Bric-à-brac for August 2026

1. Truth in art

The "realest" and most "from the streets" hip-hop song ever.

2. Your daily dose of poetry

Or, is Dame Judi Dench a walking-talking Shakespeare jukebox?

3. Now this will wake you up!

The most uptempo and (a)live Dire Straits song you've ever heard.

The Death of the Poet

At the 2018 Eurovision Song Contest, one of the most surprising, fresh entries was that of the Hungarian band AWS, with their “metalcore” song, Viszlát Nyár (Goodbye, Summer). What caught one’s attention, besides the attractiveness of the piece (within the confines of the genre), was the raw emotion and energy of the song and of the performance. Fittingly so, since the lyrics, written by the band’s front man, Örs Siklósi, had autobiographical connotations, speaking (in metaphorical terms) about the recent passing of his father:

Goodbye summer, you’re too late now;
because you lied to me that you’d be mine,
but you never came!

Bittersweet, poetic, raw, angry, sincere – all these sentiments and states expressed through the fitting musical language of the “metalcore” style.

While I must confess that this isn't a musical style with which I am very familiar, or that I commonly listen to, I really liked the band and the song – which led me to look into their other works, as well. And thus I listened to their two most recent albums, Kint a Vízből (Out of the Water, 2016, YouTube, Spotify) and Fekete Részem (My Dark Dimension, 2018, YouTube, Spotify).

And what I discovered upon listening to these albums was - to my delight – a band that truly tries to “make art” (again, within what one could call the rather narrow confines of the genre). This is especially true in what concerns the lyrics of their songs (and you can find their English translation here), lyrics that, in a manner quite seldom encountered nowadays in popular music, are quite lyrical (and intentionally so). And this is precisely one of the things that is most sorely lacking from contemporary pop music - the lyrical quality; and also one of the reasons why current popular music seems so pedestrian, empty, meaning-less and forgettable - because of a lyrical poverty reflected in their minuscule vocabulary, a the lack of a mastery of the language, and in a vulgarity that often verges on the pornographic.

Yet the high model of popular music should be (must be!) something along the lines of the works of a Leonard Cohen, a Simon & Garfunkel, a Bob Dylan, a Van Morrison, or even the Beatles – all of whom, at their best, created sung poetry. And a song that is not poetic is just… banal, passable, forgettable. And thus the landscape of current popular music is quite unlivable – which is why actually encountering an artistic, poetic endeavor, in such a barren landscape, feels like stumbling upon fresh water in the Sahara.

Yes, this is why it was so refreshing and enlivening to find (even within a fairly constricted musical genre) a true attempt to make art  - and to do it consciously, intentionally, in an intelligent and literate way, and daring to speak about the important things. Of course, one could find a number of youthful faults in these two albums, as well: a bit of emotional immaturity, of hormonal revolt, maybe some self-serving sentimentalism - all of these fully understandable, given the band members' young age. But what stands out from their music are not these minor lacunae – but what transcends what could be expected from a band of this type, and of their age range. For example: yes, one finds in their songs the genre-typical tone of social critique - yet here it is a critique that does not simply parrot some vacuous "anti-system" clichés, but almost always points further, at a deeper, personal pursuit of the (existential) truth – ultimately pointing toward the core question of, “how should I live?” (And that is a sign of maturity, an intellectual-poetic maturity dearly missing from popular culture today.)

It also helps that the words often have a metaphysical dimension, or ramification, as well – proving again that they come from a personal search for the truth, and for authentic existence; and not from a mindless repetition of clichés.

And the author of most of the lyrics - and thus the one whose personal existential quest seems to be reflected in these songs - is none other than the band's front man and singer, Siklósi Örs [in Hungarian the family name comes first]. And the biographical snippets that we have about Örs seem to confirm the personal and artistic depth reflected in these lyrics. And thus it was quite moving and joy-giving for me to discover a young artist – a new young poet - who is in the process of keeping the flame of poetry (and the pursuit of art) alive, in the mostly arid field of contemporary popular music - and also to see them endow a relatively shallow musical genre with unexpected poetic-existential depth.

In my mind, therefore, Siklósi Örs appeared as a worthy successor – of course, at a much reduced scale, and within a more modest artistic context - of the young rebel poets of the late nineteenth century (Rimbaud, Baudelaire etc). 

