Léo Delibes (1836–1891) was a French Romantic composer, best known for his ballets and operas. His works include the ballets Coppélia (1870) and Sylvia (1876), both of which were key works in the development of modern ballet and remain core works in the international ballet repertoire, and the opera Lakmé (1883), which includes the well-known “Flower Duet”. I say “well-known”; it’s possible that you know it without knowing you know it (although you may need to wait for the 1.05 minute mark before it clicks). Although Delibes’ name may be less famous today than other contemporary French composers such as Berlioz, Debussy or Ravel, the melody he has bequeathed is a gem.
Lakmé was Delibes’ attempt at a serious opera, having composed several light comic opérettes in the 1850s and 1860s. The opera combines many orientalist aspects that were popular at the time: an exotic location (similar to other French operas of the period, such as Bizet’s Les pêcheurs de perles and Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore), a fanatical priest, mysterious Hindu rituals, and “the novelty of exotically colonial English people”. The stuff that would probably discomfit modern sensibilities but which in 1883 was firmly de rigueur.
The opera includes the Flower Duet (“Sous le dôme épais”) for soprano and mezzo-soprano, performed in Act 1 by Lakmé, the daughter of a Brahmin priest, and her servant Mallika. Here we see it performed by soprano Sabine Devieilhe and mezzo-soprano Marianne Crebassa.
Incidentally, have you ever wondered how foreign language poems still rhyme when translated into English? Of course, this is where translation has to be creative in its own right. The Flower Duet provides a case in point. See how Theodore T Barker, in 1890, turned the original French lyrics into singable English, preserving the form and rhyme:
French lyrics Viens, Mallika, les lianes en fleurs Jettent déjà leur ombre Sur le ruisseau sacré qui coule, calme et sombre, Eveillé par le chant des oiseaux tapageurs
Literal English Come, Mallika, the flowering lianas already cast their shadow on the sacred stream which flows, calm and dark, awakened by the song of rowdy birds.
Singable English Come, Mallika, the flowering vines Their shadows now are throwing Along the sacred stream, That calmly here is flowing; Enlivened by the songs of birds among the pines.
The German-born George Frideric Handel moved to London in 1712 and remained there until his death in 1759. My first memory that involves Handel was a piece of music called Water Music, possibly from some sheet music my grandma had but equally possibly not (it’s one of those early “not sure where” memories). It was composed in 1717 in response to a request from King George I for a concert on the Thames. Handel was obviously well in with the Court; ten years after Water Music he was commissioned to write four anthems for the Coronation ceremony of King George II. One of these, the glorious Zadok the Priest, has been played at every British coronation ceremony since.
Another notable composition of Handel’s was Music for the Royal Fireworks in 1749, written for a “party in the park” to celebrate the end of the War of the Austrian Succession. Mozart called it a “spectacle of English pride and joy”. A year later, Handel arranged a performance of his famous Messiah to benefit Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital in London. The performance was considered a great success and was followed by annual concerts that continued throughout his life – an early forerunner of our “benefit concerts” today.
It is, however, Handel’s piece from his great opera Solomon, namely the opening instrumental of Act III, Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, that I’m showcasing today. If you don’t already know it from its name, you will instantly recognise it when you play it below. It has been used extensively for anything that could benefit from some vivacious “processional” music (including the 2012 London Olympics opening ceremony in which the music accompanies Daniel Craig’s James Bond as he meets the Queen at Buckingham Palace) and you can hear why: it’s a joyous romp of violins and oboes.
The wider piece, Solomon, was widely recognised by commentators of the day as a eulogy for Georgian England, with the just and wise King Solomon representing King George II, and the mighty, prosperous kingdom of Israel reflecting the similarly happy state of England at the time of the work’s premiere. Also, since it was in English (Handel had written his operas in Italian up until Messiah in 1742), it became hugely popular with the public. So put some sandals on, grab your palm, and welcome the Queen of Sheba as she disembarks!
