My Medieval Summer Part Three: Hammond Castle

 

Hammond Castle

Gloucester, Massachusetts

 

  

Without conscious intention on my part, this summer involved a nostalgic trip to the past. My MA is in medieval history, but I abandoned that quest nearly 40 years and instead pursued a Ph.D. in U.S. history. Truth be told, though, I’ve always had a soft spot for medieval studies. In June, I visited Musée de Cluny and Ste. Chapelle in Paris and a few days later, ventured to the magnificent 13^th century ChartresCathedral. 

 

 

In September I continued my trip in the Wayback Machine (WABAC in the old Mr. Peabody cartoons) in an unlikely medieval site: Gloucester, Massachusetts. That’s where John Hays Hammond  Jr. (1888-1965) erected Hammond Castle in the 1920s.

 

 

As such things go, it began with a rich person and obsession. Hamond came from wealth and as he traveled around Europe, he collected a few things that were more grandiloquent that the tea towels, scarves, bric-a-brac, and chocolates most of us acquire in Europe. His goal was nothing less than to recreate a castle and cathedral in Gloucester based on Chartres. 

 

 

That didn't quite happen. First of all, Chartres was never a castle. Secondly, Hammond Castle is a classic mishmash: part Gothic cathedral, part medieval castle, and part French Renaissance chateaux. It houses things Hamond bought in his journeys, plus lots of stuff–like an entire shop and home–that he had shipped over. Nor did his towers and Great Hall reach the 121-foor height of Chartres, but his 81-footer is pretty impressive.

 

 

Hammond added to his collections as his wealth increased. Among other things, he was an inventor whose work in radio waves and unmanned flight pioneered in remote control devices and presaged drones. He studied with Alexander Graham Bell, idolized Thomas Edison, did a lot of work for the defense department, and was on the board of directors of RCA. 

 

 

 

The Gloucester of his days was a thoroughly blue-collar (and often gritty) fishing port. I doubt that he hobnobbed much with the locals, as he was also a bit of a bohemian. He married a female artist but was bisexual, which would not have set well with locals back then. Not that they knew; Hamond's friends and social set led lives walled off from the hoi polloi. 

 

 

Another way Hammond made money was through building concert organs. If you’re thinking, “Oh cool, Hammond organs!” don’t make the same mistake that I did. These are not the instruments used by rock n’ roll and studio musicians. His were used in much more formal settings and were more akin to what you see in cathedrals and symphony halls. He filled the wall cavities with (literally) thousands of organ pipes. What are the odds that two unrelated individuals named Hammond built organs? One hundred percent in this case! 

 

 

The photos (best viewed in full-size mode) show that Hammond Castle is an eclectic place. It’s simply a matter that John Hammond Jr.. collected bigger things than most of us and had a lot more money at his disposal. It would drive a purist crazy, but the best way to approach is to enjoy each detail in its own right and not try to imagine how it would have looked in any particular time period. It displays objects from ancient Rome through the Renaissance and that, my friends, is a whopping span of about 1,800 years!  --Rob Weir

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mike Thomas, Rembrandt Trio, Pol Brennan, Tri Nguyen: New Music for October 2023

 

 

 

Mike Thomas might be the only country artist who was actually born in Tennessee, albeit Knoxville rather than that town that begins with N. He’s also intriguing because he tried to carve out a musical career back in 2004, walked away for 13 years, and came back for another go. His new album Diamonds is a good reason to familiarize yourself with Thomas. Some reviews have noted it has a “vintage” vibe, which is the case in several ways. There’s a bit of blue-collar Merle Haggard in Thomas’ songs. “Room on the Dance Floor” opens with the line I don’t go to the parties/I don’t run with the crowd/I’m a working man/With a family now, but the song’s narrator admits he wonders what other directions his life could have taken. Discontent? Quite the opposite as it slides into a remembrance of the woman he was lucky enough to meet on that dance floor. In many ways, though, the most vintage part of the music is its evocation of gritty rock n’ roll, which is why he also draws Tom Petty comparisons. Or perhaps some John Cougar Mellencamp. On one level, “Bricks, Boards & Stones” is a country smorgasbord–tractor, dogs, God–but it’s another standup guy song–I still miss her when I’m gone–with the theme that the right decision is the hardest one to make. The title track is definitely old-style country with its pedal steel-forward arrangement, but again Thomas celebrates a working stiff who’s glad he wasn’t born rich: How would I know which way to run? There’s a lot of power and gravel in Thomas’ voice, and fire in his pen. 

