Berger, Beethoven, and Bliss

A sizzling drum roll, a bass guitar groove, and that distinctive trumpet riff. With those pulsing measures that open “Aquarius,” I knew I was in for much more than a fun ’60s flashback. Hair. Outdoors. In Central Park. The 40th-anniversary revival production last Friday night was harmony and understanding, mystic crystal revelation, and way beyond the mind’s true liberation. And that was just the overture to a magical weekend whose coda belonged to Ludwig van Beethoven, on a mountain road high in the Berkshires.

New York City on a late-August evening could’ve been impossibly humid or stormy, given this summer’s violent weather. But we were lucky. It was heavenly. My friend Susan had bought tickets months ago (they miraculously survived her apartment fire) and we sat fifth-row center in the Delacorte amphitheater. We weren't exactly going get in line at 3 a.m. to nab free tickets. Not from Boston.

Truth be told, half the reason for securing advance seats was to see Jonathan Groff, of Spring Awakening, as Claude, the guy who gets drafted. I realize it’s embarrassingly unseemly for a 50-something woman and her 30-something friend to drive 200+ miles to drool over a 20-something actor, but Jonathan is, well, special. His face, his body, his voice, his intensity. He could make any reasonably sane (but deeply feeling) woman (or man, in his case) keel over in reverence. Because of a prior commitment, though, Groff would be gone before the end of the run. Oh no. But an actor named Christopher Hanke, blond and shiny and effervescent, stood in and he done good. Mad good, as my teenage clients say.

I’m not a bona fide Hair groupie like Susan, who’s been obsessed with the show since childhood. She played Sheila, the female lead, in an area production last fall and knows the score and the script (such as it is) inside out. I sang a cheesy choral arrangement of “Aquarius” for Munich High School’s graduation ceremonies in 1969. But Hair is my era, my youth. The minute those opening chords sailed out from the onstage bandstand, I was gone. As in transported. It was perfect staging, electric dancing, authentic costumes, breezy air, naked bodies, peace and love and the psychedelic energy of a cloudless summer night.

And then Will Swenson, the hunky actor playing the Tribe’s leader, Berger, danced with Susan. The cast was cavorting throughout the theater during the title song. Will undoubtedly had spotted Susan on the aisle in her peace earrings and Bohemian dress, moving as much as one can without making a spectacle but restraining herself, I imagine, from simply jumping onto the grassy proscenium to merge with the Tribe.

Will swiftly navigated a few rows and barriers and, in a blurry flash of denim and beads and bare-chested sweat, extended his hands to Susan, who instantly rose to mirror his figure-eight head-flailing tangle of hair in an ecstatic swirl of rock and roll and pure luv. I was breathless. The people next to me whooped. After he bounded back onto the stage, Will reached out his hands, wiggled his fingers toward Susan, and raised his eyebrows, once. Stunned yet calm, Susan gave him a quick, gracious thumbs-up, and fell back in her seat.

For the finale, catharsis not yet complete, the audience was invited on stage for “Let the Sunshine In.” As many as could fit, anyway. It’s been decades since I was at a Be-In or any kind of -In. Propelled by my neighbors, Susan long since disappeared into the mass, I began jumping, twirling, screaming, singing, waving my arms above my head, not even breathing or thinking, just being, along with dozens of euphoric strangers and the wonderful, hairy cast. And lightning didn’t strike. And, for that moment, all was well with the world.

By the next night, we’d visited with my dynamo cousin Bobby, cruised the Upper West Side, sampled organic smoked salmon at Zabar’s, watched my brother, Don, play piano for a silent film at MOMA, caught ten minutes of the tantalizing Dali exhibit, had a yummy Italian dinner in a too-noisy restaurant with my parents in White Plains, and headed to the hills of northwestern Connecticut to Don’s home.

Sunday afternoon, Don, Susan, and I went to Falls Village, where we climbed down a steep hill to a swimming hole. Across a medium-size pond studded with rocks, the powerful waterfalls beckoned. I try not to think of myself as phobic about too many things. But swimming across the pond without being able to touch the bottom is one of them. Maybe it’s a control thing. Maybe it’s the fact that I never learned to swim well. So I chose to scuttle slowly along the algae-covered rocks and watch daredevil children jump off the cliffs, while Don and Susan swam against the current to frolic under the falls.

