We were in Marion over the Fourth of July, and we had the occasion to walk back to my mom’s house from a restaurant in a dying shopping center not far away.  A good part of that walk was through a expansive empty parking lot, originally paved for a now-defunct movie theater. 

My most vivid memory of that lot and that theater is a June evening in 1982.  My dad and I were going to see E.T.  It’s the only time I can remember him suggesting and organizing something for us to do together.  For some reason, I was convinced this was a big enough event to wear my suit (not E.T., not superhero; a regular suit). 

We drove the twenty or so minutes into town and found a line extending from the theater doors, well into the lot.  We got out of the car and joined the line.  In my mind, this increased the excitement; I didn’t think about the potential problem such imbalance between supply and demand could create.

We stood in line only a few minutes; I doubt it really even moved at all.  I remember seeing a woman open one of the exit doors and hearing her shout, “Everyone here for the six o’clock E.T.: It’s sold out.”  She repeated the news, but I still had to ask what that meant. 

“We have to go home.”

Please note (ha): The only person I’m not furious at is the kid. Found this in a book as I’m getting things ready for the move to Central.

Earlier this month, Colin spent a week with his grandparents in Marion, during which he had two 45-minute swim lessons with an old high school friend of ours. Through the magic of Facebook, we got two very detailed follow-ups (thanks, Mark) that I’ve been thinking about quite a bit since I eagerly read them to see how Colin was doing in the pool.

These two lessons, which essentially comprise a complete assessment and instruction cycle, provide a useful way of thinking about teaching and learning.  While it’s true that working with one five-year-old swimmer in a pool is very different from teaching 25 adolescents in a classroom, I think there’s a lot to gain from a closer look at what Mark and Colin did together.

First, the lessons began with a clearly defined set of goals that served as the basis of preassessment.  Mark identified six essential points of instruction (holding breath, swimming underwater, not holding nose, repetitive diving, kicking, and breathing to the side) and worked with Colin to see where he needed to focus instruction.  Mark also recognized that teaching is a personal and social act, and he shared with Colin stories about going to school with Sarah and me, and mentioned to Colin that he and I have birthdays just a day apart.

Mark observed in the first lesson that Colin is pretty adept at most of the things he planned to work on, thanks to Sarah’s trips with him to the pool.  And Colin displayed a tendency to depend too much on his mask to control breathing and prevent water intake.  As a result, Mark modified his instructional plan to meet the needs he uncovered by teaching Colin how to float in the second session.  This is where Mark’s feedback became very interesting to me.

I have to admit that I viewed the idea of swimming lessons in terms of general good sense and “have more fun in the pool” time, but Mark framed his instruction in meaningful, real world terms. He noted that “novice swimmers start to panic when water gets in their nose.  In a pool with a mask, that doesn’t happen, but if he falls in a pond or off a boat, would he be able to sustain his life in the event of an accident?”  While this takes some of the fun out of the idea of swim lessons, it connects what Colin sees as a fun activity to the very real point that he’s learning some pretty serious skills.

Mark concluded his feedback with a list of several skills that Colin still needs to master and some specific strategies and activities we can use to build those skills, completing the cycle and setting the stage for a new one.  His ability to do so with such clarity and specificity left me a bit ashamed: When parents asked me what they could do to help their kids read or write better over the summer, I tended to rely on vague, common sense types of suggestions and hope they bought it (which they typically did, luckily).

As I noted earlier, this teaching and learning situation is vastly different from what can happen in a secondary classroom, but I take from it two points that can serve as the focus for professional growth.  The first is difficult because secondary teachers simply work with too many students, but I know I need to try to pay more attention to what students’ work is telling me.  Instead of assessing for a grade (at my worst) or for evidence of mastery (at my best), I need to assess consistently for instructional information:  What needs to happen next based on what the student is revealing to me now?

That will be a significant, but worthy, challenge.  Easier, and much more fundamental, is having absolute clarity of goals.  Mark could not have preassessed had he not known specifically what a proficient swimmer needs to be able to do.  Too often, I would start working with students on a novel or a writing task because it was on the curriculum guide, not because I had achieved thoughtful alignment among learning goals, the instructional activities, and the materials. Beginning the instructional process with the end in mind, and with a sense of real world transferability, is key to the way Mark worked with Colin.

So, thanks again, Mark, for working with Colin.  And thanks for prompting some teacher reflection in me as well.

It’s not zeugema.  It’s not even syllepsis.  I’m still searching for the rhetorical term that describes an author’s artful shift of meaning through repetition.

