"What About Now": B+. What About Now is the tenth album I've reviewed since I started blogging, but the first by Bon Jovi. The pride of Sayreville, New Jersey is my favorite band still recording and touring, and Momma Cuandito and I are going to see them in concert next month. (Their concert which we attended in 2010 is one of the three best I've ever attended.) For all those reasons I was really hoping that their newest album would be dynamite. I am slightly disappointed that I don't like the new offering as much as I'd hoped, but after repeated listenings it has grown on me enough to give it a B+. Not bad, since I was only willing to go with a B- after my first listen. The problem, mostly, is with the ballads. More on that shortly.
In one sense, this new album is constructed in a fashion similar to a good baseball team, with the heavy hitters positioned in the middle of the lineup. You'll find the big knockers on the new album at numbers 3, 4 and 6 in the track order: the title track at # 3, followed by my favorite song, Pictures Of You, and then the sixth track, That's What The Water Made Me. (Yes, my analogy to baseball would have been much better if the best songs were at "3-4-5" instead of "3-4-6," but I'm not going to let a little thing like the difference between "5" and "6" keep me from employing it.) I would hazard a guess that the reason for breaking up the triumvirate is that the hard driving beat among those three favored songs is almost identical. It was apparent from listening to the fourth track following the third track. To have a third immediately succeeding song with the same tempo would have been too obvious, so they inserted the album's slowest song, Amen, in the 5-hole.
The title track, What About Now, is a call to action. You don't get anything done by merely dreaming about it.
You wanna start a fight
You gotta take a swing.
You gotta get your hands in the dirt
To see what the harvest will bring.
The people who make the greatest difference for the betterment of man are those who go beyond the dreaming and wishing stage.
Pictures Of You is, lyrically, a simple admission by the singer that no matter what happens in his life, he can't erase from his mind the images and memories of his former love. Even though the sentiment is not a unique concept -- indeed, it's almost a universal music theme -- the song is classic Bon Jovi, with pulsating drums from the excellent Tico Torres, a super guitar break from Richie Sambora, poetic metaphors in the verses coupled with a bridge that works very nicely, and the two-part harmony that is a signature item on many of the band's best offerings.
The third rocker, That's What The Water Made Me, is another showcase for Torres' mastery of the skins. In my book, he is the unsung hero of the group, working his butt off in concert and in the studio, using all of his kit's apparatus and never missing a beat. The lyrics here are a little obscure, but my take is that it's a Popeye tune: I yam what I yam, so don't try to change me.
As so often happens with new albums these days, some of the better songs on the record are found among the bonus tracks, for which the customer is asked to cough up three extra bucks. Exhibits A and B in that regard are With These Two Hands and Into The Echo, two of the three bonuses. The former song repeats the admonishment of the title track, i.e., spend less time wishing and more time doing. The latter song is harder to decipher, but in a way that's what makes it worth listening to. I believe the singer is revealing that some people have a difficult time expressing their thoughts to another person, so they go off by themselves to sort it all out. Hearing the echo come back at you is like having a conversation with yourself. (Carried to the extreme, that could spell trouble!)
Into the echo, we shout our dreams
Into the echo, we throw our hearts.
Bon Jovi fans can usually count on there being one or two memorable ballads on every album. But the seven slow songs on What About Now are, as a group, the weak links. I'd be willing to carve out as exceptions the love song Thick As Thieves, and possibly Room At The End Of The World for its imagery, but I can think of eight or nine slow tempo songs from other Bon Jovi albums that I prefer over each of the remaining five on What About Now. Addition by subtraction, i.e., lopping off a couple of those inferior ballads, would have made for a better album.
In 2007 Bon Jovi released its first and only country flavored album, Lost Highway. There was some backlash from the band's core fan base which disliked any deviation from straight rock, but that album did prove that Bon Jovi can mix it up. On What About Now there is one song which recalls that style, What's Left Of Me. It is a jaunty mid-tempo pop/country hybrid with plenty of blue grassy mandolin. The cleverly written first person lyrics paint mini-stories of people who have known success but have currently fallen on hard times. Nevertheless, the singer keeps his chin up, hoping the tide will turn soon. The beat is reminiscent of an old Bon Jovi tune from 1994, Someday I'll Be Saturday Night. The theme and the beat of both songs are amazingly similar. Despite previous objections raised by their fans over the incorporation of a country feel, I would like to see Bon Jovi stick their collective big toes in those waters again.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Movie Review: "Oz The Great And Powerful"
"Oz The Great And Powerful": B+. My great personal dilemma: Do I let my dislike for James Franco result in my passing up this movie, even though the original 1939 film, The Wizard Of Oz, is one of my all time favorites? I decided "no," and it's a good thing for the St. Louis Park Mann Theater that I did. I was the only patron in the viewing audience yesterday for the 4:15 matinee.
The new movie is a prequel to the original, focusing on how "the man behind the curtain" became the Wizard of Oz. The story opens in 1905 Kansas at a countryside carnival. There are painted ladies, jugglers, magicians, acrobats, muscular barbell lifters and barkers, all trying to entice the gullible customers to lay down their money. One of the central figures in this motley circus crew is Oscar "Oz" Diggs (Franco), who makes his living as a charlatan, with slight of hand magic and super powers that captivate the audience. Offstage, he is always on the make, trying to seduce women by giving them a cheap music box with a phony story about it being a family heirloom which he's been saving to present to the right girl. It turns out one of those girls is the significant other of the barbell lifter, who storms into Oz' trailer to tear him apart. Oz escapes in a hot air ballon which gets caught up in a cyclone. Of course, he ends up crashing in the Land of Oz.
