Steven Sondheim and His Views On Rhyme

Did you catch it?

Did you catch the mistake in this blog title?

The accents are off when matching "Sondheim" with "on rhyme."

Steven wouldn't like that. He would call it a scansion error. Unacceptable.

The placement of accents and rhyme schemes must be correct. You don't mix SOND-heim with on-RHYME. That's trochee with iamb. It should be trochee with trochee  or iamb with iamb in this title. A skilled wordsmith would select a different word to fix the accent error.

In his two-volume book on  Broadway Musical writing--called Look, I made a Hat and Finishing the Hat--Sondheim also poo-poos all the newly accepted partial rhymes that don't have the same consonant end.


The kind of fake rhymes that permeate today's pop. The inner vowels rhyme only, not the word endings.

That's a lyric-writing no-no, too, in his book.

I think he has earned the right to state his benchmark. He's only been creating the medium for 50 years! He may very well be the Prince of Poetry; Earl of Alliteration; Lord of laundry list lyric writing; and the Master of meter.

Who doesn't know West Side Story; Sondheim's  classic remake of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet of a love mis-match among opposing 1950's New York gangs? I think Shakespeare would have approved of Sondheim's updated version, and applauded the music.


Sunday in the Park with George was my favorite. Written after Seurat's painting called Sunday in the Park. Bernadette Peters gave the perfect sardonic interpretation of Steven's score.

We heard Bernadette live at a show in Vegas. Our first vacation attempt at that desert city. Bernadette did not disappoint, but Vegas did. All the neon lights in the world could not light up that dark place. It was our one and only trip.

Notice the great satire in the superimposed overlay on the iconic painting.

Just last week I was offered a job to accompany "The Assassins." But previous commitments prevented me. Maybe another opportunity to play this great musical writer's works will come my way.

There is nothing like banging out the piano part of  a "Comedy Tonight" showstopper or languishing in the lavish keyboards of "Send in the Clowns."

Sondheim's lyrics are only rivaled by his masterfully written music.

Take a walk through his life of libretti and songwriting and next to greats like Roger Hammerstein and Leonard Bernstein, Roger and Richard Sherman.

Some of his musicals you'll read about:

"A  Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum"(1966)

"A Little Night Music"

"Sweeney Todd"


To list his entire credits would take several blog entries, so pick up the books and see for yourself.


It will be a walk in the park and you won't trip on any rhyming divots. I promise. Sondheim will be the first to point them out.

Rethinking Feminism

It was a rare experience that felt a bit intrusive.

At a meeting a man pulled a chair out for me. As I lowered to sit, he scooted it under my thighs to support my back end.

Nice. He made my sitting down much more comfortable. A surprising gesture, although my personal space felt invaded.

I thanked him for this gallant, chivalrous long-lost act of kindness.

And I rather liked it.

What have I been missing all my life? What has this generation of feminist-minded women been missing all their lives? My father did little things like this and needless to say this gentleman, yes, was older too.

The fight against gender bias has bit us in the butt.

In our quest for equality with the male populous in income, office, and roles, we've lost something that we secretly desire:

To be cared for. To be assisted. To be honored as the weaker sex in the little things, like opening doors, pushing in our seats, carrying our packages, and supporting us entirely financially.

They, the male sector, thought we wanted to work our little hineys off in addition to the heroic feat of bearing and raising children. And frankly, we asked for it.

Remember an 80's t-shirt that said "I want it all." It's true. We do. But why?
What balanced mind would want to be super man and super woman all at the same time?

Is it an unhealthy thirst for power and significance? A lifestyle that will surely take our relationships and even our very lives.

Today, I unintentionally put my new-found discovery that women secretly desire male assistance into action.

Entering a grocery store, I noticed a very pregnant young lady asking the guy next to her to carry her grocery bags. He ignored her while her carried one bag in one hand and his soda in another. Sipping it selfishly while she struggled with two bulky bags in one hand, purse on her other arm, and her large stomach.