After a while, I was relieved to climb carefully up the hill to the car, where we headed off for a real lake, where I could do my kind of swimming. Sidestroke, parallel with the shore. Kind of like those old ladies in the ocean with their pink-floral rubber bathing caps and flabby arms. But I didn’t care. I’ll be an old lady if it means being able to touch the bottom.

Don started the engine. It was 4:00, Sunday, August 24. On the car radio, we heard four words, Alle Menschen werden Brüder, enough for instant ecstasy: Beethoven’s Ninth, live from Tanglewood! “All men will become brothers.” Susan and I have sung it countless times, including with Tanglewood at the United Nations for the 1998 Winter Olympics Opening Ceremonies. Bumping along the rocky dirt road up Mt. Riga toward the lake, past verdant hills and meadows flocked with horses, then deep into the shadowy woods, we cranked the volume and sang, Susan on soprano, me on alto, Donnie improvising impeccably as always, shushing ourselves to hear how the chorus pulled off the scary parts, melting at their perfectly executed crescendos and pianissimos, swooning and swaying and flinging our arms and legs and heads, now to Beethoven not Hair, but it’s all the same, isn’t it? Joy, peace, love, brotherhood, sisterhood, music, dancing, bodies in motion, bliss and gratitude. Let the sunshine in. Mad amazing.

And when we arrived at the lake, the water was cool and placid and inviting. I strode in and dunked and dog-paddled and sidestroked, knowing I could stand on the soft, sandy bottom whenever I needed to.

Conventional Wisdom, 1968

It’s Convention time with a capital C, so in honor of the ever-changing, never-changing world of presidential elections, I'm posting excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion.

August 1968: On the political front, LBJ had dropped out of the race and RFK was gone. McCarthy was challenging Humphrey, and no one wanted Nixon to be president. No one I knew anyway.

On the personal front, my family was on Home Leave for two months, staying with relatives in Connecticut, plus a short visit to Miami to see the grandparents. All family all the time—quel challenge for a 14-year-old continental sophisticate. Or so I fancied myself.

Americans overseas, military or not (we were not), called extended visits to the States "Home Leave." But, after living in Germany for two years, the States was like a foreign country to me. Home was Munich. I’d left Rye, New York, far behind in 1966, and was deeply enmeshed in my life abroad and the politics of adolescence.

August 4, New Haven

Today I got all made up. I looked really good. I could be a model maybe! Mom said so. Cool! I think I'm not that ugly.

Can’t wait for Munich—28 days. Ugh! 4 whole wks. Convention starts tomorrow. Hope it’s Rocky vs. HHH [Nelson Rockefeller vs. Hubert Humphrey] or Rocky vs. LBJ. I doubt LBJ will run. 2 mos. ago Bobby Kennedy was shot. Still can’t believe it. I'm gonna plan my schedule for ninth grade real rigidly and get my homework done and study hard and keep up in Social Studies! I have potential!

August 12, Miami

Watched Convention. Tricky Dicky Nixon won and chose Spiro Agnew (whatta name!) for running mate. Rocky put up a good fite.

August 16, New Haven

Grüss Gott! [Hi!] Back in Connecticut after hectic week in Miami, visiting family and swimming and playing gin rummy, shuffleboard, and going out to dinner and having a gay-all time.

Latest rage! Earrings! Got a whole bunch of pierced-look earrings. I have been wearing them all the time. Mom is considering letting me get my ears pierced.

Latest rage! 35 $$$ to spend any way I please! I would like to buy a fall [faux hair] with it. That’s my latest wild wish. Since London I’ve sort of wanted one.

Latest rage! Spex! I got new pair spex. Also prescrip. sunspex. They really look great and do wonders for my face!! Soften, unangulate!

So now we’re back to nagging and arguments—better than nagging from the grandparents! But I love them dearly. They’re so peppy and alive. Some people their age resign themselves to a secluded life cuz they think they’re not much left for the world.

