Baroque without the Bach

In case you were wondering, the portrait is J.S. Bach; it resides above the electronic piano in the front room. My LH, who played a mean partita, clipped it from a magazine, popped it into a frame and up onto the wall. So you can understand that when I received notice that this month's chamber concert at the library was all Baroque, I made sure to be there. No Bach, but very good listening, nonetheless.

The LH would have loved this beautiful harpsichord; I would have loved hearing his music.

The music included a flute/violin sonata as well as a sonatina for viola and harpsichord...

plus a Corelli sonata for cello and keyboard...

and a double concerto for two cellos and harpsichord by Vivaldi. Musicians at the event included George Friedman, Dianne Holmgren, Anne Badger, Karen Giglio, Diana Hart and Beverly Chesterby.

I couldn't help noticing the lone old-time westerner -- the only hat in the audience; he was very much into the music.

And as a coda to my musical afternoon, this enthusiastic bongo player on a bench at the Square.

The jam session scene

Batterman's posted the sign above very, very recently. Now we have two folk music jam sessions per week. Monday night at JB's and Tuesday night at Batterman's. Anyone: are there other sessions open to the public/wandering musicians?

For that matter, what ever happened to those Real Jam Sessions (which is to say jazz) promoted by Rich Oxley at one time.

Links Galore: Let's start out in Europe. Steve at Photos & More caught images of mushrooms and morning dew; Lucy of Box Elder posted spiderweb photographs to die for; down in OZ, Meggie followed one spider as it spun a pretty little web, and back here in Prescott, Dagny weighs in with a cool spider portrait. It's beginning to feel like Halloween, what with all this arachnid photography!

Before the iPod, there was...

I gawked at the goodies over at Batterman's the other day with Patty. Wow, what an ingriguing variety of antiques and collectibles. Especially this music making machine for milady's parlor, circa the 1890s.

The Regina music box works off metal platters with holes -- just like the old key punch cards for earlier IBMs (or, if you really want to go back further in history, the punched cards used by Jacquard looms as of 1801.)

Since this was a quality piece of household furniture, it included storage room for a proper collection of platters.

Another, less prepossessing music box, this one driven by rolls of punched paper. A familiar sight if you've ever seen music rolls for a player piano. I was surprised at just how big the holes were in this music roll, however.
These automated predecessors to the iPod reminded me of a small corner of family history. My grandfather's brother founded the Mills Novelty Company in Chicago before the turn of the century (the 20th, that is). Tho Mortie didn't invent the slot machine, he managed to acquire the patents and become a major manufacturer of one-armed bandits. But that was in addition to his own inventions -- a splendid assortment of coin operated automatic music machines for the saloon business. I found this Mills machine tonight over at eBay, where it had just sold for $41,000, even though it was an as-is sale.

The Violano-Virtuoso, an automatic violin with a robotic piano for accompaniment. Many years ago in Chicago, a friend and I found a saloon out Milwaukee Avenue whose proprietor collected antique coin-op machines. The violin machine in that particular collection did not feature an actual instrument body, but merely a string plus playing mechanism. The tunes depended, again, upon punched paper rolls. Made by Mills.

Note the claim on that name plate. Today's marketing men don't have nearly the chutzpah of their early predecessors.

Words & Music

For the past couple of years, as Mom's short-term memory has slowly eroded, I've found that she really enjoys having me read poetry from her past. Often she will recite bits and pieces along with me; she is definitely of those generations that were required to memorize all manner of verse and oratory, as well. R.L. Stevenson ...Whittier... Longfellow ... Riley ... Wordsworth ... Burns ... Scott, among others.

When I was younger, hipper and much, much more contemporary in my outlook, I sniffed at those same classic writings (called "the canon" by one patronizing academic a Google search produced.) Now in my wiser or at least more experienced years, I realize just how being able to recite the same words bound old and young together across the generations. Today youngsters exercise their memorization muscle only to grab maybe 10 years worth of pop culture fluff (or agony), with no ties to a past shared with their parents, grandparents and possibly their own older or younger siblings, and certainly not their own children who will follow them. Too bad.