And then, many months later, I learned – and it was truly a shock to learn – of the passing of Siklósi Örs, aged only 29, as a consequence of leukemia. “Viszlát, nyár!” And it did hurt to learn this, as much as it hurts to hear of the passing of any real poet, of any true (if only budding) artist – of anyone who tries keeps the flame of what matters alive, and thus inevitably becomes a carrier of this light within the world. I am thinking of people like Leonard Cohen, Norm MacDonald… whose deaths hit unusually hard because they were true artists, true... poets. And so it was in the case of Örs, as well.   

I leave you with another outstanding piece from the band – perhaps their most poetic piece, and musically perhaps my favorite. In the lyrics to this song Örs uses the familiar images and sensations of an early morning city bus ride (or metro ride), to reflect and to inquire into his own existential state - and the state of the others. 

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 23

As the long-expected day is approaching, so does the clamoring of the people increase:

Veni, veni, Emmanuel! Oh come, oh come, "God-with-us" [Emmanuel]! 

And then the people continue, calling the Son by the various sacred-poetic names which the prophets of Israel have used to refer to the Expected One: oh Wisdom; Adonai (Lord); rod from Jesse's stem (lineage); key of David; Orient (the East, the place where the day rises); King of Nations. 

Veni veni, Emmanuel

captivum solve Israel,

qui gemit in exsilio,

privatus Dei Filio.

    O come, o come, Emmanuel,

    and ransom captive Israel,

    that morns in lonely exile here

    until the Son of God appear.

R: Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,

nascetur pro te Israel!

    R: Rejoice! Rejoice! O Israel,

    to thee shall come Emmanuel!

Veni, O Sapientia,

quae hic disponis omnia,

veni, viam prudentiae

ut doceas et gloriae. 

    O come, Thou Wisdom, from on high,

    and order all things far and nigh;

    to us the path of knowledge show,

    and teach us in her ways to go. R.

Veni, veni, Adonai,

qui populo in Sinai

legem dedisti vertice

in maiestate gloriae. 

    O come, o come, Thou Lord of might,

    who to thy tribes on Sinai's height

    in ancient times did give the law,

    in cloud, and majesty, and awe. R.

Veni, O Iesse virgula,

ex hostis tuos ungula,

de specu tuos tartari

educ et antro barathri. 

    O come, Thou Rod of Jesse's stem,

    from ev'ry foe deliver them

    that trust Thy mighty power to save,    

    and give them vict'ry o'er the grave. 

Veni, Clavis Davidica,

regna reclude caelica,

fac iter tutum superum,

et claude vias inferum. 

    O come, Thou Key of David, come,

    and open wide our heav'nly home,

    make safe the way that leads on high,

    that we no more have cause to sigh. R.

Veni, veni O Oriens,

solare nos adveniens,

noctis depelle nebulas,

dirasque mortis tenebras. 

    O come, Thou Dayspring from on high,

    and cheer us by thy drawing nigh;

    disperse the gloomy clouds of night

    and death's dark shadow put to flight. R.

Veni, veni, Rex Gentium,

veni, Redemptor omnium,

ut salvas tuos famulos

peccati sibi conscios. 

    O come, Desire of the nations, bind

    in one the hearts of all mankind;

    bid every strife and quarrel cease

    and fill the world with heaven's peace. R.

An Advent Calendar: Day 18

“A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.”

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

                                T. S. Eliot -  Journey of the Magi

During Advent we - just like the Magi - are walking the road leading toward the Birth of the Child. A birth apparently joyous for us, and for the world - although difficult, and in difficult conditions, for that young family, then. And a Birth that, although it was "the coming of the light unto the world" (and thus, in principle, an occasion of joy), "the world [which was and is in darkness] did not know him" (except for a few people - like the Magi) - and rejected it. And so, this Birth is actually a birth unto Death. As his mother will soon learn, as well: "a sword shall pierce your very soul." And thus we learn that this newborn Child is actually destined for Death - a pierced death on the cross. And yet that Death will not be the final word, either. It will be instead the death of the "old dispensation," of the "world," as it is (i.e. in darkness) - for the sake of the triumph of the Light, of Life eternal. And yet that life eternal is only conquerable at the price of death - the death of the "old man," and of the "world as it is." And thus in order to truly acquire the meaning and immense gain of this Birth, that death of the "world" (in us) needs to take place in each of us. And, as described in T.S. Eliot's poem, this is what the Magi felt, and realized.   

