Quiet music should be played loud

I can't believe it's been a week already . . . it doesn't feel like that long. But, for those of you who are interested (you know who you are), here's what they sang:

I Don't Wanna Waste Your Time--There's a warmth and spontaneity in this music that welcomes you and draws you in. Karin sways to the music, relaxed, unselfconscious. "I've got a different scar for every song," she sings," And blood still left to bleed/But I don't wanna waste your time/Wiht music you don't need." She's gorgeous, by the way; in a black v-neck top with a light patterned skirt, she could be a model for an artsy boutique. But it's her voice--with its passion and urgency, its aching longing and unfettered joy--that makes you sit still and breathless, that brings tears to your eyes. "When it comes to wanting what's real/There's no such thing as greed." The tears are escaping my eyes now--partly because the music is real, partly because they've given me preciesly the songs I've need, so many times. Partly, too, because these words serve as an affirmation of desire--an admontion not to give on on the things I most long for, the things it sometimes seems foolish to desire.

I Radio Heaven--Not my favorite, but hearing it live gives me a new appreciation for it. At the keyboard, Linford looks happy and completely at home. It takes me back to teh first time I heard them play: he had a grand piano then, and I loved his playing before I was sure I liked Karin's singing. (But Jeffrey Overstreet kept raving about Good Dog, Bad Dog, so I bought it--which makes this whole crazy pilgrimage his fault. :-) But keyboard or grand, Linford's playing is equally expressive and beautiful.

Long Lost Brother--Makes me cry again. This has been my song the past several weeks, but it's from an older album, so I didn't expect to hear it. It feels like they're singing it just for me . . . A gift unexpected and un"The trouble is, I'm so exhausted/The plot, you see, I think I've lost it/I need the grace to find what can't be found . . ." By this point, I'm realizing that however good their albums are--and don't get me wrong, they're fantastic--Over the Rhine is even better live.

I'm On a Roll--Karin introduced this one: "We did melancholy on Drunkard's Prayer, and felt like we really got that down. So it was time for something more perky." Not my favorite of theirs (you know me, I'm all about the melancholy), but it's great fun. And have I mentioned that her voice is amazing?

Entertaining Thoughts--Another song from the new CD. Lighthearted, yes; but if you've followed their music at all, if you their story, you know this joy didn't come easily. And happy songs are (almost) as needful as melancholy ones. :-)

Let's Spend the Day in Bed--Linford did the introduction, talking about how they'd been touring since June and he felt like he could spent four days in bed. ("We think that's really funny," Karin said with him.) Then he started talking about how they loved touring, because music was one of the few communal things left in our country, one of the few things that brought people together. Then he paused for a second, and said, "But that has nothing to do with the song. That was a tangent."

What I'll Remember Most--Again, one that I absolutely love, but didn't expect to hear. (The saddest songs are the happiest, the hardest truths are the easiest . . .)

The Trumpet Child--Beautiful. Linford said it's been described as a "jazz hymn," and they think that fits pretty well. He also explained how the song was inspired in part by his earliest memory: he was sitting on his mother's lap at an tent revival, and there was someone on stage playing a trumpet. "The music was coming from up on the stage, and I was in the audience. And I was not okay with that."

Who'm I Kiddn' but Me--probably my least favorite of the songs they sang, at least in the recorded version. But at the end they went off on a long instrumental improv, which was fabulous. Linford went crazy on the piano, then dropped out, and the drummer went crazier on the drums, all by himself, for several minutes. Brilliant stuff.

Trouble

Latter Days--Another of my favorites: the song that made me fall in love with them to begin with, and that helped me through my worst semester at TFC. This one just piano and voice, the drummer and bass/guitar guy getting a break.

North Pole Man--One of two I hadn't heard before, from their Christmas album.

Goodbye Charles--Another from the Christmas album--just instrumental this time.

Ohio

Orphan Girl (Gillian Welch)

I clapped madly, along with everyone else; but I wasn't sure if they'd come back for an encore. After all, the other rules of classical music didn't apply here . . .

. . . but that one, happily, did. They came back out and sang "Hush Now," followed by "If a Song Could Be President"--which got a huge audience reaction--and went straight into "Don't Wait for Tom." Again, not one of my favorites--but lots of fun live, and a great way to end the evening.

of cows, communists, and oddly-named pies

or Old News, which I meant to Post Some Time Ago, but which I Hope will still be of Interest to my Gentle Readers (if indeed any still Remain after my late lengthy Silence)

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May 24th-28th, 2007

Movies in theaters make me happy. I went to see Spiderman 3 a few weeks ago; it was enjoyable, but not as good as the last two. The story felt crowded, with too many characters and plots, and the character development left something to be desired. (I was particularly annoyed with a moment late in the film, when a major revelation is made in a way that feels contrived and retcon-y.) But despite the flaws, it's still a good movie in the best superhero franchise to date (and *far* better than a certain deplorable movie from last summer.)

But my favorite summer movies so far aren't blockbusters, and may not be coming to theaters near you. They're about communists and pies, respectively, and are very much worth checking out, if you can.

Last week, I caught the German film The Lives of Others on its last night in Rivertown. We only have one theater that shows foreign films, and each film is only there for a week--which has regrettably caused me to miss several films I wanted to see (like last year's "The Science of Sleep"). "

The Lives of Others is a film about life in Communist East Berlin, told through the eyes a secret-police agent who is whole-heartedly committed to the regime--and through the eyes of the the playwright and actress he spies on. The two artists have made compromise upon small compromise to live in peace, to avoid the silence imposed on their bolder (or more foolish) friends . . . and yet, though they don't know it, they're still suspected.

