Pure Joy: An Open Letter to Chelsea House Orchestra

Where there is sadness, joy.
 ~ Prayer of St. Francis

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Symphony of Humility

Praise him with sounding cymbals;
praise him with loud clashing cymbals (Ps 150.5).

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Of Down Syndrome, Anne of Green Gables, and Van the Man

You can’t stop us on the road to freedom
You can’t stop us ’cause our eyes can see.
Men with insight, men in granite,
Knights in armor bent on chivalry.
~ Van Morrison

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Yawns Be Damned: Of Hitchcock, Heaven, and the Thrill of the Chase


All the way to heaven is heaven.
~ Catherine of Siena

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Sir Elton John Before He Dies: A November Tribute

Elton John performs at The Wiltern on Wednesday, Jan. 13, 2016, in Los Angeles. (Photo by Rich Fury/Invision/AP)

How can you stop when your feet say go?
~ Elton John,
Honky Cat

At some point last spring, before Crispin had his license, I was driving him to work and “Tiny Dancer” came on the radio. Cris is a musician, and although his tastes are decidedly contemporary, indie, and alt, he maintains a healthy respect for the full spectrum of rock’s extensive repertoire and legacy. “This is a great song,” I said as we drove. “You know it?” He nodded. “It might be my favorite Elton John song – either this or ‘Levon.’”

There was a pause as we listened, and then I said something that might sound a bit morose: “When Elton John dies, I’ll really mourn him.”

It wasn’t totally out of the blue. Right around that time, we Boomers had been caught off guard by a string of close-to-home pop-music deaths – David Bowie and Glenn Frey in January, followed by Maurice White of Earth Wind and Fire in February, Prince in April, and several others. For those of us who can’t help gravitating back to the comforts of classic rock, these announcements were an unsettling reminder of the passage of time and our own mortality.

Undoubtedly, it was that very litany of losses that rattled in my brain when, days before my ride with Cris, I was heading down Miami Street and a sign outside Jovi’s Lounge caught my eye. Here’s what it said:


I was primed to jump to a musical conclusion. “Oh my gosh,” I said out loud. “Did Neil Young pass away?”

He hadn’t – the Neil being memorialized at Jovi’s was somebody else (and, yes, rest in peace, Neil, whoever you are). Even so, my little kneejerk response got me thinking about Young and the impact his music had had on me and my family over the years. neilyoungwsjWe have a CD version of his two-album Decade that floats between the house and our car stereos, and I think there’s a copy of CSNY’s So Far hanging around as well. From these, and from constant exposure to radio retro-rock as I drive them around places, my kids have come to know the standard Neil Young playlist, and they sing along with me when “Ohio” blares from the speakers.

Despite the ravages of age (he’s in his 70s now) and the aftermath of a brain aneurysm, Neil is still recording and performing even now, but eventually he’ll pass on – and he will indeed be missed.

Is that morbid? I don’t think so – just realistic. It’s the same realism that informs the entire month of November when we turn our attention to death, dying, and the dead. We’re prompted by the Church to redouble our prays for those in Purgatory during this time, but it’s a good idea to associate the month with honoring the living as well – particularly those who may not be around much longer to receive those honors face to face. It’s providential, perhaps, that Veterans Day falls in November as well as Thanksgiving – observances that afford plenty of opportunity for thanking directly those whose lives are ebbing, and who deserve our gratitude and expressions of esteem.

A few years ago, November arrived just after news broke that Lou Reed had died. I wrote a tribute at the time, although I recall regretting I hadn’t done so long before – when, theoretically at least, he might’ve read it. Now we’re all mourning the death of yet another deceased musical giant, Leonard Cohen. The homages are piling on – appropriately so – but I won’t be adding my own just yet. Instead of playing catch-up this go around, I want to turn my November attentions to the living. And, given my comment to Crispin last spring, I decided to turn my anticipation of future mourning into a present-day appreciation of the very much alive Elton John.

You’ll note that I’ve already referenced a couple Elton John songs in this remembrance – “Tiny Dancer” and “Levon” – and they both appeared on his 1971 Madman Across the Waters album. Plus, there’s that brief appositive line from “Honky Cat” (from Honky Château, 1972) at the top, and that’s all you need to know to date my coming of age, music-wise. My thanks to Sir Elton elton-john-pianobegins right there, because, more than any other artist, he influenced my rock-music consciousness during my most formative adolescent years.

His music was catchy and fun most the time, although often enough it was evocative and moody – just the right combination for a pre-teen and, later, teenage lad who never felt like he fit in quite right. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (1973) was particularly important in that regard, with straight-on rockers like “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” and “Grey Seal” to more meditative numbers like “Candle in the Wind” and “Bennie and the Jets.” I wasn’t an athlete, and I didn’t trust my intellect, so music was my hideaway, and I resonated with the grace notes of angst and uncertainty that I heard in so many Elton John songs.

Then there was his reputation for flamboyance. I never saw him perform in concert, but I was well aware of John’s over-the-top, even campy showmanship – something that didn’t exactly appeal to me. Nonetheless, I came to easily look past it to the musical riches he was sharing with me and the world, and, looking back, I’m sure it all amounted to a valuable lesson in latitude at a crucial stage in life.

Finally, there was Bernie Taupin, Elton John’s collaborator since the late 1960s. Early on, I wasn’t clued in to the fact that Taupin wrote most of the lyrics for John’s hits, but that changed when I brought home bernie-taupin-and-eltonthe landmark Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy in 1975.

