Yesterday I took the plunge and placed my first order with iTunes.  I’ve been meaning to do that for awhile, but have just been busy with other things.  I have long enjoyed making my own music compilations, starting with cassette tape mixes that I played while driving or working out at the gym. But the iTunes business model of being able to get single tracks without having to shell out for an entire album is a game-changer.

The catalyst was actually a catchy old song called “Smoke From a Distant Fire” that I wanted to get on my iPod but couldn’t find in record stores. I did some research and learned that it was a one hit wonder done by a couple of studio musicians who briefly formed their own band. It’s a fun piece of music with sophisticated lyrics – the refrain includes the line “Girl, your eyes have a mist from the smoke of a distant fire,” referring to the singer’s suspicion that his girlfriend is having an affair. I have learned enough about epic poetry form through my familiarity with J.R.R. Tolkien’s work to appreciate the sophistication of the rhyming of “mist” with the first syllable in “distant.” It plays real smooth.

I took advantage of the situation to compile a list of old favorites, and downloaded about thirty songs for my initial foray into this brave new world. I noted in passing how weird the whole consumer culture emphasis on instant gratification has become, but I’m picking my battles these days. It’s a fun new toy to play with, and that’s enough for now.

In college at UC Berkeley, I sang in a small women’s ensemble that performed music from the ‘30s and ‘40s in three-part harmony, Andrews Sisters-style. Five or six of us used to freelance on weekends by going over to Union Square, throwing a hat down on a street corner, and going through our song list. We rode the cable cars singing “San Francisco, open your golden gate…” The mimes Shields & Yarnell, who went on to become famous, were among our more illustrious colleagues working the sidewalks. There was a lively, bohemian feel to the city arts scene, and I always came home with enough money to buy a few meals and a load of laundry or two.

That experience got me started collecting vintage sheet music. The artistry of old sheets works on several different levels. Visually alone, some old sheet music covers are beautiful examples of the artistic style of earlier eras. The song titles often tell stories in and of themselves. It’s even better if the composer and/or lyricist is a well-known name, or if the song is familiar. Riches abound.

Among my collection is an old sheet for “The West, a Nest and You,” which shows a peaceful silhouette of a man, woman and child gazing through a window out onto a pastoral setting. Handwritten on the front is the name “Alta M. Bates,” and I’ve often wondered if it once belonged to the person for whom Berkeley’s Alta Bates Hospital is named. That would be especially meaningful, since my son was born there. At a flea market, I found an old sheet for the song “She Had To Go and Lose It at the Astor,” a classic example of provocative, double entendre lyrics from a sexually repressed age. I’ve discovered good music over the years from sheets I picked up simply on the basis of the cover artistry or the title.

In the past several years, I’ve seen more and more old sheet music that has been wrapped up in cardboard and cellophane and had the price jacked up astronomically. But I’ve recently discovered stashes in a few antique stores in out-of-the-way places. One of these days, I’ll dust off my collection and see about enhancing it. It’s an endlessly fun pastime.

There was some interesting chatter out on the more intelligent fringes of the Information Superhighway last week about the underlying symbolism and subtext of the White House’s hosting of Chinese President Hu Jintao last week. Apparently, Obama might have been perceived as overly deferential on his official state visit to China last year, and this occasion presented an opportunity to set the record straight about American robustness, circa 2011. Every detail of the State Dinner, down to Michelle Obama’s sassy, dragon red dress and the kick-ass jazz concert was choreographed to the nth degree. Fascinating, especially given the history of American stereotyping of anybody and everything other than plain old meat and potatoes, mainstream white culture. ‘The times, they are a-changin’ indeed, as Bob Dylan sang last year at another White House event.

Jon Stewart may have stirred up something bigger than he bargained for in holding a “Rally For Sanity” on the National Mall on Saturday. I tuned in to the live broadcast partway through, and was pleasantly enough surprised by what I saw that I sat and watched until the end. Some of the music reminded me of the kind of mass festivals that were so popular back during the Vietnam era. I keep hearing all kinds of criticism about how Stewart didn’t do enough of this; should have done more of that; failed to meet expectations (which nobody seems able to clearly explain); blah, blah blah; but I saw glimmers of a hopeful spirit that has been missing from American popular culture for far too long.

There’s something going on when people en masse are turning to television comedians to interpret culture and news. But it’s no big mystery why, given the freak show that the corporate media tries to pass off as broadcast journalism. I usually avoid the latter like the plague, but every now and then I tune in when something unusual is going on. Most recently, I got caught up in the drama of the Chilean miners’ rescue. As the amazing event was wrapping up in real time, I had the misfortune of catching Katie Couric and a few of her lieutenants hovering around like buzzards, licking their lips over the prospect of stories that might be forthcoming about thoughts on cannibalism that the miners might have entertained during the dark days before they were located. It was obscene. They seemed to have absolutely zip self-awareness of how crude and uncivilized they sounded. And Katie Couric is a far cry from Rush Limbaugh and his ilk.