Which brings me to the song books pictured here, found among my LH's large sheet music collection. I recall the Golden Book from junior high school music classes. Checking copyright notices (earliest, 1915), it would appear to have served at least two, if not three generations of school kids with songs from the 1850s to the early 1900s -- again forming a bridge across the years. Hymns, noels, spirituals, patriotic and Civil War songs, rounds, plus sentimental ballads and a handful of marches and college anthems. I wish we'd had the more recent (1935) Silver Book, which included folk songs from around the world in addition to the standards. Collected, even before the Smithsonian got into the folk act back in the late 30s. Of course, I was looking for songs -- or their words -- that Mom might remember.

Here is the back of the third volume above, a product of 1927. Apparently The Cable Company, which made pianos, also operated a publishing division. And, if you were scratching your head about my combination of poetry and song, be aware that this division also published One Hundred and One Famous Poems: all the verse you love the most. Your old favorites: Browning, Wordsworth, Robert Burns, with the best work of the outstanding modern poets: Kipling, Sandburg, Millay and Masters. BTW, all these song books were published in Chicago, which, prior to WWII, boasted a lively book, music and magazine publishing industry.

The Google, of course, is a wondrous source of poetry. Recall a line or two? Move over, Mr. Bartlett. Just pop the words into the search slot and you'll have the complete work faster than Bob's your uncle. Besides, where but on the Internet would you find a list of Top 500 Poems, on which William Ernest Henley's solemn Invictus (#53) is followed immediately by Be Glad Your Nose Is on Your Face, by Jack Prelutsky (#53).

Bach. Stained Glass.

What more could one ask of a Sunday afternoon. As long as I was in Lutheran territory (visiting Mom at Samaritan Village), why not cross the drive to the American Lutheran Church for the organ concert mentioned several times in the Courier. Performing was Paul Jacobs, chair of the organ department at Julliard. The church folk were rightly proud of their new 31-rank, three manual pipe organ. Among the accomplishments of Jacobs: at age 23 to celebrate the 250th anniversary of J.S. Bach, he played the composer's complete organ works in an 18-hour non-stop marathon. Just the right age, I'd say, for this type of extreme accomplishment! My arms and legs are weary just contemplating such a feat!

This excursion gave me an opportunity to view modern church stained glass even as I wallowed in a Bach trio sonata. (Yes, there was other music, but I would not have attended but for J. S.) The window above shines upon a staircase leading to the sanctuary.

In style, it is first cousin to the panels that frame the front entrance of the church.,

However, most striking of all, our sun is celebrated. High above the altar are Art Deco styled rays of the sun, while a brilliant sunburst lights the cross behind the altar. A fine sight to focus the eyes while being enveloped in music.

Small music

My dotter credited me with introducing her to what she calls Big Music -- Berlioz ... Mahler ... Beethoven ... Carl Orff. You know the drill: major symphonic and choral works for tens and fifties of professional musicians (maybe hundreds when it comes to Wagner.) When she was in her teens, we periodically enjoyed a mother-daughter dinner downtown followed by a Chicago symphony concert -- and a taxicab ride home along Lakeshore Drive. Elegant, that.

And big music that, except for the evening that Carlo Maria Giulini dismissed over half the orchestra to play an exquisitely delicate Mozart divertimento. All of which brings me to my subject: small music, which abounds here in Prescott. Interesting venues, too.

For example, I had never enjoyed a house concert until recent years in Prescott. Friend Georgene regularly schedules the two Jims (Jones and Wilson) to sing of cowboy life. (Yes, you are right -- that is His Honor, the Mayor, in this year's audience...)

The public library is another location for small music -- performances by talented groups of local musicians (and soloists, too). Every third Friday of the month, what is billed as a chamber music program. I am reminded that chamber music encompasses much more than the string quartets, trios and quintets one hears on NPR. Instead, it includes all manner of small instrumental ensembles, such as the flute trio led by Beverly Chesterby (above).

Or a brass group from Yavapai College. Playing a Gabrielli canzona. Like Wow! Well, they could have been playing in a cathedral, but then one can't have everything!

Time for applause. I'll be looking into more small music events this winter.