The Rembrandt Trio is a bit of a sly joke as it is anchored by a Dutch pianist named Rembrandt Freichs. To add a few more punchlines, he is trained in jazz and classical music and sometimes plays tunes so artfully structured they evoke that other Rembrandt. Freichs doesn’t like to be tied down, though, so his band has four members counting himself–another little bit of whimsy?–and includes two Iranian musicians that make sure he doesn’t go too longhair on us. One is vocalist Mohammad Motamedi whose keening is definitely not classical or Dutch. The latest project is titled Intizar–Songs of Longing, the first part of which is a Turkish word that means wait. Intizar uses urgent piano notes to frame Motamedi’s expressive vocals that skirt the boundaries of operatic intonation. By contrast, “Az Khoure Javanan”(roughly, the priest is good) places Freichs at the keys of an organ for a somber song that feels like it was torn from a 14^th century songster. Mohamedi sings in Arabic, his voice adorned with laryngeal vibrato to produce an effect that’s somewhere between a Marian chant and a Muslim call to prayer. “In the Middle of the Garden” is a 15-minute composition that is equal parts meditative piano, background bass, understated percussion, and lung-emptying vocals. If you’re the kind of person who appreciates ensembles capable of sharing musical space with symphonic orchestras, there are astonishing moments on this record. 

I recently attended a farewell concert from the Donegal band Clannad. I reckon after 50 years it’s time to come off the road. Of course, musicians never actually retire. If you know Clannad, you are aware that it’s a Brennan family band–Enya is the little sister. Flautist Pól Brennan has been a Clannad mainstay, but he has also had an active solo career that involves film scores and collaborations with musicians around the globe. You can now add composer and arranger of orchestral suites to the list. The Irish Revolution is his take on events that took place between 1919-21 that ultimately gave rise to the Irish Republic. The cost was that predominately Protestant Ulster remained part of Great Britain. (Partitions are generally fraught, hence “The Troubles,” clashes between Catholics, Protestants, and their allied armed groups.)  The Irish Revolution is reminiscent of the compositions of Shaun Davey (The Brendan Voyage, Granuaile, The Relief of Derry, etc.) That is to say, it is an instrumental work that seeks to evoke moods that take us from the decision to revolt to the partition. It’s tricky, as the composer has to match sounds to what an audience is likely to infer. Quick, frantic-sounding string notes and pounding drums are perfect for “The IRA Goes to War,” as is the drumming that alternates from sounding distant-to-near. “Volunteers and the Brigade” has a more mournful and ominous edge to it, an effect achieved by using darker-toned violas and cellos. “War Grinds On” is a combo of the previous two with repeated bass notes and background timpani and metal sheets creating thunderous effects that drive home the feeling of a constant slog. Is it a bit heavy-handed to use vaguely villainous tones for “Ulster Unionists?” Probably, but there are few neutrals on the subject. Or on “Partition,” which is literally a tragic air followed by piano and violin that’s both hopeful and melancholy.   

 

Since I’m on the topic of instrumental music, let me give a shout out to Vietnamese pianist/composer Tri Nguyen. He also plays a Vietnamese zither called the dan-tranh, which he has mounted in such a way that he can switch between the two instruments akin to how splits his time between Saigon and Paris. On Duos Alone he crosses East-West borders musically. I have seldom heard a pianist who plays the high, plinky white keys as much as Tri Nguyen, but he uses them to draw upon the higher-pitched sounds one often hears in Vietnamese music. Another reason for doing so is that it frees his righthand to roam the lower parts of his instrument. I’ve not seen supporting material for this assertion, but I imagine it helps him establish the album’s seemingly contradictory name; that is, it sounds at times as if two different pianos are at work when it’s really just him. I’m going with the sentiment that if my take isn’t true, it ought to be. “Weeping Mango Leaves” has a splash of zither to go with the piano; if you listen carefully and if you close your eyes, you can imagine rainwater running off a forest canopy. Its flirtation with bent notes is deliberate; after all, even steady rain changes. You’ll hear more zither on “Scent of the River,” but as soon as he puts his hands on the keyboard, you’ll notice that Tri Nguyen has a definite affinity for water. It’s a lovely piece made all the more so because its delicate melody doesn’t always go where we’d expect Western music to wend. Bach fans will be intrigued by his take on one of Johann’s arias in a variation Nguyen calls “Sigh of Sorrows.” Most of the music on Duos Alone is quiet and mood–it was composed as tribute to his departed mother, which might be his reason for the album title–but classical fans will also hear some echoes of Ravel and Vivaldi. 