Saw 2001: A Space Odyssey. Really weird, interesting, wild movie. I’m gonna read the book and find out what it was really all about. I remember when I was at the movies at Family Theater [a Munich hangout] 2 mos. ago today (last time I saw everyone!!) and tried to foretell what real Americans were like. Well, I’ll tell ya! Real Americans are just as cheap as Munich Americans. Curlers, gum, fakey everything, airs, Cadillacs. I don’t really "dig it," as Donnie says. Higher-class "America" appeals to me. Late nites, evening gowns, sophisticated company. I hope I don’t submit to the cheap America later on.

For the plane trip, bought Intimate, a trashy magazine. Interesting to read, tho, and see how some girls (although imaginary) succumb to flattery and sweet talk to be conned into making love with a man. I hope I never make that mistake and then regret it as those girls did.

August 26

Went to Caldor's and got gobs of stuff. Breckset, Pssssst, school stuff, etc. Today, Karen and I went downtown. She got $17 Weejun loafers. I got a free Bonne Bell makeover. It was fun. But we put too much on! Bought $4 worth of the stuff and got free lip gloss. Bought orange and yellow accessories for my room. I wanna redecorate my room when I get back (5 days!!) w/ less clutter and more femininity.

August 30

Well, as Daddy says, it’s down to the wire! We’ll be in the air in 24 hours. Went to Hartsdale, went shopping, bought 2 mobiles and a poster at Giftique. Came back and saw Humphrey get the nomination. He chose Muskie as a running mate. Yeccch, what a choice, HHH or Nixon!!

I’m really nervous about going. I think I’ll really miss it more than if I hadn’t come at all. Visited old house [in Rye]. Nostalgic. TOODLES FROM THE STATES—Land of TV, hamburgers, nice houses, no fences, Alexander’s, violence!! Most everything! Oh well, not of friends.

September 2, Munich

Hello from land of beer, fat, hairy legs, ugly houses and our beautiful house!! The whole house is redone! It’s great! New möbel [furniture] in the living room. Brand new küche [kitchen]. Fantastic!! Rug in hall. Paint all over! My room is really tuff! Painted lite blue. With new stuff that I got it’ll be great! Have already started rearranging.

Left USA on Saturday—sad goodbyes. Then Ma, Pa and I zoomed off to JFK via the dentist (ayayay!). Good 6½-hour flite to London. Slept most of the way. Then 1½-hr. to Munich. Good to be back!

September 5

All I’ve been doing is fixing my room and clothes and the house. It’s taking shape now. Talked with Kathy for 40 minutes last night. I was afraid to tell her that I kind of wanna break away from her and the new kids and not always group together. So she agreed! I solved both our problems! We decided that we both want a new image. Both of us want good grades and popularity, so we figured we'd get good grades and be studious and then people will come to you if you’re generally nice to them w/out plugging for popularity. See? It’s hard to write. But on the first day we’re not gonna pair off and talk and gossip (no, no, no!!) but be more alone. I hope it works out.

I’m gonna really try to work this year. It’s very important to get honors to get into any ½ decent college and get a ½ decent education. So BUCKLE DOWN! In 10 days, school starts. My new "image" should be complete by then. It’ll be hard but I'm trying.

Stay tuned next week: Notes from HAIR in Central Park, August 22, 2008. Long live the '60s!

Olymp-o-Mania

I remember it happened four years ago, too. And eight years ago. And 12, 20, even 36 years ago, when Mark Spitz was the hot, supple-limbed poster boy in Munich. The pageantry and pomp, rabid nationalism, heart-wrenching backstories, and interminable commercials. And I remember each time spending long hours in front of the TV trying to imagine the life of an elite athlete—what it must be like to have a singular, all-or-nothing, must-win goal, where success or failure hinges on hundredths of a second or tenths of a point. Where the turn of an ankle or a surge of nerves could obliterate years, years, of coaching, preparing, fine-tuning, sweating, dreaming.

Olympic fever—utterly irresistible. I was gonna skip it this time. Really. I would not be seduced by NBC. Too much hype, it’s on too late, too much to do. I just can’t commit.