At first I did a double-take but kept walking into the grocery store. Bothered by what I'd just seen, I couldn't keep silent. Spinning on my heels, I pursued them out the door.

"Help her with her packages," I yelled across the parking lot. Stunned they turned to look at me. There was another guy on her other side as well. "She's pregnant! Help her with her bags!"

I never saw if they heeded me, because I took a quick about-face and scurried back into the store, hoping they weren't hot-headed youths who might retaliate.

It was so wrong. Here she was at least eight months pregnant and the two guys she was with were void of any common courtesies, much less gentlemanly favors to a women weighted down by her baby bump. No, actually it was a mountain.

Now I birthed six children. And that last thing I wanted  during my pregnancies was to be viewed as an invalid.  But at the third trimester, I accepted help.

The inequality of pay does irk me. As does the age discrimination. I have a degree. But I do not work in my field because music is a young person's job. I am a coordinator (glorified admin assistant) and feel I am worth more (who doesn't) and that there are young men whose job I could do better (another common thought). So I agree with pay equality and position equality. But I believe in role difference and I do not want to lose my femininity and have to look like a boy to get where men are.

t

Penny Wong, Australian Labor Party Senator, is a modern day advocate for women's rights and would argue that girls don't pine for a knight in shining armor. I wonder if one has to cut their hair short and don a pinstripe blazer to achieve an official seat and job equality.

Do we have to dress like a man in order to break through the glass ceiling? That doesn't seem like women's rights. That's women dressing like men to gain men's rights. Abstaining from eye make-up, and shunning skirts and heels is required to break gender bias? That's one gender in my mind. Not two equal sexes. Think about it!

Another early activist of Women's Rights, Emmeline Pankhurst  in a 1913 rally.

The oh-so-clever cigarette ads of the 70's.

We can thank our fore-mothers and modern feminists for how far we've come, baby.

Then again, maybe not.

Fasting and Fish on Fridays

Tuesdays were tacos. Thursdays were hamburgers, my favorite.

And it was always Fish on Fridays. Along with grilled cheese sandwiches that resembled cement and rubber more than bread and cheese.

 A generation ago, the rite of forgoing meat on Fridays was recognized in the public schools. The Catholic church had influenced secular society and no one seemed to mind. Although Madeline Murry O'Hare had recently moved the courts to ban prayer at about the same time we were being served our faith conscious meatless mid-day meal.

Why Friday? Because it is the day of the week that Jesus was crucified. To remember, many would deny the flesh, and focus on the spirit.

It's a lost spiritual practice, even among evangelicals.  Our church invited us to pray more deliberately for 3 weeks, and fast together by doing the Daniel Fast, a modified fast modeled after Daniel's vow not to eat the king's rich food, but to eat only fruits and vegetables.

And so I feel a little bit like a freak writing about my 21 day fast I recently embarked upon.

A fast should not be measured in the amount of meals missed, but in the prayers said. Not measured in the recipes that omit meat and processed foods, but the burdens carried to the Throne and the transcendant moments of reaching closer to the heart of God.

So pass the grilled cheese and fish filet. We are going to pray today.

Alice's Restaurant and Lyrical Ink

You never know what you're going to find at the thrift store. Besides the almost guaranteed great find, they are a good place to escape to.

After my last post, I bet you thought I was going to admit to a different escape. For a lunchtime break or after a day of housecleaning, I head there in hopes of finding a great vintage record or some other unique treasure.

I did pretty well the other day and snatched up a couple of 60's vinyl beauties:

Simon & Garfunkle's  Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme and Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant.

I must have been a preteen when I first heard Arlo Guthrie's endearingly tinty voice sing that chorus. "You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant." And on and on he sings with the audience joining in.

Side one is 16 minutes of Arlo telling a story in a down-home, folksy, bluesey humorous style about the irony of it being unlawful to litter, (accidentally of course)  but OK to shoot people up in war. It's your classic Anti-Vietnam War protest song in the height of the 60's counter-culture peace movement.

Later that week, hubby and I drove up to Northwood to Harold's Coffee Lounge for a 2014 version of an artsy gathering.


