in seasons but the subtle lighting changes I perceive in my neighborhood.   I don't mean the early sunrise or late sunset.    I mean how the sun actually lights the city.

In mid-winter, the early morning suns streams almost straight down the length of Sixth Street, bathing it, if it is very clear, in brilliant sunshine.  In spring or summer, although the sun rises earlier, the lighting is completely different:  the sun is blocked by the apartment buildings on Avenue A, so direct sunlight along the street doesn't happen until much later in the day.    And noon is completely different.

I have been sensitive to nature as well, as much as one can living in the city.  But I would swear that I sense an increased "chatter," among the birds, and that there are more birds, and more sounds of birds. But there's something else.   It is nature itself, I think, at least, that's the only way I can put it into words.  There appears to be, somewhere, more and more "activity," as if I were aware of the awakening of bugs, worms (do they hibernate?) and other living things.   And the bushes and trees around Village View apartments. . . I don't know but there's something going on there.  Are they greener?   No, not perceptively.   But something is happening.

There is a kind of tension--no, that's the wrong word-- but a kind of building up of energy (much better!) and kind of potential energy getting more and more potent.   As if you take a deep breath before singing.   Yes, that's it: it is as if the earth had taken a deep breath and was about to sing.   It is quite interesting and beautiful.

All of this fills me with a great and profound hopelessness.

The potential of the earth, is a mirror the failed potential of my own life, forever to remain in the inhalation of breath, but never has it erupted into song.   No, my song remains unsung, and likely always will be.

What could be sadder?   A wasted song.

Bogart's Green Tea

Early for my appointment I entered one of those very modern, hipster, over-priced cafes on University Place, just looking to kill time.   It was crowded and apparently everyone else in the place was killing time, too.   And from the looks of them it looked like time was killing them.   They all looked to be suffering, greatly, except for a group of students at one of the large tables.    Wait.   They were all students.   Everyone in the place was at least 30 years younger than me.   But they all looked so serious and sad.   Not a smile or a welcoming face anywhere.    God forbid I should share a table with one of them.   Screw them.

I stood on line and when it came my turn the guy behind the counter (I refuse to identify him as a, "barista,") asked for my order.

"Uh, I'll take an iced green tea and one of those empanadas."
"Okay.   Your name?"
"Hah?"
"Your name," he asked again.
"Oh, uh, Joseph."
"Okay, Joseph, when your order is ready the girl will call your name."
"Oh!   That's why you wanted my name?   Wow.   What a system.   You know,  I could have said anything there, couldn't I?    I mean, I could have said,  "Rene Descartes, or Orville Wright. and she would have to call it."
"Yes."
"Change it." I asked.   "I want to be called, 'Humphrey Bogart.'  Can you change it to 'Humphrey Bogart?'"
"Sure."
"And I want to be called, Humphrey Bogart,   Out loud."
"Oh, she'll call you, all right."

I couldn't resist the chance to belittle their system by playing this immature and childish prank.
Yes,  I'm "Humphrey Bogart," and she's going to have to call that name out loud for all to hear.

I started practicing my Bogart imitation.   "Okay, doll. . .hand over the tea, if you knows whats good for ya..."   Good. . .   and, "Say, shweetheat, how'd a doll like you end up in a dump like this?"    Perfect.

After a few minutes I got a little nervous.   Perhaps this was a little too childish and immature, even by MY standards.    I should ask him to change it back.   No, then I'll look insane!   Too late.   I made my choice.  Screw them if they can't take a joke.   Besides these people look like they could all use a laugh.   What a pathetic group, the customers and the workers.  

Suddenly, I heard, "Humphrey Bogart!"

She was not smiling.

I cupped my ear with my hand.  "What was that name again?"
"Humphrey Bogart!"  she shouted.   Perfect now everyone heard it.   Humphrey Bogart's order was ready.   No one flinched or even looked up.    Did I pick the wrong iconic actor?   Should I have chosen Gable?   Or, Flynn?  Or, Jolson?  

What did it matter?  In a group like this, of twelve-year-olds, it wouldn't matter.   They wouldn't know Bogart from  Clara Bow.

In my best Bogey imitation I walked up to the counter-girl and said, "Hey sister.   I don't ground shouting your name around the restaurant, now do I?"
"Here you are, sir."
"Thanks, toots."

The sound of crickets was barely audible.    .

How sad.  

CONFIRMATION, PLEASE!!!

I called the cable company on Friday.    I had to make an appointment for a technician to come to my house to address the problem I was having.    He or she was scheduled to come on Tuesday from 4 to 6 pm.    No problem.   I could wait.

But by Sunday, I had received at least a dozen "confirmation" calls, automated calls, asking me if I wanted to keep the appointment and reminding me who had to be there.   By evening, I as shaking in anticipation of the next "confirmation," call.   Didn't the first twelve confirmations count for anything?   Did they think they were going to catch me in a lie?    "Yes, I'll be here."   Ha!   Pulled one over on them!  I'm goin' out!   Let them try to get in!   Hilarious!

No.    Why would I do that?

Then, it came.    The thirteenth confirmation call.    I hung up in the middle of it and called the cable company myself.

"Please press 5 for 'Customer Service."
At last, a human.
"Hello, my name is Natalie, how may I help you?"
"Hello, Natalie.  I'm calling because I have an appointment for a technician to come on Tuesday."
"Yes, I can see that on your account.   Would you like to change the appointment?"
"No!   No, no, no.    You see, Natalie, I have only received about three dozen confirmation calls from Time Warner in the past 4 hours, so I was getting a bit concerned.    I would like to confirm that appointment and also ask you if I may have about fifteen more confirmation calls tonight, and about a dozen more tomorrow.   Would that be okay?"

Natalie was cool and at this point fully caught on.

"I'll remove your phone number from the confirmation call list, Mr. Ciolino."

"No!  No!   Please no, I need those confirmation.   I have to have them!   Suppose they don't show up?    Then what?   Can you confirm another confirmation call!   Please!   I can't take the uncertainty!"

Poor Natalie.

When The Music Stops, I Cry

Dammit.   Every damn time.

When the music's playing, I'm fine.   Really.  I know you don't want, or have trouble believing that.   But it's true.   Okay, maybe not TOTALLY fine, but so much better.   I dance, dammit.   I dance when the music's playing.

When it stops, it's like death. 

If a tree falls in the forest. . .

Answer: no.

Sound is that which is perceived, it has no existence apart from the "hearer."   Vibrations.  Only vibrations exist.    They turn into "sound," when our brains, (or the brains of any living thing) interprets those vibrations, identifies them.    Then, sound exists.  

The universe is silent.  

Music, therefore, does not really exist at all.   As a life-long lover of music, particularly classical music you may find it difficult to believe that I can say this.   But it undeniable.   Music, cannot exists apart from the hearer because it is only "vibrations."   Okay?   I hope I don't have to repeat myself.   

So, what happens when the music stops?

Ah, that, as they say, is another story. . .