One of the strong points of the movie is the beautiful special effects which portray the strange new land as unworldly, in a good way. There are splendorous mountains, rivers, trees and flowers, with the strangest wildlife one can imagine. It isn't long before Oz encounters Theodora (Mila Kunis), who gives him the lowdown on his surroundings and steers him toward the yellow brick road, which, as we all know, leads to the Emerald City. Along the way we are treated to a flying monkey named Finley and a talking miniature china doll who escort Oz, munchkins, witches, and other animate and inanimate objects which remind us of the 1939 film. Theodora is one of those witches, but Oz doesn't seem to mind. He pulls the old music box sham on her, a move which will eventually get him into trouble.
Theodora's sister is Evanora (Rachel Weisz), another witch whose evil mind is revealed early on to the viewers. The counter balance is the Good Witch of the South, Glinda (Michelle Williams). (Whether Theodora is good or evil is something that does not immediately become apparent.) Glinda briefs Oz on the history of the kingdom's people, and how they have been anticipating the return of a wizard to take the place of her dearly departed grandfather. Glinda knows Oz is a scam artist and not really a wizard, but what the people need now to satisfy their hopes and dreams is any kind of wizard, be it real or fake. Glinda figures that what the people don't know won't hurt them. Oz' true identity will be his and Glinda's little secret. Once Glinda shows Oz the treasure trove of the kingdom's gold coins, he is all in.
How do the forces of good manage against the forces of evil? Will Oz ever get back to Kansas? How does Theodora, to whom Oz has bestowed a music box, react when Glinda moves in on her guy? How does Oz' mastery of prestidigitation come into play? Is Oz really great and powerful?
I particularly liked the way the film honors the original, and how everything meshes with and sets up the continuation of the story as told in the '39 film. The parallels and links are obvious: the good and bad witches, the flying monkeys and munchkins, the yellow brick road, the naivety of the common folk with their unquestioned faith in the wizard, and the use of special effects, particularly colors, fires and explosions. Not to be overlooked are the friends the protagonist meets along the way. In the original, it's Dorothy befriending the scarecrow, the tin man and the cowardly lion. The new prequel doesn't top that, but we do have Oz engaging Theodora, Finley and the china doll as he makes his way.
In 1995 one of the hot pop culture topics was how the music from Pink Floyd's album Dark Side Of The Moon seemed to be synchronized with the video of the original Wizard Of Oz. The album came out in 1973, thirty-four years after the movie. I wonder if any of today's music artists have started working on an album to synch with the new prequel. I hope so; I probably don't have thirty-four more years to wait.
The new movie is a prequel to the original, focusing on how "the man behind the curtain" became the Wizard of Oz. The story opens in 1905 Kansas at a countryside carnival. There are painted ladies, jugglers, magicians, acrobats, muscular barbell lifters and barkers, all trying to entice the gullible customers to lay down their money. One of the central figures in this motley circus crew is Oscar "Oz" Diggs (Franco), who makes his living as a charlatan, with slight of hand magic and super powers that captivate the audience. Offstage, he is always on the make, trying to seduce women by giving them a cheap music box with a phony story about it being a family heirloom which he's been saving to present to the right girl. It turns out one of those girls is the significant other of the barbell lifter, who storms into Oz' trailer to tear him apart. Oz escapes in a hot air ballon which gets caught up in a cyclone. Of course, he ends up crashing in the Land of Oz.
One of the strong points of the movie is the beautiful special effects which portray the strange new land as unworldly, in a good way. There are splendorous mountains, rivers, trees and flowers, with the strangest wildlife one can imagine. It isn't long before Oz encounters Theodora (Mila Kunis), who gives him the lowdown on his surroundings and steers him toward the yellow brick road, which, as we all know, leads to the Emerald City. Along the way we are treated to a flying monkey named Finley and a talking miniature china doll who escort Oz, munchkins, witches, and other animate and inanimate objects which remind us of the 1939 film. Theodora is one of those witches, but Oz doesn't seem to mind. He pulls the old music box sham on her, a move which will eventually get him into trouble.
Theodora's sister is Evanora (Rachel Weisz), another witch whose evil mind is revealed early on to the viewers. The counter balance is the Good Witch of the South, Glinda (Michelle Williams). (Whether Theodora is good or evil is something that does not immediately become apparent.) Glinda briefs Oz on the history of the kingdom's people, and how they have been anticipating the return of a wizard to take the place of her dearly departed grandfather. Glinda knows Oz is a scam artist and not really a wizard, but what the people need now to satisfy their hopes and dreams is any kind of wizard, be it real or fake. Glinda figures that what the people don't know won't hurt them. Oz' true identity will be his and Glinda's little secret. Once Glinda shows Oz the treasure trove of the kingdom's gold coins, he is all in.
How do the forces of good manage against the forces of evil? Will Oz ever get back to Kansas? How does Theodora, to whom Oz has bestowed a music box, react when Glinda moves in on her guy? How does Oz' mastery of prestidigitation come into play? Is Oz really great and powerful?
I particularly liked the way the film honors the original, and how everything meshes with and sets up the continuation of the story as told in the '39 film. The parallels and links are obvious: the good and bad witches, the flying monkeys and munchkins, the yellow brick road, the naivety of the common folk with their unquestioned faith in the wizard, and the use of special effects, particularly colors, fires and explosions. Not to be overlooked are the friends the protagonist meets along the way. In the original, it's Dorothy befriending the scarecrow, the tin man and the cowardly lion. The new prequel doesn't top that, but we do have Oz engaging Theodora, Finley and the china doll as he makes his way.