You could call this a “two for one” this week in that the poem that inspired Ralph Vaughan Williams’ masterful piece for violin and piano, The Lark Ascending, is itself a masterpiece. Written by poet George Meredith in 1881, and having the same title, it was a paean to the skylark and its song. Siegfried Sassoon called it “a sustained lyric which never for a moment falls short of the effect aimed at, soars up and up with the song it imitates, and unites inspired spontaneity with a demonstration of effortless technical ingenuity…one has only to read the poem a few times to become aware of its perfection”. For those whose appetite is whetted by Sassoon’s praise, the poem is at the foot of this blog; however, today let’s look at the beautiful music it inspired.
Vaughan Williams was one of England’s great composers. Influenced by Tudor music and English folksong, he composed everything from operas, ballets and choral pieces to chamber music and symphonies, spread over sixty years, and is a staple of the British concert repertoire. He continued to compose in his seventies and eighties, producing his last symphony months before his death at eighty-five in 1958.
Vaughan Williams loved poetry and was a keen reader of the great Victorian poets. The composer’s second wife, Ursula, herself a poet, wrote that in The Lark Ascending Vaughan Williams had “taken a literary idea on which to build his musical thought…and had made the violin become both the bird’s song and its flight”. It’s not hard to detect the allusion in the music.
Although completed in 1914, the premiere of The Lark Ascending wasn’t until 15th December 1920 at the Shirehampton Public Hall (given by leading British violinist of the time Marie Hall and the pianist Geoffrey Mendham). Rather like the Edwardian era itself, as viewed retrospectively from the other side of the Great War, it seems to reflect nostalgia for a partly mythological lost age of innocence.
Although most performances these days are orchestral versions, some have recreated the original version for violin and piano only, including this exquisite performance by Finnish violinist Kreeta-Julia Heikkilä, with Jaan Ots on the piano, at the Helsinki Chamber Music Festival 2019.
The Lark Ascending by George Meredith
He rises and begins to round, He drops the silver chain of sound Of many links without a break, In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, All intervolv’d and spreading wide, Like water-dimples down a tide Where ripple ripple overcurls And eddy into eddy whirls; A press of hurried notes that run So fleet they scarce are more than one, Yet changingly the trills repeat And linger ringing while they fleet, Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear To her beyond the handmaid ear, Who sits beside our inner springs, Too often dry for this he brings, Which seems the very jet of earth At sight of sun, her musci’s mirth, As up he wings the spiral stair, A song of light, and pierces air With fountain ardor, fountain play, To reach the shining tops of day, And drink in everything discern’d An ecstasy to music turn’d, Impell’d by what his happy bill Disperses; drinking, showering still, Unthinking save that he may give His voice the outlet, there to live Renew’d in endless notes of glee, So thirsty of his voice is he, For all to hear and all to know That he is joy, awake, aglow, The tumult of the heart to hear Through pureness filter’d crystal-clear, And know the pleasure sprinkled bright By simple singing of delight, Shrill, irreflective, unrestrain’d, Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustain’d Without a break, without a fall, Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical, Perennial, quavering up the chord Like myriad dews of sunny sward That trembling into fulness shine, And sparkle dropping argentine; Such wooing as the ear receives From zephyr caught in choric leaves Of aspens when their chattering net Is flush’d to white with shivers wet; And such the water-spirit’s chime On mountain heights in morning’s prime, Too freshly sweet to seem excess, Too animate to need a stress; But wider over many heads The starry voice ascending spreads, Awakening, as it waxes thin, The best in us to him akin; And every face to watch him rais’d, Puts on the light of children prais’d, So rich our human pleasure ripes When sweetness on sincereness pipes, Though nought be promis’d from the seas, But only a soft-ruffling breeze Sweep glittering on a still content, Serenity in ravishment.