It’s definitely wordplay of sorts, but unlike a pun (“He kneads me,” Dot says of her new lover, Louis the baker, in Sunday in the Park with George after claiming earlier to love the “size” of artist Georges Seurat), the play I’m talking about is dynamic.  It’s not two meanings implicit in one word; it’s two meanings generated from the same word or phrase when sung in two different contexts.

I’ll discuss three  examples from two musicals, Sweeney Todd and Gypsy, but it’s not as if I’m choosing from a wealth of possibilities as I have in earlier posts.  The infrequency of this construction is so dependent on character and context that I have to conclude that it’s pretty hard to pull off.  What I like about these three is examples is that, though they share a common technique of shifting meaning through repetition, they’re all extremely different, varying both in terms of how they’re constructed and what they reveal about character or contribute to meaning of the work.

The opening scene-proper of the Sweeney Todd is a duet of sorts between Antony, an idealistic sailor, and the horrifically wronged Sweeney Todd.  As they enter the port of London aboard a ship (Sweeney Todd is returning illegally from imprisonment abroad on a “trumped up charge”), Antony delights at the sight of the city:

I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders
From the Dardanells, to the mountains of Peru
But there’s no place like London!

And soon, in a move more sophisticated than mere verbal irony (“Even after the party, I feel great today.”  ”Ugh, yeah, I’m really feeling great, too.”), Todd joins Antony in a repetition of the line “There’s no place like London,” continuting thusly:

You are young. Life has been kind to you.
You will learn.

He goes on to offer his perspective on the “hole in the world like a great black pit” known as London, giving sincere emotional potency to his jaded (and perhaps more accurate) view that nowhere else in the world can compare, in terms of cruelty and inhumanity, to the city at the mouth of the Thames.

Sweeney Todd offers another example of meaning that shifts through repetition at the end of the first act, an example just as dark as the first, but also extremely funny.  I like this example quite a bit because it captures the spirit of the musical so well.  It’s dark and it’s tragic, but it’s also witty and over-the-top.  It comes at the end of the song “A Little Priest,” in which Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney engage in a blinding array of puns and jokes about that various professional folk they will serve up in meat pies now that Mr. Todd has cut the throat of his first victim.

They conclude:

Todd	Have charity towards the world, my pet!
Lovett	Yes, yes, I know, my love!
Todd	We’ll take the customers that we can get!
Lovett	High-born and low, my love!
Todd	We’ll not discriminate great from small!
	No, we’ll serve anyone,
	Meaning anyone,
Both	And to anyone
	At all!

Surely, the word to has been used to no greater effect than in shifting the meaning of the repeated anyone in relation to the slippery transitive and intransitve verb serve, especially when humans, er, serve as both direct and indirect objects. (Hey, I think I’ve convinced myself this is, in fact, an example of syllepsis after all.)

Labels aside, Sondheim’s most powerful lyrical shift through repetition has to be the moment in “Rose’s Turn” from Gypsy in which Rose briefly reprises “Everything’s Coming up Roses” (double meaning as plural and possessive intentional, of course) before launching into her final tirade against her daughters (and herself).  

The reprise is marked by a calming shift in the music, and a comforting return to a familiar song after the jarring burlesque nature of the opening of “Rose’s Turn. ” Rose sings:

I had a dream.
I dreamed it for you, June.

Indicating to her long- and still-absent daughter that her goals of show business success were somehow selflessly motivated by the desire for June’s good, it’s as if she hears the echo of Herbie’s criticism as she continues:

It wasn’t for me, Herbie.
And if it wasn’t for me
then where would you be,
Miss Gypsy Rose Lee?

The dual meanings of “it wasn’t for me”–in addition to clarifying the need for the subjunctive mood in English–get to the core of Rose’s character.  She didn’t do what she did out of the selfish need for attention and validation of worth; nor did she do it purely for the good of her daughters.  She did it for both. And when she realizes she may come up empty on both fronts, you’ve got the makings of a pretty devastating moment.

For me, anyway.

# 6: Guest blog on Assassins
# 5: Guest blog on Gypsy
# 4: Density and Intensity
# 3: Lyrics as conversation and dialogue
# 2: Lyrics as expression of character and dramatic theme
# 1: Lyrics as expression of complexity

One of my (many) favorite things about the city is its subway system. The first thing I buy on nearly every trip is my 7-day unlimited MetroCard at the airport.  For a mere $25, I can get anywhere I want in the city, provided my destination is serviced by one of the lines on that iconic map.