In 1995 one of the hot pop culture topics was how the music from Pink Floyd's album Dark Side Of The Moon seemed to be synchronized with the video of the original Wizard Of Oz. The album came out in 1973, thirty-four years after the movie. I wonder if any of today's music artists have started working on an album to synch with the new prequel. I hope so; I probably don't have thirty-four more years to wait.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
The Silent Saint
Today, March 19, is the Feast of St. Joseph, the Silent Saint. Since he has always been one of my faves, I think it's only right to give him a quick shout out. I was inspired to do so after watching a video of NBC sports personality Bob Costas deliver a eulogy at the funeral Mass of the greatest St. Louis Cardinal of them all, Stan "The Man" Musial, two months ago. If you have nineteen minutes, but no more time to spare than that, you would be better served to skip my post here and find Costas' speech on YouTube. It is one of the best eulogies I've ever heard.
Musial was known not only for his tremendous baseball skills which made him a first ballot Hall of Famer -- only thirty-nine players have been so honored since the inaugural induction in 1936 -- but for the humility and genuineness he displayed throughout and after his career. To illustrate the point, Costas tells a short story about the 1995 funeral Mass of Mickey Mantle, at which Costas also delivered a eulogy. As Costas tells it, sitting in an ad hoc VIP section in the front pews was a throng of baseball celebrities, including Whitey Ford, Reggie Jackson, Commissioner Bud Selig, Yankee owner George Steinbrenner, and Willie Mays, to name a few. Mid-way through the Mantle eulogy, Costas looked out at the crowd and there was The Man, standing off to the side near the back of the church. This impressed Costas not only because it was apparent that Musial did not feel the need to be in the place of honor with all the other dignitaries, but also because Musial, unlike the other men in the VIP section, had no direct nexus to The Mick. They played in different leagues in different cities, and were polar opposites as far as life styles were concerned. At age seventy-five, Musial had taken a plane from St. Louis to Dallas for the sole purpose of paying honor to a baseball legend and giving comfort to the Mantle family. (Note: The eulogy Costas gave at Mantle's funeral is also available on YouTube.)
I recently ran across a similar anecdote about Bob Dylan while reading a lengthly feature which appeared in the Star Tribune on February 3, 2013. Writer Jon Bream relates how, when Dylan attended the graduation of his oldest child, Maria, from Macalaster College in 1983, "he stood off in the shadows, under a tree." It was his daughter's day, and he knew he'd become a distraction if he was spotted by others in attendance.
There have been dozens, if not hundreds, of stories about the new pope, Francis I. One recounts how when the conclave of cardinals was assembled in 2005 to elect the successor to the then-recently departed Pope John Paul II, there were enough ballots cast for Argentine Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio of Buenos Aires to place him a close second behind German Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger who, although he had the most votes, did not possess the requisite seventy-five percent majority. When it was time to conduct another vote, rather than actively campaign for more votes Cardinal Bergoglio suggested to his backers that they throw their support behind Cardinal Ratzinger. They did, and as a result Cardinal Ratzinger became Pope Benedict XVI on the very next day. Cardinal Bergoglio's humility was not forgotten by his peers earlier this month, when they elected him to succeed Pope Benedict.
Back to St. Joe, a humble man who perhaps was among the very first persons for whom the saying, "It's not always about you" was modeled. (Of course, who had a better reason for realizing that truism?) He is called the Silent Saint because, even though he is one of the most renowned and important saints in the history of the Church, he is never quoted in the Bible. When you think of it, that is pretty amazing considering all the other New Testament figures (including the doubter, St. Thomas, and the traitor, Judas) who are quoted. Something tells me that is just the way Papa Joe would have wanted it.
Musial was known not only for his tremendous baseball skills which made him a first ballot Hall of Famer -- only thirty-nine players have been so honored since the inaugural induction in 1936 -- but for the humility and genuineness he displayed throughout and after his career. To illustrate the point, Costas tells a short story about the 1995 funeral Mass of Mickey Mantle, at which Costas also delivered a eulogy. As Costas tells it, sitting in an ad hoc VIP section in the front pews was a throng of baseball celebrities, including Whitey Ford, Reggie Jackson, Commissioner Bud Selig, Yankee owner George Steinbrenner, and Willie Mays, to name a few. Mid-way through the Mantle eulogy, Costas looked out at the crowd and there was The Man, standing off to the side near the back of the church. This impressed Costas not only because it was apparent that Musial did not feel the need to be in the place of honor with all the other dignitaries, but also because Musial, unlike the other men in the VIP section, had no direct nexus to The Mick. They played in different leagues in different cities, and were polar opposites as far as life styles were concerned. At age seventy-five, Musial had taken a plane from St. Louis to Dallas for the sole purpose of paying honor to a baseball legend and giving comfort to the Mantle family. (Note: The eulogy Costas gave at Mantle's funeral is also available on YouTube.)
I recently ran across a similar anecdote about Bob Dylan while reading a lengthly feature which appeared in the Star Tribune on February 3, 2013. Writer Jon Bream relates how, when Dylan attended the graduation of his oldest child, Maria, from Macalaster College in 1983, "he stood off in the shadows, under a tree." It was his daughter's day, and he knew he'd become a distraction if he was spotted by others in attendance.