For singing till his heaven fills, ’T is love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows To lift us with him as he goes: The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine He is, the hills, the human line, The meadows green, the fallows brown, The dreams of labor in the town; He sings the sap, the quicken’d veins; The wedding song of sun and rains He is, the dance of children, thanks Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks, And eye of violets while they breathe; All these the circling song will wreathe, And you shall hear the herb and tree, The better heart of men shall see, Shall feel celestially, as long As you crave nothing save the song. Was never voice of ours could say Our inmost in the sweetest way, Like yonder voice aloft, and link All hearers in the song they drink: Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, Our passion is too full in flood, We want the key of his wild note Of truthful in a tuneful throat, The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.
Yet men have we, whom we revere, Now names, and men still housing here, Whose lives, by many a battle-dint Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint, Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet For song our highest heaven to greet: Whom heavenly singing gives us new, Enspheres them brilliant in our blue, From firmest base to farthest leap, Because their love of Earth is deep, And they are warriors in accord With life to serve and pass reward, So touching purest and so heard In the brain’s reflex of yon bird; Wherefore their soul in me, or mine, Through self-forgetfulness divine, In them, that song aloft maintains, To fill the sky and thrill the plains With showerings drawn from human stores, As he to silence nearer soars, Extends the world at wings and dome, More spacious making more our home, Till lost on his aërial rings In light, and then the fancy sings.
When I look back at this blog’s coverage of influential British rock bands of the sixties, I see that the “big three” of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Who have all had their moment in the spotlight. There’s another band of the time, though, that arguably deserves to be counted in a “big four” and that is the band formed in Muswell Hill in 1964 by Ray and Dave Davies, namely The Kinks.
Unlike the aforementioned bands who unarguably achieved the status of international legends of rock, the Kinks never fully capitalised on their opportunities and talents. For example, although the band emerged during the great British rhythm and blues and Merseybeat scenes and joined those bands spearheading the so-called British Invasion of the United States, the constant fighting between the Davies brothers (a pop-cultural forerunner of the Gallagher brothers, if ever there was one) led to a touring ban in 1965.
As well as the volatile relationship between the brothers, the song-writing style of Ray Davies sometimes took the band away from the expected commercial music their contemporaries were striving for. He simply had too much wit and intelligence and eclecticism, drawing on British music hall, folk and country music to inform some of his output. Take 1968’s The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society album: released the same week as the Beatles’ White album, it contained a collection of character studies and meditations on a disappearing English way of life, all brilliantly observed. Sadly, in a commercial world dominated by psychedelia and effects pedals and the Summer of Love, The Kinks had turned down the distortion on Dave’s guitar, and the album sunk without a trace (despite it later becoming established critically as an all-time classic).
Despite such occasional commercial failures, the band remain one of the most influential bands of all time, and you only have to look at the songs to know why. You Really Got Me and All Day and All of the Night basically introduced the idea of the three-chord riff; and did much to turn rock ‘n’ roll into rock. Gloriously melodic, storytelling songs abound: Sunny Afternoon, Waterloo Sunset, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, David Watts, Come Dancing, Lola. A host of future pop stars cited their influence and held them in high esteem (just ask Damon Albarn or Paul Weller).
A personal favourite of mine is Autumn Almanac, a charming vignette of Baroque pop released in 1967; here’s a Top of the Pops appearance to appreciate, and the lyrics below to remind us of just how English-pastoral-romantic Ray Davies could get.
From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar When the dawn begins to crack, it’s all part of my autumn almanac Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow So I sweep them in my sack, yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
Friday evenings, people get together Hiding from the weather, tea and toasted Buttered currant buns, can’t compensate For lack of sun because the summer’s all gone
La la la la, oh my poor rheumatic back Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac La la la la, oh my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
I like my football on a Saturday Roast beef on Sundays, all right I go to Blackpool for my holidays Sit in the open sunlight
This is my street and I’m never gonna to leave it And I’m always gonna to stay here if I live to be ninety-nine ‘Cause all the people I meet, seem to come from my street And I can’t get away because it’s calling me, come on home Hear it calling me, come on home
La la la la, oh my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac La la la la, oh my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes Bop bop bop bop bop, whoa Bop bop bop bop bop, whoa
Khachaturian! A great name, for a start, that I recall seeing written on the back of one of those compilation albums of classical music, owned by my parents. That album was actually a great introduction to the classics; it’s where I first heard The Flight of the Bumblebee, The Ride of the Valkyries, The Blue Danube, The Hall of the Mountain King, and, in the case of Khachaturian, the frenzied Sabre Dance.