 'Lyrical Ink' meets once a month for an open mic and a special artist showcase.






The evening wasn't far from 1969 and Arlo's event. Everyone sang along to songs they knew. There was an awesome DJ that followed every act with the perfect song. We heard several Spoken Word offerings about unrequited love, race conflict and faith.

 Jeanette, who hosts the show is a natural Master of Ceremonies with an adorable personality.

She is a gifted Spoken Word artist, too, presenting several of her own pieces to celebrate her birthday. Loved her vulnerable Scars. Her scathing lyric about being used as a tool by the object of her affection to help him hook up with her best friend was an acerbic masterpiece.

Then there was this teenage girl, whose hair reminded me of Princess Elsa's in Frozen, who recited her poetry for the first time. She spoke it to her boyfriend in the audience. (Awe!)

 I was expecting "you and me, happy as can be," lyrics, but she was a true wordsmith and amazed us all at her premier reading.

There was a flute/keyboard/dejimbe latin-jazz combo doing Besame Mucho and a ringer on his way back to Manhattan who serenaded us in french, fairly taking us up into the hovering clouds, with his Autumn Leaves on exquisitely played guitar.

Lyrical Ink felt a lot like how I imagine Alice's Restaurant may have 40 years ago. It was a lush garden of syllables and meter and song.


We were a bunch of community artists sharing their lives through melody and words.


You should come next month. It happens the third Friday of every month. Share your gift on the open mic, in the open air. Laugh and enjoy the local talent.

One of the presenters may end up with a project and musical legacy as enduring as Guthrie's and Garfunkle's.

You never know.

Beach Day: Pot to the right. Pot to the Left!

Another perfect day in paradise. The March mercury shows 73 degrees in South Florida. So I do what every normal person does. Blow off responsibility and coerce my husband to take a beach trip. In this case it was taxes I left behind on my dining room table in exchange for the sun.

Lake Worth Beach recently underwent a face-lift. They added undulating pathways, landscaping and benches to beautify the once seamy hang - out.  Del Rey is our beach of choice, but Lake Worth was closer. Getting a late start, we took our chances that the Lake Worth upgrades would attract a better clientele.

We planted our towels and umbrella far south of the pier to escape the crowds. Backrest up, books open, we settled in for an undisturbed restful afternoon.

My relishing of the pristine sapphire sky and aquamarine sea was interrupted by the sight of a young man toking on a clear, cigar-sized pipe, slightly to my right.




That's not a Marlboro he's smoking! I'm thinking.  The expectation of more elevated beach-crowd is quickly dashed.

Now my husband never takes his nose out of his Egyptian hieroglyphs book. I am more easily distracted from reading my Audubon in Florida.

Peering out of the corner of my eye,  the young man in his late 20's nonchalantly puffs and passes his small glass cylinder to his friends.

I change position to capture more sun rays and notice on the other side of us,  a girl of 16 struggles to light her shorty pipe with the help of a group of high school friends.

For real? Everyone around me, to the left and right of me is smoking hemp!

I ask myself:

Did I miss the legalization of pot in the Sunshine State? 

 

 

The teenager keeps fighting the off-shore breeze.

Spark!
                                    Poof!
                                                                            Spark!
                                                                                                                Poof!

The briny ocean gusts are winning.

A friend holds up a t-shirt at her face to shelter the flame. No success. After several failures to light the cannabis, it's all I can do not to shout over to them

"Maybe some one's trying to tell you something!"

 

But I hold my tongue and redirect the energy into my ever piercing stare. Shortly, one youth notices me. Then another and another. Each turns to meet my unflinching gaze. They know, I know what they're up to.

A wicked thought comes to mind and I go with it.

Just to rankle their nerves I reach for my phone and pretend to make a call. No sooner do I look up and they are on their feet, snatching towels and hurrying down the beach.

Wait! Don't go!

 I really want to ask why the silky sand, sunshine and friends weren't enough to make their day - why did they have to get a buzz on to have fun?

But they ran from paradise.