There have been dozens, if not hundreds, of stories about the new pope, Francis I. One recounts how when the conclave of cardinals was assembled in 2005 to elect the successor to the then-recently departed Pope John Paul II, there were enough ballots cast for Argentine Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio of Buenos Aires to place him a close second behind German Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger who, although he had the most votes, did not possess the requisite seventy-five percent majority. When it was time to conduct another vote, rather than actively campaign for more votes Cardinal Bergoglio suggested to his backers that they throw their support behind Cardinal Ratzinger. They did, and as a result Cardinal Ratzinger became Pope Benedict XVI on the very next day. Cardinal Bergoglio's humility was not forgotten by his peers earlier this month, when they elected him to succeed Pope Benedict.
Back to St. Joe, a humble man who perhaps was among the very first persons for whom the saying, "It's not always about you" was modeled. (Of course, who had a better reason for realizing that truism?) He is called the Silent Saint because, even though he is one of the most renowned and important saints in the history of the Church, he is never quoted in the Bible. When you think of it, that is pretty amazing considering all the other New Testament figures (including the doubter, St. Thomas, and the traitor, Judas) who are quoted. Something tells me that is just the way Papa Joe would have wanted it.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Altar Boying At St. Joe's
Yesterday the cardinals of the Catholic Church elected the Archbishop of Buenos Aires, Jorge Bergoglio, as the new pope, Francis I. He becomes just the seventh pope during my lifetime. In honor of the this momentous occasion, it seems only fitting that I should take this opportunity to share with you reflections of my glory days as an altar boy at St. Joseph's School in Libertyville, Illinois. Yes, the same St. Joe's whose basketball team I played on and described here in my March 30, 2012 post (Hoop Dreams At St. Joe's). Actually, I am going to take the lazy way out, hoping that Pope Frank won't look upon my decision as a sign of disrespect.
I've already established in my November 21, 2012 post (Butter) that it is within the house rules to plagiarize myself, so that is my game plan today. In late summer 2005, about forty-five of my St. Joe classmates (Class of 1961) started sending group e-mails to each other, recounting memories of the old days, including anecdotes about lay teachers and the nuns, parish priests, church ceremonies, fellow schoolmates, and various funny things that happened around St. Joe's. A bunch of old pictures (none including me) were also transmitted. At first I wasn't going to write anything, but after enjoying my classmates' stories for a couple of weeks I decided to toss in my two cents' worth regarding altar boy memories, as that topic had barely been broached. A slightly edited version of my e-mail to my classmates dated September 9, 2005 appears below. Afterwards, several of them responded by adding an altar boy story of their own. My recollections give you an idea of what life was like as an altar boy in the pre-Vatican II days. Although there are a couple of examples of adults treating little kids rather badly (but certainly not criminally), most of it is on the light side. There is also a story involving my mom, Pook, which you might find humorous.
In case you are wondering, after two or three months of reuniting virtually via group e-mails, we did manage to congregate for a real class reunion in Libertyville in October 2005. It was something like Happy Days revisited.
May the Lord be with you.
***
Hello Everyone,
Thanks, Judy, for making the extra effort to find me, and thanks, Karla, for your warm words of welcome. I have often thought about St. Joe's, and all of you, over the years. In fact, every time I see a film clip of Bill Mazerowski's home run for the Pirates in the bottom of the ninth inning of the 1960 World Series, I think about St. Joe's. Why, you may ask? When we were in 8th grade, we talked Sister Zita into letting us watch the World Series on television in our classroom. Back in those days, all the WS games were played in the afternoon. Our room was located on the upper level, i.e., the new addition. Sister Z needed help transporting some textbooks to one of the rooms on the lower level, and I volunteered. During the five minutes I was gone, Maz stroked his homer, probably one of the three or four most famous home runs in the history of baseball. If only ESPN would have been around then, I would not have had to wait several years before seeing a replay.
I have thoroughly enjoyed being copied on the e-mails that have gone back and forth, and the pictures have stirred the memory pot. I was just going to lie low and be a silent reader, but I noticed a theme of religion developing (e.g., May crowning, hymns, genuflecting on cue, and of course the nuns), and it brought back so many recollections of "altar boying" (as Karla put it the other day) that I thought I would chime in.
Getting Started: The rookie altar boys were the third graders, and we had to memorize all of the Latin from little red booklets before we could actually serve. Our tutors were the wily veterans of the fourth grade who showed us the ropes. The fourth graders enjoyed playing the role of the priest on the altar when we practiced inside the church. I suppose it took me a few weeks to memorize all the Latin from cover to cover, and then I was finally ready to serve at Mass. For my first Mass, I prayed very hard that my fourth grade mentor would show up on time. Before he arrived, my knees were knocking from nervousness. Come to think of it, they never did stop knocking! Anyway... what I didn't realize until Mass started was that, although I knew all the Latin, I did not know when to stop/pause, so that the priest could interject his part of the opening prayers. With apologies to any Latin purists out there, the prayers spoken by the server at the beginning of Mass sounded something like this: "Ad deum qui lae tifficat, uven tutum maeum, quia tuis deus, et fortituda mea, quare me repuliste et quarre tristis incedo, dum affliget me in amicus..." I rattled it off all at once, not having a clue what any of it meant, like a runaway train. The poor priest could not get a word in edgewise until I ran out of breath.
The Book & The Bells: The altar boys usually served in pairs. To start the Mass, the two of us headed onto the altar from the sacristy single file in front of the priest. Whoever went out first from the sacristy would end up being the bell ringer. The trailing server would have more to do, such as transfering the book from the "epistle side" to the "gospel side," but, alas, he would not get to ring the bells. Therefore, if you really wanted to be the bell ringer, there was a definite strategy employed before Mass, jockeying for position at the sacristy door without making it obvious to the priest. Once we had been servers for a year or so, it was actually fun to serve Mass without a partner. That way, you could have all the action to yourself. The greatest danger in serving alone was that after you transferred the book before the gospel you would forget to move over to the right side at the foot of the steps below the altar where the bells were. Then you would look foolish when you had to switch sides later to get to the bells. That happened to me at least once or twice. After transferring the book I genuflected in the center, then unfortunately knelt on the left side. Pretty soon I realized, "Oh #@&*, I'm on the wrong side! How am I going to get over to where the bells are without anyone noticing my goof?" Answer: You can't. Just take a deep breath, slither over to the bells and do your duty. If the nuns were there, you'd hear about it.
