Wendy Isaac Bergin's Blog: Podcast: Altitude Adjustment with Leon Davis, Jr., page 2

Tango!

Check out the amazing production of Astor Piazzolla's Tango operetta: Maria de Buenos Aires. Running this weekend and next at Opera in the Heights. Exciting and well done!

Here's the review:
https://www.houstonpress.com/arts/thi...

All About Judgment

In other times and places (not, however, in twenty-first century America), it could be very difficult to know the true from the false and the good from the evil. Discernment was necessary. The word discern comes from Old French: dis (apart) + cernere (to separate). It means to distinguish/divide or separate (a thing) mentally from another or others; to recognize or determine; to use keen perception or judgment.

Miles Coverdale, 1549. “It is not the sacraments that discern the children of God from the children of the devil; but the purity of life, and charity.” (In other words, you will know them by their fruits.)

Robert Tailor, 1614: The Hog hath lost his Pearle. “That precious gem of reason by which solely we are discerned from rude and brutish beasts.”

The difficulty in distinguishing good from evil is partly due to the fact that to be credible, evil must closely imitate good. Antichrist must mimic Christ, but only the latter has true power and authority; the former is a sham.

There are those that have the gift of discernment; they have the purity of sight that cuts to the heart of things. But for others, discernment takes time; its essence is careful consideration. One must gather all the facts and then sift and weigh them, using sound judgment.

I’ve noticed recently that discernment is like a horse-drawn carriage—quaint, but not necessary in the modern world. Events, like automobiles and airplanes, move much more quickly now. We don’t have time to gather all the facts and then sift and weigh them. Today, the children of the devil can be identified instantaneously, no discernment needed.

It’s simple and convenient: They all wear hats bearing a particular political slogan.

Certain characteristics always occur in those who wear the hats—you may depend on it, and all the news networks will confirm it. Such people are 1) bigoted; 2) uneducated; 3) patriotic; 4) rude and brutish beasts. As such, they must be instantly derided and condemned. And of course, no one denounces or castigates better (or more quickly—why wait for the facts?) than those Arbiters of Virtue, the major news networks.

Oh, you children of the devil, you can’t hide anymore—it’s a tough time for you.

Uplifting

Yesterday, on Sunday, November 4th, I got to sing one of my favorite hymns (all eight verses) with choir, organ, and tympani—the Ralph Vaughan Williams setting of “For All the Saints.” It comes round once a year, and the refrain for every verse is a two-fold Alleluia, noble and stirring.

The thrill of singing the hymn, however, paled in comparison to my amazement when the New Orleans Saints beat the previously undefeated Los Angeles Rams 45-35. The victory was noble, stirring, and seriously uplifting in a whole other way. In similarity to the hymn, be assured every touchdown was also followed by (somewhat louder) Alleluias, which were in turn followed by sips of scotch.

No coincidence for either of these events; it was, of course, All Saints Sunday. Although their fate was decided before they ever traveled to New Orleans, the cocky Rams had no clue.

The third event occurred immediately after the game, due to the profound effect the spiritual always has on the physical. The very ground of the state of Louisiana, reacting to the joy of its people, rose up. Where there were swamps, there now stand mountain ranges. The alligators are a little nonplussed, but eventually they’ll slide down the slopes to the coastal plain, chanting all the while with the populace, the Louisiana All Saints hymn: “Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?”

Pushing the Right Button

If you ever need some serious help, this blog post is for you.

During the time I lived in New York City, in the era before cell phones and computers (if you can recall that quaint time), I worked in several Catholic schools. I enjoyed teaching, but financially, it wasn’t the road to riches. I had as much money as there are cathedrals in Saudi Arabia. My car was “vintage”: a 12-year old Datsun hatchback, green with a black interior. To say it had seen better days was like saying when Vesuvius erupted, Pompeii got a little warm. Aside from the oil leak and the rusted out floorboard on the passenger side, the broken driver’s seat had to be supported from behind by a wooden brace constructed of two-by-fours.

