A Tribute to What's His Name

A couple of months ago, I met a young man who was then boarding for a short period with a friend of mine. A student of music, he had met an Israeli professor of music online, and after some exchanges, the two agreed to meet. So this man came to Israel for a few weeks, during which time he and the Israeli professor met a number of times and discussed their common field of interest.

On the few occasions that I had the opportunity to speak to him while he was here, I found him a highly intelligent and playful conversationalist and enjoyed some rather stimulating conversations with him.

The other day, I decided to send him an email in order to keep in touch. Problem: I had forgotten his name.

So I decided to try a memory device I came up with (or "up with which I came", for you grammar aficionados) 25 years ago, and have since used from time to time. At that time, my then-roommate had had a dinner party, and one of the guests had brought a homemade pie which I enjoyed immensely, so I wanted to get the recipe from him -- but had forgotten the guest's name.

I have no idea how on earth the idea entered my head, but here is how it works:

• Relax your mind and focus gently on the task.
• Very slowly, recite the letters of the alphabet.
• As you recite each letter, notice whether any catches your attention.
• When you get to a letter which does, focus on it, and see if a name beginning with that letter enters your mind.
• Hopefully, a name will enter your head which you recognize as the correct one.

Now even though this method had worked on that occasion, and on at least one or more others, it had been many years since I had used it, so I was not sure whether it would still work for me. So I began: A, B, C, ...

Sure enough, when I got to the letter S, my mind said: I think we're there. And almost immediately thereafter, a name popped into my head which I recognized as the name of my young musical friend: Sam.

Two notes about this method:

1. Be quite passive when you use it. Don't try to force the letter or the name. Let your subconscious mind do the work, and do not help it.
2. There seems to be a statute of limitations on the efficacy of this method, for I have just tried to recall again the name of the baker of that delicious pie from 25 years ago, fruitlessly, although the letter H does seem to be calling at me...

I'll be happy to hear whether this device works for you.

Scylla and Charybdis

To say that Israel Isidore Beilin, better known as Irving Berlin, was a successful songwriter is somewhat akin to saying that the grand canyon is a fairly big hole in the ground. For the prolific Berlin was the Michelangelo of songwriting. Some stats from his 60-year career:

• 1,500 songs composed
• scores for 19 Broadway shows and 18 Hollywood films
• songs nominated 8 times for Academy Awards
• songs reached the top of the charts 25 times

Decade after decade, this Belarusian Jew's tunes were belted out by the greatest singers, from Bing (Crosby) to Babs (Streisand). And he was a songwriter's songwriter, praised by the best of them. George Gershwin: "the greatest songwriter that has ever lived". Jerome Kern: "Irving Berlin has no place in American music -- he is American music."

We've all heard them all, from rousing patriotic songs like God Bless America, to romantic ballads like Cheek to Cheek, to brassy show tunes like There's No Business Like Show Business.

Two events give us an idea of how entrenched Irving's music is in the American psyche:

• The secret pre-arranged signal for the 1975 U.S. evacuation from Saigon at the close of the Vietnam War was a radio broadcast of White Christmas
• A broadcast the day of the September 11, 2001 attacks closed with the U.S. Congress singing God Bless America

One talent which this musical genius lacked was musical literacy, so Irving employed musical secretaries who would write down the tunes in musical notation as he sang or played them.

Ironically, this Yiddish boychick is well known for songs celebrating not Passover and Channukah, but rather Christmas and Easter. How popular was his White Christmas?

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the version sung by Bing Crosby is the best-selling single of all time, with estimated sales in excess of 50 million copies worldwide. All other versions of the song, along with Bing Crosby's, has estimated sales over 100 million copies.

What fascinates me about Mr. Berlin is his estimation of his own songwriting prowess. Here is what he had to say to his musical secretary about White Christmas:

Grab your pen and take down this song. I just wrote the best song I've ever written -- heck, I just wrote the best song that anybody's ever written! 