Granted, I had my days of partying before Jesus got a hold of my heart. But none of us had the brassy boldness to flaunt it in broad daylight!

Sad that my glare made them go, it was the normal reaction. When we are exposed, we run away. No matter how good we have it.

I could not shake the regret of my handling of the situation.

I got to thinking about how God puts up with our shenanigans.  Perhaps his desire to be with us prevents Him from busting us at every turn. He'd rather overlook everyday offenses just to keep the conversation open. He abdicates his right to be the Ultimate Narc and will, more often than we deserve,  overlook sin just to enjoy our company. A much better strategy than mine.

 It took a few minutes, but I managed to turn my attention back to Audubon's detailed descriptions of the Sooty Tern and Florida Jay and once again resume my enjoyment of

Another beach Day in Paradise - Paradise Lost.

Why My Garage Will Never Be Completely Organized

The first three months of 2014 are almost gone and I'm only on my 7th post here. 

I apologize. I've been cleaning out the attic and garage. We freshened up a newly vacated bedroom. Going through my son's closet was a bit scary, but we made it.

The last son moved out to share a house nearby with a friend. This is taking some getting used to.

But the room is all painted up after 15 years of boy scuffs, marks and closet graffiti had dirtied up the walls. Looks quite nice now. What a coat of flat white paint can do!!

The carpet was finally mended where the puppy dog who's now 8 chewed at the door. And the carpet is cleaned and has a nice shade of green instead of yuk.

New photos from son, Jesse of New York's skyline adorn the walls along with charcoal sketches of New Orleans I picked up at a garage sale. Add in daughter, April's framed photos of family get together 3 years ago.

The attic was another story, but we managed to throw out files from 1996 and 2006. How on earth did we save them for so long!





The garage is half cleaned.


But here's the reason why my garage will never fully be organized.

- And that as fast as I heave out boxes from the attic I will carry them up the ladder to fill it
again -

 It's because  I keep having birthdays and receiving touching cards from my children. Like most moms, it's the tender notes from my tough boys that really get me. Especially when they apologize for being trouble all their lives. How can a mom resist hoarding?

Front of card: "My Cell Phone is also a camera."

Inside: "Your card is also a present. This is a great age we live in!"

 This was the card from my youngest who is 18:  

Mom! It's your day and too few of them come around. You're always there to comfort, help, advise, intervene...and with a sweet heart. There were many times I acted annoyed, ugly and rebelliously apathetic toward your efforts. It was most all for foolishness and laziness. Would that I could take it back! But now I can only thank you for being up for a fight by the fifth child. :) So thank you for your strength of character and discipline. You are an inspiration. I am blessed a million times over to have you, mom! I love you so much! Happy Birthday.

Even now as I clean my desk (for the fourth time this week) I keep promising myself to throw out the stack of month-old birthday cards and a November anniversary wish.

I 

Just

Can't!!!

 

Then, with one eye open and the other closed,  I slide the card containing the shortest inscription into the wicker wastebasket.

But that's it.

The rest will end up in a box
that will end up in the laundry room,
that will end up on the work bench in the garage
that will end up in the attic
for another 10 years,
until I attempt to
organize my garage and attic
again!

Heroes Die

For the Hoffman's and the Houston's that left this earth too early. For the Amy Weinstein's whose talent was cut short.

This is a song for those of you who were as disturbed and disappointed as I was at their untimely departure.

For you who were pained that their death seemed avoidable. Here's an ode that mourns the demise of our belief that wealth and fame are the ultimate destination. How could those who attained it could live such desperate lives?

It must be much harder than we think. Being idolized, that is. The business of being a hero is a dangerous one. The craving for adoration is a self-destructive lust, mortals never having meant to be worshiped.