But getting from A to B is only part of the appeal of the New York City Subway line.  As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a big fan of reading geographically appropriate literature, and the sometimes lengthy trip from one end of a borough to  the other provides plenty of time to savor the likes of Salinger, Pete Hamill, or Claude Brown.

Colin and Sarah's first ride on the subway, Summer 2007.

And, of course, there’s something authentically urban about riding the subway.  Only 70 or so cities in the world have an underground system, and the scale of human population that necessitates such transit naturally plays out in the riding experience.  Without precise knowledge of where you are on a line, you can infer accurately whether you’re in a place that’s desirable to go to, or get away from, depending on the time of day.  As an observant visitor, I find that riding on the subway provides snapshots into the real life of the people of the city.

I’m also quite interested in the history and human achievement represented by the subway system.  On a recent trip, I made the time to go to the Transit Museum, housed in a decommissioned subway station in Brooklyn.  Pictured here are the interiors of a couple subway cars from bygone eras.

1970s-ish?

Real Old-Timey

I expected to take in the history of the subway system in exhibits such as these, but I was unprepared for the social history revealed in the preserved or restored subway ads in each of the cars.  Subway ads are quite entertaining, running the gamut from national ads for the latest blockbuster to local advertising for doctors who specialize in foot care and/or sexual dysfunction.  I hadn’t necessarily thought about  how accurately ads reveal the styles, tastes, and values of a time until I saw the likes of the ads below.

Enjoy their earnest and authoritative good nature!

The specificity of their "statistic" is astounding. Does anybody...still wear...a hat?

I particularly enjoy how the "facts" are in "quotes."

Other entries in the New York stories series:

• Vol. 6: June 2009 trip highlights
• Vol. 5: Some historical sites
• Vol. 4: Eating in the city
• Vol. 3: The Brooklyn Bridge
• Vol. 2: Green spaces in the city
• Vol. 1: Central Park

The first five notes of Bill Evans’s take on the Gershwin/ Heyward folk opera aria “I Loves You Porgy” are an intoxicating, atmospheric invitation to one of the most beautiful collaborations by a jazz trio, rivaled (in my mind) only by that same trio’s rendition of another tune from Porgy and Bess, “My Man’s Gone Now.”

The track begins with Evans playing a single note on the keyboard, and as the melody builds slowly upward, a line descends from the initial tone until the chord is fully realized on the downbeat.  The bass joins with a dull pluck balanced by the first of many extended shimmers from the cymbal.  It’s expected at this point for the musical tension of an introductory partial measure to be resolved, but in this case we gladly endure the suspense of an extra note (the first syllable of “Porgy,” if you’re familiar with the lyric).

This is the musical equivalent of being asked to lean in closer and closer by a masterful storyteller who, conscious of his audience’s growing interest, intentionally withholds gratification simply to prove he can.  While it’s true that this tension is inherent in the Gershwin score, Evans executes it with such clean elegance and simplicity, it’s hard to imagine it being performed with any more grace, intelligence, or integrity.

I feel it’s especially appropriate to discuss the music in terms of the relationship between artist and audience in this case, as “I Loves You Porgy” was recorded live as part of the now legendary sessions at the Village Vanguard.  Consequently, present from the start of the track (and throughout) is the lively murmur of the crowd, complete with clinking glasses and dinnerware, punctuated occasionally by laughter.

Far from distracting, I find the audience noise an integral part of the beauty of this recording, putting us in a particular night with a particular crowd in that cramped room in the basement of a building in the West Village.  Bill Evans, Scott LaFaro, and Paul Motian perform not in spite of the audience’s noise, but because of the people gathered there to listen.

The song continues in the style of the opening phrase, opting for clarity of line and reveling in the natural ebb and flow of the music’s romance.  Just the players seem delightfully lost in the improvisational atmosphere they’re creating, they sober up at the five minute mark and return to the deliberateness of those opening five notes.  As we hear the line “I Loves You Porgy” this time—the final time—the tempo slows and any of the song’s playfulness fades into dignified reflection.

And the audience applauds.

This is the opening entry in an ongoing series reflecting on particularly influential or outstanding tracks from favorite albums or artists.

Though this Fourth of July is comaparably mild (and rainy) here in Southern Illinois, it’s an appropriate time to add my “keeping cool” recollections to those begun by Charlie, [dan] , and Ryan.  The Fourth typically marked the beginning of sweltering weather that would continue through early September.  By that point in the summer we had been relying on our go-to cool down plan for well over a month: swimming in the Lake of Egypt.