One bright May day, I drove this glorious vehicle home to Brooklyn from the school where I worked in Queens. It was about 3:00 and the traffic was still light on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. As I approached the Kosciusko Bridge, the car began to make a horrendous shrieking noise. I made it over the bridge and then pulled over to the shoulder. When I looked underneath, I saw that the tailpipe had rusted through and broken in the middle, under the gas tank. One end of it angled down and touched the ground. As I drove forward, it scraped the roadbed and produced the squealing sound.

I had no way to fix it, but my exit was only about two miles away. I thought I could just drive very slowly and make it off the BQE before the other end of the tailpipe ruptured the gas tank and set me and my car ablaze. I like to eat barbecue; I didn’t want to become barbecue.

Sweating with fear, I got back in the car and crept along. At that point, the three-lane BQE becomes elevated, with no shoulder. The squealing seemed to grow louder and louder. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I stopped the car in the right lane and turned off the engine. To my disbelief, the car kept running; I could feel it vibrating. After a moment, I realized the motor was still—it was the entire roadway that shook.

Before I stopped, I had passed an emergency call-box. I decided to exit the car and walk back to it. Instead of a shoulder, there was a raised concrete barrier about a foot wide and a very low guard rail. I got out of the car on the passenger side. The noise and wind of passing traffic was extreme, and the roadway shook beneath my feet. I stood on the raised edge and peered over the railing at the 17’ drop to the streets below. No way out there.

As I walked toward the call-box, I realized that was the day I might die. Semi-trucks and cars passed right next to me at high rates of speed, buffeting me with gusts of wind. One smack of a side-view mirror and I was dead.

Then, with a spark of hope, I saw a police cruiser driving slowly on the opposite side of the BQE. I waved both hands frantically to get his attention. A friendly soul, he smiled and waved back. And kept going. No help there.

By this time, traffic had begun to back up behind my car. A sedan stopped right beside me with three Hasidic Jews inside. My heart lifted; surely these religious men would help me. The man in the backseat rolled down the window, “Do you know what’s slowing the traffic?”

“Yes, my car broke down.” I pointed to the green hatchback, “It’s blocking the lane.”

“Ah.” He said something in Yiddish to the driver, and their car shot forward into the middle lane and drove off. He didn’t even thank me for the information.

My only hope was the call-box. It was really just a metal speaker set on a pole affixed to the guard rail.. There were two large buttons on it, labeled FIRE and POLICE. I reached up and pushed the blue POLICE button. After a few moments, the box crackled and I heard a woman’s voice, nasal with a thick New York accent, “Can I help you?”

It worked! “Yes, my car broke down on the BQE.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

Of course not; the noise of trucks whooshing past was tremendous, and I was about a foot too short to put my mouth next to the speaker holes. I shouted, “My car broke down on the BQE.”

She still couldn’t hear me. I cupped my hands around my mouth, stood on tiptoe and screamed. She never heard me; it was useless.

Traffic had increased, and I was desperate. I lofted a prayer, “Lord, please help me. I don’t know what to do.”

As I walked back to the car, a bright yellow, mid-size Penske moving van pulled up behind my Datsun. Two black men emerged wearing white shirts and dark slacks. They walked so purposefully toward the Datsun, I thought they were going to strip it.

“Hey, that’s my car!” I shouted. I hurried back on the raised concrete barrier. When I got there, one of the men said, “What’s wrong with it?” I told him about the broken tailpipe scraping the road. He knelt down and looked under the car. Then he stood up and peered over the hatchback toward the front. He jogged around it, and several feet in front of it to pick up something lying in the roadway. He brought back a thin, broken engine belt.

While the other man stood silent as a sentinel, he lay down on the road and slid under the car without saying a word. Very shortly, he emerged and stood up. “I tied up the tailpipe, so now you can drive the car.” With that, they turned and walked away.

For a moment, I stood there open-mouthed and speechless, but then I shouted, “Wait!” I ran toward them, “Thank you, thank you so much!” They smiled and shook my hand.
“You’ll be all right now,” one said. “We’ll follow you to the exit. Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you.”

With tremendous relief, I drove carefully to the exit, about one mile away. I kept glancing in my rear-view at the bright yellow Penske van.

