There’s a nice coffee house about two blocks from my house. It’s a pleasant, relaxed place to get a good cup of coffee or tea and a decent snack (everything from dainty madelines to hearty sandwiches, and an all-you-can-eat buffet on friday nights). Several clubs and organizations meet there regularly to discuss things like organic gardening, knitting, etc. In short, it’s a great neighborhood hangout.

They also have live music. Last night, the act on the bill was Oak Ash and Thorn. I’ll give you a moment to go check out their website. Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you get back.

Familiar with the concept, now? Good. And for those who didn’t check the website, all you really need to know is that this is three guys who sing English folk songs (mostly about beer) a cappella. The only instrument they have with them on stage is a soprano recorder much like this:
which they use more or less as a pitch pipe.

There was a sound system, yes. Three microphones, one for each member of the band, but they were only turned up high enough that the songs could be heard in the back row of a room that holds, maybe a hundred people when it’s crowded. It was low enough that if you were in the way back of the other room ordering a coffee, you could hear that there was music but the words weren’t clear.

And yet someone called the cops because of the noise.

Seriously?

When Mr. Twistie’s rock band played there two months ago – and four months ago – nobody called the cops. That’s for a four man electric rock band with a pretty darn loud sound system.

Nobody called a few weeks ago when Avalon Rising (five members, much louder sound system, electric guitar and bass) was there playing their special brand of souped-up Celtoid music mixed with Jethro Tull covers.

But we were there when the police arrived because Oak Ash and Thorn singing The Wind and the Rain from Twelfth Night were too loud.

The mind boggles.

That is all.

Oh, except for this: support your local music venue! Good live music is not a nuisance.

Want to know a secret?
I kinda hate July.

Not that some very fine things haven’t happened in July historically –my birthday for example– but I live in Texas, and living in Texas in July sucks.

I am essentially a hollow shell of despair and misery, shuffling though the daytime hours trying to make it through without stepping on fire ants or bursting into spontaneous flame. Isn’t August worse? It’s hotter, but there’s the psychological comfort of knowing next month is September, and September means autumn. Of course September is almost always JUST as broiling as August and it only gets cool on Halloween –which is fantastic because that means all the girls who are dressed as slutty whatevers freeze and look miserable in their hooker heels and corsets– but in July? July you’ve got many a mile before you rest, and those miles are HOT.

So what does that have to do with music?

Stay with me.

Last Friday was particularly miserable for me. Not that I was having a bad day, but it had been raining for the past week and yet the temperature stayed around 90 degrees and feeling like you’re living inside the sweating gusset of Bangkok’s festering underpants is not pleasant, at least not for me. The only thing that could possibly make me feel better: I wanted a cupcake.

Now, I don’t have a huge sweet tooth (I much prefer savory fatty things to sugarbombs) so I decided if I was going to go out of my way to get a cupcake I was going to do it right, Make an event out of it and that event would be my microvacation.

After much deliberation I decided I wanted a white cupcake with an enormous pillow of chocolate buttercream frosting, and not only did I want that cupcake, I wanted to eat it in bed, naked, with the air conditioning set to Emotionally Unavailable Penguin and I wanted to listen to The Cure. The Cure part was essential. It wouldn’t be a microvacation without the music.

The right song –particularly a good pop song– can be like a little escape and what better way to start The Worst Month Ever than with a series of little microbreaks? I mean other than having that FIFA ref who failed to call the England goal (and who, if you’ll recall, is a wanker) dipped in an 80 gallon barrel of Marmite and then set upon by a pack of ravenous England-supporting badgers. That would be WAY better.

Anyhoo, let’s kick off Music Month with the song that started it all: The Cure’s Friday I’m In Love from their crucial album Wish. Unfortunately, Polydor has disabled embedding so you’ll have to click the link below for the video, but here’s a great live version (even if the intro IS in German, ptui ptui):

Watch the original video here
Download the single here
Buy the album (as if you don’t already have it) here.

It’s always seemed unfair to me that the definitive version of Lena Horne‘s signature song “Stormy Weather” wasn’t recorded by Lena Horne. I knew Stormy Weather was associated with Horne from her movie of the same name, but to me, The Great Recording had always been Etta James‘ version off her seminal 1961 release At Last!.