My childhood neighborhood, pictured awkwardly at right courtesy of Google Maps, was on a peninsula that thrust itself out into the lake.  Once you turned onto our road (not known as “Clifty Heights Drive” back then, by the way), the only ways out were to turn around or swim.

Every house had a backyard that ended with the  lake, so every summer morning presented only one decision: Whose dock would be home base for our more or less day-long  swim?

Our house was on the west side of the neighborood, thus facing a much more open section of the lake.  This meant we would get some boat traffic and consequent wave action if we swam there.

Much more frequently, though, we opted for a friend’s house on the east side, where there was little boat traffic and, significantly, her family’s dock was long and didn’t have side rails, making it much more effective for leaping in.

If we needed a break from bathing with seaweed and blue gill, we had another cool-off technique that seems ridiculous now, but I can’t recall if we realized it then.  After stealing enough loose change from around the house to make the trip worthwhile, we’d hop on our bikes and ride the mile or so through the heat to the closest seat of commerce in the area: the local bait shop.

In addition to live bait, Dempsey’s served up an array of cold soda and candy.  We’d make our purchase and return to the gravel parking lot to chug a sugary drink and down a package of Runts.  Hopping back our bikes and making the trek back home invariably left us hotter and sweatier than we’d started.

We  made the trips in our swimsuits, though, and the time it took to get from the road to the dock and back into the lake was short.

Inspired by the Pitchfork interview model (in which people discuss “the music they loved at five-year interval points in their lives” with the goal of getting “a detailed roadmap of how their tastes and passions helped make them who they are” or learning something odd and obscure) and prodded by [ dan ], I hereby submit my list.

Like any exercise, this task reveals some trends but leaves out hugely significant ones.  I need a separate entry explaining the absence of pop culture influence through the typically formative years.  My family’s odd relationship with music (and most other consumer goods) as well as my inability to take a critical stance on this documentary will play into that entry.  Until then..exchange your grandma’s dollar for tokens…I’ve got a fever that’s driving me crazy!!

Age 5 | “Pac Man Fever” (Buckner & Garcia)

I don’t remember the presence of too many records in our house growing up, but I can vividly recall this album’s iconic cover and the giddy feelings conjured by hearing the sounds associated with Aladdin’s Castle in the Carbondale mall coming out of our huge record player/stereo console.

Clear evidence that I experienced this musical masterwork on vinyl: the first four songs are burned in my memory, while the last four are totally unfamiliar.

Age 10 | ”Rock Me Amadeus” (Falco)

Regarded by some as the “the single worst pop song recorded in the entire decade of the 1980s,” I must have liked something about this mess of a synth-pop-chant tribute to Wolfgang.

My brother got me the cassette of Falco 3 as a present, and I gave it back to him when the other songs “weren’t as good” as “Rock Me Amadeus.”  Classic.

Age 15 | “Recipe for Love” (Harry Connick, Jr.)

While others were in the throes of adolescent angst and smelling teen spirit, I was happily swingin’ to the big band sounds of Harry Connick, Jr.  Sarah introduced me to this disc, and I eventually came to appreciate Harry as a piano player more than a singer.  He doesn’t play much on this album, and the tracks alternate “happy”/”sad” a bit too drastically and predictably, but I can trace my interest in jazz piano to recordings such as this one from high school.

Age 20 | “Do Nothin’ til You Hear from Me” (Ann Hampton Callaway)

As if there’s need for further evidence that my musical tastes were out of the mainstream and out of the alt-stream, I listened to this album quite a bit the year it was released.  Ann Hampton Callaway, a smart and strong jazz singer, came recommended by a friend.  This track represents an exceptional balance between her voice and  the fantastic instrumentalists with whom she surrounds herself.

Age 25 | Is This It (The Strokes)

A lot happened between 20 and 25.  I definitely can’t pick a favorite track on this album.   I also cannot separate it from memories of much Honey Brown at Jupiter’s during extended happy hours on Thursday afternoon-evening-nights.  While I like nearly every track, my response to this album is much more about the sound of the band than any particular song. It’s as if I was getting the chance to experience in 2001 some key sounds and styles that had passed me by earlier.

Age 30 | “Star Witness” (Neko Case)

By this time, I think I’d caught up with the world and developed an informed sense of musical taste (better late than never).  I came to know Neko both through a recommendation and her collaboration with the New Pornographers, but this album sealed the deal for me.  That voice … and original tunes that are a perfect blend of folk, country, and “indie-rock.”  Any lyricist who can pen a line like  ”Hey, pretty baby, get high with me / We can go to my sister’s if we say we’ll watch the baby” without inducing cringes is doing something very right.