Laurel Massé

Mrs. Peel, we're needed

Before Trinity wore a catsuit in The Matrix, before Lara Croft raided a tomb, there was Mrs. Peel, of The Avengers. I can remember no other heroine of the small or large screen who inspired me anywhere near as much when I was a young teenager. She rescued her male partner, John Steed, as often as he rescued her. Their relationship was one of mutual respect, delicious flirtation, and absolute equality. Could you find that in Honey West? No. Charlie's Angels? Oh, please!

Shakespearean actress Diana Rigg played the role of Emma Peel with wit, sophistication, and elegant sexuality. Yes, she wore that leather catsuit, but she wasn't spilling out of it. And you may keep your brilliant but humorless Dagny Taggart. Emma was a scientist and a martial arts master, and she liked to laugh.

Today has been an historic day. President Obama announced last night that Osama bin Laden has been killed (while Trump was congratulationg himself for forcing Obama to release his birth certificate, the president was doing something rather more important and bold). I pray that this will be a beginning of bringing our troops home, and of using our resources in more positive ways.

On a much more local level, by which I mean here in this Bronx apartment, a new "Mrs. Peel" arrived earlier this afternoon, wearing the best catsuit ever. She has already cleared the apartment of all evil forces, seen and unseen. Here she is, just waking from a nap.

She'll have some dinner, and practice her ninja moves, and then we'll settle down on the sofa to read Diane Duane's enchanting novel, The Book of Night with Moon , which every young cat should know.

I want to thank the folks who formed the lovely chain of events and hearts that made it sweetly inevitable that this kitten would come home with me. It seems you knew, even before I did, that I was ready to brush fur off my clothes again.  You know who you are, and you know I love you.

   

 

Phoebe Snow 1952 - 2011

 

 

 Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.

Do not cling to me, but go

The stone has been rolled away.

The grave is empty.

And Mary Magdalene has seen the living Christ.

In the gospels, Jesus appears first to the women who have been his followers. All four evangelists specifically mention Mary Magdalene; in John's account, Jesus calls her by name, asks her not to hold on to him, and sends her to tell the men what she has seen. She goes, and does so.

The men don't believe her.

I've been thinking about this a lot as I've gazed at paintings, icons, and frescoes of Jesus' appearance to Mary, and listened to and sung music written for Easter. So many visionaries over the centuries have tried to catch the Uncatchable in paint, in stone, words, music. Then we have framed the pictures, roped off the statues, cleaned up the language, pinned the music to paper. We think we might contain the Holy Spirit like a unicorn in a tapestry.

How hard we work to keep a fence around it! "Come, Holy Spirit," we pray in church, and gesture toward the gate. But do we whole-heartedly open it, welcome her, and offer her a chair? Heavens! Let her sit, and the next thing you know, she'll be taking over! No, we sit, straight-backed and decorously still, while wild songs whisper and clamor in the very stones under our feet.

I have become convinced that some people see and hear differently. They can't help it. They are compelled to track the Wild. Some are saints. The rest of us are artists, and art is how we share what we've seen and heard, in the medium to which we have an affinity. That's our job. We are tour guides, we are reporters, and we do our best to tell the stories. Sometimes it's frightening: some stories are too big.

As the Virgin Mary said "yes" to God, and bore Jesus, the Magdalene said "yes" to Jesus, and bore the too-big story of his resurrection. "Do not cling to me," Jesus said, "but go and tell." Would there have been any gospel according to anyone else had she not run to tell? Was she afraid, giving voice to this impossibly wild song? Was she angered by not being believed? We can't know. We only know that she did it. She did it. She did it. And now it's our turn.

Christ is risen, alleluia, alleluia. The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia, alleluia. 

 

Sweet Baby James

James Taylor has always been so identified with the "singer-songwriter" genre (in which the singing is sometimes not as good as the writing) that not everyone notices that he is an extraordinary vocalist. But if you listen to any one of his many recordings, you will hear an exquisite combination of intelligence, wit, simplicity of style, honesty of expression, great intonation, impeccable time, and heart. Taylor has been singing in tune and serving the lyric for a long time now, and he gets better with every passing year. In my mind, he is one of the very best singers of my generation.

In this clip he talks about singing. Enjoy!

 

P.S. He and his then-wife Carly Simon attended a Transfer show in the early 70s, and dropped by our dressing rooms. It was like a visitation from the gods, not in a You're So Vain kind of way (they were both very sweet), but rather because they were both so much taller than us. Built on a more glorious scale, really. Makes me stand up very straight whenever I remember it.

Enough?

A friend posted a YouTube clip on Facebook, and because the friend is a thoughtful and interesting person in real life - as opposed to Facebook life - I watched the clip. It was about living in a tiny apartment. A very tiny apartment, about 100 square feet. Though the tenant had rid herself of a lot of possessions to live there, the space still seemed stuffed with... well, stuff, which made it seem even smaller. But it was intriguing nonetheless. After I saw that video, I did what we so often do: followed the video breadcrumbs farther and longer than I'd intended. Facebook and YouTube are forms of alien abduction. I watched several more films about small-space living, and continued to think about that after I had put the laptop to bed for the night.