An Advent Calendar: Day 8

As indicated on Day 1, Rorate Caeli is a traditional chant sung on each of the Sundays of Advent, one verse at a time. Rorate becomes thus a refrain that accompanies us, and marks the main stops, along the road of Advent, each verse deepening our understanding and living out of its meaning, and getting us closer to the awaited goal. This is similar to how on each Sunday a new candle is lit on the Advent wreath, signifying (among others) the modest, incremental, but very real increase of "the light;" that, while we are still walking through the darkness of the night, we are (through faith, and not by sight) approaching the arrival of the Light of the world.  

Second Sunday of Advent

Refrain:

Rorate caeli desuper,

Et nubes pluant justum.

Drop down dew, you heavens, from above

And let the clouds rain the Just One.

 

Verse Two:

Peccavimus, et facti sumus

Tamquam immundus nos,

Et cecidimus quasi folium universi:

Et iniquitates nostrae

Quasi ventus abstulerunt nos:

Abscondisti faciem tuam a nobis,

Et allisisti nos

In manu iniquitatis nostrae.

We have sinned, and we are made

Like unto our uncleanness,

And we have all fallen like a leaf:

And our iniquities

Have carried us away like the wind.

You have hidden your face from us

And you have crushed us

In the hand of our iniquity.

[Verse Two begins at 1:18]

An Advent Calendar: Day 7

 "One dark night,

fired with love's urgent longings ...

I went out unseen, my house being now all stilled. ...

 

On that glad night ...

with no other light or guide

than the one that burned in my heart.

 

This guided me

more surely than the light of noon

to where he was awaiting me

- him I knew so well - ...

 

O guiding night!

O night more lovely than the dawn!

O night that has united 

the Lover with his beloved,

transforming the beloved in her Lover."

 

This is a fragment from the mystical poetry of John of the Cross (1542-1591); more precisely, from his famous poem, The Dark Night. John of the Cross' poetry is a powerful (and, of course, lyrical) expression of his spirituality (or spiritual path), which is commonly associated with the spiritual experience of the so-called "dark night of the faith" (among other things).

More simply, though, and perhaps more immediately, the poem quoted above can be read as a poignant expression of the nature of faith itself - faith, which is nothing else but one's answer to the irresistible (and yet often resisted) call of Love, of the Lover, of the One who loved us first. And, while following this call is as "going through a dark night," faith being the only - unseen yet reliable - light that guides us, this is nonetheless the path that takes one to the joy of man's desire - the already beloved, to the Lover.   

An Advent Calendar: Day 5

"The wisdom of the world is this. To say, There is 
No other wisdom but to gulp what time can give.
    To guard no inward vision winged with mysteries;
    To hear no voices haunt the hurrying hours we live;
    To keep no faith with ghostly friends; never to know
    Vigils of sorrow crowned when loveless passions fade...
From wisdom such as this to find my gloom I go,
Companioned by those powers who keep me unafraid."

This is a poem by Siegfried Sassoon, one of those famous WWI poets. The First World War, where the flower of England  - and of the other countries - went, carried on the wings of illusions, and perished - or came back utterly changed. And what resulted from this experience was either the swinging twenties, with the insatiable drive to gulp down all of the ephemerality of life; or, on the other hand, perhaps a renewed understanding of the meaning of one's time, of the time given to us (see above). Indeed, in those miserable trenches, in frozen mud, surviving day after day of monotonous deathly dread, one was faced with brutal immediacy with the question about the end (or, what Thomas More and many others in the tradition called "the four last things"). More simply put; one was inevitably and physically faced with the need to look at one's life "from the end backwards," and of re-valuing and re-evaluating it from that perspective: how one has lived, and how one lives. And, if not right then and there in the trenches, where one's main duty and worry was survival, then thereafter, or in a time of quiet. 

As indicated in the poem, what results from such a glance backwards from the end is an apparently paradoxical conclusion. That hanging on in despair to the perishable fruits of the fleeing moment is actually the recipe of sorrow; and that the hanging on to the truths that transcend the immediate minute is the path of everlasting hope.

