Had another of those experiences of Americans who round out conversations today. We got lost looking for the Lorimar Street L, the train into the city, and finally I asked for help from a minister (preacher), who peered at our map trying to find the Queens Expressway. He eventually realised that what we had was a transport map and it didn't show the Expressway, but nevertheless, there was something wrong with the connection we were trying to make.
He then asked, "Where are you from?" When we told him Sydney, he told us it was one of his favourite places in the world. As an engineer he built three power plants out there in the early 1970s. The Opera House hadn't been built then.
I mentioned that Utzon, the Opera House's architect, had been contacted before he died to provide his design principles, all these decades after the New South Wales had sacked him and replaced him with an architectural committee. The preacher, who was holding our map, and had been an engineer, said that the problem with the Opera House was that the design was for something that engineering hadn't caught up with. "As I was going to say with this," he said, tapping our paper, "You can't get there from here."
We did, though, get into Manhattan, and later to a recital of the complete Duparc songs, with some excellent young singers and accompanists. The venue was the Renee Weiler concert hall in Barrow Street in Greenwich Village, a lovely hall in an old brownstone, backed by picture windows of a green American garden. It was great to hear song this close, where you can feel the physicality of the singing, and find yourself leaning forward on a harmonic suspension (as you're probably supposed to) and really notice the perfection of each number. The program booklet provided English-only versions of the songs and what really struck me was that all languages must have certain words that work better in their language than in another. "Rest, o Phidyle!" said the translation, but 'reposez' was a better word for 'rest' at that moment.
This was the second songwriting experience of the week. Last Tuesday we went to a venue in the East Village where folksingers perform. A Scottish singer, Fraser Anderson, made great use of the room and variety in his guitar, but the song that struck me was one by a Florida duo called The Winterlings. 'Jenny Hodges' was the story of a woman who disguised herself as a man and joined the Army of the Tennessee. She remained a man all her life, getting to vote before other women, and asked to be buried in her 'union blues' (the Army of the Tennessee being a union army). But what was so great about the song? Simple words, repeating phrases (both text-wise and musically; the technical term would be isorhythm) and concrete concepts. Great, simple, disciplined storytelling. I once read that concrete imagery and the definiteness of metre was what made Goethe attractive to all those 19th century German composers. It's something I still think about.
Down at Cortlandt Street, we had one of those great experiences you have when you wander around a city, and stumble over something you didn't know was there. We knew the World Trade Center site was down there.
But what we didn't know was that across the road is the oldest continually operating building in New York City, St. Paul's Chapel.
This was where George Washington attended a prayer service after his inauguration in 1789 and continued to go to Sunday service until the capital moved to Philadelphia. His pew is still there. Across the other side, is the pew Governor George Clinton had built there when he became the first republican governor of New York and wanted to sit separate from the congregation but still be seen.
It's a peaceful place. But photographs in the cemetary show Sep 11, 2001, with computers and filing paper, printouts and other debris bestrewing the grounds. Inside the church is a fireman's coat and boots resting on a pew as if one of the relief workers has just come in for a well-earned break. I didn't find it hard to imagine that day. The church must have been cast in shadow by the buildings not much later than midday most days, so close must they have been. Then suddenly, no more. There is a sad quiet here now, but what must the noise have been like then, as two huge jets smashed into the towers and people who had had nothing more on their mind at 9am than wishing perhaps that they didn't have a dental appointment this afternoon, found themselves ending the day at 9.30 by leaping to their deaths?
If I were a Goethe I could probably say this effectively, more simply. But there are so many things to say here. I'll have to see what happens if I do my best to aim, like most Americans, to rounding stories off.
He then asked, "Where are you from?" When we told him Sydney, he told us it was one of his favourite places in the world. As an engineer he built three power plants out there in the early 1970s. The Opera House hadn't been built then.
I mentioned that Utzon, the Opera House's architect, had been contacted before he died to provide his design principles, all these decades after the New South Wales had sacked him and replaced him with an architectural committee. The preacher, who was holding our map, and had been an engineer, said that the problem with the Opera House was that the design was for something that engineering hadn't caught up with. "As I was going to say with this," he said, tapping our paper, "You can't get there from here."
We did, though, get into Manhattan, and later to a recital of the complete Duparc songs, with some excellent young singers and accompanists. The venue was the Renee Weiler concert hall in Barrow Street in Greenwich Village, a lovely hall in an old brownstone, backed by picture windows of a green American garden. It was great to hear song this close, where you can feel the physicality of the singing, and find yourself leaning forward on a harmonic suspension (as you're probably supposed to) and really notice the perfection of each number. The program booklet provided English-only versions of the songs and what really struck me was that all languages must have certain words that work better in their language than in another. "Rest, o Phidyle!" said the translation, but 'reposez' was a better word for 'rest' at that moment.
This was the second songwriting experience of the week. Last Tuesday we went to a venue in the East Village where folksingers perform. A Scottish singer, Fraser Anderson, made great use of the room and variety in his guitar, but the song that struck me was one by a Florida duo called The Winterlings. 'Jenny Hodges' was the story of a woman who disguised herself as a man and joined the Army of the Tennessee. She remained a man all her life, getting to vote before other women, and asked to be buried in her 'union blues' (the Army of the Tennessee being a union army). But what was so great about the song? Simple words, repeating phrases (both text-wise and musically; the technical term would be isorhythm) and concrete concepts. Great, simple, disciplined storytelling. I once read that concrete imagery and the definiteness of metre was what made Goethe attractive to all those 19th century German composers. It's something I still think about.
Down at Cortlandt Street, we had one of those great experiences you have when you wander around a city, and stumble over something you didn't know was there. We knew the World Trade Center site was down there.
But what we didn't know was that across the road is the oldest continually operating building in New York City, St. Paul's Chapel.
This was where George Washington attended a prayer service after his inauguration in 1789 and continued to go to Sunday service until the capital moved to Philadelphia. His pew is still there. Across the other side, is the pew Governor George Clinton had built there when he became the first republican governor of New York and wanted to sit separate from the congregation but still be seen.
It's a peaceful place. But photographs in the cemetary show Sep 11, 2001, with computers and filing paper, printouts and other debris bestrewing the grounds. Inside the church is a fireman's coat and boots resting on a pew as if one of the relief workers has just come in for a well-earned break. I didn't find it hard to imagine that day. The church must have been cast in shadow by the buildings not much later than midday most days, so close must they have been. Then suddenly, no more. There is a sad quiet here now, but what must the noise have been like then, as two huge jets smashed into the towers and people who had had nothing more on their mind at 9am than wishing perhaps that they didn't have a dental appointment this afternoon, found themselves ending the day at 9.30 by leaping to their deaths?
If I were a Goethe I could probably say this effectively, more simply. But there are so many things to say here. I'll have to see what happens if I do my best to aim, like most Americans, to rounding stories off.
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