I casually, noncommittally caught the end of the Opening Ceremonies. Damn. They got me. So here are some of my Olympic reflections after Week 1:

Michael Phelps

Of course! How else could I begin? Gold medal #7 by 1/100 of a second! I can’t wait for the relay tonight. He’s God and Hercules and Paul McCartney all rolled into one. Along with the hungry media and international fan clubs, I’ve devoured the micro details about his training regimen, the 12,000-calorie-a-day “diet,” and the vital (and I mean vital) statistics about his body and his strange tunnel-vision life. Did you know he was arrested for driving under the influence in 2004, after Athens? God is flawed. But at least God partied.

Phelps is a miracle. Or a freak. Or something meta-human. But when you think about it, which I’ve been doing for a week, what kind of a life is eat, swim, rest? I’d much rather eat, pray, love. I do hope he plays when he gets back to the States. After cashing in on the endorsements, of course.

Anyway, it’s that arm-span thing that knocks me out. The wing-flapping before each swim. Six feet seven inches of sublime condor. I had to try, didn’t you? I yanked myself up out of my chair, all five feet of me. Lengthening my spine and leaning forward, fully bent over, I extended both arms and pressed them backwards. I flapped, slowly and gently, then a little faster. Ouch! You can’t be serious. I read he was double-jointed in the elbows, knees, and ankles. Is it possible to have double-jointed shoulders too? Note to self: Schedule chiropractor appointment.

So it’s goodbye to swimming, to Ryan Lochte’s bedroom eyes and Aaron Peirsol’s satin chest and Dara Torres’s powerful arms. To the Water Cube and Rowdy Gaines, who used to be a hunk and now looks wizened. To buttery muscles and flipper feet and smashed world records and fantasies of flexibility. And to Michael Phelps, Man and Superman.

Men's Gymnastics

The biceps, the thighs, the symmetry, the chalk, the still rings, that Sascha kid on the pommel horse, the tattoos, the biceps. Enough said.

Women's (Or Should I Say Girls'?) Gymnastics

How old are the Chinese girls, really? Who selects them as three-year-olds and why? Is it their shape, their bone structure, their malleability? Are they psych-tested to assess their strengths and vulnerabilities? Even the Americans are like machines. I wonder what Nastia Liukin’s Rorschach would reveal: “I see a full-twisting double-flipping dismounting Romanian pixie about to nail a perfect stick”? Do these girls know about Monet and Brahms and chocolate-hazelnut gelato? I worry about their mental health.

Of all the routines, the balance beam is the most daunting—how do they do that? Let me try. I placed a ruler on the floor and measured out four inches. Can I walk an imaginary straight line that wide, one foot in front of the other? Imagine whirling and twirling and leaping and cartwheeling and somersaulting and somehow still landing on this tiny little surface.

I tried a back flip once in sixth grade and landed on my head. After that, I decided to be a writer.

Coming Up: Track and Field

One stretch of my usual walk is a mile-long circuit by the Charles River, past quacking ducks and annoying geese and eagle-eyed seagulls and herons fishing along the waterfall’s edge. One mile. It takes me around 20 minutes at a nice pace that gets my heart going and my brow sweating. This week, people will run fast enough to cover that entire distance in under four minutes. My God.

Or the 100-meter dash: Imagine the length of a football field plus a little more. Imagine coordinating every breath and every movement and every muscle and eye-blink and propelling your body through space in under ten seconds. OK, no one’s around. I’ll try to run as fast as I can. After ten seconds, I covered maybe 20 feet or 20 yards, or, I really don’t know. I’m not good at distances. I only know my knees were howling and my feet started to laugh.

I think I’ll stick to writing.

Earth Touch

In the absence of crises large and small, at least in my personal corner of the universe, I contemplate the vagaries of daily life.

The Paper Boy

That’s what we used to call them when I was growing up, anyway, but now I have no idea who the man is who wakes up in the middle of the night and drives around town tossing newspapers onto people’s stoops and porches. Usually, he hits the top step, but sometimes my Boston Globe lands in a puddle and soaks through, in which case I have to go through a lengthy phone tree to get a dry paper redelivered.

His name is Geraldo and he lives over near Logan Airport. I know this because about 10 times a year he sticks a self-addressed envelope in the plastic bag wishing me a happy mother’s day or a merry Christmas or peace in the Easter season, none of which applies to me. Every year, I mail him a Christmas check, but I pass on the other holidays.

