A letter from a listener

...As I listened to your fine program on Sunday night (I was doing construction out in my garage at the time) I realized I had been away from this incredible music for too long.

In this, my 40th year of teaching, I have been telling my wife, family and friends that I have grown tired of music. Filled to the brim, ears worn out, had enough and all that. But after thoroughly enjoying your program, II suspect that I am not so much tired of music as I am bored with the smallish repertoire if standards I have been teaching for too long.

You helped me out of my rut and I thank you. I promise to write a check to WOSU before years end.

______________

I told this person: "Talk about making my day!"

The Real Housewives of South Boston

Hysterical and true to life. There's no place like home!

florence foster jenkins - YouTube

florence foster jenkins - YouTube: - Sent using Google Toolbar

Gratitude

I was at a concert yesterday and during the intermission I was standing by myself for a breather, reviewing the program. I noticed a very old man, elderly and frail, making his way toward me. Since I was on the way to the exit I thought little of it. People were filing out.

Instead this gentleman came over to me. He put his arm around my waist and said Oh, Mr. Purdy, thank you for all you do on the radio and especially in your symphony talks. I try never to miss them. I learn so much and I enjoy it so. I got teary. I really did. This man had slowly and painfully crossed a concert hall to speak to me. We embraced and I was a tad weepy. I'm so grateful for this gesture, and for being able to share music with folks of all ages!

Gratitude. It's a blessing to feel gratitude.

Justin Torres and 'We the Animals'

I gobble up the New York Times Book Review and anything related to books and then I go to the library and reserve myself a shelf full of new releases. Eventually these titles arrive and I have no memory of wanting them, no idea why I asked for them. I can't even remember how I heard about them. Such is the case of We the Animals by Justin Torres

Well, I thought. It;s a slim book. Why not give it a shot. I read it in one sitting and was nailed to the floor. This is a memoir as fiction or fiction as memoir tale of a young boy growing up in the boonies, with two brothers. There's a n abrasive, violent and adoring Latino father and a long suffering devoted white mother. There';s poverty and despair, violence, hope, love and most importantly: wonder. This young boy, our protagonist, learns and discovers-people, the country, trees, sex and sexuality.

The boy and his bothers are spanked, yelled at, loved protected and cared for. Papa leaves for another woman and returns. The kids at least take this as business as usual, but the juxtaposing of their acceptance against their mother's anger and depression is remarkable.

I say this all the time. Make me care about your characters and you get yourself a loyal reader. Bravo to Justin Torres!

We Needed Some Music

I could have taken a course with this guy at Boston University.
A wonderul opportunity, sadly missed.
Stupid was stupid in 1975.

"One semester I learned that there were several classical musicians signed up in my course. For the very last class of the semester I stood aside while they sat in chairs up front and played a Mozart quartet. Not a customary finale to a class in political theory, but I wanted the class to understand that politics is pointless if it does nothing to enhance the beauty of our lives. Political discussion can sour you. We needed some music."

---You Can't be Neutral on a Moving Train by Howard Zinn

One of my favorite pictures

My beloved maternal grandparents, Anne and Patrick Duddy, in the back yard of their house in Arlington, Massachusetts, around 1960. Until I met my wife and my daughter was born, they were absolutely my favorite people. Brogues thick as honey, wonderful dry wit and filled with love. I miss them and think of them often .

They would have loved their great-grand daughter!

My Other Grandmother

I grew up with my mother's family and I loved her parents dearly.
I never met my father's parents. They died before I was born.
He never spoke of his childhood; it was as if there was a horrible secret.
I'm told by cousins that their mothers (my father had six older sisters) never said much either.

My cousin Deborah has become the family historian and every so often she shares a new discovery. Today its this picture of my father's mother, Florence Leora Curtis -taken around 1887. She died in 1947. My father adored his mother, I know that much (from letters). Florence had her first child at 16. The baby was taken from her and raised by her mother-in-law, the legendary (to us) Grandma Smith.

Five more daughters followed and even Grandma Smith probably gave up.
My father was last in 1919-the only boy.

I only have one photo of Florence taken toward the end of her life, sitting on a stoop in Ithaca New York. Her hands appear to be crippled by arthritis.
It's nice to look at this lovely child and see my own daughter in her eyes.

The Great Eva Turner!

When was the last time one great soprano published a biography of another great soprano? I wish Mary Garden had written about Melba ("I never saw such a fat Mimi in my life") or Lili Lehmann about Emma Calve ("You've improved a great deal.")

Soprano Linda Esther Gray was a leading British soprano from the mid 70s to the mid 80s. She sang internationally, the big girl Wagner and Verdi roles, and she recorded Isolde with Reginald Goodall. So far, so good. Linda's career ended prematurely due to illness-and now she's an a fine teacher and writer Linda has just published the biography of her teacher, Dame Eva Turner (1892-1990).

Eva Turner was the first British born singer-if you exclude the Australians-to have an enormous international career. She had humble beginnings, and spent years touring the U.K. in road shows of everything from La boheme to Tannhauser. She was admired in Great Britain, but in Italy she was loved. For years she sang in Milan, Rome, Naples, Lugano, Brescia-you name it-she was Aida, Fidelio, Sieglinde, Amelia, etc. Her appearances in the States were limited to a few years with the Chicago Opera in the early 1930s.

Turner made a sensation with Puccini's Turandot-no question that with her huge, gleaming voice she owned the role. She sang it for twenty years, and ended her operatic career with Turandot in 1948.

But there's a lot more. The venerable, then downright elderly Turner became a national icon-with clipped, beautifully precise spoken English (rrrrround tones, dear). She was a favorite on radio and TV, was a a famous teacher; a steely combination of Miss Marple and Puccini's Chinese Princess. She lived to be 98-. Her private life she kept private. She never married. Early on she had a working relationship with a musician called Richard Broad (nicknamed 'Plum'-how English) but his tastes did not run to women. Dame Eva lived for over 40 years with a full time secretary companion named Anne Ridyard. Linda Gray makes the case-respectfully- for the two ladies being intimate and why not? They were inseparable until Miss Ridyard became seriously ill in the early 1990s.

Eva Turner: A Life on the High Cs is no prima donna bio, thank God. It's the story of a greatly talented artist who was feisty, outspoken and under appreciated. Eva lived nearly a century-and those years are placed in context of worldwide events-not just in music-in Linda Esther Gray's lavish book. It's complete with copious photos, and the sound of Dame Eva's own voice, both in the text and in an accompanying CD. Don't miss this.