The exit was the shape of a cloverleaf. It made a very sharp, almost 360-degree turn at a downward pitch off the elevated highway. It ended at a stoplight underneath. I saw them follow me onto the ramp, and we inched down it in tandem at 15 m.p.h. At the base, I stopped at the red light and glanced in my rear-view. No one was behind me.
* * *
When I was in New York last October, my friend Jane picked me up at Laguardia. We drove the same route on the BQE as we traveled to her place near Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. The emergency call-box is long-gone, obsolete in the age of cell phones.

For travel safety, the cell phone is a wonder.
Here's some advice: Keep it with you, and make sure you can speed-dial these emergency numbers: Fire, Police, and Prayer.

Comforting

I have come to the shocking realization, in just the last two years, that I am unable to think for myself. Although I am still able to decide if I’ll have a hamburger or sushi for dinner, and I can choose what earrings to wear and on which side I should part my hair, my impaired ability to think seems to apply particularly to the political sphere. Of course, I am not the only one afflicted. I suspect this rather sudden ailment has affected nearly half of the citizens of this country and many in Western Europe as well.

Thankfully, the other half of the population have been unaffected by this problem. Among those who can and do still think for themselves are the journalists for the great newspapers, those pundits who host television and radio news programs, and the majority of Hollywood celebrities. With forbearance and great understanding, they have all adjusted to the new situation. You see, in times past, newspaper, radio, and television journalists reported the news objectively. But now that I and so many others can no longer think for ourselves and make informed decisions, those writers, commentators, and celebrities have, in charity, with a sense of noblesse oblige, cast aside objectivity. Why? For the very reason that on my own, I will very likely draw the wrong conclusions. To alleviate this problem, they now write articles and give interviews to tell me what and how I should think.

This has made my life so much easier. I don’t have to check facts, read the Constitution, or study the issues any longer. Now I can lie back, eat bonbons, and tune in to find out what my opinion is. If I don’t get it from a news program, a famous Hollywood actor or two will fill me in. As an added bonus, those Hollywood types use such colorful rhetoric. There used to be a certain decorum and civility on newscasts and in TV interviews, with carefully constructed language, but no more. Nowadays, I’m always learning new and scintillating profanities to address the political opposition. Who would have thought there were so many clever ways to use the F-bomb?

There are also those of the common people who can still think for themselves. The category that is most outspoken is that great group represented by The Oppressed Man on the Street. These dynamic people know about the pen, but being practical-minded, they prefer the sword. In their wisdom, they know the best way to effect political change in a constitutional republic is to throw stones, break windows, vandalize cars, attack police officers, and beat the opposition senseless.

It’s all so refreshing.

I used to think it was good to make changes through Congress; it was good to have a police force, and it was good to defend our borders. But now, being unable to think for myself, I have to go along with the ideas of The Oppressed Man on the Street. (I noticed the alternative for those who didn’t was rather painful.) I mean, really, why do we need law officers with people like them in charge? What the heck—let’s make a clean sweep and do away with government altogether. Let’s share the wealth—invite the whole world in. What a party--we’ll all have hamburgers and sushi. Let’s follow those progressive regimes who’ve paved the way. In a couple of years, when the hamburgers and sushi run out, we too, like the Venezuelans, can dine on refuse, pets, and zoo animals.

I used to study history to compare systems of government like capitalism and communism, but that was when I could think for myself. Now, I just follow the lead of those who know best and want to lead me down the correct path. Oh golly, with them in charge, what a future lies before us! Quite comforting, don’t you think?

Got You Mapped: No Ambiguity at All

One sweltering July day several years ago, two young Mormon men knocked on my door. Unaccustomed to Houston’s habitual summer sauna, they appeared to be on the verge of heat stroke, sweating profusely with bright red faces. Before they could either begin their spiel or melt, I asked them if they wanted some cold water. The answer was an emphatic yes.

“Come in out of the heat,” I said. “Please sit down in the air conditioning and cool off.”

They were very grateful for the ice water and ginger snaps I brought them. They told me they had asked for water at another house on the block and been refused. As they sipped the water, I told them I already had a church and was not interested in becoming a Mormon. Then they talked a little about themselves, their backgrounds and what colleges they wanted to attend. My teenage son came in and played the piano for them. When they had cooled off, they left to cover their assigned territory once more.