 

Rob Weir  

 

The Singularities a Complex Swan Song?

 

The Singularities ( 2022) 

By John Banville 

Alfred a Knopf, 307 pages 

★★★★

 

 

Some physics postulates rest more on reason and incomplete observation than incontrovertible evidence. Singularities like black holes–distortions in space-time–are said to be infinitely dense, but how do we prove that? Quantum entanglement–two linked particles that react spontaneously even when separated by vast distances–remain mysterious. The multiverse? Of course, a singularity is also a unique thing. 

 

You don't need physics to read The Singularities, just appreciate entangled lives and how altered circumstances distort human time. This is John Banville's 20th novel* and perhaps the 77-year-old Irish literary giant’s swan song. Dedicated Banville readers will  recognize Freddie Montgomery, the antihero of a past trilogy. In The Singularities, he emerges from prison after 25 years for a murder he committed during a burglary gone wrong. Freddie’s a hoodlum, but he never intended murder. He felt he deserved his time in the penitentiary; he did not enjoy it, but neither did he detest it, even if that meant buggery, violence, and boredom non-disciplined minds would perceive as black holes. 

 

It's time for a new identity: Felix Mordaunt, a surname suited for his altered straits. Though his intellect is keener than most, he’s no kingpin anymore and must leave town by squeezing into a Sprite lent by a former crime partner who now presents as a respectable auto dealer. Mordaunt drives to Coolgrange estate, which was once his but is now called Arden. It is owned by Adam and Helen Godley, he the son of a deceased famed/infamous mathematician of the same name. Adam the elder’s  Brahma theorem postulates that, “knowledge of the nature of reality” alters it, because “each glowing new discovery... brings about an equal and opposite darkening, the punching of the hole and the wall of the great sphere that is time and space.” This has implications for multiverse theory, hence Godly was either a towering genius or anathema depending on how academics line up.  

 

William Jaybee—the name a lampoon anagram of the author's birthname of John William Banville—is a professor at an Oxbridge-like university. He is among those who views Godley as an abomination. When we first meet Jaybee, his opinions about Godley are deliciously arch and vicious. He's in good company; none of Banville’s academics have high regard for anyone other than themselves! 

 

Felix secures diminished employment at Arden, the new owners unaware of his identity, but his entry isn't as debased as Jaybee’s. When Godley’s son approaches the portly prof to write his father’s official biography, he is dismissive. But unfettered access to Godley's papers, assurances he can write whatever he wishes, residency at posh Arden, and scads of money lead to reassessment. The fact that Jaybee is besotted with Helen–a fanciful vanity–also helps. 

 

These entanglements are the tip of the iceberg. There’s also Mourdant’s perverse pleasure in annoying his nosey landlady and his compromised cover when Anna Behrends appears. She’s a former mistress and crime partner who also slept with Freddie's deceased wife. Adam the younger is sullen and haunted by his sister’s suicide, and both Anna and Helen fancy some under-the-sheets activity with Freddie/Felix. The game is afoot! 

 

Banville walks the tightrope between mystery and comedy with great aplomb and never tips his hand if we are to see his novel as a satire on manners or an exploration of theoretical geometry and physics. Jaybee is the Falstaff of the piece, but other clown princes abound. 

 

Banville has mastered the art of literary snark. Imagine Jaybee’s crisis when maybe he can’t eviscerate Adam Godley. The Singularities also has a lot of such tragi-comedic moments. Not to fear though; Freddie’s the top dog when it comes to misanthropy. The opening chapter in which he leaves jail is an absolute masterpiece of mixed messages, one that induces you to laugh aloud, but suspect that Freddie is about to shove a stiletto into someone's back. 

