Laurel Massé

Still Jo's girl

So many years ago that this is almost a story that could start with "once upon a time", my family lived in a very big house, a legacy of the days of grand families and grand architects. The realtor called it a mansion. My family still calls it The Big House.

The first floor was indeed very grand. There was a parlor for company, and a library with built-in shelves. A dining room that overlooked a formal rose garden. A ballroom. The second floor had the good bedrooms, big as New York City studio apartments, with much nicer baths than I have ever had since.

My spirit's home, though, was up one more flight, in the small third floor servants' quarters. There, in a little monk's cell of a room with one window, I had a desk, a chair, a box of onion skin paper, my Sheaffer fountain pen, and a box of ink cartridges. And my companion, Jo March. I wanted to be just like Jo March, and to that end I scribbled page after page of - what? stories, probably, and perhaps some poems. I don't remember, and as my family moved a lot, nothing remains of all that ink except the memory of the texture of the paper, and the sound the pen nib made as I wrote line after line after blotted line. Oh, I wanted to be a writer.

Singing turned out to be easier, and my dear Lord is aware that I rather enjoy the spotlight. But this "words thing" never went away. I care about lyrics, I read aloud to people whenever I can, I do inspirational speaking, Shakespeare's King Lear leaves me sobbing on the floor, for Jo's spell has never worn off. And particularly at this time of year, the connection I feel to this fictitious character and to the extraordinary woman who created - or released - her is especially strong. It has long been my Christmas season practice to read Little Women again. Every year, somehow, it seems a better book.

My pretty little red leather-bound copy is currently in storage with the rest of my things, so I went to the local library. Their copy is for in-library use only - can you imagine? I'd have to wear shoes! But I found another treasure that I could take home: Marmee and Louisa by Eve LaPlante (2012). As far as I know LaPlante is the first author to explore the relationship between Lou and her mother, Abigail. Ever since her death in 1888, conventional wisdom has held that Louisa was her daddy's girl through and through, educated by him, inheritor of his gifts, beneficiary of his attention. That never set quite right with me. If the Alcott family was the model for the March family, why was the father absent for most of the book? Well, as it turns out, Bronson Alcott was also much absent in real life, and he never made a living. His mind on higher things, he seems to have been content to let his wife and daughters do all the work for the lowlier purposes of rent and food. Unlike his wife, Alcott did not particularly believe in the equality of women, and he came late to the abolitionist's cause. It was Abigail (Marmee) who encouraged her daughters to live full, good lives and to work to utilize their gifts, Marmee who wrote volumes of journals. And it was Marmee who worked until her health was ruined, as did Louisa, whose writing supported the family until she died at 56 (her royalties did so thereafter). The relationship between mother and daughter was deep, and necessary for both women. LaPlante's is a beautiful and calmly fierce book, well-researched and well-written, sad in many ways, but ultimately inspiring. Abigail was left out of history; Eve has fixed that.

You can buy the book through LaPlante's website, to which I have inserted a link above. Amazon has it, of course, but if you possibly can, please get it from an independent bookseller.

 

 

 

Summer, sweet summerrrrrr...

Writer Henry James said the two most beausiful words in the English language are summer afternoon, and lovely they are, evocative, leaves rustling in a soft breeze.

But I am partial to James Joyce's riverrun, all vowels and voiced consonants. In fact, river is one of my favorite words to sing, along with forever. Why? Because, blithely ignoring conventional choral tradition, I think R's are beautiful in the mouth.

And why is that? Because I had the very good fortune to attend Fred Waring's Youth Choral Workshop one summer, when I was fourteen. There, I was taught how to pronounce words naturally and clearly, so that the audience could understand them. I've used what I learned there in every line I've ever sung.

I balk when choir directors tell their singers to drop the final r - in "father", for instance - because "it's an ugly sound" - insisting it's better to sing "fawthuh", because a musical tradition born in England in the 1600s should sound English. I'll do it, because the director is the director. But I don't mean it.

In fact, research suggests that the English we hear today on the BBC is quite different from that of the 17th century. I have heard Shakespearean verse spoken in a way that is closer to how it would have been spoken when new, and let me tell you, it is o'erbrimming with Rs. Big, rich, juicy Rs. Fat, piratical Rs. And they sound delicious, and quite like some of our American regional Rs.