Another proselytizing group that sends their members door-to-door is the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I worked in a bank for four years with a young man from a secular Jewish family who converted to being a Jehovah’s Witness. On many days, we had good-natured, lively arguments in the lunch room. For example, he told me the Cross is an idol, but I argued that it is a symbol. When I asked him about going door-to-door, he told me the Witnesses have the world mapped out, and they must cover their assigned territory. He also told me it was no easy thing. He laughed and said he had endured every form of rejection.

Since I moved out to the country ten years ago, the Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses haven’t found me--yet. There is no street view of my house online, so the google car hasn’t found me either.

However, there is another entity that maps the world, not to mention you and me too. I just wonder what it is proselytizing: www.what3words.com

From the website: “what3words is a really simple way to talk about location. We have divided the world into a grid of 3m x 3m squares and assigned each one a unique 3 word address. It means anyone can accurately find any location and share it more quickly, easily and with less ambiguity than any other system.”

Three-meter squares (approximately 10’) means that not only is my house mapped, but also the individual rooms. Instead of coordinates, each square has three words assigned to it. For example, 1 Main St., Houston, TX is clown.slim.mats. But, remember, the map is a grid of 10’ squares. So if you want a Uber driver to pick you up at 1 Main St., twenty feet north of the entrance, you can give the 3 words for that exact location, pace.powder.cloth. No ambiguity whatsoever.

Scary, ain’t it?

Of course, the U. N. asserts it’s all in the interest of disaster reporting and humanitarian crises.

Oh, sure. But I can think of a lot more uses than that. There is now, officially, nowhere to hide. If the Powers That Be remain benevolent, fine. If not, mapped could equal zapped. I want my several 10’ square, three word addresses to be the following: leave.me.alone / not.your.business / don’t.you.dare / God.bless.America.

Summer Music Festival 2018

Four great concerts on four Tuesdays in June at the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd,
Lake Charles, LA 7:30 p.m.

June 5 – Let Us Garlands Bring
Bearing in their arms songs of love, songs that celebrate this world, and the songs men make as they travel through this temporary place we call life, baritone Brian Shircliffe and pianist Nicholas Bergin offer garlands of musical riches from British composers Gerald Finzi and Ralph Vaughan Williams, and American Aaron Copland. Finzi’s song cycle Let Us Garlands Bring is based on texts from Shakespeare’s plays and takes its title from the last line of “Who is Silvia?” The shifting moods of Vaughan William’s Songs of Travel are based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems which record the thoughts and impressions, sunny and dark, of a traveller. The concert concludes with two groups of Old American Songs set by Aaron Copland. By turns poignant, charming, and comical, the minstrel songs, the hymn tune At the River, the Shaker song Simple Gifts, and the children’s song I Bought Me a Cat will delight you.

American lyric baritone Brian Shircliffe has performed with Houston Grand Opera, Lyric Opera of Chicago, Metropolitan Opera, San Diego Opera, and Opera in the Heights, among others. The Houston Chronicle praised Shircliffe as having “a sure vocal presence, a natural, unblemished sound and an easy delivery.” He holds both Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Houston and he teaches voice at San Jacinto College. Pianist Nicholas Bergin is the Organist at First Presbyterian Church, Nashville. He also teaches classes in church music at Lipscomb University. Nicholas earned a Master's degree in organ performance at Indiana University. His undergraduate degree is from the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore, where he studied organ with Donald Sutherland and spent a year as a piano major in the studio of Seth Knopp.

June 12 – We Are Women: Songs of Mothers and Daughters
Not feminist, but feminine. Prepare for an entertaining evening of music from the female perspective with soprano Julia Engel and mezzo-soprano Monica Isomura, accompanied by pianist Eiki Isomura. “We Are Women” is a wonderful comic duet from Leonard Bernstein’s Candide, appropriate in this, his centennial year. There will be music from Donizetti’s comic opera Daughter of the Regiment, and Schumann's song cycle Frauenlieben und Leben (Woman’s Love and Life), as well as music of Puccini and Gian Carlo Menotti.