P.S. Dame Eva's voice was sensational. Sensational. And Linda Esther Gray was terrific herself.

Long Drive Home: My Latest Must-Read

Will Allison is a product of the Creative Writing Program at The Ohio State University. I enjoyed interviewing him a few years back when his first novel, What You Have Left was published. He integrated beautifully a multi generational tale surrounded by racing cars-a NASCAR type fantasy where you were led to care deeply about the characters. It was a very auspicious first novel.

Will's Long Drive Home has just been published. The premise is rather simple: a joy riding teenager with a few drinks in him careens around a residential neighborhood in his mom's Jag-music blaring, oblivious to safety-his own or anyone else's. He runs Glen Bauer, good guy, husband and father, off the road. Glen has finally had enough and deliberately swerves-the kid slams into a tree and is pronounced at the scene. End of story.

No it isn't. It's the-tragic-beginning. Glen is at first totally exonerated. Only he knows that the accident was partly his fault. His seven year old daughter Sara, riding in the backseat-also knows the truth.

Slowly, inexorably , Glen's world starts to disintegrate. He is apologized to by the dead boy's mother. A local detective isn't satisfied and continues an investigation-he knows the truth. Glen's wife Liz insists on a legal separation to protect the family assets in the event of a law suit. It comes out--well--it comes out at a terrible cost.

This is a short book-yet I hated to reach the end. Allison develops a momentum with great subtlety (I know that can be a contradiction) but the reader is caught up in Glen's stomach churning guilt and crumbling existence. All in 200-which I would up rationing myself.
Will Allison is loaded with skill and technique but you notice only the story-and instead of a true catharsis you are satisfied being left with questions.

RECOMMENDED

see www.willallison.com

A wonderul clip of Sister Helen Prejean

Sister Helen Prejean. I'm deeply moved by this clip.
The people I most admire are those with a passion, who live that passion.
Sisters' analogy between capital punishment and the gospels-"crystal clarity" is wonderful
and devastating.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbOoR_9UPJI

Sigurd Islandsmoen Requiem: SEE BELOW

Say this name three times, fast: SIGURD ISLANDSMOEN

I can't do it.
Can you?

After years in the study of-and love of-music, I had never heard of Norwegian composer Sigurd Islandsmoen ( 1881-1964.) I was browsing through our record shelves the other day. I come up with some of my best programming ideas just filing through the CDs. There was a Requiem by Islandsmoen, a new recording with the Norwegian Soloist Choir. At first I asked myself, "Why a setting of the Latin liturgy from Lutheran Norway?

In fact, Islandsmoe (no, I don't really know how to pronounce it) was known for his music for the Norwegian Church. Ironically, this Requiem was the composer's best known work, though it didn't travel out of Norway. If was completed in the late 1930s and premiered in Oslo in 1943. Another irony, to have this Requiem performed at the height of WWII, when much of Scandinavia was occupied by the Nazi-with the Quisling government collaborating with the Germans.

Islandmoen Requiem is melodic and serious without being solemn (or dull.) No, its not the most original choral work out there, but its worth a listen, and Islandsmoen is a composer worth knowing better. I'm putting this Requiem on air this weekend. Stay tuned!

Grandparent's house

Here's a picture of my grandparent's home. What happy memories I have of this house-tho Grandma and Grandpa have been gone for over thirty years. The house is now for sale. It's been in the family since 1930. I'm glad I no longer live in the area. I wouldn't be able to drive by this house to see a For Sale sign on the front lawn. Uncle Jack died a year ago at 87 and lived in this house all of his life. My Grandparent's had the same tenants in the downstairs apartment for sixty-two years!

Now the place is empty.

The backyard statue of the Madonna has been taken to a cousin's home nearby.

Here's the nicest memory. I was seven or eight years old. My grandparents, Annie and Pat-came from Ireland around the first world war. They never lost their brogues or their dry, spot on Irish humor. My grandmother was a rather steely woman, very beautiful in her old age with a core of sweetness. I remember her homemade biscuits, warm from the oven that she would press against my cheek. Her touch and that aroma and that house were all magic.

The house needs a good bit of updating. The location is perfect. The spirits in that house will grace its new owners. Begorrah.

Did you have the lunchbox?

The final launch of the space shuttle had me thinking.
John Glenn lives here in Columbus. He turns ninety next week.
I've seen him a few times, had a few words and did a brief interview with him a few years back, at the Symphony!

I remember when Glenn orbited the earth in 1962. I was five, but I remember it.
The big excitement was to get the John Glenn lunchbox.
EVERYONE had one.
Harrington School was awash in John Glenn lunchboxes.
I wonder if they go for thousands on e-bay today.

The girls didn't have John Glenn lunchboxes.
The girls had Patty Duke lunchboxes
The 'Patty Duke Show' was all the rage on TV.
Several years ago I interviewed Patty Duke on the phone about mental health issues.
She was smart, funny and candid.

You can find the interview at www.wosu.org/interviews

I asked Patty Duke if she had any of her own lunch boxes.
She laughed a lot and said, no-she didn't even know there WERE Patty Duke lunchboxes.

There were, I'm here to tell ya.

So here I am in my dotage and I have interviewed not one but TWO people who had their own lunch boxes.

Take THAT, Spider man!!

Marjorie Lawrence's Interrupted Melody

Marjorie Lawrence (1907-1979) was not just another big voiced opera singer. She was a farm girl from Australia who went from the Outback to Paris, New York Buenos Aires and back all through Europe. She had a terrific career in the world's greatest opera houses. That's nice, you say. It was seventy years ago, but what the hell, that's nice. And it is. But it's only part of the story.

In 1941, during a rehearsal in Mexico City, Marjorie collapsed. Polio was diagnosed and she never walked unassisted again. Her despair, especially after a great career, is vividly described in her memoir Interrupted Melody. Life is too short to go reading prima donna memoirs-trust me-but this is an exception. Marjorie sat home in her wheelchair despondent until she was shamed for singing "for the boys" in a local army hospital. From there, she and her wheelchair toured the military hospitals in the Pacific fr the USO.

Eventually Marjorie was able to return to the Met, singing Venus in Wagner's Tannhauser reclining on a couch (this works when you are the goddess of love.) She went on to sing Isolde. Eventually the Met grew uncomfortable with Marjorie's physical limitations. They were concerned about taking advantage of her for publicity reasons, and she left the company in 1944.