Confiteor Races: A few minutes into the Mass, the two altar boys would be on their knees and would bend forward at the waist as far down as they could go to recite the Confiteor in Latin. The Confiteor was, by far, the longest prayer we had to say. The idea was that the two servers were supposed to finish the prayer simultaneously, and then "unbend" (or in other words, "pop up") when done. One sacriligious thing we did was to race with each other to see who could say the Confiteor the fastest; whoever popped up first was the winner. Sometimes we cheated by leaving out a few words or phrases. Who would ever know?
The Good Sisters: There is no question that the best altar boy gigs were the weddings and the funerals, because we would make tips. There was one undertaker in town who was particularly generous, but I can't recall his name. Unfortunately there were not a whole lot of those money-making opportunities. As I recall, St. Joe's had three week-day morning Masses, at 6:30, 7:15 and 8:00, and the altar boys were assigned to serve the same Mass time for the entire week. You might think that getting stuck with the 6:30 Mass was the pits, but I always thought the worst assignment was the 7:15 Mass. That is the Mass the good nuns attended, and they sat right in the front. Some of the nuns were really cool. (I had a crush on our beautiful fourth grade teacher, Sister Janetina, as did most of the other guys in the room.) But the sterner ones had the uncanny ability to follow the Mass in their missals, pray the rosary, and keep a watchful eye on the altar boys, all at the same time. Quite a trifecta! You all probably recall that people knelt at an altar rail to receive communion, and the altar boys' job was to hold a patten (a circular metal plate at the end of a short wooden handle) under the chin of each communion recipient so that if the host fell the server would catch it on the patten. It wasn't bad enough that the 7:15 servers were under the scrutiny of several nuns; we also had to try to figure out how to get the doggone patten under their chins, which were almost totally encased in their habits. There were two other problems (minor by comparison) encountered at communion time. First, it was tough not to giggle when the nun who was your teacher stuck out her tongue to take the host. Second, the servers had to walk backwards along the communion rail while the priest moved from left to right, and all decorum was lost if your heels caught on your too-long cassock, sending you flying.
Sister Clotilde: This happened when we were in fourth or fifth grade, as I was in the sacristy taking off my cassock and surplice after serving a 7:15 Mass. Sister Clotilde, who was in charge of the altar boys and who (I think) was also the principal, came back there to see me. I foolishly thought she was going to compliment me on my serving, as my scheduled partner was a no-show that day and I didn't think I had made any major screw-ups. Instead, she told me that she had been observing me for a few days, and if I didn't get my folded hands up right under my chin during Mass, she was going to give me the heave-ho off the altar boy squad. I was totally crushed, but you can bet I made it a point to get my hands up there from then on. I was mostly afraid of what my Dad would say to me if I got the boot. I did not want to find out.
Father Loughry: This is really the only other negative... One week day, probably in about fifth grade, I was serving Mass by myself for Father Loughry, the crotchety old pastor. When he got to the offertory, he turned around and told me to go back into the sacristy and get him "the paper." I couldn't guess why he needed a newspaper in the middle of Mass, but I dutifully went into the sacristy to look for the paper. There was none to be found, so I timidly went back onto the altar to give him the bad news. He stormed down the altar stairs, went into the sacristy, and came back with a little piece of scratch paper which I hadn't seen, and on which apparently was written the name of a deceased parishioner for whom the Mass was being offered. When he made eye contact with me, he literally called me stupid. When I got home from school I told my Mom about it. My mother revered the priests and nuns, but when she heard what happened she reacted totally out of character. She called Father Loughry and chewed him out over the phone. Not bad for a little lady who was about 4 feet 10 and weighed about 90 pounds. To show Father Loughry had a heart after all, though, there is a post-script to my relationship with him, and ironically it has to do with a real newspaper. A few months after the "paper" incident I was again serving Mass for Father L on an extremely cold and snowy Saturday morning. After Mass he gave me a quarter and asked me to run over to the drugstore on Milwaukee Avenue to buy him the Chicago Tribune. I got the Trib, brought it to the rectory and handed over the paper and the fifteen cents change to the housekeeper. About thirty minutes later, Father Loughry called my house to tell me he had intended for me to keep the change, and that the next time I was near St. Joe's I should stop by to pick it up.
Father Burnikel: I've got to finish on a high note. My favorite part about being an altar boy was getting to serve for Father Burnikel, the young assistant pastor. What a great guy. It was customary that after Mass the altar boys would kneel down and the priest would give them his blessing. When Monsignor Koenig was the celebrant, you really felt like you were almost in the presence of God, as he blessed you and then laid his hand on your shoulder very reverently. On the other hand, after Father Burnikel blessed you, it would not be unlike him to muss up your hair or push you over with a laugh. He frequently had us cracking up at his jokes in the sacristy. This could be a problem when you were going for the "solemn look" on the altar. One time (I believe it was) Mark Morrison and I were about to serve Father B's Mass. Mark headed out the sacristy door onto the altar, and just as I was following, Father B told me to "sic 'em." I could not help but laugh out loud in plain view of the congregation. Thankfully, it was not a 7:15 weekday Mass, so you know who wasn't there. Thus, I lived to tell the tale.