An Advent Calendar: Day 2

Today I would like to point you to a fragment from an Ingmar Bergman movie, Winter Light, movie that is part of his trilogy on faith, and, in fact, of Bergman's long-standing grappling with, and meditation on, faith, unbelief, and the very possibility of faith within modernity (or, more precisely, in mid-twentieth century Western Europe, or Scandinavia). What sets Bergman's films apart (from the drift) is that they are actual works of art, and (at least in attempt) sincere depictions of the human experience. This means that the interpretation of these depictions is, at the end of it, at the disposal of the person who engages with the work; just like the interpretation of reality itself, of the same reality that we all inhabit, is different, depending on the person who "views" it (and how they view it - as one's "vision" is often eschewed, half-blind, maybe completely blind).  

The fragment I am pointing out starts at 1:04:51, and goes... well, it goes as far as you want to go with it. This fragment - and these fragments - will take you through the atmospheric "winter light" of the title; an atmosphere, though, that is desolate, as desolate as the Scandinavian landscape, and as the arid, maybe frozen, yet most suffering heart or soul of the main character. 

The movie, according to one interpretation, could be about a crisis of faith. On the other hand, if one sticks it out till the end, one will also hear talk about how the same suffering (and desolation) that the main character experiences, was also experienced (ponders another character) by Christ himself, on the cross. And, in that "light," we as viewers realize that the main character (the pastor) has the choice of experiencing and interpreting his suffering, his desolation, either as the manifestation of the absolute estrangement of God - or, in fact, as a sign of God's closeness to him (as his suffering becomes Christlike).

The wintry darkness of this Advent season, or of any time of expectation, of waiting, can thus be experienced as either the mark of an absolute absence - or as the perception of an absence that is the necessary corollary, and thus implicitly also the forerunner, of the arrival of the Presence. Because, as we have heard, faith and hope are the inner instruments that aid us in pursuing the things yet unseen. 

An Advent Calendar: Day 1

Advent is the name for the season that precedes Christmas. The meaning of Advent is to be a time of quiet expectation and inner preparation for the coming ("adventus") of the long-awaited Messiah. In fact, the entire historical period preceding the birth of the Christ could be considered to have been a kind of an Advent; that period during which the people of Israel hoped and lost hope, strayed but were chastised, and returned to the path of God, and then strayed again - all the while continuing on that path and "covenantal mission" of awaiting the coming of the Messiah, who would renew not just Israel, but heaven and earth themselves. And the Gentiles, too, even without knowing it, were they not going  through a kind of an Advent? Being in the darkness, does one not desire, inherently, the Light? Being deprived of it, does one not thirst, inherently, for the Truth?        

Our yearly Advent parallels thus, in a way, the historical period that preceded the birth of the Messiah. We, too, grasp, hope and lose hope, believe and stray from it - and yet, inherently, qua human beings, can not but long and desire for the Truth, the Good, the Light. And, just like the people of Israel, we too are called to make straight our roads, to level our mountains, and thus to prepare the way (in our hearts) for the arrival of the Lord; and to do this every year, as we prepare for the Nativity.   

That is the purpose of Advent; but, at the same time, how can Christmas itself have any meaning, without the Advent? The apparently satiated one does not thirst! The apparently satisfied - self-satisfied, or satisfied with the world - does not see the need for renewing heaven and earth. What meaning can the Arrival have, without an Expectation thereof?  

...

In many places in Europe a tradition of the Advent Calendar developed, as a physical aid and accompaniment during this yearly season of expectation and preparation. Typically, an Advent calendar has a number of "windows," corresponding to the number of days between the beginning of Advent and the Birth of Christ (December 25). Opening each window, one usually finds a treat or a nugget of some sort - maybe a chocolate, maybe a holy image, maybe a quote - all of which are meant to ease one's thirst, a bit, and thus to renew one's strength and perseverance during this time of waiting, expectation and preparation.   

What I will propose, then, is a kind of contemplative and meditative, artistic and spiritual, sacred and profane, virtual Advent Calendar - perhaps helping us along the way, and perhaps reflecting (on) our condition as pilgrims on this road of Advent.

