Dick Baker's Cat

Mark Twain Dept.: It was the fashion, over a century ago, to entertain the public with dialect stories, which could range from the affectionate to the racially savage. This was a characteristic that ranged from stage performers like Chic Sales to writers like Mark Twain (who also took to the stage). Here’s a fine example of Twain’s facility with the genre and familiarity with the mysterious wisdom of cats.

                                                                                                

ONE OF MY COMRADES THERE — another of those victims of eighteen years of unrequited toil and blighted hopes—was one of the gentlest spirits that ever bore its patient cross in a weary exile: grave and simple Dick Baker, pocket-miner of Dead-Horse Gulch. He was forty-six, grey as a rat, earnest, thoughtful, slenderly educated, slouchily dressed and clay-soiled, but his heart was finer metal than any gold his shovel ever brought to light—than any, indeed, that ever was mined or minted.

Drawing by B. Kliban

Whenever he was out of luck and a little downhearted, he would fall to mourning over the loss of a wonderful cat he used to own (for where women and children are not, men of kindly impulses take up with pets, for they must love something). And he always spoke of the strange sagacity of that cat with the air of a man who believed in his secret heart that there was something human about it—maybe even supernatural.

I heard him talking about this animal once. He said:

"Gentlemen, I used to have a cat here, by the name of Tom Quartz, which you'd 'a' took an interest in, I reckon—, most anybody would. I had him here eight year—and he was the remarkablest cat I ever see. He was a large grey one of the Tom specie, an' he had more hard, natchral sense than any man in this camp—'n' a power of dignity—he wouldn't let the Gov'ner of Californy be familiar with him. 

Both Barrels

TWO WEEKS AGO I posted a review of a biography of American abstract expressionist Barnett Newman that included a review of his work by NY Times critic John Canaday. It’s worth reproducing his lede:

Give a man enough rope, they say, and he'll hang himself. The adage received double proof this week at the Guggenheim Museum. That body hanging from the rafters belongs to the painter Barnett Newman, and the companion object swinging alongside is Lawrence Alloway, the museum's curator, who wrote the catalogue for Mr. Newman's exhibition of 14 paintings called "The Stations of the Cross."

Sir James Galway

This ran on April 23, 1966. A different time, obviously; today, Canaday plausibly could be accused and even prosecuted for hate speech, although a review, being clearly defined as an opinion piece, usually escapes such consequence. Dig up the review; you’ll be impressed by the amount of invective Canaday packs into the 600-some words he devotes to Newman’s work.

There’s a shooting-range aspect to a certain kind of review. Although it’s not, by my casual reading, as prevalent in the major periodicals, it has flourished – and then some! – in the many online platforms afforded to anyone who can use a keyboard and the internet. This blog is one of them, but I’m here to appraise Canaday and his ilk, not to bury them. 

X Marks the Audio Spotlight

From the CD Vault Dept.: Back when Dorian Recordings was a thriving label based in Troy, NY, the aim was to produce the best-sounding CDs possible, which began with a recording location – the Troy Music Hall – that was (and remains) one of the best in the world. Beyond that, there were technical considerations brought to bear, and I wrote the piece below to explain the engineering wizardry that went into the finest-sounding of their CDs.  

                                                                                            

AS AN AUDIOPHILE LABEL launched early in the digital age of recordings, Dorian Recordings has always set, maintained, and even exceeded the finest standards. Since its inception in 1989, Dorian has presented a varied series of CDs that include the exciting early music performances of the Baltimore Consort, the organ fireworks of Jean Guillou, the warm sound of the Dallas Symphony, and many other performers who transcend the bounds of classical music.

Craig Dory and Brian Levine
in the Troy Music Hall

Recently, Dorian introduced the xCD series of compact discs, a hand-selected group of recordings that embody the best of the meticulous technology that goes into every Dorian recording – technology that is itself, in Dorian’s hands, an art form. To understand what makes the xCD series special, let’s look first at the recording chain that’s behind every release.

It begins with excellent musicians, of course, and an appropriate venue. Dorian co-founder Craig Dory is the mastermind behind the recording technology, but for him the process begins with the sounds. “I look for a hall that’s spectrally interesting with complex reflections, in which the sounds arrive early and stay longer. Not only does this add an attractive glow to the sound but the artists feel better in a great hall.”

Portrait of the Artist . . .

NO PROMINENT ARTIST – at least none who ever talked about it – merged his personal identity so thoroughly with his work as American painter Barnett Newman. We know what he thought about his work and himself because he wrote about it extensively, often in the form of essays and reviews and other screeds that he churned out tirelessly. He was as eloquent in his prose as he was spare in his painting, although he’d have been the first to jump down my throat for such a glib assessment, so let me explain.