Marjorie went on to years of teaching and singing, her voice and spirit unimpaired. Interrupted Melody was filmed by MGM in 1955, with Eleanor Parker as Marjorie and the voice of Eileen Farrell.
It's a terrific picture-a little hokey now but Hollywood 'camp' at its best. Miss Parker shows all of Marjorie Lawrence's determination....and guts!

Here's Marjorie Lawrence, singing Wagner-in French!-during her years in Paris

Bach's 'St. Matthew Passion' at Oberlin College

The Baroque Performance Institute at Oberlin College celebrated its fortieth anniversary with a performance of Bach's St. Matthew Passion, BWV 244, at the Warner Concert Hall, Oberlin College, Oberlin Ohio on July 1st. Kenneth Slowick, artistic director of the BPI conducted.





You were put on notice the minute you glanced at the program with its quote from Igor Stravinsky:


"Johann Sebastian Bach's St. Matthew Passion is written for a chamber music ensemble.
Its first performance in Bach's lifetime was perfectly realized by a total force of
thirty-four musicians, including soloists and chorus. That is known. And nevertheless
in our day one does not hesitate to present the work in complete disregard for the
composer's wishes, with hundreds of performers, sometimes almost a thousand...."


Stravinsky was writing in 1942. By that time, nearly 200 years after Bach's death, the large scale forces for the Bach and Handel oratorios were the norm. Those of us of an age to grow up with recordings by Koussevitzky, Mengelberg, Klemeperer and Bernstein-not to mention the early Karajan, heard large choruses, inflated orchestras and operatic soloists. And some of us loved it this way. More was more and more was better.


Joshua Rifkin changed all that thirty five years ago with his performances and later recordings of Bach one on a part and an orchestration close to what Bach would have known. Today, a Klemepereresque 'St. Matthew' would be an aberration. (Too bad). Still what one hears in historically informed performances today is the intricacy of the writing, the drama of the story and the beauty of the music.

I wonder if 'beauty' is a facile phrase today to use in discussing music. I not only want to hear music played beautifully, I also want to hear beautiful music. The St. Matthew Passion
may be the score we save from Noah's next Flood. One needn't be religious or Christian to appreciate the drama in this music: the halo of low strings surrounding Jesus's spare lines, the advanced-for the time-chromaticism of "Warlich dieses ist Gottes
sohn gewesen (Truly this was the son of God) or the insistent dialogue between Peter and the maids who recognize this distraught apostle. It's perfectly possible, indeed nowadays imperative to play this work with a reduced chorus and chamber ensemble.

At Oberlin, the soloists blended into the chorus. There were nine singers on stage and a quartet of sopranos in the choir loft. The singers were some of the best in the baroque music business: Ellen Hargis, William Sharp and Max von Egmond as Jesus. It was a joyful night for tenors, with superb singing by Thomas Cooley-the Evangelist, and by Derek Chester. His 'Geduld, geduld' (patience) was a high point of the evening.


The orchestra looked to include students and well regarded professionals, including Christopher Kreuger, flute. Kenneth Slowick's conducting was energetic-not fast but energetic. He didn't skim over the music in a flurry of white tone: he let the singers and instrumentalist tell the story. The occasional ragged ensemble and hard to tune instruments were more a testament to the student environment and I'm sure limited rehearsal time for a such an imposing work.

The St. Matthew is long-pity the souls and posteriors of the first hearers in a cold church in Leipzig-but Slowick and his artists were as fresh and spirited at 10.45 pm as they had been three hours earlier. I imagine they could have performed the entire work all over again, right away, and I know the full house-with a lot of young people, praise God!-would have been delighted to stay put.

Stanley Ann Dunham

Right off the bat you have to ask, who the hell names a girl 'Stanley?'
(Remember 'A Boy Named Sue'?)

Stanley Ann Dunham appeared in no way handicapped by her unusual first name. Indeed she comes across as a strong, determined woman who thrived living off the grid.

Who is Stanley Ann Dunham?

She's Barack Obama's mother. Born in Kansas, her parents moved to Hawaii and Stanley met Barack Obama Sr. at the University there. They courted briefly and Barak was born in 1961. Papa Barack soon returned to Kenya. That was it, except for a one year visit some time later. She raised her son alone, in Hawaii and in Indonesia. Stanley Ann's life's work was not as a wife and mother but as a cultural anthropologist. She had a second marriage to an Indonesian, and a daughter, Maya. But as determined as she seemed to get the best out of her children, she was equally determined run her own race. And work she did for years, as as researcher, student and teacher of women's business initiatives in Indonesia.

I most admire people who have the guts to follow their own way and to live the lives they want. These lives cost people and who's to say what's worth what at the end? Stanley Ann became a large, dramatically dressed woman. She is described as being entirely 'present. To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, there was quite a there there. From Kansas to Hawaii to Indonesia. Marriage to two men of another race. Mixed race children. The devotion of co workers. She labored for years on a doctoral dissertation-the final document ran over one thousand pages. She was awarded her Ph.D. in 1994. She was fifty-three years old. Her son had graduated Harvard Law, married and moved to Chicago to work in community organizing. She had worked under the auspices of the Ford Foundation for years. It was a life of high achievement, if two marriages and children raised at a distance. Her kids did okay, without her constant presence. I imagine Stanley Ann's influence was very strong.

Stanley Ann Dunham didn't have long to appreciate her hard work. She died of cancer in 1995, aged fifty-four. Janny Scott's book A Singular Woman takes us on quite a ride of this woman's life. Read it, and go break some molds.

Get to know Thomas Schippers

If you wait a bit in viewing the above clip you'll see a blurry image of Thomas Schippers (1930-1977) conducting Cherubini's Medea at La Scala, Milan. Maria Callas had returned to Milan to claim her greatest role, and the thirty-one year old Schippers, from Kalamazoo, Michigan, was there to join her.

Thomas Schippers is forgotten today. Shame on all of us. His conducting career began in 1950. He conducted Gian Carlo Menotti's operas, The Medium and The Telephone on Broadway. Schippers led the world premiere of the most performed opera of all, Menotti's Amahl and the Night Visitors on NBC television in 1951. That was the first year he was eligible to vote or drink legally. His debut at the Metropolitan Opera came in 1955. Soon he became a great favorite of impresario Rudolf Bing and of the public. Recordings followed-mostly of opera. Schippers was a founding father (or grandson) of the Spoleto Festival. He conducted the premiers of Samuel Barbers two operas, Vanessa and Antony and Cleopatra -the latter for the opening of the new Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center in 1966. The highest profile gig in music for years to come.