This week, Geraldo enclosed another envelope, but this time with a typed-up plea:

Dear Custumer:

I want to say thank you for your help, because the gas are to expencive, and your tip are help me to be able to delivery your newspaper every day.

Thank you very much and have a great day.

Geraldo

I understand, Geraldo! I really do. I’m so grateful that you rise early and aim the paper, and I’d like to be able to tip you more frequently than at Christmas, but my heating oil bill just vaulted from $170 to $320 a month. I am seriously tapped.

However, Geraldo, I admire your style. Direct, heartfelt, proactive. Maybe you could run for office and figure out how to solve this whole energy mess? I’ll vote for you, I promise!

Tech Support

It wasn’t too much trouble after all to set up the RCN box so I could watch TV after the mandated digital conversion in my town. But I still couldn’t record a show. I called tech support. "Joe," who has a robust accent, offered to help. After giving all of my identifying information, we were on our way:

"Ma’am, please tell me, where are you sitting?"

"In front of the TV."

"Approximately how far away from the TV are you sitting, ma’am?"

I cannot gauge distances. Was it five feet, nine feet? Should I grab my ruler and measure? If I were lying down in this space, would I fit? "I have no idea," I said. "Maybe seven feet?"

"OK, ma’am. Now, I want you to move closer, approximately four feet, and aim the new RCN remote at the box." As distinct from my TV remote, VCR remote, and DVD remote.

I scootched forward on the floor. I was tired. I had trouble understanding him. But I needed him. "OK, what’s next?"

"Now, ma’am, I want you to press the Mute button and the OK button at the same time and hold them down for three seconds."

I obeyed.

"Do you see the seven upper buttons flashing in sequence?"

I did. He was reprogramming my TV from India.

"Now hold the CBL button down for two seconds and press OK twice."

Again, I followed his instructions. He took me through several more series of manual maneuvers, pressing different buttons simultaneously, then letting go.

"Joe, this is crazy. Don’t you think this is crazy?"

"Uh, no, ma’am, it is not crazy. Now just press once more the CBL button, then release."

Help! Joe! I haven’t had dinner yet. Finally, we were set. I tried to record, it didn’t work. So Joe wanted me to unhook and rehook a set of white, yellow, and red wires behind my TV. No. Not tonight, Joe. We’re done. I don’t care if I ever record another show. I'll even go without my Jeopardy! I’m hungry.

The next day, I spotted an RCN truck on my street and approached the balding, red-faced driver, who was writing on his clipboard in the front seat. In two minutes, he diagnosed the problem and told me what to do. I went home, pressed three buttons, it worked.

Alex Trebek, I’m back.

Men

John Edwards: What were you thinking? Please, Barack, please. No tabloid revelations.

Saturday Morning Yoga Class

Me before yoga: yakkety-yak, worry, worry, noise, yakkety, uh-oh, plan, plan, review, worry, anticipate, green light you idiot!, what if, oh no, worry, yakkety, noise.

Me after yoga: in and out steady breathing, expansion, calm, warm mellow, soft shoulders, inner smile, humming car, you can pass me that’s fine, all is well, peace, love, harmony.

Flights of Angels

Jody died on Tuesday morning. Word spread quickly through the Zamir Chorale community. Even though we were expecting the news, it still was a shock to read the email. The funeral would be on Wednesday afternoon.

Later that morning, I got an emergency call from a client’s mother—her 17-year-old son tried to overdose Monday night with a combination of heroin and Valium. He did it at home, which was a good decision, as much as an addict in the throes of relapse can make a good decision, because his parents found him before he lost consciousness and they called 911. I was strangely relieved that he was in the hospital—at least he’s safe. I don’t think he was trying to die. I think he was trying to escape his crippling anxiety. Addiction is such an impulsive disorder—please keep me from feeling pain. I need a way out.

Jody tried to live for as long as she could. She was 56. I was relieved for Jody and her family too—she was safe now, out of pain. It was not her choice to die but she died with dignity and strength, surrounded by love.

Through the rest of the day, I felt alternately hazy and irritable. Why doesn’t that idiot use his turn signal? What is wrong with that cashier? Hurry up! I felt impatient with my clients and short with my friend Susan, who asked for a second opinion on a fabulous apartment. It’s perfect and she took it. She’ll move in September, and although it’s not the same as her being able to go home after the fire, over time she will create a happy Susan space there. And maybe it will become home someday.