Aram Khachaturian was born in 1903 in Tblisi, Georgia, of Armenian extraction (I think it was that patronymic suffix, -ian, common to Armenian surnames – such as Kardashian – that added a certain something). Following the Sovietization of the Caucasus in 1921, Khachaturian moved to Moscow, where he enrolled at the Gnessin Musical Institute and subsequently studied at the Moscow Conservatory. He wrote several significant concertos and symphonies, but he is best known for his ballets Gayane (from which comes the Sabre Dance) and Spartacus (from which comes the focus of this blog, the captivating Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia).
Spartacus follows the trials and tribulations of the famous gladiator-general, Spartacus, the leader of the slave uprising against the Romans in 73 BC (which actually happened, incidentally, and was exhaustively chronicled by Plutarch, but that – as I so often have to say – is another story!).
The Roman consul Crassus has returned to Rome from his latest conquests in a triumphal procession. Among his captives are the Thracian king Spartacus and his wife Phrygia. To entertain Crassus and his cronies, Spartacus is sent into the gladiatorial ring and is forced to kill a close friend. Horrified at his deed, Spartacus incites his fellow captives to rebellion, and ends up freeing the slave women, including Phrygia. The Adagio marks their celebration.
It open with a delicate syncopated rhythm from the strings, and a series of trills on the flute. A slow ascending scale is played by the cellos, and the oboe eases the music into the famous ‘love theme’ for the first time. It’s tremendous stuff and readers of a certain age will almost certainly remember its use as the theme music to the TV programme, The Onedin Line.
Below, I present a version of the ballet performed by Anna Nikulina and Mikhail Lobukhin of the Bolshoi Ballet. In addition, below that, I have chosen another version: a piano-only rendering of the music, and I include it because it is just too exquisite to omit. The pianist is Matthew Cameron, who, as well as being a virtuoso concert pianist, appears to be good-looking and, according to his website, collects antique historic swords, with a collection dating back to the 9th century. Hat tip!
Walter Becker and Donald Fagen met in a coffee shop at New York State’s Bard College in 1967, discovered that they had similar tastes and opinions about music, and soon started writing songs together. After a stint peddling songs in Manhattan’s famous Brill Building, the duo moved to Los Angeles to try their luck on the west coast. Realising their songs were too complex for other recording artists, they formed Steely Dan, and with producer Gary Katz, would go on to produce seven fabulous albums of sophisticated jazz rock between 1972 and 1980.
Their quest for perfection is legendary, and the duo’s shared aesthetic meant that Steely Dan would soon enough became less “band” and more Becker and Fagen backed by a series of session musicians. They would audition musician after musician and commission take after take in a fastidious search for just the right sound, just the right style, to complement their vision. But boy, did it pay off, as they got to harness the talents of such legends as guitarist Larry Carlton, bass player Chuck Rainey, and drummer Bernard Purdie, not to mention one Michael McDonald of Doobie Brothers fame on backing vocals.
Their well-crafted songs were largely critical and commercial successes and many would become radio staples: Reelin’ In The Years, Do It Again, Rikki Don’t Lose That Number, Haitian Divorce, Peg. For me, one song in particular sums up not only the genius of the music but Fagen’s wonderful storytelling ability: Kid Charlemagne, the lead single from 1976’s The Royal Scam album. The song tells the story of the rise and downfall of counter-culture figurehead Owsley Stanley (nicknamed “Bear”), the Grateful Dead audio engineer and self-proclaimed “King of Acid”. Bear’s clandestine laboratory was responsible for supplying the majority of the burgeoning Californian LSD scene of the sixties, and in him, Fagen found the perfect character to weave a typically noir story around.