 

The novel occasionally lags. Banville’s venture into arcane theory would have been more accessible in small splashes rather than deep dives. All we really need is the rudiments of the Brahma theorem controversy; too much produces tone changes that feel like showing off rather than illuminating our protagonists. But to reiterate a point I've made elsewhere, I prefer books that are too smart over those too dumb. In his own fashion, John Banville has created a multiverse even when he stays in this dimension. 

 

Rob Weir 

 

* He wrote others under nom de plumes. 

 

Small Mercies and Big Trouble in Lehane's Latest

 

Small Mercies (2023)

By Dennis Lehane

Harper, 320 pages

★★★★

 

 

 

I stayed from Dennis Lehane for a time because I was tired of Boston mob novels. I went back after dusting off The Given Day (2008), which is about the 1919 Boston Police Strike. I’m still maxed out on mob tales, but Lehane’s latest has intriguing twists. Small Mercies is set in mobbed-up South Boston, but amidst the Boston busing crisis. Plus, some of the sleazeballs obtain an unlikely enemy in the person of Mary Pat Fennessy.

 

Small Mercies occurs in 1974, the beginning of a 14-year battle to desegregate Boston’s public schools. Massachusetts enjoys a reputation as a deeply liberal state, but that wasn’t always been the case, and Boston still hasn’t lived down the racism that once bloomed like a corpse plant, especially in “Southie.” It was controlled (in order) by big-time thugs, smaller thugs, the Catholic Church, Irish Americans, compromised cops, a local populace that knew what not to notice, and on-the-level police. It was a tossup if the biggest domestic problem was teenage pregnancy, alcohol abuse, or the “brown scourge” (heroin). But at least it was lily-white and black folk–not called that!–knew to stay away.

 

Mary Pat goes to mass, but she’s divorced, her Vietnam vet son died from heroin, she smokes like a coal mine fire, and daughter Jules is often AWOL and probably doing some hooking. Mary Pat certainly disapproves of her  boyfriends, but what can she do? She takes some solace in her job at the old folks home and likes “Dreamy” Williamson, a black coworker. Do they really connect, though? Mary Pat doesn’t know that her real name is Calliope or that she and her husband live a far more respectable life than her Southie neighbors. In fact, when Augie Williamson is killed in Southie, it initially doesn’t dawn on Mary Pat that he was Dreamy’s son.

 

Jules’ disappearance sends Mary Pat on a frantic search. After beating the crap out of a guy she assumed was Jules’ boyfriend, she turns to the head of the Southie mob, Marty Butler–think Whitey Bulger–for help. Because Mary Pat is making too much trouble and noise, Marty promises he’ll investigate. Yeah, sure he will! He just doesn’t want light shone on him or his ‘hood. It’s bad enough a couple of cops he doesn’t own are sniffing around. They get nothing from Mary Pat. That’s not how things are done in Southie.

 

When Mary Pat learns that Jules was with the son of one of Butler’s lieutenants, Mary Pat is pretty sure that Jules is dead. She’s positive of it when Marty gives her a sack of cash and tells her to go to Florida while he takes care of things. Mary Pat isn’t a 100-watt bulb, but she can read a runaround. She’s so desperate she even pays a visit to her ex, who lives in Cambridge. That might as well be another galaxy for someone like Mary Pat. His new domestic life is equally shocking to her, but not as much as the revelation that Jules might be involved in Augie’s death.

How on earth can Mary Pat find the truth or take on the mob? Her determination put me in mind of the two mothers who crusaded against violence in Northern Ireland. Before long Mary Pat has half of Southie wanting to get rid of her, but she’s surprisingly resourceful. Don’t get too excited; Lehane is all about grit, not the warm fuzzies. One passage sums up the cancerous effects of hate in Vietnam-era Boston: “Call them gooks, call them niggers, call then kikes, micks, wops, or frogs…. You can get kids to cross oceans to kill other kids, or you can get them to stay right here and do the same thing.”