And so, the next day, Zamir gathered to say goodbye to Jody. We’re not just a chorus, we’re a community. Josh Jacobson, our director, called a rehearsal before the service so we could run through the two pieces Jody had requested: "Enosh," Louis Lewandowski’s setting of Psalm 103 ("Surely our days are numbered"), and "Adonai Ro’i," Gerald Cohen’s setting of Psalm 23 ("The Lord is my shepherd").

Josh took charge, as Josh does at these times, reminding us that, unlike in a concert, we would need to set aside our emotions while singing, to honor the music and to honor Jody. It was a familiar scene. Not so much the funeral of one of our own, although we mourned for Rick a couple of years back, but having to transcend our emotions to honor the dead. We’ve sung in the Lodz and Warsaw cemeteries, in the shadow of the crematoria at Auschwitz-Birkenau, by the train tracks in Terezin, on the night of September 11, at the United Nations for Holocaust Remembrance Day. I looked around at my friends, my spiritual family, and felt safe and warm, happy and sad, grateful and empty.

I’ve only been to a few funerals in my life, so I don’t have much to go on, but it was beautiful. The singing, yes—standing closely packed, vibrating with the harmonies and overtones, Scott Sokol’s molasses baritone, and knowing Jody, wherever she was, was smiling. But it was much more than the singing.

The eulogies were heartfelt and literate. Her husband, her brother, and close friends spoke of Jody’s passions and accomplishments. They shared anecdotes about her, both funny and touching. I realized, as I gather people do at funerals, that I didn’t really know Jody that well. We were fellow sopranos for 15 years, but outside of Zamir, we didn’t socialize. I learned about her marriage to Mark, only eight years together, about his gentleness and devotion, and how their partnership transformed her. I learned that Jody’s strong and often opinionated nature stemmed in part from her commitment to justice and fairness rather than a compulsion to be right.

I also began thinking about my own death, as I gather people do at funerals. What would my legacy be? Will I have honored my values and taken risks like Jody? Will I have manifest my creativity and found love, even late in life? If I were faced with cancer, would I be so brave and so determined and so . . . evolved as Jody?

Suddenly I felt calm and energized, subtly electrified. It wasn’t a words thing, although if it were, the feelings would translate into clichés such as Carpe diem, Just do it, Life is not a dress rehearsal. Yes. Beginning now, I will live my passion, sing from my heart, and speak my truth even if someone disagrees. I will be feisty and unselfconscious. I will eat less, exercise more, worry less, play more, recycle weekly, and give back in some small way. I will maximize my day, my week, my life.

After the service, I went directly to the office for my 4:30 group of teenage boys, all of whom are in trouble with drugs, alcohol, and the law. Their passion, on the outside at least, is finding the latest and greatest ways to cheat on a drug test. They live in the moment and long to chase that next high. I wanted to shake them and scream, "Wake up! Don’t you realize life is short?" But I didn't.

[SPOILER ALERT!] At the end of Spring Awakening, the musical based on Frank Wedekind's 1891 play about adolescent yearning and self-discovery, young Melchior is in a cemetery, grieving, pondering suicide. Like my client, in that moment, he sees no way out. He opens a razor blade and lifts it to his throat. Then, the ghosts of his two lost friends, Moritz and Wendla, rise from their graves in an eerie white light. Moritz sings:

Those you’ve known and lost still walk behind you.
All alone, their song still seems to find you.
They call you, as if you knew their longing.
They whistle through the lonely wind, the long blue shadows falling. . . .

Melchior listens, weeps, and holds them close. Then he snaps the razor shut, resolved, and sings:

Now they’ll walk on my arm through the distant night,
And I won’t let them stray from my heart.
Through the wind, through the dark, through the winter light,
I will read all their dreams to the stars.
I’ll walk now with them.
I’ll call on their names.
I’ll see their thoughts are known.
Not gone. Not gone.
They walk with their heart.
I’ll never let them go.
You watch me, just watch me, I’m calling.
And one day all will know.

Goodbye, Jody. May you rest in peace and sing with the angels.