Schippers had it all. He was an astonishing musician who more than passed muster with Callas, with Zino Francescatti, Gyorgy Czifra, Dimitri Mitropolous, Leontyne Price-some of the greatest names in music of the time. He was devastatingly handsome. It as rumored that Rudolf Bing-not known to be so inclined- was besotted with him. He was a member of the Barber-Menotti (who were so inclined)
for years.

And then there was Eileen Farrell. The great American soprano took the maestro under her wing and more than once he got a talking to. After a recording session where the young conductor had roundly alienated the orchestra, Farrell took him aside and said, "You are loaded with talent. There's no need for you to be such an asshole!" Schippers took the hint and peace was restored.*

Even in the performing arts, being gay was dicey in the 50s and 60s and being openly gay was impossible. Schippers married the young heiress Nonie Phipps in 1965. They seemed to live happily until her death from cancer in 1974. By that time the couple was living in Cincinnati, where Thomas Schippers was the Music Director of the Cincinnati Symphony. I image they loved him in Cincinnati. Looks, charm, charisma and musicianship were his-important to the community in that order. He commuted to the Met and to gigs worldwide. His last performance at the Metropolitan was conducting the belated debut of Beverly Sills, in Rossini's The Siege of Corinth.
He and Sills had re introduced this work to La Scala in 1969 and went on to collaborate on a wonderful recording of Lucia di Lammermoor.

Thomas Schippers died in New York in 1977. Cancer took him as it had taken his wife three years earlier. He left a legacy of opera recordings, lots of them-and a few syphonic discs. He died before video concerts and operas were the norm.
He deserves to be remembered better. If you are an opera lover, seek out his recording s of La forza del desitno, La boheme, Carmen, The Siege of Corinth, Lucia, und so weiter. If you're not an opera lover, get over yourself and listen anyway.

*Later on, a tongue tied Farrell, exhausted from a long rehearsal, looked down and cried "Oh! I see its Pippers in the shit again!"

Kevin Spacey and a Few of his Friends

I've always loved people who can do impersonations. Kevin Spacey is a favorite actor of mine. What I didn't know was that he's an impersonator par excellence. Unbelievable. I just worry that most audiences today won't know Jimmy Stewart, Johnny Carson, Katharine Hepburn and Marlon Brando. They're all hear in this one balding fella-have a laugh, marvel and enjoy!

Read This Book: 'Galore'

Galore is a new novel by Canadian writer Michael Crummey. If you've ever wanted to own a home on the ocean, to sail in a big yacht, pick ripe peaches off a tree in the back yard by the pool and eat catered lobster extravaganzas every night, this is not the book for you.

If you want to learn about people and a rough and not altogether vanished way of life by the sea, grab this book . I've seldom encountered a writer so gifted at defining place. Not only do his characters feel like relatives-whether you like 'em or not-the locale is a close cousin.

Crummey's novel is set in Newfoundland over a 100 year period, from the early 19th century to World War I. I think. He dates himself with the WWI references but how far he goes back is a bit vague. No matter. The opening premise ha a man being cutout of the belly of a whale. He's alive. The whale no longer is. 'Judah' is albino like, reeks of fish and never speaks. He lives to be a very old man, marries, has a son and is most content in isolation. Over the next century or so we encounter generations of feuding families, horny priests, Calvinist minsters, and deprecate fishermen. Judah brings with him mountains of fish and economic prosperity. It doesn't last.

Galore is about the ebb and low (pardon the pun) of life. The language can be a little rich, a la Dickens or Trollope but in no way do any of the characters or situations become caricature. This is a long, slow, read. There's much to savor. I suspect its the type of book you want to read once a year, and repays the effort in different and wonderful ways, each time. The salt will sting your eyes, the stench might invade you but the land and the sea will captivate. Buy this book.

The Very Worst Met Broadcasts

There are two Saturday afternoon broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera that live on in infamy forty plus years after the facts.

One is the February 1, 1969 performance of Lucia di Lammermoor with Anna Moffo. There was always a lot of hype around Moffo. She as good copy: gorgeous, nice voice, good actress, and a self described jock from Pennsylvania. She went on with no voice and her career never recovered

The second is the January 29, 1966 performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni . I'm listening to it now. The great Cesare Siepi repeats the role he owned. Gorgeous. Geraint Evans is a gruff Leporello, more dangerous than funny. The trouble begins with soprano Teresa Stich Randall as Donna Anna. This lady had a very distinguished career. On this blustery Saturday afternoon the tone is white and pinched and grating. The beloved Jan Peerce is an impeccable artist but he sounds his age-62- as Don Octavio. The tone has gone from dry to brittle.

And then there's Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, the Elvira. She sang this broadcast and left the Met for good the next day. Her voice simply doesn't respond. The timbre is there, and she is warmly applauded, but every note costs her. There is no 'flow' to the tone. She went on for several more years, so if this was just a bad day who can say? But I often find that these gleefully received-by some-disasters have many a fine point as well. Moffo had the stylish Nicolai Gedda and Renato Bruson in his Met debut. Don Giovanni had Siepi, and well, Mozart!

In Southie, Bulger Was Legend

James J. ("Whitey") Bulger was arrested earlier this week, along with his girlfriend, both on the lam for r16 years. They were picked up in Santa Monica CA. Whitey was a crime lord. He was a sadistic, murderous psychopath who pumped drugs and mayhem in to South Boston.

South Boston? I remember the anti busing riots erupting there back in 1974. It was my first day of college and the papers were filled with images of black children being stoned and threatened. The whole city was mortified and embarrassed nationally. I've never been to South Boston myself. It's only tow or three subway stops from downtown. But in my day you didn't go there without a reason. It was okay if your grandmother or your uncle lived there, but if you didn't know your way around, you were marked as an outsider and that was no good. For years there was a ferocious pride in the neighborhood as street after street succumbed to Whitey's drugs and violence.

That Whitey's brother Billy is the former President of the Massachusetts Senate, from whence he became Chancellor of the University of Massachusetts is less of an outrage than it is a comedy. Boston was like that in my day. We loved irony and giving the finger to ...well, just about anybody. "Vote early and often". Today people are outraged but mine is the last generation to find it unsurprising and funny.