A few days ago I sent out an email to a whole mess of music writer friends –either critics or musicians– and asked them who cut the definitive recording of Stormy Weather. Out of two dozen, only two said Lena Horne. Number one with a bullet was Etta James, followed by Dinah Washington, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. Interestingly, no one mentioned Ethel Waters, for whom the song was written in 1933.

Lena Horne wasn’t a truly great actress, her voice was wonderful but nothing compared to Ella or Billie or Dinah. What she had was passion. She was ferocious in a wonderful, wild way that seemed to simmer just below the surface, as if a thin veneer of sequins and self control was the only thing keeping her from eviscerating you with her teeth, not because she was wicked, but because that’s just what wild things do.

For whatever her shortcomings were as a vocalist –and often said she hated to sing– her energy in a cabaret or theater setting was legendary. I remember watching her at the Kennedy Center when she reprised her Broadway hit, Lena Horne: The Lady and Her Music…she must’ve been about 70 at the time and shook down practically to the floor in her slinky floor-length gown.

“Yeah, Lena” she purred “but can you get back up?”

So today we celebrate Lena Horne, actress, cabaret star, civil rights activist, fascinating multi-faceted woman and ultimate Fierceness.

–”Don’t be afraid to feel as angry or as loving as you can, because when you feel nothing, it’s just death. ”

–”I’m not alone, I’m free. I no longer have to be a credit, I don’t have to be a symbol to anybody; I don’t have to be a first to anybody.”

–”Always be smarter than the people who hire you.” (editor’s note: unless the people who hire you happen to be the lovely and handsome Manolo. Gosh you’re looking dapper today, Boss!)

–”It’s not the load that breaks you down: It’s the way that you carry it.”

–”You have to be taught to be second class; you’re not born that way.”

–”I really do hate to sing.”

–”I was unique in that I was a kind of black that white people could accept. I was their daydream. I had the worst kind of acceptance because it was never for how great I was or what I contributed. It was because of the way I looked.”

–”It’s ill-becoming for an old broad to sing about how bad she wants it. But occasionally we do.”

To remind you it’s Liza Minnelli’s birthday!

RING THEM BELLS!

So I feel I would be remiss if I failed to mention that big sporting event that happened the other day, but I’ll be honest: I didn’t watch.

I just don’t care that much about American pro football.

At least with soccer and rugby I can root for teams based on guys I’ve dated. For example, in the SI am OUTRAGED that Scotland lost to France, FRANCE for Pete’s sake, because the Scottish firefighter with whom I had a very enjoyable Horizontal Association in the summer of 2008 could totally have taken Andre who, while quite a bit taller and probably stronger, is a great big Parisian puss.

What I DO care about is The Who, who apparently played the halftime show.

I know they played the halftime show because several of my Facebook friends posted variations of the following status update:

“Ooh, CSI Medley!”

Friends, I think it’s time Miss Plumcake teach you a valuable lesson about life.

In this crazy, mixed-up cuckoo world there are two sorts of people:

There are people who hear the strains of The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and think “CSI: Stripper Toddler Death” (I don’t know what the show’s really called, but they’re all about dead strippers and toddlers, except for the one that’s about raped strippers and toddlers. Because, you know, that’s a normal and healthy thing to want to watch.)

These people are not your friends.

Do not let them water your plants, babysit your children, pick out your bridesmaid dresses or order your drink when you’ve run to the bathroom. They will undoubtedly mess it up and you’ll end up with blue novelty cocktails and children who will NEVER get into Vanderbilt, even if you are a legacy. These are People Who Don’t Know and are to be treated with a combination of suspicion, loathing and pity.

On the other hand, there are people –decent, right-thinking people– who hear those famous strains and automatically think:

EPIC. FREAKING. POWERSLIDE.

These people are your friends. You should buy these people cocktails, expensive shoes and, upon request, ponies.

Friends, what you just witnessed is one of the most iconic moments in rock n’ roll.

Pete Townshend setting the gold standard in power slides during the Shepperton Gig for the 1979 documentary “The Kids Are Alright” (which technically makes me the SECOND coolest thing to be released in 1979).

Townshend is better known for his windmills–to which I’ve referred before– and destroying his guitar on stage. I cannot say I approve of guitar smashing, but let’s face it. He’s Pete Townshend. He can do pretty much whatever he wants.