This, and other differences between the English accents in the Renaissance and today's received pronunciation, reveal rhymes that have been lost. Loved and moved and proved used to rhyme. So, when Willie (I call him that because I love him sooooooo much that he makes me howl like a wolf) used some combination of love/move or love/prove as the final rhymes in Sonnets 25, 32, and (most famously) 116, he hadn't suddenly decided, "oh to heck with it, close enough!" They did rhyme. Then.

In Sonnet 61, he juxtaposes -where and near. In 66, gone and alone. So these words, too, may once have rhymed.

Why does this matter so much to me? Two reasons. FIrst, because there is no point to put on, for the sake of "tradition", the fake English accents I hear in some choirs, especially in the Episcopal Church, if the tradition isn't accurate. Second, rhyme scheme is part of how I remember a lyric (the overall story of the song being the other part. That will be another post). I am accutely aware of a missing rhyme where there should have been one. If, when I'm grabbing a Johnny Mercer lyric off the internet, the established rhyme pattern suddenly disappears for a line, for no reason, and then returns, something's wrong.

I wanted to post a YouTube clip that illustrates what I am talking about, but an evil cabal of choir directors is interfering with my internet connection today, and my eight-year-old laptop has jettisoned its Flash drive in its confused dotage. I therefore can't watch video clips any more, and am flying blind on this. But here are two links that should take you there...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bt7OynPUIY8

and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPlpphT7n9s&feature=related

If they don't work, let me know. If they fail, go to YouTube and look for ... oh, try Shakespeare authentic pronunciation.

Must-haves

We are born into wanting. The breast, the cuddle, the warm and dry and safe. As we grow up, and older, the wants multiply and become confusing. "Give me what I want!" morphs into "what do I really want? what should I want?  what do I think I can get?"

The answers are elusive; even when captured, they change.

Grow up and old enough, though, and things start to simplify again. Some desires go away because they are no longer possible. I will never write the great American novel before I am twenty, for instance. I will not have the children I dreamed. 

Other wishes withdraw because one has had a taste of them, and it was enough. Working in a stable caring for 22 horses taught me that I didn't really want the 250 horses I wished for as a child. Traveling with a band all the time suggested to me that I might not want to travel with a band all the time.

I'm a Capricorn, and we can be both socially conscious - a fine attribute -  and socially self-conscious, which is not fine at all. Some of us tend to ignore our magnetic-north certainty, and to follow other people's directions instead. I have taken a lot of advice in my career, and striven to do what it seemed other experienced folks felt was the right thing for me to do: go here, do that, climb this mountain, not the other one, sing this genre above all others, all good, sensible things. It is taking me a very long time to recover from all that advice.

I sang my first unaccompanied vocal program in 1993. It was the first time I set foot onstage unplugged and unframed, the second state far more important than the first. Unplugged's easy, at least in my family. Open your mouth, and sing. But unframed? No one else up there shaping the onstage me? No arrangements, no staging? Nothing but made-up songs, some poems, and a story or two? I was advised that it would be too weird. When I was about to record Feather and Bone, I was told I wasn't ready, that I needed to plan out the music more. And, of course, I was foolish to move to the Adirondacks, mad to stay there so long, and first wasting my time by going back to college, and then nuts to leave graduate school. All true. But not the only true, as it turned out, and each of those things worked out beyond my imaginings. Though I will admit that it was a little... hmmm... curious to live in a tent for six months in the Adirondacks; still, even that was a priceless learning experience.

To the extent that I know who I am, I know it because of the stories my experiences have given me. Opposable thumbs are nice, but stories are better. So it should be no surprise that, when wondering what to take should I ever have to evacuate, the answer came quickly. Mrs. Peel, of course, above all else (though she is not a what but a who). And after her, if there's time? My Bible, my Riverside Shakespeare, my tarot deck, and my charm bracelet. What are they? Stories. Collections of stories. Which, among other things, is what we all are.

What do I want? A really good story, someone to share it with (a cat, for instance), and unending curiosity about the next chapter.

(The art above is by Mary Engelbreit, whose paintings and sense of humor have delighted me for years. You can see - and buy - more of her work at www.maryengelbreit.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Casting Shakespeare's Clarence (Richard III)

It's too darn hot to think and type. But it's never too hot to admire. Here is impressionist Jim Meskimen in what I think is a tour-de-force. His skillful impressions have dazzled me, and his cleverness in deciding who gets which lines is delicious. I wish I could be in Los Angeles to see his whole show. If you are in L.A., do go!