I imagine its different now. Whole sections have been gentrified (groan). Who can afford to live thee? What were leaky triple deckers are now chic and expensive. If the long time residents get a piece of the do-re-mi, then good. Southie is always depicted in the movies as a violent "I didn't see nothing" culture. I wouldn't know, but I guess it sells movies. Hopefully with the Bulger case nearing resolution the community will have some peace. I don't know about the families of his many victims though, God bless them.

Rita Hunter- Melbourn 1989.~ Great sense of humor.

Rita Hunter (1933-2001). She was a big lady with a large, gorgeous voice, one of my favorites. I came across this on Youtube. If you want to read a hoot of a memoir look for Rita's "Wait til the Sun Shines, Nellie'. For all her humor and fun, don't forget this was a fine musician and a great artist in Mozart, Wagner and Verdi. She was Reginald Goodall's Brunhilde in London and repeated the role in new york. I wish she'd done more in the States. Her size worked against her I fear-this was thirty-five years ago. Still, I love this voice and get a kick out of this clip. Enjoy.

Earl Wild's 'Walk on the Wild Side'

American pianist Earl Wild (1915-2010) lived here in Columbus for several years while teaching at The Ohio State University. Columbus the city and a number of people here come off very well in Earl Wild's new memoir A Walk on the Wild Side. Several well placed members of the local arts community do not! No offense, but I suspect Earl Wild counted his OSU tenure as the least of his accomplishments.

Wild was a member of the WOSU family in the mid 19990s. He was host of a series I produced, Earl Wild's Grande Piano. He introduced great pianists going back eighty years. He included himself, but not much.

Earl spent the brief time I knew him taking about and threatening all with his impending autobiography. It had been in preparation for many years. Now, over a year after Earl Wild's death at 95, the book has arrived.

Wild Side? You don't know the half of it. Earl knew EVERYONE . From Rachmaninoff to Rubinstein, from Stokowski to Sid Caesar. Earl was Toscanini's pianist pianist at NBC and was active in the late days of radio through the early days of television. The first televised piano recital-ever-was given by Earl Wild in the late 1930s!

Not only did Earl know everybody, he had opinions about everybody and everything. He is not shy.

This is a 900 page book. It sorely needed editing, but you bet, this is Earl Wild's 'voice' as I knew him. Drag balls, night life, skewering enemies and praising friends-and rehabilitating artists like Arthur Fiedler, whose reputation never kept up with his fame. I do suspect publication was delayed until everyone was dead!

You'll never listen to Isaac Stern's recordings in the same way after reading this book, and you'll have new appreciation not only for Fielder but for Maria Callas and Lily Pons. Not to mention discovering Ruth Slenczynka, Ivan Davis, David Korevaar and the great Grygory Ginzburg.
Refreshingly, Earl describes his past vividly but he doesn't live there. Plenty of current pianists are discussed, admired and ...well, read the book . Remember that Earl Wild was active as a pianist at the highest level past his ninetieth birthday.

The book is long on minutia-though the Chapter Banging is for the Bedroom is a must for any serious music student. I know, I know. Read it anyway.

Earls talent seems to have come easily to him . One never gets the sense of struggle or torturous work during his quick ascent to fame. But work he did, and it was joyful work. Earl Wild stayed famous for eighty years for his musicianship. This artist fully exploited his great gifts, he had fun and he was fun. This book is a box of fudge for any music lover. Irresistible. At the last, A Walk on the Wild Side has me reaching for Earl's many recordings, and brings me back to music.

De Sabata's Tristan und Isolde

Liebestod from Tristan und Isolde.
Gertrud Gorb-Prandl, soprano
Victor De Sabata, conductor
La Sacala, Milan, December 13, 1951

It's fun discovering buried treasure This treasure was hardly a secret but until recently was unknown to me. (I need to get out more.) A performance of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde from La Scala, Milan on December 13, 1951. Gerturd Grob-Prandl and Max Lorenz took the title roles. The conductor was Victor De Sabata(1892-1967). De Sabata had a substantial American career. He was music director of the New York Philharmonic in 1950 and 1951. He was a fiery, passionate maestro unafraid of bringing the highest emotion to his music making. He also knew when to hold back and let the composer's work take shape on its own. He was de facto music director of La Scala for many years-and followed Toscanini as the second non-German to conduct at Bayreuth (1936 and 1937). He remained active in Italy during World War II, this despite his being part Jewish!

I had been reading a few reviews of this 1951 performance of Tristan. De Sabata was a busy man in 1951. All agree the recorded sound quality is terrible (I've heard worse). All agree that its a hot blooded, deeply sensual performance of this most erotic of all operas. I had this on the office while multi-tasking (oy!) With some recordings you can do that. Not with this one. I held on to every note for dear life during Act II. Max Lorenz's heldentenor was not the steadiest. Gerturd Grob-Prandl reputedly had the loudest voice in the business. Juice she's got when she needs it, but she also has a lovely float for much of the liebesnacht.

But it's De Sabata's show. He's a tsunami of musical vigor and sexuality. The prelude alone will have you in tears of grief or ecstast. Yes the broadcast sound is bad and yes there are a lot of cuts, but get this. I'm sure that in Milan on December 13, 1951 there wasn't a dry seat in the house.

Renato Zanelli et Margaret Sheridan Otello Duo 1er acte

Margaret Sheridan (1889-1958) is one of my new favorites. SHE was a favorite of Toscanini's at La Scala. Born in Ireland, Sheridan's career was based in Italy. Apparently it didn't last long-she retired in 1930 after some sort of vocal crisis. In this scene from Otello, Sheridan combines the 'cut' necessary for Italian opera with vocal beauty. She's joined here by Chilean tenor Renato Zanelli, who died young. Another marvelous voice. Listen especially how both of them give primacy to the words! I got the CD version of this from, God bless 'em-the Columbus Public Library! Cow town my ass!

Tennessee Ernie Ford and Odetta - What A Friend We Have

A great favorite of mine I wanted to share. One for the ages.

BUCKET LIST

This is my "Bucket List" as of today.
What's yours?
Do share!
...and remember, its a 'bucket list'-even if unrealistic

Go to the Monastic Settlements at Mt. Athos
Run the Boston Marathon (HA!)
Publish a novel
Learn Russian
Jump out of an airplane, with a parachute!
See Wagner's Ring cycle--same week, same cycle
Visit Italy-for Verdi and Monteverdi-San Marco, Venice
Sponsor a foster child
Hear all the Bruckner Symphonies performed 'live'
Get back on the radio with the Met in some capacity
Develop a fund guaranteeing employment to young adults
Eat and not worry!