Take a look at the lyrics; they are full of deft touches. Fagen describes one of Bear’s particularly successful LSD formulations: “Just by chance you crossed the diamond with the pearl”. And on Bear’s dedication to his craft: “On the hill the stuff was laced with kerosene, but yours was kitchen clean”. And when things start to unravel (Bear was inevitably busted of course), we can sense the paranoia: “Clean this mess up else we’ll all end up in jail, those test tubes and the scale, just get it all out of here”. And when the brown stuff is about to hit the fan, the climactic question-response “Is there gas in the car? Yes, there’s gas in the car”. At this point I’m not only engaged with the story, I’m positively willing them to get the hell out of there!
Fagen’s lyrics overlay a musical package that boasts a wonderful funk backbeat courtesy of Rainey and Purdie, razor sharp rhythms and melodies from Becker and Fagen themselves and from jazz pianists Paul Griffin and Don Grolnick, and an astounding guitar solo (and outro) from Larry Carlton. It is musical alchemy of the highest order.
Here’s the best live version I can find, in which the duo seem to have exercised the same rigour with this set of musicians as they did making the album!
While the music played you worked by candlelight Those San Francisco nights Were the best in town Just by chance you crossed the diamond with the pearl You turned it on the world That’s when you turned the world around
Did you feel like Jesus Did you realize That you were a champion in their eyes
On the hill the stuff was laced with kerosene But yours was kitchen clean Everyone stopped to stare at your technicolor motor home Every A‑Frame had your number on the wall You must have had it all You’d go to LA on a dare And you’d go it alone
Could you live forever Could you see the day Could you feel your whole world fall apart and fade away Get along, get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne
Now your patrons have all left you in the red Your low rent friends are dead This life can be very strange All those dayglow freaks who used to paint the face They’ve joined the human race Some things will never change
Son you were mistaken You are obsolete Look at all the white men on the street Get along, get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne
Clean this mess up else we’ll all end up in jail Those test tubes and the scale Just get them all out of here Is there gas in the car Yes, there’s gas in the car I think the people down the hall Know who you are
Careful what you carry ’Cause the man is wise You are still an outlaw in their eyes Get along, get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne
The Christmas Oratorio (Weihnachtsoratorium) was one of three oratorios written by Johann Sebastian Bach in 1734 and 1735 for major feasts, the other two being the Ascension Oratorio and the Easter Oratorio. The Christmas Oratorio is by far the longest: in full, it is nearly three hours long but it is made up of six parts, each cantata being intended for performance on one of the major feast days of the Christmas period.
The first cantata would be played on Christmas Day, and describes the Birth of Jesus; the second, for 26th December, describing the annunciation to the shepherds; the third (27th December), the adoration of the shepherds; the fourth (New Year’s Day), the circumcision and naming of Jesus; the fifth (the first Sunday after New Year), the journey of the Magi; and the final one (Epiphany, on 6th January), the adoration of the Magi.
Bach wrote his pieces in his role as musical director for the city of Leipzig, where he was responsible for church music for the four churches there, and head of the internationally known boys’ choir, the “Thomanerchor”. The oratorio was incorporated into the services of the two main churches, Thomaskirche and Nikolaikirche, during the Christmas season of 1734. That would have been some Christmas service to behold!
The part I’m highlighting here is the first aria from Part I, featuring oboes d’amore, violins and an alto voice, and known by its opening line, Bereite dich, Zion, mit zärtlichen Trieben (“Make yourself ready, Zion, with tender desires”). It is here performed exquisitely by this choirboy and soloists from Munich’s Tölzer Knabenchor, and conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt. A more haunting piece of music fit for this season would be hard to find. Grab a mince pie and listen to this. Merry Christmas!
Bereite dich, Zion, mit zärtlichen Trieben, Den Schönsten, den Liebsten bald bei dir zu sehn! Deine Wangen Müssen heut viel schöner prangen, Eile, den Bräutigam sehnlichst zu lieben!