 

Lehane is an engaging storyteller who seldom pulls punches, which is why he doesn’t shy from rubbing reader faces in hate speech. You will probably be shocked to discover the book’s namesake “small mercy.” Can a tigers change their stripes? It’s tough to do so in a place where even racists divide ideologically–the loudmouthed Louisa Day Hicks makes a few appearances–and “the only law and the only god is money.” So what if Southie is also a dumping ground for all social ills? Vendettas and mobsters have their own logic. Both play their hands in Small Mercies.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

   

Fat Wallets and Skinny Results: New York Yankees

 

 

October is here, but it might as well be midwinter for Yankees. They spent the summer in a battle with the Red Sox to stay out of the basement of the American League East, which is a mighty poor return for a $290 million payroll.

 

An old adage holds that the Yankees don’t rebuild, they reload. Too bad because they desperately need to rebuild. They are a team of plow horses that don’t get on base very often and when they do, it takes a triple to score someone from first. They simply must rethink their home runs or strikeouts lineup–which would involve eating some salaries–or 2024 won’t be much brighter.

 

The Yankees need to fire Aaron Boone, a push button manager devoted to fraudulent analytics. He’s little more than a cheerleader for mediocre players. Hensley Meulens would be a good replacement; he speaks Spanish and Japanese, the latter of which might convince Japanese star pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto to ink a New York contract.

 

They should fire General Manager Brian Cashman as well, but word on the street is that Cashman will be back. They should show no such hesitancy in dumping the entire conditioning and training staff. There’s bad luck and there’s bad practice and New York has mastered the second.

 

Pruning the dead wood starts with Giancarlo Stanton who is 33, but plays like he’s my age. If they can trade him for prospects, do so, but be prepared to just dump him. Someone will claim him and make the Yankees pay his freight, but he is a roster clogger standing in the way of improvement. Others that need to go include:

 

·      Frankie Montas—a bad signing who bilked the team

·      Anthony Rizzo—nice guy, but he can’t stay healthy

·      Ben Rortvedt—part of the horrible trade with Minnesota

·      Ron Marinaccio—local guy who had his flukish moment

·      Jake Bauers—he too had his moment, now back to AAA

·      Domingo German—decent pitcher, toxic personality

·      Dump all the just-not-good enough players: Luke Weaver, Francy Cordero, Jimmy Cordero, Billy McKinney, etc.

 

The decision will be harder on several players. Estevan Florial should be kept. At the worst he’s fourth outfielder, but I think he’s finally coming into his own and they’ll regret it if they let him walk. I’d also consider resigning Luis Severino, which would be cheaper than taking on Yamamoto. Don’t let anyone fool you; pitchers do not come back from Tommy John surgery in 10 months; it takes two years. I’d also sign Keynan Middleton unless his demands are silly. He likes New York and he can eat middle innings. Stay-or-trade on Gleyber Torres? He’s good, but a streaky hitter who hasn’t flashed the leather as projected. If the return haul is good, I’d move him in the theory that right now he’s as good as he’ll ever be.

 

There are also guys who aren’t trustworthy in their current roles. If it’s me, Clay Holmes does not remain the closer and they sign someone more reliable. Which Carlos Rodon shows up next year? I’d have him on a short leash. If he’s slow out of the gate, move him even if it means taking on some of his salary. Tommy Kahnle should go. Maybe package him with Scott Effros for prospects.

 

Speaking of prospects, which ones are for real? I put them into the R (real), S (suspect), and P (as in it will take a Prayer) categories:

 

·      Jasson Dominquez: R Another victim of the Yankees horrible training staff. We won’t see him much next year because he needs Tommy John surgery in his non-throwing arm, but he’s the future.

·      Oswaldo Cabrera: R He’s not a star but he’s a useful snap-in part at third of the outfield.

·      Everson Pereira: R An outfielder that has hit everywhere in the system. One can only hope his early call-up didn’t hurt his confidence or the trainers his body.

·      Johny Brito: R He’s showed he can pitch under pressure and has earned his shot.

·      Ben Rice: R Some say he lacks the quickness to catch or the power to play first. Yeah, and all he has done is knock the cover off the ball at every level.

·      Anthony Volpe: S He’s fast, has occasional power, and is likable, but he’s also a .210 hitter, which isn’t good enough. The Yanks have drafted a lot of shortstops, which tells me they too have doubts.