 

Day 1 - First Sunday of Advent

This is the traditional Advent chant, Rorate Caeli, that is sung on the Sundays of Advent (one verse each Sunday). Its refrain expresses, through simple but very poetic imagery, the desire and thirst for the "opening of the skies" and the raining down of the Just who will quench man's infinite thirst (and thirst for the Infinite).

Refrain:  

Rorate caeli desuper,

Et nubes pluant justum.

Drop down dew, you heavens, from above

And let the clouds rain the Just One.

Verse One:

Ne irascaris Domine,

Ne ultra memineris iniquitatis:

Ecce civitas Sancti facta est deserta:

Sion deserta facta est:

Jerusalem desolata est:

Domus sanctificationis tuae

Et gloriae tuae,

Ubi laudaverunt te patres nostri.

Do not be angry, O Lord,

Nor remember iniquity forever:

Behold the Holy City is made a desert,

Zion has been made a desert,

Jerusalem is desolate:

The house of thy holiness and thy glory,

Where our fathers praised thee.

Ursonate

Listen to Kurt Schwitters performing his Ursonate. This is from the CD lunapark 0,10, which contains several recordings of (mostly avantgarde, or modernist) writers reading from their own works (mostly poems, fortunately). I purchased this CD a few years ago, with the occasion of that exquisitely curated DADA exhibition at the National Gallery in Washington, DC. Some of the artists featured on this CD: Apollinaire, Maiakovski, Joyce, Gertrude Stein (very pleasant surprise), Tzara, Duchamp etc.

The reason I selected Kurt Schwitters' reading is that it gives us a key to the sound poems which, if only read and not heard, are hard to "register". Fortunately, his language is German, thus phonetic, which does make a reading possible - but it still does not transmit the musical element. It is this musical element, and the "sonata" dimension, that are not readily perceptible, if one has not attended any of the readings (in Zurich, in the 1930s). Furthermore, I like how visible the "Ur" dimension becomes, as he performs it; "Ur" means "arch-", as in: primitive, of the origins, ancestral etc.

But, listen:




Here is the sound poem, in written form:

http://www.merzmail.net/ursonatepdf.pdf

"The Hippopotamus," from T.S. Eliot (1920)

The broad-backed hippopotamus

Rests on his belly in the mud;

Although he seems so firm to us

He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,

Susceptible to nervous shock;

While the True Church can never fail

For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err

In compassing material ends,

While the True Church need never stir

To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach

The mango on the mango-tree;

But fruits of pomegranate and peach

Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice

Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,

But every week we hear rejoice

The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day

Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;

God works in a mysterious way--

The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing

Ascending from the damp savannas,

And quiring angels round him sing

The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean

And him shall heavenly arms enfold,

Among the saints he shall be seen

Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,

By all the martyr'd virgins kist,

While the True Church remains below

Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

The Hippopotamus,
by T.S. Eliot (1920)

...

Source: www.enchantedlearning.com

This is from a volume of Eliot verse that I have been carrying with me for weeks, now: The Waste Land, Prufrock and Other Poems (Dover Thrift Editions). With this, I have returned to an old, old habit, of always having a small book of poems in my briefcase - just in case. Which also brings to mind a friend's book of memoirs (as yet unpublished), in which he mentions his father's admonition, that he should always carry a book with him; that way, no minute will go to waste, whether waiting in the doctor's office or travelling on the metro. Wise advice.

KARAWANE

Karawane,

the sound poem by Hugo Ball, one of the Zürich Dadaists.*

And a masterful interpretation of the poem:

A great interpretation; others, such as this one by Trio Exvoco of Switzerland are, by comparison, downright depressing. Among other things, they lack an important - and maybe the essential - dimension of Dada, and of the avant-garde in general: its youth. Youth, both in the sense of young persons, and also, and most importantly, as that age in a person's life that we call youth. The stirring and moving of young age itself... as it "clashes" with society, with the drab, meaningless decorations it puts on its buildings, with the absurd that is intertwined with the everyday life in that society etc.** And youth responds organically, irrationally, and, needless to say, emotionally - by defacing the statues, overturning the garbage bins, and dancing in the fountains on the main square, after leaving the café at 2 am (you can't go mad while hungry; not if you're sane and healthy).***

The above-posted video, however, is quite excellent, and I could note a few aspects of why I think it is so well-done. First, it follows intelligently and almost "puristically" the phonetic value of the words in the poem - in this sound (or phonetic) poem. Furthermore, being set to a tribal drumbeat, it is very much in tone with the (quite important) primitivist dimension of Dada. Third, it was made using technology (Adobe Flash, I guess), and mechanized algorithms for the movement of the visual appearance of the words; thus removing itself, to a significant degree, from the subjective, personal, human dimension, very much in tone with Dada's emphasis on accident, the mass-produced, collage, and modern technology (see Schwitter's Merz, or Duchamp's Fountain). And, finally, it certainly has the inventiveness and randomness and freshness of a movement of the youth. After all, the author is 24 years old.