 

Stormy weather

Painting by John William Waterhouse, 1916, Miranda

Project Rushmore Theatre gives a reading tonight of William Shakespeare's The Tempest. The storm begins at 7 PM at Roy Arias Studios, 300 W. 43rd, between 8th and 9th Avenues, Floor 5, The Payan Theater.

Cast includes Jill Ahrold, Matthew Amira, Timothy Carter, Christopher Catalano, Brian Cheng, Tre Davis, Jamison Hollister (fiddle), Laura Leopard, Miller Lide, McGhee Monteith, Verna Pierce, Michael Shelle, Branislav Tomich, Vince Trani, and me, with William Bailey directing.

By the way, bring your umbrella. AccuWeather.com predicts a thunderstorm for this evening... around 6 - 7 PM. Just a little opening act rough magic!

 

To Sir, with love

A rose is a rose, even when it's a McCartney rose. It was many years ago today (or some other day) that not-yet-Sir Paul McCartney pulled a perfect rose from a table centerpiece and tossed it into my hands as I was singing Heart's Desire with my Manhattan Transfer colleagues at the Brit Awards. At least, I think the event was the Brits. I was completely focused on Sir P. I confess that I was singing right to (or perhaps even at) him, and he... well, the story is going into my memoir, which I had hoped to write this morning, but it's too darn hot.

On Sir's birthday, June 18th, I am going to be singing a few of his tunes in Beacon, NY. Not too many, though. I don't want to hurt Johnny Mercer or Willie Nelson's feelings. Cole Porter can be pretty touchy, too. With me will be Tex Arnold on the piano, and because we had such a good time in Washington CT last month, my sister Babette will again be joining me in a few songs, along with guitarist (and nephew) Alex Brown.

The Howland Cultural Center is a very interesting venue. Built in the "Norwegian" style in 1872 as a library, and placed on the National Historic Register one hundred years later, it is now a performance space and art gallery. It's geothermally cooled (which cannot be said of my apartment, alas). I hope to see some of you there. If you are planning on coming, please do make your reservation right away, so as to be sure to have a seat.

By the way, the McCartney Rose, shown above, is a hybrid tea rose, introduced in 1995. It is described as a hardy repeating bloomer (like me and my career!) with a strong and intoxicating fragrance. This pleases me. Though a rose by any other name would smell as sweet in Shakespeare's time, most of the cut roses one can buy these days have no perfume at all. One sniffs a bouquet, and there's nothing.

Heavy the heart that, via the nose, encounters the unscented rose.

"There was a star danced, and under that was I born"

Today we honor what might or might not have been (where have I heard almost that exact phrase before?) the birthday of William Shakespeare, who showed us the whole world, and ourselves in it, in a wooden Globe. Even though the weather's reminiscent of the third act of King Lear, under my umbrella I am singing Happy Birthday to the Bard.

However, because the first Globe Theatre caught fire during a performance in 1613, I think it best to refrain from putting four hundred and forty-seven flaming candles atop the cake.

 

But mark you this! Hamlet brought a cake, too! And it's chocolate!

 

 

The [word]smithy of my soul

Years ago, I fell under the spell of a man who spoke beautifully. It's not the only time I've done so. This may indicate a certain susceptibility men with language skills, and perhaps there is a clinical term for it. These gentlemen don't have to be living now, or ever; in fact, they can be fictional characters. One of my favorites, Lord Peter Wimsey, graces a series of detective novels written by Dorothy Sayers. These are the books I reread when I am sick in bed for a few days, as I never tire of Lord Peter's company. In this clip from one of the brilliant the BBC adaptations, with Edward Petherbridge as Lord Peter, and Harriet Walter as writer Harriet Vane, we learn that "one wordsmith [is] worth three cyber-experts." Yea, verily.

 

But my current affair of the heart may be the biggest one ever. I know the news will devastate Sir Paul McCartney, but really, darling Paul, you must admit you've had your chances. I shall always feel great affection for you - in fact, I am doing a concert on your birthday, dedicated to you and your tunes. But you've been supplanted in my affection by a kinsman of yours, an rather older man, William Shakespeare. You must have felt it coming, yes? ever since you released that tune with the mandolin.