·      Oswald Peraza: S He hasn’t hit well in the Majors, but he holds promise so the time to trade him or Volpe would be now.

·      Spencer Jones: S Too soon to tell. He’ll either be Aaron Judge Lite or a tall version of Joey Gallo.

·      Randy Vasquez: S He’s pitched well, and he’s pitched like he just got out of American Legion ball.

·      Drew Thorpe, Richard Fitts, Chase Hampton, Will Warren: S All are potentially useful arms, but scouts project all three as mid-rotation hurlers at best.

·      Nick Ramirez: S He looks okay but the sample is small

·      Matt Bowman: P Looks like a classic AAA guy.

·      Greg Weissart: P Just not worth holding on to.

·      Clayton Beeter: P Great arm, but it’s easy to see why the Dodgers dumped him. He’s a thrower, not a pitcher.

 

Looking for patterns? (1): Bad management and bad training must go. (2) Develop or trade for players who are younger, faster, more versatile, and can get on base. (3) Steer clear of older free agents. (4) Be patient with younger players, but take a hard-nosed approach to sort real talent from roster placeholders. (5) Pay attention to data that matters, like BA, OBP, RBIs, and pitcher Wins and ERA. When they fire Boone, make sure he takes his clip board with him.  

M: Messages for Now from 1931

 

M  (1931)

Directed by Fritz Lang

Nero-Film AG, 111 minutes, Not rated (But PG-13 despite its subject)

In German with subtitles

★★★★★

 

 

 

Most film fans would probably say that Fritz Lang's surrealistic sci-fi film Metropolis was his masterpiece. It was also sub-rosa commentary on the Weimar Republic. It gets my vote, but Lang felt that his best film was M.

 

Metropolis, a silent film, debuted in 1927, the same year that talking pictures first came into theaters. M was Lang’s first sound movie, but it did not signal a shift towards soft entertainment. Not with a story involving a serial killer of children. An opening scene signals its macabre subject: a group of girls skipping rope to a grim rhyme. M is a psychological drama about the mind of the perpetrator who makes that rhyme come true.

 

M rests upon an old conundrum: Is there honor among thieves? We are taken inside Berlin's criminal underworld and among pickpockets, safe crackers, con artists, burglars, and prostitutes. They are not upstanding citizens, but they have a code of honor that holds revulsion for the killing of children. Moreover, a serial killer on the loose means there are more police on the streets, which isn’t ideal for those who operate in the shadows. M becomes a competition between the underworld, the police,  and enraged locals to find the killer. Thus, M is also a palette upon which we find a blind balloon salesman, grieving mothers, civic leaders, and ordinary townspeople, all of whom seek to solve the case. Lang knew something that even today we are loathe to admit: law enforcement is often too detached from the street to develop networks that efficiently solve crimes.

 

Another theme that emerges in M is don't whistle while you work. “In the Hall of the Mountain King” is the killer’s signature tune and eventually leads to his capture. Sounds simple, but it's not. The question lingers of who will capture the killer and what they do with him. Townspeople and mothers yearn to tear him limb from limb. The night watchman in the building where the killer is trapped imagines the glory that would come with apprehension. Police are consumed by strategy. But what if vigilante justice is in the hands of actual vigilantes?

 

M has one of the most unusual trials in movie history. It involves a group of criminals who pay more attention to legal rights than the rest of society. What could be more unusual than appointing a defense counsel for the man who is ruining their business? M shifts to psychology. Is it possible to feel  sympathy for a monster? Do we all have dark sides we don’t wish to face? Is there a difference between a person driven by his DNA to commit heinous crimes versus lesser crimes? Kleptomania, for example, is viewed as mitigating factor for those compelled to commit it. Today, we characterize drug addiction and alcoholism as diseases. Lang didn’t ask us to think that child murder should be overlooked, but he suggested that society has unbalanced standards by which we judge. In essence, justice isn't really blind; one scornful eye remains open to apply extralegal sanctions.  

 

This too has relevance for today. Can we really pretend that subjective factors such as social class, race, community outrage, or ethnicity play no role in interpreting motives or sentencing offenders? Honor among thieves? In Lang's movie another code among them is avoiding harm to ordinary citizens; the rich, powerful, and arrogant are fair game. Ever wonder why it is so hard to break organized crime rings? Could it be that they are more integrated into their communities than police or politicians?