I do not know if this author, loris10mi (according to his Youtube name), is necessarily aware of all these dimensions - and he does not have to be, of course, given what was discussed above; but he might be, as this seems to have been part of an academic project. In any case, as noted, this might be one of the best interpretations of a Dada poem I have encountered yet.

...

* Dada? You can listen to Richard Huelsenbeck and Tristan Tzara talking about its beginnings - after the fact, of course, and after having been caught (the two of them) in ersatz visions of the world and of art, i.e. ideologies.

** It is not by chance that Dada appeared within the context of World War I, which, like all wars, was a celebration and joyful manifestation of the absurd; WWI perhaps even more so than the rest, given its utter pointlessness and unnecessary quality.

*** The scene with Anita Ekberg and Marcello Mastroianni, at the Fontana di Trevi, in La Dolce Vita, is not all too far removed from this youthful rebellion; but it is much "later" compared to youth itself, and thus, much sadder. As evidence of the similarity, see the very entertaining reaction of this youth from 60's Hungary (which was then under the (imposed) burden of a Communist regime), when watching the same scene from The Sweet Life; this funny and intelligent depiction is from Csinibaba, by Péter Timár, a movie made in the '90s.

Leonard Cohen, in concert

(at the Merriweather Post Pavilion , in Columbia, MD)
His features are sharper now, than the face to which we've grown accustomed. Yet his voice is - surprisingly - full, confident, and strong enough, and he uses it beautifully, even after a year of touring. He hasn't been on the road in about eight years; in fact, not many people expected to see him touring again; but this could very well be his last tour. He traveled the world, last year and this one, and finally got here, to the US. "Democracy is coming, to the USA."

I was late: traffic. The most striking thing, and the first thing that grabbed my attention, was that what was going on was something different from the concerts we know, from what we usually expect. It was the sudden awareness and remembering of the fact that he is a poet, first and foremost. Thus he addressed us - talked to us, recited, told, caressed us; his meaning, the meaning of him being there, on the stage, was to talk to us. As he himself affirmed, many times, Leonard Cohen is, first and foremost, a poet; then, a composer; then, a singer - in descending order of adeptness and comfort. I would add that his poetry is made for, and in, music; that he is a wonderful composer; that his poetic mode of expression, although based on words, is through music. He is, thus, a troubadour, in mind, in spirit, and in voice; this is the type of poetry he writes, this is the type of music he writes; as he writes on love, on things above and below, on loneliness, on encounters. And he doth travel the world. Therefore the night was one of a troubadour, who addressed us, who talked to us, sang to and with us.

As the night progressed, however, and as (some in) the public wanted to react in the familiar ways - the ways of the "show," so did his reactions change, too - slightly, in response. The learned ways of the show, of the concerts we know and usually attend, are that the stage is a self-enclosed world, and what happens in that world serves the functions of the spectacular, of virtuosity, even if containing some conversations between the members of the band; the aim is to generate entertainment that was paid for, by the public; the vague hope is that the reactions from the public might go as far as joining in, in feeling, in presence. But the two sides remain hopelessly apart, one expecting what it paid for - spectacular, entertainment, the other going its learned ways to produce that glimmer and show.

Or, if the concert is a classical one, we have a complex address that is put out there and hangs in the air somewhere between the orchestra and the public; and the hope is that the public will see it, admire it, and, in extra-ordinary occasions, partake of it, in this third object, in-between the orchestra and the public; an object so beautiful, so worked-out, so passionate, even. Yet the communication - it is never direct, between musician and public; in the end, the genre is not of such a nature, that it could actually constitute direct communication; the piece is already written, and it originates from someone else. The musicians execute it, participate in it, live it, even; then deliver it before us, and each of us - we might look at it, some might participate - and beautiful things do happen, that way; but it is a different genre, different from poetry.