Here's Edward Petherbridge again, this time giving us Shakespeare's Sonnet 57 ("Being your slave, what should I do...").

 

'Nuff said.

 

 

Ready, steady, go

Last week, Christopher Cartmill, actor, teacher, and friend, sent out an invitation on Facebook for someone to play Polonius at The Hamlet Rave!, an event wrapped around an uncut reading of the play at NYU's Gallatin Center.

Two years ago I would noticed and said nothing, because two years ago I never would have imagined I could do such a thing. No, that's not it, exactly. I could have imagined it, but I couldn't have believed it. Even a year ago, I didn't know Shakespeare's sweet-tasting words would ever be in my mouth, had no idea that I would ever accept the invitation to read Polonius after I'd already done Cordelia.

Last week, however, I said "I will". Actually, I said, "Ooh ooh, choose me pleeeeease", or something equally mature. Being involved in the Rave was an unlooked-for, rich, exciting experience. This dive into what some call the most influential play ever written lit up areas of my brain that were waiting for just such a thing, and I am still a-buzz. For the last few days, I have been thinking about what happens, and what has happened, when I've said yes. So, when I came across this passage in the last pages of Rob Bell's Love Wins, it caught my attention as if it was highlighted in flourescent yellow:

Time does not repeat itself. Neither does life. While we continually find grace waiting to pick us up off the ground after we have fallen, there are realities to our choices. While we may get other opportunities, we won't get the one right in front of us again. That specific moment will pass and we will not see it again. It comes, it's here, it goes, and then it's gone. [It's] vitally important we take our choices here and now as seriously as we possibly can because they matter more than we can begin to imagine.

"Seriously" does not always include "thoughtfully and carefully", however. While I recognize the value of deliberation, the big experiences that have most changed my life for the better resulted from impulsively saying yes first, and panicking later. Sometimes the panic was ppropriate - I don't thave a flawless record of "said yes, was right". But every good yes has led to another, like pawprints in snow. Saying yes to teaching at Ashokan comes most easily to mind as an example. So much joy has entered my life because of it! That joy teaches me in an ongoing seminar on living, so that I knew enough to say yes to teaching at The International Cabaret Conference at Yale, which is where I met fellow-teacher George Hall, who used to run the Central School of Drama in London, and who introduced me to his former student, actor/director Bram Lewis, who asked me to read the part of the Street Singer in The Madwoman of Chaillot. I thought, well, it's a singer. How hard can it be?, and said yes. Which is how I got involved with the Project Rushmore Theatre Company, and played Cordelia in King Lear, which is what gave me the cheek to think "why not Polonius?" and say "choose me!" to Christopher...

...whom I'd met because I'd said yes to organist Harry Huff when he asked me to improvise from the choir loft at a Good Friday service (ten years ago? more?) at Calvary Episcopal Church. Guess who was the reader that day: Christopher Cartmill. How I met Harry is another series of tracks, involving a religious order, a meeting in Albany, and Union Seminary.

Reading Polonius at The Hamlet Rave became a possibility over a decade ago? Perhaps. Did I know that? Nope. Not till I started thinking about it a few days ago.

Perhaps all our lives are etched with a map we can only see in retrospect, if ever. I owe the form my career has taken - and if not the form, certainly the initial routing -  to a February blizzard in 1972. All I did was hail a cab. Tim Hauser was the driver. Who could have imagined, on that snowy evening, what would come of a single, simple conversation?

As Hamlet said:  The readiness is all.

 

 

 

Outrageous fortune

Due to an unpredictable, long, looping series of coincidences which I will relate in a future post, I am reading the part of Polonius tonight at Christopher Cartmill and Natalia Razak's event, The Hamlet Rave, down at NYU. So, I am speaking the speeches here at home, and painting my nails "Bloody Curtain Red".

This will be a uncut reading, which means it will be deliciously long. And there wil be other things going on at the same time - puppets, music, video, Skype performances, live commentary - that one might not think to associate with the "melancholy Dane".

There's a Facebook page for the event, and a notice on the University's website.

More on't anon. For now...

                                                  "Help me, Obi-Wan. You are my only hope..."