For further reference of the power of the windmill (and the import of a well-cut pair of trousers) please refer to the following:

Baba O’Riley (which some people will call Teenage Wasteland, but will be wrong)

and for advanced study, google the full Shepperton recording of Won’t Get Fooled Again where –in addition to the previously mentioned powerslide and windmills– you will find examples of Advanced Mic Tossing courtesy of Professor Roger Daltrey, Drumming for the Clinically Insane by our dearly departed Keith Moon, and Just Standing There Being the Bass Player by John Entwistle.

Hello young lovers! How’s every little thing? Me? Oh I’m just peachy. Except I decided to do a Heavy Eye on Saturday night and I’m still excavating that stuff off my face. The downside of having eyelash extension is you really want to be careful using anything oil-based, so now when I want to do a super smoky evening-look eye it turns into a three day removal process wherein I’m full on the first day, and the next day I’m sort of Saraghina from 8 1/2 and on the third day I’m totally channeling Anna Magnani in the Rose Tattoo (how fabulous was she? SO fabulous. More importantly how hot was Burt Lancaster?)

Anyhoodle, it’s Tuesday so it’s time to find out What Miss Plumcake is…

You’ll notice I’m a little Scot-centric this week as we are coming up on the celebration of Robert Burns’ birthday, January 25th. If you’ve never been to a Burns Night, you simply MUST. No Scottish blood required –although be prepared to be asked if you’ve got any Scottish in you and when you answer no, be asked “would you like to?”– There’s singing and poetry (usually) and bagpipes and haggis (always, although they usually have vegetarian haggis which is revolting and contrary to the ways of the Lord) and everyone has a big time with the Address to a Haggis,  The Immortal Memory, The Toast to the Lassies and –my personal favorite– The Response to the Laddies.

Dress code varies, but please don’t just wear random plaid. Ladies: if you have a clan, wear a sash in your clan’s dress tartan. Gents: Bonnie Prince Charlies are ideal. But even if you don’t have a drop of the Northern blood, don’t worry just show up and have a ball.

Reading: Robert Burns, the Complete Works No house should be without.

Watching: Black Books. Surprisingly, since I’m the United Nations of failed relationships, I’ve never dated a misanthropic drunken Irish bookseller but if I did, I’d like to date this one. Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey and that girl who played Dr Todd from Green Wing (Tamisin Grieg) had me laughing harder than that time my neighbor’s jack russell pulled out a “chew toy” labeled “Swedish Erotica”

Hearing: Lyrics of Gold: Songs of Robert Burns by Ed Miller. Ed Miller is a pink-faced fount of Scottish folk tunes and apparently a Really Big Deal as far as these things go, traveling all over the world to spread the Scottish word.  I’ve known Ed socially for a few years now and while the man can’t iron a shirt to save his  life (pull it together Ed!)  his albums are still very much worth having.

Smelling: Serge Lutens Bois et Musc. An exceedingly lovely light cedar with just a hint of musk, Bois et Musc isn’t the big honking juice Christopher Sheldrake usually releases for Serge Lutens. It wears very close to the skin. Bois et Musc is one of the non-exports so as with all Lutens bell jars you’ll have to pick it up at Les Salons du Palais Royal Shisheido in Paris, although you can occasionally find one on the secondary market. Decants are available at The Perfumed Court and while I don’t love it as much as the coniferous incense bomb that is Filles en Aiguilles, I couldn’t say no when a bell jar graciously found its way into my personal collection.

Loving:Early Greek Philosophy ed. Jonathan Barnes. Drop a cherry in me and call me old fashioned, but I think to be a Cultured Woman of The World you’ve got to be up on your philosophers (pictured here: my Pre-Socratic Greek Boyfriend, Pythagoras) and Barnes’ edition of selected writings of the Early Greeks is totally accessible.  I know I’m an old stick in the mud, but so much of what’s being written these days is just junk. There’s nothing wrong with an improving book, and getting back into the habit of thinking critically and logically. Now you kids put down those Pink Books and get offa my lawn!

Hating: The OTK Boot trend. Has anyone seen this employed in real life where it actually works and the woman doesn’t look like a hooker or a serious fashion victim? Because I haven’t.  I want to, but I haven’t. Also, the women who can afford to drop $2000 on a pair of over the knee boots, at least in Austin, tend to be Women of a Certain Age and I am afraid OTK boots are a young woman’s game.  As I said, I want to be wrong, but I’m not sure I am. If you’ve seen a tastefully executed OTK boot IN REAL LIFE on a non-model or celebrity personage, please submit photographic evidence. I’m dying to see it.