Soprano Julia Engel has performed with Opera in the Heights and Alamo City Opera. Described as “a gloriously pert Norina” and “beguiling of voice” by the Houston Press in 2013, Ms. Engel was a Young Artist for Opera Theater of Pittsburgh. A graduate of the University of Minnesota and the University of Houston, she has also sung with Virtuosi of Houston and the Minnesota Philharmonic Orchestra. She currently studies in Houston with soprano Cynthia Clayton. Mezzo-soprano Monica Isomura has performed many roles with Opera in the Heights, Michigan Opera Theatre and Opera in the Ozarks among others. With a BM from Northwestern, a MM from the University of Michigan and a doctorate from SUNY-Stony Brook, she is also a frequent soloist with Houston Chamber Choir and the Education Coordinator for OH. Her husband, pianist Eiki Isomura, is currently the Artistic Director and Principal Conductor of Opera in the Heights. He has led over 70 performances of 15 operas, drawing consistent praise from critics and collaborators. A graduate of the University of Michigan and the University of Arizona, he has served on the staffs of Houston Grand Opera and Opera in the Ozarks.

June 19 -- T’Monde: Classic Cajun
Three remarkably accomplished young musicians come together in the band T’Monde, the Acadian phenomenon that Offbeat Magazine has called “a creative fusion of classic country and out-of-the-way Cajun.” With a combined 10 GRAMMY nominations between accordionist and singer Drew Simon, guitarist Megan Brown, and fiddler Kelli Jones, T’Monde brings influences ranging from early country music to ancient French and Creole ballads to present-day Cajun music. T’Monde has developed a unique sound that is unmatched in Cajun music today.

Drew, a Lafayette native, is regarded as one of the best of the “New Generation” dancehall musicians. With the Pine Leaf Boys and T’Monde, he has brought Cajun music to 24 countries and 47 states. Megan, from Tepetate, LA, has been singing all her life and played guitar with her accordionist brother Briggs Brown. She has performed at many Cajun Festivals. Kelli Jones, a North Carolina native who played old time fiddle there, fell in love with Cajun music when she attended the University of Louisiana at Lafayette to study dance. She has played with the Pine Leaf Boys, the Red Stick Ramblers, and Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys among others.

June 26 – A Rheinberger Ride
It may not be the Ride of the Valkyries, but it will be close. Organist Patrick Parker will perform three organ sonatas of Josef Gabriel Rheinberger: Sonata V in F-sharp Minor, Sonata XIV in C Major, and Sonata VIII in E minor. Rheinberger, born in Lichtenstein, was a working organist at the grand old age of seven. His organ music, composed at the height of the Romantic period, is actually classically oriented, like that of Brahms rather than Wagner. It tends toward clean lines and clear textures rather than the dense, sometime opaque textures of his contemporaries, which can sound like "pulling out all the stops and leaning on the keyboard.”

Patrick Parker, formerly Minister of Music and Organist here at Church of the Good Shepherd,
“steals the show by demonstrating his formidable prowess as an organist” (Early Music America) and was recognized in The Diapason's Class of 2017 “Twenty Under Thirty.” Founder of Houston Baroque, he currently serves at Covenant Church in Houston's Museum District.

Happy Birthday, Lenny!

On August 25th of this year, American composer/conductor Leonard Bernstein would have been 100 years old! He died in October of 1990, but his legacy of compositions and recordings lives on. In celebration of his 100th birthday, Opera in the Heights presents Candide. There are only two more performances, on Thursday, April 19th and Saturday, April 21st at 7:30 pm. Do not miss the show! It has a fabulous singing cast with great comic timing. The music is beautiful, both rousing and serene. Check out D. L. Groover's review in the Houston Press:

http://www.houstonpress.com/arts/revi...

Opera in the Heights
1703 Heights Blvd, Houston, TX 77008
Phone: (713) 861-5303

Scat!