My daughters’ piano teacher, Chris, is a gifted pianist who plays in a band called Louis Louis Louis. They specialise in jazz, swing, big band, boogie-woogie and jump blues, focusing (as their name suggests) on the three great Louis’s: Jordan, Armstrong and Prima. Sadly, the time constraint of the piano lesson window (along with the girls’ mortification at any conversation initiated by me going beyond normal pleasantries) precludes me from proclaiming to Chris: “I love Louis Jordan!”. Yet it’s true: I discovered the marvellous up-tempo jump blues and rich vocal tones of Louis Jordan and his Tympany Five many years ago, specifically from this compilation album here called Out Of Print:
Jordan had started his career in the big-band swing era of the 1930s, being a member of the influential Savoy Ballroom orchestra, led by drummer Chick Webb, in New York’s Harlem district. He specialised in the alto sax, but also played tenor sax, baritone sax, piano and clarinet. He was also a great songwriter, a consummately good singer, and had a wonderfully comic and ebullient personality that soon made him stand out from the crowd. This was the same period that a young Ella Fitzgerald was coming to prominence and she and Jordan often sang duets on stage.
Jordan would soon have his own band, pared down to a sextet, and a residency at the Elks Rendezvous club, down the street from the Savoy on Lenox Avenue. Their style was a dynamic, up-tempo, dance-oriented hybrid of earlier genres which became known as “jump blues” and was an instant hit with the audiences. His band, the Tympany Five, started recording music with Decca records in December 1938, and throughout the 1940s they released dozens of hit songs, including Saturday Night Fish Fry, the comic classic There Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens, and the multi-million seller, Choo Choo Ch’Boogie.
From July 1946 to May 1947, Jordan had five consecutive number 1 songs, and held the top slot for 44 consecutive weeks, an amazing testament to his popularity at the time. It’s true to say that history has given him a raw deal, since his name is not as widely known as it should be, given the above stats (outside sophisticated circles such as our own, of course!).
I’ve selected a song (from many candidates) that is typical of Jordan’s wit and charm: 1953’s A Man’s Best Friend Is A Bed. As well as being a jumping tune, the song extols the comforts of the bed, and on cold mornings like today, who can’t relate to that?
Listen to Louis:
I want a great big comfortable bed, so I can really spread out, and all that Take it from me Ed, A man’s best friend is a bed
I want a big fat pillow that’s softer than a billowy cloud, for my head Take it from me Nat, the best head piece ain’t a hat
Yes, a friend will ditch you, a horse will pitch you A car will give you lots of grief A dog will bite you, your wife will fight you But if you want some genuine relief
Just get a great big comfortable bed, where you can really spread out, and all that Take it from me Ted, a man’s best friend is a bed
When you’re in trouble, worries double And everybody’s talking back Just take your shoes off, you’ll shake the blues off If you would just let go and hit the sack
In a nice cool comfortable bed where you can really spread out, and all that Take it from me Ted, a man’s best friend is a bed
Ask any soldier, marine or sailor Or anyone who’s been without, what do they miss most, What thought is foremost? No Sir, you’re wrong!
It’s just a great big comfortable bed, where you can really spread out, and all that Take it from me Ted, a man’s best friend is a bed
Yeah, if you dig me Jack, you’ll hit the sack This ain’t no junk boy, hit that bunk Take it from me Ted, a man’s best friend is a bed
The Everly Brothers were first-generation pioneers of rock ‘n’ roll’s first golden era, but they always stood apart from many of their contemporaries due to their roots in rural Southern white music traditions rather than the blues and R&B that drove Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard et al. Bob Dylan was a fan (“We owe those guys everything; they started it all”), whilst John Lennon and Paul McCartney modelled their own vocal blend on Don and Phil’s tight harmonies. Simon & Garfunkel were clearly inspired, as were the Byrds, the Hollies, and the Eagles who all acknowledged their debt to the brothers’ unique sound.