Beverly Sills - Roberto Devereux - Final aria

Let's not forget Beverly Sills who would have been 83 this week. This was one of her most unforgettable performances: as Elizabeth I. Critics tended to disagree, thinking the role too heavy for her voice, which it was. Never mind. It distresses me that students today don't know Beverly and don't realize who she was to opera. It's timely to post this now, with news of the New York City Opera's impending demise. I hope not. It was and is a great company and a great resource.

Honor Flight

This short film is the work of several of my wonderful colleagues at WOSU. Today, with the death of Bin Laden, seems as good a day as any to share this. My father was a World War II vet. He is long deceased but Honor Flight would have meant the world to him, both watching it and being on the plane. This made me proud, and humbled.

Nice Picture

I like this picture. Dame Joan Sutherland, who died last year, with the Queen, who is going strong.
Just married off the grandson!
Dame Joan's grandson carried her medals at the memorial tribute at Westminster Abbey, attended by Prince Charles.

Thiry Years Ago!...Royal Wedding Ceremony of Charles & Diana (7/8)

Dame Kiri Te Kanawa letting the bright seraphim indeed at the other royal wedding, thirty years ago! There I was in NYC at 4 a.m. with a mini black and white TV. Thirty years. Charles and Diana walked off to unhappiness. Dame Kiri never lived down the popsicle inspired schmatte. But the music was great! Listen!

Mt. Athos on my Birthday

OK, I have 5 and a half years to get this done. I'd like to spend my 60th birthday, December 2, 2016 in Greece, among the monasteries of Mt. Athos. I knew a bit about this monastic settlement before last Sunday night's profile on '60 minutes'. This is the seat of the Orthodox faith going back to the time of Christ. There are 20+ monasteries on this island in the north of Greece. Monasteries, monks and not much else. There are Greek monasteries, Russian monasteries, Serbian monasteries, there are even a few Americans among the priests and brothers. It is a life of ceaseless prayer and work every day of the year. And once you are admitted it is expected you will never leave the island.

If the TV cameras don't lie, why would anyone leave such a paradise? The Aegean, the mountains, the cliffs, the sea-it does look like heaven. I suspect the ceaseless work and prayer can be a trial. This life is clearly not for the feint of body or heart. Eight hours at a clip of chanting the liturgy-in Greek yet and no women. Did I mention that no women are allowed anywhere on the island? As one news reporter-the first admitted in over thirty years -said, "A week is a long time without women!"

I used to read a lot May Sarton's works. She climbed the Parthenon on her 50th birthday, in 1962. A friend of mine went to Bayreuth to see the Ring for his 50th birthday. I doubt I'll ever climb the Appalachian Trail, or write a great novel, but Mt. Athos and the endless civilisation there is calling my name. See you in just over five years!

April 19 is Patriot's Day

You might want to write this down.

NOBODY Outside of New England knows from Patriot's Day.

Here's the skinny: The American Revolution began with the Battle of Lexington at dawn on April 19, 1775. Seventy-seven "minute men" stood up against 500+ advancing British troops who were enroute from Boston to Concord. (The were in boats, by the way. It was "two if by sea") There was an arsenal in Concord the British meant to seize. Now, the good people of Concord, and I love many f them, will tell you that the American Revolution begin in their attractive hamlet. It's true there was a full scale battle at Concord bridge, but with love to those deluded Concordians who insist otherwise, the American Revolution began on he town green in Lexington Massachusetts at dawn on April 19 1775.

I wasn't there. Growing up in Lexington April 19 was a huge holiday. Schools and businesses closed. There was the 6 a.m. reenactment of the Battle of Lexington, with uniforms proudly worn by the rapidly aging soldiery, who turned over in favor of sons and younger brothers every few years. Of course there were no female soldiers. Jeez. This was the monolithic age. A hapless teen was drafted to play Johnathan Harrington. He was mortally wounded that April morning, but managed to crawl across the Green to his house, where he looked up at his wife...and died. Why THAT hasn't been made into an opera yet is any one's guess.

The parade had floats, town selectmen, the occasional elderly Red Sox pitcher, and every high school marching band within thirty miles, complete with chubby majorettes and pimply tuba players. If you had to pee while watching the parade, and many of us did-you repaired to the yard of one of the stately homes lining Massachusetts Avenue and hid behind a tree--or not.

There were pancake breakfasts, neighborhood cookouts, fifes and drums out the wazoo and enough beer to float the saddest Irish wake (There is no such thing as a sad Irish wake, unless the potato salad is lousy) It was a wonderful community day, withal, and I miss it. Ninety percent of us wouldn't have known Captain Parker from Captain Crunch, but with all respect, who cared?

Today Lexington is awash in ethnic restaurants and banks. All the charm is gone. The beautifully maintained green and surrounding houses still look lovely, but Mass Ave is now a jumble in a town trying to be if not Cambridge, then maybe Monte Carlo. I wonder what date Princess Grace celebrated Parrot's Day?

Good times.

Today at the Circus

Life generally is a circus, but today I actually attended a three ring event. Under the big top. Well, actually under the barn roof at the Fairgrounds. Each year I'm asked to go and narrate the circus for kids from the Columbus School for the Blind-they listen on headsets. Some have parital sight-some have profound disabilities. All enjoy the day out. This is made possible by a group of Bell System retirees. I get a free trip to the circus and I get to spend the morning with scads of little kids. It's a circus in more way than one, and it's a joy. The challenge is to keep the banter up for the non sighted kids. And how many variants can you use to describe the same beefy Russian woman in pink tights? Is an elephant always an elephant? Maybe, but you can describe what the pachyderms are doing-and with all those animals...no ACCIDENTS! Nobody was eating poop this year.I work hard to keep the kids engaged.

Today a young boy with partial sight sat in back of me. He wanted to be buddies and he certainly was chatty. He wanted badly to pet the animals, and told about his love for snakes. "I've touched them at the zoo!" Wow. Not me. In front me sat a 12 year old boy with profound disabilities. He couldn't sit still, wore diapers, didn't speak. His aid-a saintly, patient young woman-said to me, "I don't want to bother you, but he wants to sit on your lap." He does? The honor is mine and God knows there's room. He sat on my lap, which quieted him while I helped him eat lunch...and the show, lions, tigers and bears...and the beefy ladies and elderly pigs and horses...went on. A good way to spend a morning.