This morning it was 17 degrees Fahrenheit (-8 C for my European friends). I do not live in New York or Stockholm; I live in Texas, not very far from Houston. Yesterday we had sleet and snow, with ice making the roads impassable. Schools and businesses closed for two days. Tonight the temperature will be 21 F. This is the third time since December we’ve had multiple days in subfreezing temperatures. And in December, we had snow accumulations twice.

This is not normal, and it has an adverse effect on the population. People go out in their usual T-shirts and shorts and notice after a few minutes that their extremities turn purple and they can’t move their fingers. Perplexed, in teeth-chattering, goose-bumped panic, they return inside and search frantically in attics for that one moth-eaten, stored-away sweater from ten Christmases past. Meanwhile, on the icy roads, people drive too fast and play pinball with their cars, spinning and sliding from one side of the road to the other on overpasses and bridges. We don’t know how to dress for the cold or drive in it. In our pier-and-beam houses pipes burst and fires start from faulty space heaters.

Normally in this region we have snow every 3-5 years, and that’s for one day, not on three different occasions. As for hard freezes, we might have one a year, for two or three days, but again, not three different times. Most years there's not a hard freeze at all.

As stated, this extreme cold weather is not normal. So what has happened? I think Winter took up the challenge of Global Warming. The conversation went like this:

“Global Warming? Really?” muttered Winter. “I don't think so. Those silly, insignificant humans are so wrong—I’ll show them. No compliance with faulty science. I’m taking my homies and moving South.”

Winter snapped off the TV (probably CNN), called the North Wind, the frost, the snow, the ice, the freezing rain. “C’mon guys, time for a vacation. Destination: the Deep South.”

Well, Winter and her homies showed up. They roared down here on the Arctic Express just to let us know who’s boss. At first, I thought they got lost, like confused migratory birds. But no. They’ve stuck around so long, I realize they’re trying to make a point. When it’s nature vs. mankind, nature always wins. Put your money where the power is.

Point taken.

Okay, already. Stockholm should not be warmer than Houston. Let’s return to the natural order of things. Winter, go home! You’ve had your vacation; you’ve made your point. My feet are colder than my nose, and I’m running out of hot chocolate. Scat!

I Embrace Multiculturalism

I discovered a case of hardcore multiculturalism at my house. My new washing machine was made by Samsung, a South Korean company. Well, at the end of the first wash, Sam Sung—he did indeed, and it wasn’t Arirang. He piped the tune of Schubert’s German lied Die Forelle.

Pleasant, but weird. I would just as soon expect to turn over my Persian rug and find the Declaration of Independence inscribed on the back.

At least the song has a watery theme. Die Forelle means The Trout. The song tells the story of a trout swimming in a clear little brook. Unfortunately, due to a wily fisherman, the poor trout in the brook gets the hook.

Could there be a warning there? I hope that the wily Samsung salespeople don’t mean I will live to regret my purchase.

All of this DOES NOT lead me to my next subject, but I’m going there anyway. This is called topic multiculturalism.

The company that pays me the mineral rights (read oil & gas) for my property went bankrupt. They used to issue me a modest yearly check. The new company that took over issues a monthly check. Well, the first windfall I got was $1.11. That created a huge problem. I had to figure out what to do with all the cash. To that end, I created a list of options:

1) Invest it in mutual funds.

2) Pad my savings account.

3) Buy 1/3 of a cup of fancy coffee.

4) Buy 78% of a cup of gas station coffee.

5) Change it into 111 pennies so I feel rich.

6) Leave the 111 pennies as a tip for an unfriendly waiter.

7) Stuff the 111 pennies in my jeans in the hope that if I’ve lost enough weight recently, my pants will fall down.

8) Refrain from doing no. 7 in public.

9) Start a Christmas Savings Account for the year 2030.

10) Plan that dream vacation to . . . the backyard.

All I can say is money doesn’t buy happiness, but when in comes in packages like this, it really stimulates one's creative juices.

And as far as multiculturalism goes, well, it’s also an incentive to be inventive. Surely, the world is pining for more musical appliances, like a Swedish microwave that sings La Cucaracha. I’ll leave that invention to others. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my talented washing machine and stick with my specialty—topic multiculturalism, a.k.a. colossal non-sequiturs.