Wanting: Robert Burns stamps. Wah! Stupid American stamps with their stupid CROPS OF NORTH AMERICA which don’t even feature TOBACCO because it’s not like THAT crop was important to  America or anything.  Sir Walter Raleigh should slap the post office across the face for that. Why can’t we have awesome stamps like this? I’m not a philatelist (well, I tried it once in college, but I was drunk) but I shall not rest until I browbeat someone into sending me one of these wee beasties.

Buying: Tartan sash in your clan’s dress. If you know your clan’s tartan, why not buy a sash? They’re usually lightweight wool 10″ wide by 90″ long and serve beautifully as a long muffler-type scarf. Of course on Burns Nights or other times where you want your ancestral pride to show you can wear it in the traditional way but they’re awfully handy to have. Don’t know your tartan? Look it up here
I’m a MacDuff of the Fife line myself and sleep soundly at night knowing no matter how bad my press is, it’ll never be as bad as the clan matriarch, Queen Gruach or “Lady Macbeth” as the kids call her these days.

One more note  about operas and fat ladies (see what I did there? With the note? Because it’s like music, get it?)
Soprano Daniela Dessi walked out of the role of Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata when director Franco Zeffirelli--you’ll remember him from the Romeo and Juliet we all saw in junior high with Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting– said she was too fat to sing one of opera’s most famous consumptives.

THIS is La Dessi (with friends):

What
a
COW.

By the way, that is EXACTLY what I wear each morning as my favorite houseboy attends to my toilette (in my head).

Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with La Traviata or La Dame aux Camélias the Alexandre Dumas fils novel (his daddy wrote The Three Musketeers which incidentally has 30% less fat than other classic French adventure novels) on which the opera was based, it’s your tried-and-true Consumptive Parisian Hooker with a Heart of Gold story à la Moulin Rouge except for, you know, not awful in every conceivable way (I’m sorry it just IS and not even Ewan McGregor’s hotness is going to change the fact that Baz Luhrmann directs like a coked-up housefly with electrodes on his balls.)

Marguerite, renamed Violetta in the opera, was based on courtesan Marie Duplessis with whom Dumas fils had a torrid affair before she died at 23.

She’s seen here wearing a white camellia. Apparently Duplessis wore a white camellia when she was available to entertain guests  and a red one when she was having her Special Lady Time, which I suppose is a lot more elegant than MY tell which involves taking the safety off my .38.

So if Zeffirelli –who has always been for realism in casting– wanted to cast a sickly-thin 23 year old in the role, then why didn’t he? Is his Google finger broken? Because a quick image search showed me exactly what La Dessi looks like.  MAYBE it’s because it’s nearly impossible to find someone that young who can carry a principal with meaning and artistic flair and even LESS likely to find someone capable of singing that role who doesn’t weigh at least a buck fifty.

In fact, the only one I know to have done a credible job –and I’m not saying there aren’t others– is Beverly Sills when she sang Violetta in 1951.  The “youngest prima donna in captivity” was 22 and although she was a good bit slimmer than Dessi, no one was going to confuse Bubbles with a consumptive waif.

Ms Dessi says:

‘I can accept criticism before I put pen to paper but not afterwards. I was working well with the conductor of the orchestra but the problem these days is that theatrical directors have too much say.’

Ms Desi [sic] added: ‘I’m stunned. I still can’t believe what I heard him say. I am 1.60 metres tall, weigh 65 kg and take a size 44. There – that’s the first time I have given my vital statistics in public.’

So basically this woman  is 5’3″ and wears about a size 14, she had the role and had been rehearsing. Then Zeffirelli calls her “too portly to perform” and Dessi walks out, as does her husband who was playing the male principal and the show went on with two lesser voices.

Perfect!

I mean, I’m not super bright, but isn’t a big part of opera the singing? Because I kind of think it is.  Like,  if  it was just a bossy woman with a great rack and interesting taste in headgear  yelling at people for three hours  then I feel like I’d be offered more roles than I am, instead of the current number which is –let me rummage through my datebook– exactly zero.

Shout out to Sarahbyrdd for being the first reader to bring this to my attention!