Maryisms

My mother would be 90 years old next week. Mass is being said for her at her church in Lexington, a church to which she was devoted and muy pissed when in my teenage rebellion I refused to go. It was a bit sad to call there and arrange this Mass and realize nobody is around who remembers her. She died in 1986.

Well, I remember of course. Herewith some of her best sayings:

Wearing her mumu, Bud Lite in hand: "What time is the 5 o'clock mass for crissakes"?

"Your poor father's sisters are lovely women. Could never live with them."

"No beer? There's no beer?! Get in the car an go over to your Uncle Jack's basement. He always keeps a stash...never mind breaking in , just do it!"

"I think its very nice your friends are gay. Young people should be happy."

"If the nuns are gonna walk around without the habit they may as well go to the damned hairdresser. They all look like men."

"Glory be to Peter!"

When as a five year old I asked why a nun never had a baby she replied, "Jesus Mary and Joseph! God love you...ask the pope!--the schools today are much too progressive..."

More to come!

"Our job is to lie, cheat and steal"

Here's a paragraph from the end of an entertaining new book, The War for Late Night, When Leno Went Early and Television Went Crazy by Bill Carter. He writes with a real "You are there" perspective. This story concerns Lorne Michaels, the long time chief of Saturday Night Live. Years ago Michaels became dissatisfied with SNL, and wanted to leave. HE went in to the office of NBC Entertainment Chief Irwin Seglestein, intending to resign. Here's what Segelstein had to say:

" When you leave, the show will get worse. But not all of a sudden, gradually. And it will take the audience a while to figure that out. Maybe two, maybe three years. And when it gets to be , you know, awful, and the audience has abandoned it, then we will cancel it. And the show will be gone, but we will still be here, because we're the network and we are eternal. If you read your contract closely, it says the show is to be ninety minutes in length. It is to cost X. That's the budget. Nowhere in that do we ever say it as to be good. And if you are so robotic and driven that you feel pressure to push yourself in that way to make it good, don't come to us and say you've been treated unfairly, because you're trying hard to make it good and we're getting in your way. Because at no point did we ask for it to be good. That you're neurotic is a bonus to us. Our job is to lie, cheat and steal. Your job is to do the show."

That Horrible F Word

Well, there I was, pretty in pink all ready to go on the air with a live chat show I get to host 2x month. Today's topics were arts and culture. I invited three guests who well represent the local arts community. Two were charming, articulate, smart and made great radio. The third was someone I didn't know except by (excellent) reputation. I did know he had that sort of "angry young man" thing going on. It's all about good radio, about engaging the community, giving the community useful information, being entertaining and having fun.

Five minutes into the broadcast didn't my new friend chose to answer a question with, "Well I spend half my time loving it here and the other half wanting to get the fuck out."

I'm a guest host. I love this gig. This is live radio with no delay at all, which I made clear to everyone, even our angry young man newbie and there it was after three minutes, what my late mother always referred to as "That Horrible F Word."

Guest no. 1 blanched a bit but was calm and professional. Guest #2 shot a look hat could kill. Your obedient servant, the host, fumbled a bit and went on. The AYM was nonplussed. Doesn't everyone speak this way? (Yes, most of us do but as I explained before AND after NOT ON LIVE BROADCAST). What threw me was that HE wasn't the least bit fazed. Had he never heard of George Carlin and the infamous 7 words ? At the first break I kicked him out of the studio. Go. Who knows what he would say next? It's a shame because he was off to a good start.

He sent an e mail apology stating again he didn't know cursing was forbidden. Dear God.
For the record YOU CANNOT CURSE ON A LIVE BROADCAST

Happily our wonderful producer hit a button just in time and "that horrible F word" did not go out live. The TV feed and podcast have to be cleaned up. That's better than being screwed by the FCC. Somebody called in and complained that I cut off the guest. The screener said THE GUY SAID FUCK IN THE AIR! 'Nuf said.

He apologized by e mail. I told him it was bad and serious and immature but that he was a gifted guy with a lot of good work to do. And yes, I told him I was in no position to criticize someone else's language but I DON'T CURSE ON THE AIR

Oy.
And people wonder....

Mozart

I'm listening to Mozart's Symphony 36 in C- the Linz.

This past weekend Opera Columbus did a good job with The Marriage of Figaro. In my pre performance talks I mentioned that some productions of this work depict Count Almaviva not only as unpleasant but as violent-a wife beater. The Countess becomes an abused wife. I can't hear this at all in Mozart's music. Mozart did everything in music better than anyone else (except Bach-although Bach wrote no operas) What Mozart did not do was violence. There's no raging bloodshed in any Mozart I've ever heard, opera or otherwise. There's joy, sorrow, grief, anger, sex, love, love and more love, laughter, fear, unhappiness, even tragedy. But where is Mozart ever violent? I don't hear it. His music is all about grace and proportion, and the humanity that lives within. But blood and guts, not really. The human heart and all its joys and perils, yes.

Now, back to the Linz. What a gift on a rather dreary day!

The Listening Table

This past weekend's Columbus Symphony program was superb. I'm so pleased we got a fine live broadcast Saturday night. Larry Rachleff conducted Rachmaninoff' s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini and the Symphony 11 of Shostakovitch, The Year 1905. Kirill Gerstein was the piano soloist in the Rachmaninoff and he was dazzling. The audience fell in love with him. Conductor Rachleff was unknown to me (where have I been?!?) Sensational. He had an immediate grasp of Shostakovitch's gripping score-and he sold it it brilliantly. I could have heard the entire concert all over again and I suspect most of the audience felt the same way.

Inspired by this, I've put away Bellini and Monteverdi and Maria Callas temporarily and am now concentrating on

Shostakovitch String Quartets
Bartok Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta
Dvorak Symphony 8
Liszt Piano Sonata in b minor (with Kirill Gerstein)

A wonderful journey awaits.

Greatest Composers?

