Livingston, I Presume

The two tenors

It just doesn't have that ring, does it?

I have no witty or amusing stories of personal encounters with the late, great Maestro Pavarotti. My future- husband and I once chased Jose Carreras down a Heidelberg street to get his autograph, and a college friend of mine asked Placido Domingo to sign his hand because he forgot to bring paper to the crowded stage door at the Vienna State Opera House. (Domingo's answer? An extremely dismissive, Spanish-accented "No.") Still, doesn't the world seem diminished without Luciano Pavarotti, the King of the High Cs?

I'll confess--I've never been much for tenors. (Sorry, Alex.) I was always a bad-boy-baritone kind of girl. All those brave tenor heroes and leading men were just tiresome. Give me Don Giovanni and Evgeni Onegin any day. Even so, I bought the "Three Tenors" albums and enjoyed the hell out of them. I know that a lot of people found them unseemly, and I had my laugh on the "My Way" trio, but even material on the schlocky side couldn't hide The Voice. It was a marvel.

For me, Pavarotti is one of the clearest examples out there of somebody who "had it," with "it" being that indefinable vocal quality that marks the difference between competence and talent and true greatness. It's not as if his parents had him in Kindermusik at the age of 6 months and doing Suzuki violin at 4. From all that I've read, he didn't even start studying voice until he was 19 years old. You can't create a Pavarotti. You can give a kid every advantage and all the exposure, and you might be able to guarantee competence, but you can never manufacture greatness. Frustrating, isn't it?

Certainly it was one of my principle frustrations when I studied music. I was competent enough to know that I didn't "have it" and smart enough to realize that I didn't have a chance of practicing/studying/strong-arming my way into "it". What was maybe more frustrating was encountering greatness and true talent and seeing it squandered. I went to school with a few cases like that and cursed the gods for combining amazing abilities with a lack of ambition to use it. If I had had that kind of talent--I would often say to myself--I'd be singing at the Met right now. But the two must go together. The life of a professional musician is not an easy one, and even the greatest talent in the world must have the drive to take that talent somewhere.

Thank heaven for all of us that Maestro Pavarotti had both in spades. There must be some damn musical spectacular in the works upstairs. 

You know it

Maybe Connery will tire of Songs from the Street one of these days, although his current obsession with "I Love Trash" as sung by Steven Tyler--number 43 on this page--is showing no signs of abating. But when it does, I'm ready. I'm so ordering this, thanks to Mrs. Armstrong.

And other news

What? You also wanted to know where we stand on the house?

Well, all the papers have been signed and the mortgage is in process. Our next step is to get a home inspection, which is scheduled for next Tuesday. Assuming everything goes well with that, I will start feeling like I can start sharing more about the place. I still have this uneasy feeling that the more people who know about this, the more likely it is that something will go wrong and we'll be thrown back to step one.

We spent the weekend Connery-less, having effected a trade in White Sulphur Springs on Friday so that we could spend the weekend doing some painting in my grandfather's house. That went well, and we were even able to squeeze in a dinner out on Friday with Chip's aunt and uncle, Mary and Doug, and Firehouse 5's latest production, Cabaret, on Saturday. The show was great--it is so impressive to me that a town of Livingston's size can put on shows of this caliber several times a year. Cabaret was definitely done on a smaller scale than their earlier production of Fiddler on the Roof, but it was no less enjoyable. And there were no clunkers in Cabaret. Everyone did a great job with the singing and the acting.

My parents brought Connery home on Sunday afternoon, and we all got to tramp around what we hope will be our new house on Monday morning. I distinguished myself by putting the housekey into the lockbox when we were through and locking my car keys inside the house. Very impressive.

Superstar!

The news avalanche about the existence of a Gospel of Judas has prompted all kinds of bloggers and mainstream media outlets to examine the life of the man held up as the most infamous of all betrayers. Far be it from me to rain on their parade.

However, for those of us who have long relied on the works of Andrew Lloyd Webber to teach us theology, this is old news. We who have seen Jesus Christ, Superstar on multiple continents and in more than one language (and really, who among us hasn't?) all know Judas got a raw deal. I trust someone will now finally recognize Sir Andrew's contributions to the world of religious scholarship, especially since it seems he's lost his touch with the whole musical thing.

With a voice of singing...

My friend Chris, in addition to having known me since I was 4, is the unofficial historian of our high school and Montana Youth Choir choral music experiences. Every once in a while a little surprise package arrives for me in the mail from Chris. Most recently, he sent two CDs with digital versions of our high school Delphian Choir recordings. Before that he sent a DVD with our farewell Youth Choir concert. The quality on these DVDs--converted straight from whatever amateur cinematographer/proud parent shot them--is not anything great, but they have an amazing power over me.

First there's the weirdness of seeing and hearing your 16 or 17-year-old self in glorious technicolor (especially in the beauty of the lilac dresses). Then there's the actual physical feeling I get when I hear certain passages. When I was listening to the Delphian CDs last week I felt myself tensing up at a certain part. I then realized it was right before a solo I had done a thousand times that year and was recorded for posterity. I heard one song and immediately thought about a time we had performed it in the hallway of Missoula Hellgate High School. It still gave me chills. As the camera pans over the group on the MYC DVD, I see people I still keep in touch with--and people whose names I can't even remember.

Some of my absolute best memories in my life have been while I was singing. I miss it. I just don't think I realized how much until Chris started sending me surprise packages.

The most versatile lyric around

Throughout Connery's babyhood, I have made up a lot of songs. Generally but not always they involve bodily functions and are designed to distract him while I take care of the business end of a diaper. Some past hits include: "Butt Cream!" (sung to the tune of Batman), "Cream and Powder" (sung to the tune of Clementine), "Conneryman" (sung to the tune of Spiderman), and "One Fish, Two Fish" (sung to the tune of Fishheads).

I think this desire to make songs our own stems from my mother's teachings. She made up songs all the time, even into my adolescent years. Over Thanksgiving we were recalling The Period Song, which she made up for me when I was struggling with the early nuisances of womanhood (I won't quote the whole thing, but I will say that the money lyric involves "Sealy Posturepedic-ling").

All of our previous Connery Hit Parade favorites have faded into obscurity, however, now that we have discovered the magical lyrics that fit neatly into the tune of nearly every song: Stinky Booty, Stinky Butt. These words work with "Twinkle, Twinkle", "Clementine", and "Rock Me, Amadeus", among other quality melodic selections. Today, we started a round with the "Frere Jacques" tune. Connery really liked that one, singing along quite competently with both parts. I got some of it on digital recording, footage that I trust will be invaluable when he wants to start dating.