They were born (Don in 1937 and Phil in 1939) into a family already steeped in country music. Ike Everly, their father, was a well-respected guitarist who landed a show on radio station KMA in Shenandoah, Iowa, in 1944, and he moved the family there. Shortly after that, Don and Phil began appearing on his program, and by 1949 they were regulars on the show, lending their angelic harmonies to traditional mountain tunes popularized by the likes of the Blue Sky Boys, the Stanley Brothers and the Louvin Brothers (there were a lot of family-based groups in those days!).
In 1953, the family moved to Kentucky, and the following year Don and Phil got their first break when a family friend, guitarist Chet Atkins, picked one of Don’s early compositions for Kitty Wells to record. Atkins further convinced the brothers to move to Nashville to try to break into the business as a duo, and they were soon picked up by Archie Bleyer, the owner of New York label Cadence Records, who was suitably convinced by what he’d heard to make a record with them.
The first song Bleyer cut with the Everlys was Bye Bye Love, recorded at RCA Studios in Nashville on 1st March 1957. It became an instant national smash and over the next six years, the Everlys would land a staggering number of tunes on the upper reaches of the charts — including Wake Up Little Susie, Bird Dog, and All I Have to Do Is Dream (all written by husband and wife songwriting team, Felice and Boudleaux Bryant), as well as a handful penned by Don or Phil, such as (’Til) I Kissed You, When Will I Be Loved and Don’s lovely paean to teenage romantic angst, Cathy’s Clown.
By the time the Everlys recorded Cathy’s Clown in early 1960, their recording style was already very well-established. As always, the recording session was live with no overdubs, and the instrumentation was simple: acoustic and electric guitar, Floyd Cramer on piano, Floyd Chance on bass and Buddy Harman on drums. Released on 4th April 1960, it hit number one and remained there for five weeks.
For the next three years, the Everlys scored more hits, but by the end of 1964 the British Invasion was sweeping America and the brothers’ look and sound started to seem a bit dated; their staggering success began to subside. Nevertheless, the Everly Brothers’ place in pop history is secure, and this song remains a fabulous reminder of their wonderfully complementary vocal harmonies.
Vincent Van Gogh remains perhaps the most representative, in the public imagination, of the “tortured genius”. Never successful as an artist in his lifetime, he suffered from bouts of psychotic delusions and mental instability, including that notorious episode in which he took a razor to his left ear. Ultimately, he took his own life: in 1890 he shot himself in the chest with a revolver and died from his injuries two days later. He was 37. But my, what an artistic legacy he left, and what tremendous global fame he would achieve, posthumously…if he had only had an inkling!
Today, when we think of Van Gogh, a number of his paintings spring to mind. There is his Sunflower series (take your pick, there are many different versions), painted in 1888 and 1889 with the gusto, in Vincent’s own words, of a “Marseillais eating bouillabaisse”. There is The Starry Night (famously name-checked in the opening line of Don McLean’s song, Vincent), painted in 1889 and depicting the view from Vincent’s room in the asylum at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. There are his many self-portraits (over 30, with and without bandaged left ear). Or perhaps his wonderfully (and deceptively) child-like Bedroom at Arles.
There is one of Van Gogh’s paintings in particular, however, that appeals to my imagination the most, and that is his Café Terrace at Night. Depicting a late-night coffee house in the Place du Forum in Arles, it brings together all the elements of Van Gogh’s talents in one wonderfully evocative scene. Bathed in the light of a huge yellow lantern, the café looks like the perfect place to spend a warm summer’s eve, doesn’t it? I could wile away an hour or two there, watching the world go by, no problem!
An intense yellow saturates the cafe and its awning, and projects beyond the café onto the cobblestones of the street, which takes on a violet-pink tinge. The street leads away into the darkness under a blue sky studded with larger-than-life stars. Dashes of green from the tree in the top-right and the lower wall of the café, along with the orange terracotta of the café floor, add to the satisfying palette of this painting. Van Gogh wrote that “the night is more alive and more richly coloured than the day”, and on the strength of this piece I can see what he means.
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