For those of you who are still sad, here's a song. https://soundcloud.com/a-marbury-shaw/heroes-die-1

Heroes Die

Heroes die
And leave a canyon
We search the skies
We search the skies
Heroes die
We feel abandoned
And so we cry
And so we cry

Despise our small beginnings
The ordinary minutes
It's just around the corner
Waiting at the bend

That sweet illusive glory
Feels a little farther
For heroes are the martyrs
When dreams come to an end

Heroes die
And leave a canyon
We search the skies
 We search the skies
Heroes die
We feel abandoned
And so we cry
And so we cry

Living larger than this life
We all hoped to be them
Enjoy their fame and freedom
Until life's last spark

Bought our front row tickets
Missed their hidden burden
Scanned the closing curtain

The stage had long been dark 

Heroes die
And leave a canyon
We search the skies
We search the skies
Heroes die
We feel abandoned
And so we cry
And so we cry

Words & Music by A. Marbury Shaw (c)2014

The Oscars' "Over the (Pink) Rainbow"

Not many covers of this Arlen/Harburg ballad include the opening verse.

When all the world is a hopeless jumble 

And the raindrops tumble all around

Heaven opens a magic lane

When all the clouds darken up the sky way

There's a rainbow highway to be found

Leading from your window pane

To a place behind the sun

Just a step beyond the rain

How refreshing.  The Over the Rainbow seldom heard stanza captured our ears at the Academy Awards' ceremony, sung by none other than Pink!
She was stunning in her riveting ruby red dress! Crowned by her signature platinum boy-cut.

It was a delicious dichotomy of rebel punk meets Glenda's glittering gown. Of lyrical torch singer meets audacious rock-star; tatted attitude meets poised elegance.

I loved every note of it.

Well, with a minor adjustment in my expectations of correct execution, I loved it. You know, I anticipated the phrasing, breathing, expression and interpretation to match the Judy Garland version.

The aural interruption was like a needle skipping on a scratched record. Pink's breathing in the middle of a word put a twitch in my head every time she did it:

 "Some (breathe) where, ov (breathe) er the rainbow..."

Eventually the mild irritation gave way to acceptance of her stylization that is so very hot pink.

There are just no mauves or pastels with her.  It's magenta and fuchsia that scream she is one unique artist.

She can phrase it anyway she likes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SH59OioDdLk

Congratulations to the off-site orchestra's conductor who had a very long baton, as Ellen joked. What would live musicians in the orchestra pit have brought to Oscar night's celebration!!

At first I thought some classic chord changes were missing in the arrangement; like the luscious inner passing tones of the original score and the secondary jazz chords moving on every quarter note.  The harmonic backdrop could've set a dark chocolate layer behind the dazzling diva's attractively jagged vocals.But  after a second listen on you-tube I realized it was the bad sound quality on my TV. Incredible orchestra.

I was able to 'hear' through the record skips and absent harmonies and take in
a
mesmerizing
21st century
interpretation
of
the
wonderful  
Wizard of Oz
hit.

If happy little bluebirds fly above the rainbow, 

why, oh why can't I?

Pink flew over the bright neon rainbow and took us all with her.

What I Learned from My 3rd Cousins Over President's Day Weekend

We were all fast walkers.



Maybe it was because we wanted the most out of our 3 short days together in paradise.



Seven cousins had met for the first time to spend a long President's Day weekend in a century old house rented from the  Colonial Dames of America in St Augustine, America's oldest city. How appropriate. Not the oldest part, but the historical part.

 I called it my Downton Abbey Smith/Crompton Cousin Reunion.







Three of the relatives who had narrowly escaped winter storm Pax to make the flight from Pennsylvania and Connecticut certainly needed every drop of the sunshine state they could absorb.

Fairly shoveling their way to the airport, they now enjoyed the clarion blue skies and 65 degree weather.

Three of us were from Florida and came by car or train. One flew from the Bahamas.


All but one of us abandoned our husbands on Valentine's Day to make the trip.         Oh, well!

Though we were fast walkers, we also lingered when it was time to. Breakfast, lunch and after dinner teas were chock full of conversation about our ancestors, relational connections and family stories.
 

Story

                                                   after story

                                                                                                            after story.


There is so much to say about our adventures and talks. My favorite being the spontaneous recitations of an A. A. Milne poem, The Owl and the Pussy Cat led by Gwennie and Wynken, Blynken and Nod spoken by Carrie and I around the dining table.