Well, I guess I got carried away. I just returned from my high school reunion, so I must be in the "remembrance mode." If you read this far, thanks for sticking with it.
My best to you all.
Sincerely,
John P
I've already established in my November 21, 2012 post (Butter) that it is within the house rules to plagiarize myself, so that is my game plan today. In late summer 2005, about forty-five of my St. Joe classmates (Class of 1961) started sending group e-mails to each other, recounting memories of the old days, including anecdotes about lay teachers and the nuns, parish priests, church ceremonies, fellow schoolmates, and various funny things that happened around St. Joe's. A bunch of old pictures (none including me) were also transmitted. At first I wasn't going to write anything, but after enjoying my classmates' stories for a couple of weeks I decided to toss in my two cents' worth regarding altar boy memories, as that topic had barely been broached. A slightly edited version of my e-mail to my classmates dated September 9, 2005 appears below. Afterwards, several of them responded by adding an altar boy story of their own. My recollections give you an idea of what life was like as an altar boy in the pre-Vatican II days. Although there are a couple of examples of adults treating little kids rather badly (but certainly not criminally), most of it is on the light side. There is also a story involving my mom, Pook, which you might find humorous.
In case you are wondering, after two or three months of reuniting virtually via group e-mails, we did manage to congregate for a real class reunion in Libertyville in October 2005. It was something like Happy Days revisited.
May the Lord be with you.
***
Hello Everyone,
Thanks, Judy, for making the extra effort to find me, and thanks, Karla, for your warm words of welcome. I have often thought about St. Joe's, and all of you, over the years. In fact, every time I see a film clip of Bill Mazerowski's home run for the Pirates in the bottom of the ninth inning of the 1960 World Series, I think about St. Joe's. Why, you may ask? When we were in 8th grade, we talked Sister Zita into letting us watch the World Series on television in our classroom. Back in those days, all the WS games were played in the afternoon. Our room was located on the upper level, i.e., the new addition. Sister Z needed help transporting some textbooks to one of the rooms on the lower level, and I volunteered. During the five minutes I was gone, Maz stroked his homer, probably one of the three or four most famous home runs in the history of baseball. If only ESPN would have been around then, I would not have had to wait several years before seeing a replay.
I have thoroughly enjoyed being copied on the e-mails that have gone back and forth, and the pictures have stirred the memory pot. I was just going to lie low and be a silent reader, but I noticed a theme of religion developing (e.g., May crowning, hymns, genuflecting on cue, and of course the nuns), and it brought back so many recollections of "altar boying" (as Karla put it the other day) that I thought I would chime in.
Getting Started: The rookie altar boys were the third graders, and we had to memorize all of the Latin from little red booklets before we could actually serve. Our tutors were the wily veterans of the fourth grade who showed us the ropes. The fourth graders enjoyed playing the role of the priest on the altar when we practiced inside the church. I suppose it took me a few weeks to memorize all the Latin from cover to cover, and then I was finally ready to serve at Mass. For my first Mass, I prayed very hard that my fourth grade mentor would show up on time. Before he arrived, my knees were knocking from nervousness. Come to think of it, they never did stop knocking! Anyway... what I didn't realize until Mass started was that, although I knew all the Latin, I did not know when to stop/pause, so that the priest could interject his part of the opening prayers. With apologies to any Latin purists out there, the prayers spoken by the server at the beginning of Mass sounded something like this: "Ad deum qui lae tifficat, uven tutum maeum, quia tuis deus, et fortituda mea, quare me repuliste et quarre tristis incedo, dum affliget me in amicus..." I rattled it off all at once, not having a clue what any of it meant, like a runaway train. The poor priest could not get a word in edgewise until I ran out of breath.
The Book & The Bells: The altar boys usually served in pairs. To start the Mass, the two of us headed onto the altar from the sacristy single file in front of the priest. Whoever went out first from the sacristy would end up being the bell ringer. The trailing server would have more to do, such as transfering the book from the "epistle side" to the "gospel side," but, alas, he would not get to ring the bells. Therefore, if you really wanted to be the bell ringer, there was a definite strategy employed before Mass, jockeying for position at the sacristy door without making it obvious to the priest. Once we had been servers for a year or so, it was actually fun to serve Mass without a partner. That way, you could have all the action to yourself. The greatest danger in serving alone was that after you transferred the book before the gospel you would forget to move over to the right side at the foot of the steps below the altar where the bells were. Then you would look foolish when you had to switch sides later to get to the bells. That happened to me at least once or twice. After transferring the book I genuflected in the center, then unfortunately knelt on the left side. Pretty soon I realized, "Oh #@&*, I'm on the wrong side! How am I going to get over to where the bells are without anyone noticing my goof?" Answer: You can't. Just take a deep breath, slither over to the bells and do your duty. If the nuns were there, you'd hear about it.
Confiteor Races: A few minutes into the Mass, the two altar boys would be on their knees and would bend forward at the waist as far down as they could go to recite the Confiteor in Latin. The Confiteor was, by far, the longest prayer we had to say. The idea was that the two servers were supposed to finish the prayer simultaneously, and then "unbend" (or in other words, "pop up") when done. One sacriligious thing we did was to race with each other to see who could say the Confiteor the fastest; whoever popped up first was the winner. Sometimes we cheated by leaving out a few words or phrases. Who would ever know?