But the poet, like Mr Cohen, must speak to you, otherwise he isn't there for the right aim, otherwise he is not, that evening, what he truly is. And so it is, that he is a troubadour. Thus, by virtue of this ongoing conversation, because of the music he made with us and for us, in conversation, his behavior did change slightly, accordingly; as some in the public descended towards the learned ways of the show, at times he (and they, on the stage) became more self-enclosed (yet only passingly); or, instead, he manifested a bit of cabotinage (no such word in English, unfortunately; clownery? second-rate, provincial theater?), of "show," yet even that, ironic, self-mocking, unserious. (The unspoken conversation that went on beneath the words and the songs; the need for show, albeit unspoken, was expressed, and was responded, with show.) But the clown is himself a troubadour; or, rather, the troubadour must be a clown, too, at times, as he sings about love, heartbreak, drunkenness, and laughter - even shrill.

And the band, just like Mr. Cohen, was (composed) of adults. So rare, nowadays, to have music (but it applies to contemporary art in general) that is by grown-ups, for grown-ups (which is not a function of biological age). Mr Cohen's poetry and songs age with him; one has only to listen through the recordings, over the years; and it is a beautiful thing. Years, they are what constitute him - not the moment.

And this was the second thing that I remarked, with gladness and relief: I saw the narrative. The concert had this soothing, healing character, therefore, because it had an underlying narrative. Not stories in songs, since they may be disjointed poetry; not a superimposed theme; but the narrative that was in him, and in some of the members of the band, in the poetry that is made in time, through time, and of time. It had a narrative, because it had time - age. No desperate quest for eternal youth, which is achieved through momentary (and thus despairing) grasps for the spectacular, or the hormonal. Thus the concert was soothing of the fragmentariness of this here American existence.

And what does this age, or narrative, mean, actually? It means something very un-postmodern: a continuity of feeling, an awareness of "the democracy of the dead and of the living" (to use G.K. Chesterton's words), a perspective on the moment that understands it with all that preceded it, and all that follows it. Healing attributes, then, of the ugly, insidious fragmentariness of the strip-mall, virtual, suburban, car-driven existence. The existence of public squares, and of cafés, to which one does not drive, but walks.

It was also a joy to see that he had a true, full band, to accompany him (really accompany him). The old Spanish Gypsy gentleman playing the "bandurria, laud, archilaud and 12 string guitar," with obvious relish and virtuosity, as if in the main square of a village in Spain, drenched in sun and drought (Javier Mas). Sharon Robinson, the aged (wine-like) lady in the backing vocals section , co-composer of some of Cohen's best songs, and duet partner on many other songs. A band surprisingly complete - I expected a trimmed-down, utility-oriented one; but no, they were individual persons, friends and long-time companions, musicians and singers; playing instruments ranging from the laud to the wind synthesizer, from real wind instruments to the Hammond.

An evening of poetry and music, with Leonard Cohen's troupe of wandering clowns, trapeze artists, old beauties and race horses.

[May 11, 2009]

P.S. I just learned that, "Due To Overwhelming Demand Leonard Cohen's Acclaimed 2009 World Tour Returns to North America," this fall, with a few concerts stretching the distance between New York and San Jose.

Rilke Projekt: Du musst das Leben nicht...

This is a very simple, and peaceful video, like the garden of the H. family, where the pictures were taken by the author (padefeo is his YouTube name). Simple, peaceful, yet hopeful, like Hannelore Elsner's recitation of Rilke's poem. Which poem is itself simple, short, child-like.

The music and words are taken from the very successful, and quite beautiful, Rilke Project, about which there shall be another note.

Du musst das Leben nicht verstehen,
dann wird es werden wie ein Fest.
Und lass dir jeden Tag geschehen
so wie ein Kind im Weitergehen von jedem Wehen
sich viele Blüten schenken lässt.

Sie aufzusammeln und zu sparen,
das kommt dem Kind nicht in den Sinn.
Es löst sie leise aus den Haaren,
drin sie so gern gefangen waren,
und hält den lieben jungen Jahren
nach neuen seine Hände hin.

(Rainer Maria Rilke, 8.1.1898, Berlin-Wilmersdorf)