I have moved many times, m-a-a-a-a-a-ny times, and have sampled a lot of different styles of dwellings. They've included a 32-room mansion in Connecticut and a 12x60 1970s mobile home in upstate NY, a duplex apartment in a 1920s Spanish-style building in the Hollywood hills, and an art-deco apartment near Paris's Bois de Boulogne. And a tent, oh boy, I never forget the tent. And there have been so many more that I almost feel a little immoral. Each space has taught me something, usually about light. Some were too bright, some too dark, only two or three just right. Apparently, I am a very Goldilocks of photosensitivity. And to each space, I have brought my most-loved stuff, whether it was a favorite plastic horsie (then) or a wicker chair (now).

I currently live in a studio apartment that, ever since I've watched those videos, seems enormous. It's a little on the dim side on the light scale, and I will have to remember to avoid lower-floor apartments in courtyard buildings in the future, because even on the brightest blue-sky days, the sunlight is all up there and out there but never in here. However, it is bright enough for full-shade plants, and the ones I have are doing well. I have some decent furniture, and artwork and books and objects that I like to look at, and it is a peaceful and spacious living space. But if I had less space, it would be too much stuff, just like in that first video I watched.

Which had me wondering: does one measure the too-muchness of the stuff by the available space, or by the life lived? Does a bigger life need more things, or more room? And if it is more room, does that imply more space, or less stuff?

I once lived with a man who continually insisted there was too much stuff in our home, but he always meant my stuff, and never his own. Eventually I discarded his particular sense of the scale (but not soon enough. I still miss my amber bracelet. Squawk! Flap! Wait..let me smooth my feathers back down.... There. That's better. Sorry.).

How much is too much?

This is - or should be - the great American question, because, as Americans, most of us have a quite a lot, and some very few of us have almost all of that. But perhaps we can't tell what's too much till we know how much is enough.

When I compare what I have with what my neighbors have, I can feel hungry for more. That assumes neighbor means the folks next door, or in the corner office, or perhaps other performers with busier schedules.

What happens when I define neighbor as everybody? As the person down the street whose pension disappeared, and can now buy food or heating fuel, but not both. And the woman who is working in a clandestine sweat shop. Or the kid with Irlen syndrome who, for lack of a diagnosis and a piece of colored plastic film might not learn to read. Those folks living in New Orleans who saw their moment of national attention pass by, and are living in a city still struggling to rebuild. The exhausted teacher whose job is on the line. The exhausted Iraq veteran who can't find a job at all. The banker who is mourning her lost integrity. The lottery winner who is contemplating suicide.

Now it's starting to look like I have a lot. How much do I have? becomes How much do I need?  

 

 

But there is a scarier question, yes? Oh yes.

 

 

 

How much can I give?

 

 

 

Sailin' Shoes

A long-time-dream came true when, after knowing the gents in Little Feat and loving their music for many years, I sat in with them in - gosh, when was it? 2000? 2001? I may have forgotten the date, but I'll never forget how it felt to lay back against that fat, sensuous groove.

I don't have that moment on film. However, thanks to Chris Cafiero (Feat's archivist), we do have this clip, filmed when band members Fred Tackett and Paul Barrere toured as an accoustic duo in 2002, and I joined them on a few dates in western Massachusetts and upstate New York. This video is from the Towne Crier, in Pawling, NY. The song is Lowell George's classic Sailin' Shoes.

 

Elizabeth

In the previous century, I lived in Los Angeles for several years (1975 - 1980). While I was there, I met a lot of what are now called celebrities. I was one myself, along with my colleagues in Manhattan Transfer. But, just as there is a difference between acquaintance and friend, there is a difference between celebrity and star, at least in my personal lexicon.

We did meet stars, real stars. We were guests on a talk show on the same day that Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were there to promote one of the That's Entertainment films. I still have their autographs on pages torn from the journal I was carrying that day. Loretta Young came to one of our performances at The Roxy. Tony Curtis goosed me at an event at the Palladium. These encounters all happened where one might expect - TV studios, parties, performances. I also had second-hand "encounters", as our manager rented homes belonging to various actors who were away on location. I saw Ann-Margret's sunny living room, and admired the artwork Elizabeth Taylor had on her walls, some of which was done by her children.

But one encounter was so unexpected, and yet so ordinary, that I have never forgotten it, and the memory has a special clarity. A beloved hairdresser moving away to San Francisco recommended someone in old Hollywood, and I was able to get a booking. I had asked for the last slot of the afternoon; it having already been claimed, I took the second-to-last, and showed up at the appointed hour. I had to wait a little, so we started late. While my hair was trimmed and fussed with, I noticed the atmosphere of the shop shifting from the usual hair salon buzz to a muted but intense anticipation. Something was up.