 

The recognizable star in M is Peter Lorre as Hans Beckert. You can understand from this early role why he later surfaced in blockbusters such as Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon. He had an uncanny ability to shift between clever planner, feral caged bird, and misunderstood victim.

 

The more I think about M, the more I see it as but a small cut below Metropolis. M is an old film and another look at the failures of the Weimar Republic that would soon give way to Naziism. But don’t be put off by subtitles, embedded politics you might not understand, or its grainy black and white stock. M, alas, has too much to say about the world in which we now live.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Carrie Newcomer: September 2023 Artist of the Month

 

 

 

From the edges of the prairie comes a beautiful new album from Indiana’s Carrie Newcomer. A Great Wild Mercy officially drops on October 13, but there’s plenty of reason to order now. This is the project about which I spoke with her recently. [Link here] It’s also the strongest salve you can buy without a prescription.

 

The song “A Great Wild Mercy” is folk rock at its best. It began life as poem from Newcomer’s own collection. It opens with the image of a woman in a rainstorm huddled under a blue umbrella. She abruptly decides to fold it and let the waters wash over her. But the refrain embodies what the song/poem is really about: There’s a big wide sky filled with stars/That feels so close but feels so far/I'm tired of all the rage, tired of all the worry/I'm ready for a great wild mercy… In other words, it’s about letting go of despair, getting back to basics, and embracing our authentic selves. Bell-like backing within an energetic mix are clarion calls to be true to that path. Indigo Girls percussionist Jim Brock is an understated but steady presence in this and numerous other tracks and is emblematic of how the album’s production–with Newcomer and David Weber at the helm–frames the lyrics but never gets in the way. (You might think that’s what all producers do, but you’d be wrong!)

 

Newcomer’s voice has been described as “rich as Godiva chocolate.” I’m a Cadbury guy, but I get the metaphor. In a world of little girl voices, Newcomer’s mature, smooth, and deeper tones are perfect for coating the world’s woes and whines. Not that Newcomer sugarcoats such things; she’s interested in positive and constructive ways to deal with them and there’s nothing wide-eyed utopian about her approach. A song she wrote with John McCutcheon, “Start With A Stone,” reminds us that nothing worthwhile is born from nothing: Start with a stone/The humblest of things/From this relic of bedrock/Eternity springs. In an indirect but palpable way, this song is a companion to “In the Shape of a Perfect Arc,” which also speaks of how to stay upbeat. It is one of several offerings in which Newcomer’s folk sensibilities are infused with touches of bluegrass. That makes sense as Hawktail musicians such as Jordan Tice (guitar),  Brittany Haas (fiddle), and Paul Kolwert (bass) lend their talents throughout the album.

 

I’m always a sucker for a lovely waltz, so I give a ringing endorsement to “Questions Before Dark,” which focuses on small, seemingly trivial things that suggest bigger questions. “Another Day,” a lullaby, is one of several songs that spotlight Gary Walters’ gentle and dancing piano notes and it might be my favorite track. Who among us would not yearn for enough inner tranquility to sing: I’ve been looking for beauty/In these broken times/By making some beauty/In the world that I find/ Some say it’s no use/It’s too much to brave/But I believe there’s still/So much worth being saved. (The link is to a homemade demo.)

 

Newcomer is upfront about those who inspire her, including Thomas Merton on “Take More Time, Cover Less Ground,” and a monk who finds grace and service in silence (“Singing in the Dark”), but the album’s change of pace song–and the only other one with a pre-release video–is “Potluck,” which she co-wrote with Siri Undlin of Humbird. In the simple act of sharing food, Newcomer and Undlin unveil the “quiet mercy” of community and gratitude. And it doesn’t hurt a bit that the arrangement is tightly constructed but casts the illusion of an impromptu jam.

 

If you want to get a sense of how Newcomer sounds in a rehearsed live setting, “You Can Do the Hard Thing” isn’t on the new album, but it gives a flavor of how Newcomer turns a concert into a living room. It also shows why I’m one of Carrie’s biggest fans. Maybe someday I’ll be as well-adjusted as she!

 

You can watch more Carrie Newcomer videos here.

 

Rob Weir