The optimist in me thinks we’re in the end game of the deconstructed-to-death landscape that post-modernism hath wrought. If there’s no such thing as objective truth, there’s no such thing as sanity, ethics, or a few other essential components of a healthy, functional society. The pillars of our outmoded institutions may be crumbling, but down here on the ground where real folk go about their daily business, there’s something positive and energizing going on. I think that’s what Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert tapped into on a blustery day in DC, and I hope they keep at it.

I miss the days when you could just hook up a set of speakers, plug in a new stereo system, and enjoy your music.  Or – gasp!!! – plug in a TV set, fiddle with the rabbit ears, and instantly start watching programs (THOSE days are gone forever).  I love my iPod, but the tradeoffs of all the technological bells & whistles vs. plain old enjoyment of artistic content just aren’t worth it.

I have a high degree of skill at reading and processing information, and the permutations of gobbledygook involved in trying to hook up a Samsung TV to a Sony home theater system to a Panasonic DVR to the various other paraphernalia required to get them all “communicating” with each other is crazy-making.  And then when you do get it all hooked up, you have three or four *#&%!! remotes that need to be fiddled with in proper sequence in order to get anything to work.  It’s enough to get my unreconstructed inner Confederate stirred up and snarling about the evils of industrialism.

The business world being what it is, when automobiles were first invented you could only run Ford cars on Ford gas, Edsels on Edsel gas, etc.  Eventually it all shook down so that gas was gas, and the corporate world moved on to duke it out in other arenas.  I think we’re at an equivalent point with all this information and entertainment technology.  Goddess knows the vast majority of the swill being churned out of Hollywood and elsewhere doesn’t warrant all this hassle.  But then there’s “Mad Men,” and the Lehrer News Hour, and my iPod, and my old LP recording of “The Magic Flute” with Georg Solti directing the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, with arias from the Queen of the Night that sound straight out of the celestial sphere…

I’ve thrown in the towel, and have a call in to the Geek Squad.  This whole system is nuts, but the music makes it worth dealing with.

Let the white moons ride, let the red stars fall,
O great, sweet sea!  O fearful and sweet!
Thy songs they repeat, and repeat, and repeat:
And these, I say, shall survive us all.

I but sing for the love of song and the few
Who loved me first and shall love me last;
And the storm shall pass as the storms have pass’d
For never were clouds but the sun came through.

– Joaquin Miller (1837-1913), from Songs of the Sun-Lands

The world’s a well strung fidle, mans tongue the quill,
That fills the world with fumble for want of skill,
When things and words in tune and tone doe meet,
The universall song goes smooth and sweet.

– Nathaniel Ward (1578-1652), from The Simple Cobler of Aggawam in America

The air is fresh and clear. Over the fence, rolling green hills appear in the distance, a glimpse into a sylvan realm. The forested hills across the valley are a study in green texture, bringing the peaceful feel of a camping retreat. Cloud formations roll in from the bay in ever-shifting patterns, mingling with light from the rising and setting sun to paint the sky in brilliant displays. Golden eagles soar overhead in long, easy glides on thermal breezes, masters of all they survey. Giant trees rim the property like guardians of the four directions: Deodora Cedar, Liquidambar, Podocarpus, Hollywood Juniper. Silver wind chimes dangle from a plum branch, playing a soothing, e-minor melody that blends in counterpoint with a dove’s gentle cooing. Apple blossoms reflect in the water of the stone bird bath. Roses bask in the abundant sunshine: Mr. Lincoln, April in Paris, Zephirine Drouhin. On some days, this feels about as close to Paradise as it’s possible to get.

N.B. My original intent was to have this be a straight photo essay. But it turns out that the technology deities who make all this happen require a few lines of text before the appearance of graphic images; otherwise, the post presents in a screwy manner. To make a very long story short, my talent is for information, not technology. The path of least resistance is to appease these deities rather than push the edge. Picking one’s battles, as it were. There — I think I’ve vamped long enough to make it all work!

My newly refurbished, “the old made new again” piano arrived last week. I’ve only had time to play a few Joplin rags, but I can scarcely believe I ever hesitated about having this work done. I now have the keyboard tone and action I’ve always loved in a magnificently beautiful piece of furniture. Even something as simple as replacing the white keys makes a world of difference in playing the instrument. It will always bear the scars of its history and pedigree, but they have been artfully blended into a cohesive whole. It’s an inspiration to begin considering other things in my life that might be worth restoring.