Newman came to prominence as one of a loosely affiliated, New York-based group who, by developing what came to be termed abstract expressionism, wheeled the world’s center of art from Paris to their home city. Although there was enough commonality in these works to merit the umbrella term, look more closely and you see how different they were. You’d never mistake a Jackson Pollock for a de Kooning or Rothko, but the collective impudence of this anti-realist art kept many galleries and critics idling on the safe ground of the likes of Hopper and Benton. 

Newman was one of a group of 18 who wrote an open letter to the president of the Metropolitan Museum of Art condemning a proposed exhibit titled “American Painting Today: 1950.” They believed that the candidates were being selected by a too-conservative jury, thus ignoring what they believed was the true face of American art. The letter was published in the New York Times on May 22, 1950, and the controversy it aroused led to a story in Life magazine titled “Irascible Group of Advanced Artists Led Fight Against Show,” and picturing 15 of the 18 posed in a stark, possibly angry manner. Thus they became known as “The Irascibles.” And that article represents the comparatively brief moment when the artists supported and encouraged one another.

My Least-Favorite Things

From the Poetry Vault Dept.: I found an old essay of mine that I wrote with no eye to publication. I merely wanted to indulge my persistent grumpiness by analyzing a song parody to explain why it doesn’t work. 

                                                                                      

HERE’S THE PROBLEM with trying to parody someone like Oscar Hammerstein. You have to know the rules of scansion and rhyming. And you have to know how to set up a gag so the payoff is as effective as possible. There’s a parody of “My Favorite Things” that’s been around for a while, aimed at the aged (like me). But it reflects the poor craftsmanship of junior-league poets. Let’s see what we’re working with here:

The lyric is presented as “These are a few of my favorite things.” If it’s meant to be the title, the writer should know that the title is merely “My Favorite Things.”

It begins: “Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting, 
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,”

But “fittings” and “knitting” don’t rhyme properly.

“Bundles of magazines tied up in string, 
These are a few of my favorite things.”

To Their Maker, Impeccably Shaved

From the Music Vault Dept.: I noted last week that I seize upon anniversaries as excuses for these postings, and today is no exception. Twenty-five years ago, my review of a then-new recording of “Sweeney Todd” graced the pages of Metroland Magazine, the Albany-area alternative newsweekly at which I held a far-too-long sinecure. But I got away with writing things I never would have sold as easily anywhere else.

                                                                           

WITH MANY OF THE MAJOR ORCHESTRAS cut loose from their decades-old contracts with recording companies, there’s a scramble to achieve a presence in the CD stores. Self-publishing is an option being mined successfully by a few, chief among them the New York Philharmonic. Their latest release skirts the over-recorded symphonic repertory to present a fresh look at Stephen Sondheim’s almost-operatic masterpiece “Sweeney Todd,” giving a depth and perspective to the piece that wasn’t achieved by the otherwise admirable original cast recording.

It’s a project that might have been perfect had baritone Bryn Terfel not been sidelined from the recording; as it was, George Hearn, in good voice and well-versed in the role, stepped into the title role and did well by the part, although he tends to resort to yelling when the going gets exciting. Although Angela Lansbury left an indelible stamp on the role of Mrs. Lovett, here Patti LuPone does an exquisite job with the bloodthirsty part. 

In fact, it’s a triumph all around, the handpicked cast working together splendidly. Met Opera bass Paul Plishka is a standout as Judge Turpin, but that puts him only slightly ahead of the rest. If you’ve only heard the original cast recording, you’re in for another treat: That set was the victim of the LP’s limits; the two CDs of this set contain practically the whole show, dialogue and incidental music included. Even material that was cut from the original Broadway run.

Fifteen Years

I’M SHOCKED TO REALIZE that I’ve been maintaining this blog for fifteen years (not to the day, but close). Its original purpose was to help me get work, because I allowed me to point editors (or whomever) to stuff I’d written in order to back up my claims of being able to write fairly well.

Although I began ambitiously posting a piece per day, taking Saturdays off, so to speak, by posting photos of mine, that ambition slackened over time. I cut down to two posts per week and now, one. It feels as if I’ve mined everything in my files worth exhuming, although I know that there’s much, much more. Restaurant reviews alone seem endless, although they’re of lessening value as prices rise and eateries close. I dashed off any number of concert and theater advances – pieces to promote an upcoming event – which means that, unless there’s a compelling interview attached, those too have grown obsolete.

Looking over those early postings, which I dread, I see that it took a while to find my footing in this realm. I had thought of concentrating on food, given the thirty years I spent reviewing restaurants and my own phagomaniacal leanings, but I was dismayed to discover a plethora of food bloggers, each mirroring the last, each with a grinning self-portrait and chirrupy bio, each forcing you to slog through a megillah of adjective-laden crooning larded with photos of ingredients, procedures (don’t those sauté pans glisten?), and wondrous finished products before finally dropping you onto the recipe itself. I can’t compete with that level of self-promotion.