The Good Sisters: There is no question that the best altar boy gigs were the weddings and the funerals, because we would make tips. There was one undertaker in town who was particularly generous, but I can't recall his name. Unfortunately there were not a whole lot of those money-making opportunities. As I recall, St. Joe's had three week-day morning Masses, at 6:30, 7:15 and 8:00, and the altar boys were assigned to serve the same Mass time for the entire week. You might think that getting stuck with the 6:30 Mass was the pits, but I always thought the worst assignment was the 7:15 Mass. That is the Mass the good nuns attended, and they sat right in the front. Some of the nuns were really cool. (I had a crush on our beautiful fourth grade teacher, Sister Janetina, as did most of the other guys in the room.) But the sterner ones had the uncanny ability to follow the Mass in their missals, pray the rosary, and keep a watchful eye on the altar boys, all at the same time. Quite a trifecta! You all probably recall that people knelt at an altar rail to receive communion, and the altar boys' job was to hold a patten (a circular metal plate at the end of a short wooden handle) under the chin of each communion recipient so that if the host fell the server would catch it on the patten. It wasn't bad enough that the 7:15 servers were under the scrutiny of several nuns; we also had to try to figure out how to get the doggone patten under their chins, which were almost totally encased in their habits. There were two other problems (minor by comparison) encountered at communion time. First, it was tough not to giggle when the nun who was your teacher stuck out her tongue to take the host. Second, the servers had to walk backwards along the communion rail while the priest moved from left to right, and all decorum was lost if your heels caught on your too-long cassock, sending you flying.
Sister Clotilde: This happened when we were in fourth or fifth grade, as I was in the sacristy taking off my cassock and surplice after serving a 7:15 Mass. Sister Clotilde, who was in charge of the altar boys and who (I think) was also the principal, came back there to see me. I foolishly thought she was going to compliment me on my serving, as my scheduled partner was a no-show that day and I didn't think I had made any major screw-ups. Instead, she told me that she had been observing me for a few days, and if I didn't get my folded hands up right under my chin during Mass, she was going to give me the heave-ho off the altar boy squad. I was totally crushed, but you can bet I made it a point to get my hands up there from then on. I was mostly afraid of what my Dad would say to me if I got the boot. I did not want to find out.
Father Loughry: This is really the only other negative... One week day, probably in about fifth grade, I was serving Mass by myself for Father Loughry, the crotchety old pastor. When he got to the offertory, he turned around and told me to go back into the sacristy and get him "the paper." I couldn't guess why he needed a newspaper in the middle of Mass, but I dutifully went into the sacristy to look for the paper. There was none to be found, so I timidly went back onto the altar to give him the bad news. He stormed down the altar stairs, went into the sacristy, and came back with a little piece of scratch paper which I hadn't seen, and on which apparently was written the name of a deceased parishioner for whom the Mass was being offered. When he made eye contact with me, he literally called me stupid. When I got home from school I told my Mom about it. My mother revered the priests and nuns, but when she heard what happened she reacted totally out of character. She called Father Loughry and chewed him out over the phone. Not bad for a little lady who was about 4 feet 10 and weighed about 90 pounds. To show Father Loughry had a heart after all, though, there is a post-script to my relationship with him, and ironically it has to do with a real newspaper. A few months after the "paper" incident I was again serving Mass for Father L on an extremely cold and snowy Saturday morning. After Mass he gave me a quarter and asked me to run over to the drugstore on Milwaukee Avenue to buy him the Chicago Tribune. I got the Trib, brought it to the rectory and handed over the paper and the fifteen cents change to the housekeeper. About thirty minutes later, Father Loughry called my house to tell me he had intended for me to keep the change, and that the next time I was near St. Joe's I should stop by to pick it up.
Father Burnikel: I've got to finish on a high note. My favorite part about being an altar boy was getting to serve for Father Burnikel, the young assistant pastor. What a great guy. It was customary that after Mass the altar boys would kneel down and the priest would give them his blessing. When Monsignor Koenig was the celebrant, you really felt like you were almost in the presence of God, as he blessed you and then laid his hand on your shoulder very reverently. On the other hand, after Father Burnikel blessed you, it would not be unlike him to muss up your hair or push you over with a laugh. He frequently had us cracking up at his jokes in the sacristy. This could be a problem when you were going for the "solemn look" on the altar. One time (I believe it was) Mark Morrison and I were about to serve Father B's Mass. Mark headed out the sacristy door onto the altar, and just as I was following, Father B told me to "sic 'em." I could not help but laugh out loud in plain view of the congregation. Thankfully, it was not a 7:15 weekday Mass, so you know who wasn't there. Thus, I lived to tell the tale.
Well, I guess I got carried away. I just returned from my high school reunion, so I must be in the "remembrance mode." If you read this far, thanks for sticking with it.
My best to you all.
Sincerely,
John P
Monday, March 11, 2013
Album Review: "Regions Of Light And Sound Of God" - Jim James
"Regions Of Light And Sound Of God": A-. As a fan of the Kentucky rock band My Morning Jacket, I was eager to check out Jim James' first solo effort, Regions Of Light And Sound Of God, released in mid-February. James is the front man and principal writer for MMJ. As a soloist, he writes, sings and produces in a fashion totally distinguishable from MMJ. In my book that is a plus, as the music industry has too many artists who go on ego trips by taking on side projects with respect to which the listener is left wondering why the artist could not have recorded his music within the context of his band. James' music is experimental, ethereal, mystical, orchestral and spiritual, all characteristics that one would not ordinarily associate with his full band, MMJ.