I remember taking the city bus to the record store in Boulder to purchase the album, and the anticipation on the way home of playing it on my stereo. I sat in the back of bus and pored over the album cover notes, and began to piece together the story of Taupin and John’s unusual pairing of musical genius. The collection itself is unapologetically autobiographical, start to finish, and, for me, an encouraging revelation: Even Elton John, with so much raw talent and extraordinary gifts, relied on somebody else to help him bring his ideas to fruition.

It wasn’t long after Captain Fantastic that I drifted into other musical realms, and I admit that I haven’t kept up with Elton John’s continued and sizable creative output over the years. Still, I’m happy to record here my debt of gratitude and even hope he might come across it sometime.

Just in case he does: Many thanks, Sir Elton John, for your music, your individuality, and your vulnerability. I learned a lot from you growing up, and I’m glad to be sharing those lessons and your art with another generation.

Bruises on Parade: Of Barking Dogs, Bottle Trees, and a Dead Prince

When a man is getting better he understands more and more clearly
the evil that is still left in him.
~ C.S. Lewis

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An Aragon Ballroom Tutorial

bruno janelle

“Where can I get some ear plugs?” I begged her. She smiled and pulled out a small packet from her pocket. “Here you go,” she said simply. God bless her – an angel of mercy.

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A Concert of Hope for Cowards and Sinners

There’s a sweetness in us that lives long past the dust
on our eyes once our eyes finally close.
 ~ Lady Lamb

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Musical Quietude: Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel

And Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart (Lk 2.19).

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On “Silent Night,” SATB, and a High School Choir Director

There was a lot of commotion in the German trenches, and then they sang ‘Silent Night’ – ‘Stille Nacht.’ I shall never forget it. It was one of the highlights of my life.
~ Albert Moren of the 2nd Queen’s Regiment, France (Christmas Eve, 1914)

We have a carol sing at our parish every year during the Octave of Christmas. The idea is to promote the celebration of Christmas beyond Christmas Day – “Keeping the Feast” is what we call it. This year, it took place on December 30 – the Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas – and it included a potluck dinner, yuletide cookies and treats, plenty of conversation and laughter, and some hearty vocals.

keepingthefeastMy wife, Nancy, made many of the arrangements ahead of time and got all the tables in the gym decorated nicely, but when it came to the music, she asked for some help. “I have someone to play the piano,” she told me, “but could you lead the singing?”

I had a brief career as a cantor, so my standing as a mediocre vocal talent is well established. Even so, singing at Mass put me over the hump with regards to stage fright at my parish. “Of course,” I replied. “It would be a pleasure.”

After folks had a chance to tuck into their fried chicken and Santa cupcakes, I moseyed over to the upright piano where Barbara, our evening’s guest pianist, was warming up a bit. “Ready?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “I know almost all the carols in the booklet, and the ones I don’t know I can fake alright.”

I tested the microphone, made a couple announcements, and then launched into “Adestes Fidelis,” followed by “Away in the Manger” – only because it was next in the booklet. To get away from an alphabetical evening, we went next with “Hark the Herald” and “I Saw Three Ships.” After that, Ben, a grade-schooler, sat in on the piano and led us in “Good King Wenceslaus,” and Juan did a terrific rendition of “Feliz Navidad.”

Franz_Xaver_Gruber_(1787-1863)We had a few more requests, and then Nancy gave me the high sign to wind things up, so I announced “Silent Night” – isn’t it always the most appropriate ending carol? We started singing, and I automatically switched from singing in unison to a more-or-less tenor harmonization – which confused Barbara and the other carolers in my immediate vicinity.

As I mentioned, I’m not a trained singer, although I sang a bunch in church and school choirs growing up. These days, however, I can barely pick out the melodies of unfamiliar songs in the hymnal, so harmony parts are generally out of the question. “Silent Night” is a prominent exception for me, and even though I get the tenor and bass lines all mixed up, I find it difficult to stick with the melody line alone – a compulsion on display last Wednesday, and one my kids have annually had to endure this time of year.

I learned the “Silent Night” harmony parts while a student at Fairview High School in Boulder, Colorado. Fairview always had a fantastic music program, and the choir department then was headed up by Ron Revier. Ron’s a showman at heart, and his concerts were always elaborately staged and choreographed. Plus, Mr. Revier and his colleagues were superb musicians and uncompromising directors, so not only were the programs varied and engaging, the performances were consistently sterling.

The Christmas concerts, though, were special favorites every year, and they included both secular and sacred numbers – no apologies! And, traditionally, they concluded with a “Silent Night” sing-along led by all the school choirs spread out in the aisles of the auditorium. I sang in choirs all four years of high school, so I participated in four of those concerts, and Ron’s version of a four-part “Silent Night” became an ingrained part of my mohrChristmas consciousness. The Colorado snow, the anticipation of a holiday break, the genuine good will and cheer engendered by the season, and the satisfaction of together putting on a show so well received – all that is associated with “Silent Night” for me (and countless other Fairview grads I suspect). Combined with even a momentary rumination on the incarnation and the Bethlehem miracle, that marvelous carol richly voiced in four parts routinely brought tears to my eyes.

It still does – every time.

Later on Wednesday night, I plopped down at the computer to check email and the weather forecast. A quick check of Facebook – lo and behold, it was Ron’s birthday that very day! I scanned the long list of well-wishers – some very familiar, but plenty more strangers to me – and their expressions of gratitude, their cherished memories. “You’ve given generations the gift of song,” went one post, “and taught so many that music is indeed the strongest form of magic!”

So true – particularly this time of year. Thanks, Mr. Revier. You taught me much – about music, about striving for excellence, about friendship – and you’ll ever be a part of my Christmas.

A version of this story appeared on Catholic Exchange.

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