As the writer struggles with his compromises, the Stasi agent hides in the attic, a patient spider in a technological web, waiting for the one treasonous word that will damn his victims. Yet he's gradually drawn in to the drama he's witnessing, gradually comes to care about the people he's spying on--and, without understanding his own motivation, begins his own series of compromises. He ignores a small detail here, changes a small detail there, hiding suspicious things from his superiors, but assuring himself that he'll catch them in the end.

The turning point, for both the writer and the spy, comes after the writer learns of a friend's death. He hangs up the phone in silence, and turns to the piano, playing to honor his friend's memory, to mourn for him, to protest the regime that destroyed him, to seek comfort in his own grief and confusion. There are no tears. But as he plays, thinking he's alone in his flat, the spy sits in the attic, listening . . . and is so moved by the beauty of the music that he weeps.

(Unfortunately, this is a movie for older viewers only . . . if it weren't for a few scenes, this would be an excellent movie for older children, making Communism something more than a word in a textbook.)

Yesterday, I went to see the independent film "Waitress," an intelligent, funny, and surprisingly moving film that transcends the chick-flick genre. Written and directed by Adrienne Shelly, it tells the story of a woman trapped in a terrible, emotionally abusive marriage who discovers that she's pregnant. I know--it sounds like a dark, depressing drama. But it's not. While it never makes light of the abuse, the story is told with a deft, light touch, an array of delightfully quirky characters, and lots of pie.

Jenna, the eponymous waitress, has a knack for making unusual pies, which she names after events in her life. There's "Falling in Love" pie (made for her friend Dawn before a date); "I Don't Want Earl's Baby" pie (invented after her positive pregnancy test); and "I Can't Have No Affair Because it's Wrong and Earl Will Kill Me" pie. This last she invents after realizing that her gynecologist is attracted to her--and that it's mutual. The doctor, incidentally, is played by Nathan Fillion. (Yes, that strongly influenced my decision to see the movie; but it's well worth seeing for its own sake. Our favorite ship captain is just an added bonus . . . whipped cream on the pie, extra chocolate in the filling, sugar and a cherry on top. Or, um, something.)

Anyway, I'll stop there; but you should go see it, if you can, or rent it later. And then you should eat pie. Because pie is good.

Oh--I almost forgot the cows!

For those of you who may or may not know, I've been looking for a job for quite a while, and have successfully acquired one. I'm now working at the Purple Cow, a sandwich-icrecream-coffee place in Chipley, about 15 minutes from home. Its name gives me great delight.

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Herewith endeth the Old News . . . there may possibly be Newer News sometime in the near future. (If so, it will most likely involve starfish, sparrows, affairs, and books-I-want-to-like-but-can't.)

snapshots

i'm sitting on my bed, by a filmy-curtained window. earlier, summer rain fell on the roof, and the moon will look in later tonight.

finals scribbled, juries played--not my best playing on some pieces, but good enough. classes well-passed, despite the 5 novels i read during finals week. tomorrow, the last service i have to sing at Trinity.

on the desk, a big purple candle burns, lit for the first time this evening. i've had it since Seattle, two summers ago now. i'm not sure why i've saved it this long. an open document holds 1,336 words of a new story. and i have a job interview monday.

"stawberry road" begins on itunes: "pain is sharper/when i suspect that true love runs/looking for us like a lion in our dreams."

i'm not sure why i'm here, or where i'm going--sometimes it feels like nowhere much, and the only thing i feel sure of is that i'm not who i want to be, or where i want to be. but tonight it's okay.

i can't explain, exactly. but something happened about ago, a very small something--and i realized, with a simple clarity, that while faith is a risk, in some ways, it's one i want. one i choose. (the water will hold you, if you dare.)

i have so many memories, so many places i want to go back to; but i know i can't. i live, as i have always lived, in an "Ilion"--a city on the brink of destruction, a city that will, sooner or later, fail and fall. and i can choose to live in ruins, becoming a ghost, or to "fare foreward"--and that's risk too. there's safety in ruins.

"call it romance or nostalgia/the hunger behind our memories/we've buried it in code/things we've wanted, when we get them/are never enough/but they lead us to the road"

and if faring foreward doesn't exactly let you go back, it sometimes comes close--or at least lets you understand where you were, what gifts you were given. you so rarely understand at the time . . . only in fragments, in flashes.

"you censor longing and organize beauty/because you're afraid/you want it more than oxygen or light"

you're afraid, because beauty too is a risk. the flashes of understanding are a risk, showing you what you will lose. but i think when we accept the risks, when we open ourselves to the dangers of faith, of beauty, of loss--when we fling out our arms to the cold wind and welcome it, letting it blow through us--then we're free to fare foreward. free to meet love, to run to the lion in our dreams . . . . accepting the pain that goes with love, with beauty, with all that is worth having.

and after all, the safety of ruins is an illusion: it's the ghost who loses the city completely. ("it's not suffering we fear, but loss.") it's only when you fare forward, when you accept the loss, that you can hold something of the lost city.

and tonight, for whatever reason, it seems possible to accept the memories, the lost cities, and the risks, and to fare forward--trusting that beauty will save the world.