A young friend recently e mailed to ask if I'd seen the New York Times series by Anthony Tommasini naming the 10 greatest composers. Here's my reply:

I saw the Times piece and the media. I imagine Tommasini was told by his editors to do something really provocative, hence this study. I never do these "best of" lists well. I can't get away from subjectivity. To me, greatness in any endeavor belongs to those who break the mold and force the rest of us to think in a different way. So my list would be something like this:

Josquin Missa Pape Marcellae
Monteverdi Vespers of 1610, L'Orfeo, Poppea
Bach Passions, Brandenburg Concerti, Cello Suites, everything
Haydn-perfecting the string quartet
Mozart everything
Beethoven symphonies, quartets, Missa Solemnis, everything
Wagner Tristan und Isolde
Mahler Symphony 3, Das Lied von der Erde
Stravinsky Rite of Spring
Schonberg Moses und Aron
Ives Concord Sonata

That's 11 , not 10-but its my blog so what the hell.

And yes, it breaks my heart to omit Verdi and Puccini. Their operas have given me more pleasure then many of the above named, but truly great in the mold breaking sense, I'm afraid. One could argue for Gershwin. Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Dvorak, all magnificent (what's more exquisite than Schubert's Die Forelle?) but they don't predict what is to come.

Anybody want to list their favorite composers?

Just Kids

La boheme, with its description of student poverty and fatal illness amid the rooftops of Paris is only romantic and beautiful because of Puccini's music. It may be true that a lot of us keep a fond memory of our basement apartments and hopeless love affairs from a time gone by, but who really wants to turn back the clock? Poet-Rocker Patti Smith does just that with her book Just Kids. This was the National Book Award Winner and gave new profile to an artist I knew best from Gilda Radner's SNL riff in the '70s as "Candy Slice". ("Let's get together....and get sick!")

The center of this book is Smith's long relationship with the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. They began as nice kids from suburbia. Mapplethorpe was an altar boy from a devout Catholic family. They met and connected in New York. Patti was on a blind date that was not going well. A young man walked by and she managed to whisper, "Hey, pretend you're a friend and help me get out of here." Robert did. And for several years, the two were inseparable.

These years, late 60s, early 70s, were years of homelessness-sleeping on front stoops in Brooklyn, panhandling and squats. They were years when two people were struggling to create: poetry and pictures-which morphed into music and photography. The days of controversy over Mapplethorpe's photography ("Piss Christ") postdate this book. This is a memoir about becoming. Along the way they live in New York's seedy and wonderful Chelsea Hotel (Virgil Thomson upstairs and Martha Graham down the hall) and we frequent the adjacent El Quixote or Max's Kansas City. Janis Joplin and Andy Warhol and his coterie make regular appearances. But the book is about Patti and Robert, friends, soul mates (overused but there's no better word here) lovers. They are two people who can't live without each other until sucess and sexualty separate them. Both get to the top of their fields, but there is no ego in this book .The tone is of truth telling. There's nothing sensational in this writing of two lives that were, frankly sensational.

At night, after trudging through the snow I found him waiting for me in our apartment, ready to rub my hands to make them warm. He seemed always in motion, heating water on the stove, unlacing my boots, hanging up my coat, always with one eye on the drawing he was working on. He would stop for a moment if he noticed something. Most of the time, it seemed as if the piece was fully formed in his mind. He was not one for improvising. It was more a question of executing something he saw in a flash.


Patti's album Horses-for which Mapplethorpe did the photography- launched her career. Mapplethorpe found a patron and created the images that disturb many to this day. Patti Smith married in 1980 and had two children. Robert Mapplethorpe died in 1989 at the age of 43. Don't miss Just Kids. It's poignant and moving and sad and lovely.

Fathers and Sons

A new book called The Last of His Mind by John Thorndike was laying around the office. I took it home and found it was one of those books! The author spent a year caring for his father who was slowly -and agonizingly-fading away from Alzheimer's. Joseph Thorndike had a very distinguished career in journalism, including stints at LIFE magazine with Henry Luce. He was an emotionally reticent man who was deeply intellectual. John and his brother's upbringing had been complicate by his parent's divorce and his mother's alcoholism and mental illness. John Thorndike when we meet him is a man in his 60s, with his own complicated martial history, and a grown son of his own. He leaves a business and a life in Athens Ohio to move in with his Dad on Cape Cod. He writes, with humor and compassion of all of the indignities of old age: the forgetfulness, the slow fade, the incontinence. He is clearly not ashamed of his father and wants to spare him any embarrassment over these indignities. What John Thorndike has written is nothing less than a love story of a son to a father-a father who has never been emotionally available, but a beloved father nonetheless.

I picked up Thorndike's earlier memoir, Another Way Home tells of the author's life as as single parent to a toddler called Janir. Janir's mother is a Central American woman Thorndike met while in the Peace Corps. What began as a blissful relationship disintegrated quickly as Clarisa too, disintegrated into mental illness. Thorndike writes of diapers, play groups, sleep overs, kick ball, poop, and the life he builds for Janir, now a married man with a child of his own. It's another love story but this father to son. The world needs more of such stories, especially as well written as Another Way Home.

Ron Reagan has written his first book, Ronald Reagan at 100. I'm no fan of Ronald Reagan's politics. But the Reagan children have always fascinated me. There are two sets of siblings kept apart, another emotionally absent but benevolent father and a (step) mother who ran the show. Ron Reagan concentrates on unearthing his father's past going back to the Ireland of several generations ago. The book has been criticised since the author writes candidly that his father was showing signs of Alzheimer's in the White House. (This has been hotly disputed, not least by Reagan's older son, Michael.) It is clear Ron loved his father and even felt loved by him. It's another son to father love letter. I suspect if Ronald Reagan were alive today his son Ron would easily find the words to tell his father he loves him, even if the former president was abashed uncomfortable. This lovely book will have to do.

Martin Luther King Day

I'm grateful to have this day to honor Dr. King, to consider how far we've come and how far we've yet to go. Also good to remember the great contralto Marian Anderson. She sang on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on Easter Sunday, 1939, at the behest of Eleanor Roosevelt. Anderson had been denied the use of Washington's Constitution Hall because of her race. This after being acclaimed as an artist world wide for years. The story is told in "Marian Anderson: The Sound of Freedom" by Raymond Arsenault. Recommended.

President Obama in Tucson

"At a time when our discourse has been so sharply polarized, at a time when we are far too eager to lay the blame for all that ails the world at the feet of those that think differently than we do, it's important for us to pause for a moment and make sure we are talking with each other in a way that heals, not a way that wounds."--Barack Obama, January 12, 2011


The photo is of 9 year old Christian Taylor Green, killed on January 8.