South Montezuma, as advertised

Yesterday I promised you a night on the town -- or at least a night on South Montezuma Street. Not Whiskey Row, by the way. We started several blocks south of the main drag. It all came about because I saw a notice in the Courier about a jazz concert at the new location of the Prescott Music Center. All of which suggested that bro and I try out Maya, the small Mexican restaurant up thataway.

Especially seeing as how rumor had it that Maya serves mole! As in yum. As in why don't other Mexican restaurants in Arizona serve mole? Don't know the answer to that question. However, Maya does serve a special mole, Michoacan style. As in yum!

The decor even included this Mexican restaurant meme -- the Aztec warrior saving the maiden. I've seen some version of this scene since the early 50s in Chicago!

Turned out that the Music Center was next door to Maya, so we popped in & the bro admired all the brass, happy that the store wasn't dominated by guitars. However, no concert.

One more door down the street.

Plenty of music making machinery evident in a studio setting with folding chairs in one corner.

And an excellent pick-up combo, as two of the originally scheduled musicians didn't show.

Organizer of the event, Rich Oxley, owner of the Music Center, who doubled in brass -- a mean trumpet and flugelhorn.

Dave Russell is a member of the Rich's combo that plays once a week at the Prescott Pines. His playing belies the professorial appearance!

On guitar, Cal McCarthy. Another bloody good jazz musician.
Ed Carter was called in at the last minute to play the electronic bass borrowed from the store next door. (Sorry, Ed -- you were hidden behind the other musicians!) Need I say that bro and I stayed until the last note. BTW, Rich is planning jam sessions every Wednesday PM.

After the music -- time to meander downhill for a brew or two & a phone to call a taxi, we being walkers. In passing, there was this smashing catalpa tree.

Out front of a pizzeria, a sign that obviously has a back story...
...a football player with chutzpah...

...yet another important member of the local music community -- The Fiddle Doctor...

...guns in a pawn shop and, finally,

...the first saloon we came to on a chilly night. Shelter! Coyote Joe's. Good Oregon brew, loo, reasonably cool music, and curious decor that is based upon bicycle parts.

Here's the night's music maker. Not often that Granny has a night on the town. The bro made a fine gentleman companion. It was fun.

Serendipity & Sprawl: a Good Sunday

Surprises. I love 'em. Take today. Walked downtown. (Literally. It's a hundred or so feet downhill.) Figured I'd do a post on the walk. Then Sharlot Hall lured me in for more photography. Another possible post. However, I needed a telephone to call a cab to visit Mom.

And discovered, wonder of wonders, that Prescott Coffee Roasters was open. Of a Sunday afternoon. Full of people. And a guitar player. In I went.

On the left at the entrance, big decorated drops of water to Save the Verde river. Causes and coffee houses have always been a matched pair. Can't say I disagree with this particular Cause.

Here's the scene looking toward stage front. This was one of the many shows currently being organized by Silver Wolfe, who also compiles the local arts & entertainment listings for Read It Here, among other activities.

I couldn't resist looking up at that wonderful pressed tin ceiling. Roasters is in the old shopping strip just west of the creek on Gurley Street.

The guitarist/songster/harmonicist is Paul Sprawl. One of his songs dealt with a homeless misfit he met twice in 10 years, the second time as both walked down the railroad tracks toward each other. What could be more reminiscent of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. But back in those early days of folk music, we had hoboes, not homeless and there was a certain element of dash and romance associated with the country's wanderers. No more. Now it is largely mawkish capital-C Concern. Not from this guy, by the way. But then he considers himself a vagabond.

Of course, coffee-and was available.

Art work, too. By someone(s) very much into the deep sea: mantas (above) and cephalopods (below.)

Part of the art that forms the frieze at the front of the shop. Below, the machine that gives the shop its name.

I certainly applaud the return of the coffee house. Reminds me of my youth; it even reminds my daughter of her very early years, when she learned the body language of chess long before she understood the game. We were having dinner at The Raven last week after the Lippizaner show. Daughter looked around at the decor, the musicians and the customers and wondered where were the chess and go players. Pity -- I suppose that the laptop has replaced the game board. And on this note of nostalgia, I also find myself wondering if the No Exit, which served at least two generations of rebels in North Chicago/Evanston, survived to enjoy the modern renaissance of the coffee house. Anybody know?