But I will limit it to a few things that I learned about each of my six 3rd cousins. Our great-grandfathers were brothers - Harry Worcester Smith and Frank Bulkeley Smith.

Here are some snippets gathered from my new-found cousins:

Carrie Crompton

Carrie: One should eat cereal first thing and then read the NY Times on their ipad mini to start the day. Sunshine should never be squandered.



Afternoon naps are necessary after touring the Flagler Inn.


Her books she authored on the Cromptons and Smiths are a family treasure. You can check them out here:

http://www.mycanvas.com/Flash/Viewer.aspx?fp=GBxsggvZXWFokZ7Be0oujA%3d%3d&access=7G9jonmoqno%3d&trackingId=5e4f68f6-00f0-45cb-b7d7-8298b97adcf3

Gwennie: Dessert is important and so are patio heaters when dining alfresco. (Why couldn't that waiter get the flame to stay on??)

Please don't take a photo of her in her nightgown! Sorry, I thought it was a dress! :/

One should be wary of the size of chicken breasts. Truly. Their proportions are increasing at a disturbing rate. After offering a bad joke about chickens and breast implants, I realized she was right. They are much larger than the pieces we were offered as children. Although, I've always been a 'wing' girl myself.

It's good to plan your day and stick by the plan.


She agrees the antique chair in the Flagler dining hall stuffed with horsehair tests out to be much better than the newer version.

Abigail Scholl (Abu)

Abu (Abigail): Her snoring never bothered me. But if it had, we were the perfect partners to sleep in downstairs rooms together. Her with a snore and I with a bad ear; all I had to do was sleep on my good ear and we were both happily dreaming.


Love her Abu-isms, especially


"Too many birthdays!" Or was that Hasty when she was talking about 'floaters' and 'flashes' in her peripheral vision?
At any rate, we could all relate and repeated the phrase,

often!

Hasty (Nancy Wendell), Abu and Carrie - Gwen on cellphone.

Pachi (Patience):  (Below) She has mastered the art of story-telling that takes a multitude of bunny trails and divergent paths, but if you have the Patience to listen, (pun intended) and smell the flowers along the way, you will have learned the point of her story and so much more.


Thank you Patience for organizing this wonderful gathering!

Prudi and Nancy(Hasty). Cousins in Stripes.

Prudi (Prudence):  Her husband, Jon was one brave man to hang out with 7 women.

He's a keeper.


Hasty: Buy sailboat supplies while stateside to take home in an extra suitcase to your Bahamas winter house, avoiding a 50% tariff.


And...It's ok to read original poetry about your late mother, Twinkie,  and cry in front of the other cousins.

In fact, it's very healing for those of us who have lost our mothers recently.

I hope we don't walk too fast past what we experienced together this weekend. As our gait slows, perhaps our souls will also, long enough to savor, remember,

Carrie, Gwenie, Pachy, Abu. Hasty in front.

And especially still  taste the key lime pie and the baklava.

Next year, St Augustine!

Carrie, Hasty, Patience in back, Gwennie, Angela and Abu in front

Or one of the other Colonial Dames' homes that dot the country.

A Letter to Myself on My Son's 21st Birthday

Dear mother of a 21 year old son,

It's time to let go. High time!

Your son is an official adult, now.

Don't orchestrate a business trip to New York on his birthday weekend to make sure he doesn't overdo celebrating his new-found legal status.

Stay home in Florida and trust his judgement. Give him a chance to exercise moderation. Or else trust that his level-headed girlfriend will keep him in check. Ya know, we girls still have to stick together.

If you jump in when he is short of money, hit the problem with a money stick, he will never figure out how to make ends meet himself.

If you try to answer his prayers, he will never experience God's personal and powerful miracles.

Hold the harsh criticism. Correct gently. They still look to us for soft pedaled guidance. Speak life. Tell him what great things lie inside of him.

Pray hard. Really, really hard.

Then get the heck out of the way.