Momma Cuandito and I were first alerted to Regions Of Light when Jay Leno invited him to play A New Life on the Tonight Show. Many of Leno's music guests are never heard from again, at least not nationally, but kudos to his producer for booking James. Momma Cuan and I were still talking the next day about how great the song was, and indeed, it is the best song on the nine track album. (I subsequently bought Regions Of Light for MC as a Valentine's Day present.) On this song, as in others, James' sings with a tenderness and sweet tenor that you'd never guess could come out of a guy who looks like he should be rockin' with the Drive By Truckers. A New Life is a wonderful love song, sincere without the sap.
My second favorite song on the album is Actress. The singer cleverly compares his love interest to an actress.
You're good at making everyone believe that they love you,
A little wink of the eye, a little glimpse of the thigh,
And we're in heaven.
Once he is hooked he finds out too late that she was playing a role with him, just as she would in a movie or a play.
In the wink of an eye our life changes,
What I came to know as you
Had been replaced with something new.
One thing that jumped out at me is the astonishing similarity between James' voice and that of the late John Lennon. If I didn't know the Smart Beatle had died thirty-three years ago, I would swear that was his voice on the album's third track, Dear One. Is it merely a coincidence that Lennon sang the lead on the Beatles' somewhat similarly titled Dear Prudence? If you acquire Regions Of Light and already own the White Album, try playing those two songs back-to-back to enjoy the sonic similarity.
Maybe I'm reaching here, but Dear One is not the only song on the new James album which evoked memories of a Beatles tune. The echoey background vocals in God's Love To Deliver reminded me of the same type of arrangement on She's Leaving Home from Sergeant Pepper.
I wrote above that James' music is spiritual. The best song in that vein is All Is Forgiven, delivering the ecumenical admonishment that whether you are Christian, Muslim, or of some other religion, you must keep the faith that your sins will be forgiven. After all, God (or Allah) sent His Son (or the prophet Mohammad) to deliver that very message to the world. The instrumentation in the song is haunting, with the horns and keyboards conjuring images of Indian snake charmers.
James was inspired to make this solo album after reviewing a graphic novel from 1929, God's Man. The book contains no words. Rather, the pages show wood cuts made by Lyn Ward which depict the adventures of an artist. Unlike most painters or drawers who start with a plain white paper or canvas, a wood carver starts with a block of (usually dark) wood and chips away to reveal a figure or a scene originally encapsulated within that block, as envisioned by the artist. Darkness giving way to light. I am guessing this explains James' strange choice of State Of The Art to lead off the album. (If I were sequencing songs for an album, and assuming those songs had a variety of tempos, I would not opt to start with the slowest song.) The meaning of the song is hidden, just as those figures and scenes encapsulated in the wood. My take is that the more we rely on God given talents, rather than modern technological toys, the better we will be.
If you have been putting off getting yourself a really nice set of headphones, Regions Of Light And Sound Of God affords you the perfect opportunity.
Momma Cuandito and I were first alerted to Regions Of Light when Jay Leno invited him to play A New Life on the Tonight Show. Many of Leno's music guests are never heard from again, at least not nationally, but kudos to his producer for booking James. Momma Cuan and I were still talking the next day about how great the song was, and indeed, it is the best song on the nine track album. (I subsequently bought Regions Of Light for MC as a Valentine's Day present.) On this song, as in others, James' sings with a tenderness and sweet tenor that you'd never guess could come out of a guy who looks like he should be rockin' with the Drive By Truckers. A New Life is a wonderful love song, sincere without the sap.
My second favorite song on the album is Actress. The singer cleverly compares his love interest to an actress.
You're good at making everyone believe that they love you,
A little wink of the eye, a little glimpse of the thigh,
And we're in heaven.
Once he is hooked he finds out too late that she was playing a role with him, just as she would in a movie or a play.
In the wink of an eye our life changes,
What I came to know as you
Had been replaced with something new.
One thing that jumped out at me is the astonishing similarity between James' voice and that of the late John Lennon. If I didn't know the Smart Beatle had died thirty-three years ago, I would swear that was his voice on the album's third track, Dear One. Is it merely a coincidence that Lennon sang the lead on the Beatles' somewhat similarly titled Dear Prudence? If you acquire Regions Of Light and already own the White Album, try playing those two songs back-to-back to enjoy the sonic similarity.
Maybe I'm reaching here, but Dear One is not the only song on the new James album which evoked memories of a Beatles tune. The echoey background vocals in God's Love To Deliver reminded me of the same type of arrangement on She's Leaving Home from Sergeant Pepper.
I wrote above that James' music is spiritual. The best song in that vein is All Is Forgiven, delivering the ecumenical admonishment that whether you are Christian, Muslim, or of some other religion, you must keep the faith that your sins will be forgiven. After all, God (or Allah) sent His Son (or the prophet Mohammad) to deliver that very message to the world. The instrumentation in the song is haunting, with the horns and keyboards conjuring images of Indian snake charmers.
James was inspired to make this solo album after reviewing a graphic novel from 1929, God's Man. The book contains no words. Rather, the pages show wood cuts made by Lyn Ward which depict the adventures of an artist. Unlike most painters or drawers who start with a plain white paper or canvas, a wood carver starts with a block of (usually dark) wood and chips away to reveal a figure or a scene originally encapsulated within that block, as envisioned by the artist. Darkness giving way to light. I am guessing this explains James' strange choice of State Of The Art to lead off the album. (If I were sequencing songs for an album, and assuming those songs had a variety of tempos, I would not opt to start with the slowest song.) The meaning of the song is hidden, just as those figures and scenes encapsulated in the wood. My take is that the more we rely on God given talents, rather than modern technological toys, the better we will be.
If you have been putting off getting yourself a really nice set of headphones, Regions Of Light And Sound Of God affords you the perfect opportunity.
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