As I was paying, I heard the shop door open. A woman with short dark hair walked into the shop, and when she got to the register, she smiled warmly at me.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Elizabeth."

She held her hand out. I took it, and as we shook hands, I noticed two things.

She felt like a mom, with a real smile that lit her eyes.

And her eyes were truly violet.

 

Grateful

O, what a lovely day it was yesterday! Daffodils have made their entrance onto the city stage, and were nodding their lovely heads in the breeze. It was warm enough for me to leave my winter coat at home, and it was the first day since last October that my boots stayed in the closet, and my green shoes came out to play. The sun was shining, yet its touch was gentle. People at the bus stop and subway station were lighthearted, and the 1 was running. I think it may have been a little early to turn the air conditioning on in the train, and I did have a little shiver and an inner whinge about that. But for heaven's sake! I was high in the air on an elevated train track, and then plunged deep into the earth, zipping along, on wheels, through a tunnel dug in the beginning of the last century, and did anything from any disaster movie I have ever watched happen to me? No. All was calm, all was bright, all hail to the Transit Authority.

I have become quite fond of the 1 train since I moved to the Bronx. It's a subway for most of its Manhattan run (except for the 125th Street stop), but, running north, it pokes its head out of the tunnel at Dyckman Street (roughly 200th St.), and continues on elevated tracks, racketing across the river at 222nd or thereabouts. From the Broadway Bridge, there's a big-sky view looking west to the Henry Hudson Bridge, the Hudson River, and the Palisades. That bridge is "the Grandma Bridge" to me. For many years, my grandparents had an apartment in Washington Heights, in northern Manhattan. When my family drove in from upstate to visit them, the crossing of that bridge was the exciting almost-there point in our journey. Now it is part of my prayer geography, a place where I always think of Elsie and Leonard, and of how blessed I was to have them so very long. I was 50 when they died within a few months of each other (as is so often the way). Age did not wither them till they were in their 90s (nor custom stale their infinite stubbornness), and they are still very present to me.

Once across the river, the train continues deep into the Bronx all the way up to 242nd Street and the gorgeous Van Cortlandt Park where there is still a stable. O wonderful, wonderful, most excellent park! I still have my well-worn paddock boots. Someday soon...

                                                                   A fellow redhead

 

Guide thou the song I shall sing of thee: set prayers

Sometimes, when folks find out I am a jazz singer, they think that means I make up everything I sing. Over the years, students have told me, in various ways, that they want to sing jazz so as to be relieved of having to learn the melody of a song. We place a high value on personal expression in this culture; we don't like being told what to say, and we tend to think that something spontaneous is more "real". Witness the popularity of so-called reality shows, and radio call-in programs on almost any topic. But there is a power in shape and limits.

I belong to what some people think of as a cold and formal church. As an Episcopalian, I take part in a liturgy that is scripted and choreographed. Some say it is impersonal, and I acknowledge that I have on occasion sat in some pretty chilly churches as prayers were read in monotones or sung so elegantly that they became concert pieces. Annie DIllard wrote:

 I often think of the set pieces of liturgy as certain words which people have successfully addressed to God without their getting killed. In the high churches they saunter through the liturgy like Mohawks along a strand of scaffolding who have long since forgotten their danger. If God were to blast such a service to bits, the congregation would be, I believe, genuinely shocked.                                                                                                                

"Come Holy Spirit," we pray, "but not too close. Thanks so much." 

And yet.

There is another side to the issue, and I have become reacquainted with it this week. The events unfolding in Japan while all the usual catastrophes continue their appointed rounds in the rest of the world (New Orleans is still suffering, Haitians are still starving, Qaddafi is still killing his people, and American schoolchildren still can't read very well) are so profoundly overwhelming that I don't know what to say. I can't say anything, I can't contain my grief, and I am all over the place like sheep without a Border Collie. I need form.

So I have been deeply grateful for the set prayers like the Lord's Prayer and the collects, the words that have been used for centuries. They hum in my memory like songs, and like songs, they help me groan and cry, and bring me back to trust and to the calm focus that births action.

Strengthen your servants, O God.

 

 

 

Turn me on, I'm a radio

I have always loved radio. Born a generation earlier, I'd have made my career - or at least part of it - singing and acting in front of the microphones of some powerful station. Instead, like many children of my age, I heard the radio stories from my parents, who had known those days well. My dad, especially, reminisced so vividly about The Shadow and Fibber McGee and Molly that I sometimes have to remind myself that I never heard the programs first-hand. Film is indeed magical, and television can be (sometimes), but there is something about sitting in the dark just hearing a story and letting the pictures rise from within one's mind that cannot be equalled. We hear, in the womb, before we see...

Here, in three segments, is a tale of Sherlock Holmes, "The FInal Problem", broadcast in December 1954. It stars Sir Ralph RIchardson as Dr. Watson, Sir John Gielgud as Sherlock Holmes, and Orson Welles as Professor Moriarty.

Listen. Close your eyes. And see.