Is it surprising to hear Izzie speak so boastfully? Well, if year after year, for the past 3 decades, your songs were sung by the country's greatest singers, purchased by the million, performed on Broadway and in film after film, danced to in clubs across the land, and whistled, hummed and warbled every day by people on the street, don't you think you might develop a somewhat favorable opinion of your musical ability?

It's a natural human reaction to feel positive about oneself when one has accomplished a task that one feels particularly proud of, right? (See how I added the word "right", so that my sentence would not end with a preposition? Sneaky devil, aren't I?) So what is the natural reaction of someone who reaches the pinnacle of success in one's field -- and in a field where success means ubiquitous recognition?

The best song that anybody's ever written. I reflect on the sheer magnitude of that statement. Is Irving speaking hyperbolically, or does he literally feel that he has come up with the best song in history, of all of the thousands (millions?) which have been composed over the millenia? Like many of the thoughts that enter our minds, the answer probably lies somewhere in the murky middle of consciousness. In any event, we clearly have a person who seems to have no lack of self-esteem in the area of melody making.

And yet. I read a few years ago about one occasion when Irving Berlin came up with a new tune. As usual, he summoned his musical secretary (Watson, come here; I need you!) so that he could perform the song and the secretary could take it down. Upon completion, the secretary expressed her opinion that the song (I forget which, unfortunately) was not exactly stellar.

Irving's reaction? He put the song in a drawer, where it sat for months.

Izzy, baby! What happened? You are the composer of the best! song! ever! written! remember? How could you possibly take a mere musical secretary's criticism so seriously?

One of life's most intriguing phenomena is the inner conflicts residing within the human mind, wherein we are torn between a dichotomy of diametrically opposed impulses. This mental polarity is illustrated exquisitely and succinctly by Saint Augustine's famous prayer: "Lord, grant me chastity and continence, but not yet".

Why are we so sensitive to criticism, and why do we get so irate when someone insults us? I think at the core is the thought that if someone criticizes us, then there is very possibly some truth to their disapproval. Why would any thought enter someone's mind unless it contained some merit? In other words, we often resent negative judgments about us precisely because -- and precisely to the extent to which -- we agree with them! The critic's censure is a mirror which reveals to us an unflattering reflection of ourselves.

If someone were to walk up to you and mock you over the hand growing out of your head, would that anger you? I think not, because you would be absolutely sure that there was no legitimacy whatsoever to their criticism. You would probably instead simply believe your critic to be not quite right in the head.

But criticism is rarely as patently ludicrous as that, and so, there is frequently a nagging doubt in the mind that perhaps there is some veracity in the other person's negative opinion of us. After all, if everything about me were so wonderful, then how could this person, or anyone, possibly find fault with me?

To a not insignificant extent, our entire opinion of our self-worth is inextricably linked to others' opinions of us. Every day of our lives, we are being appraised, on social, professional, ethical, cultural, financial and a host of other levels. What is peer pressure, if not the fear of the truth of others' opinions of us?

And so the mind double-tracks between our own inner reaction to ourselves, and the external reactions of others to us. On the one hand is the natural tendency, propelled by the ego, to regard oneself positively. On the other hand, we are confronted by the evidence that another person disapproves of something we've said or done.

What is so astounding to me is that not even the great Irving Berlin, a person who had such a high opinion of his musicality that in some very real sense he literally viewed himself as the greatest musical composer in all of humanity was impervious to the derision of others. For the criticism of a simple musical stenographer's directed at such a colossal ego would seem to be analogous to a pebble flung at an unassailable steel fortress. And yet, behold: the tiny pebble topples the magnificent fortress!

Until a few months later, when, presumably, Irving pulled out the notes, looked them over, said to himself: Why on earth have I left the latest best song in the world lying around in a drawer?, and published them to wild critical and popular acclaim.

When Opposites Repel

Pop quiz:

What is the opposite of the word depth?

This question appeared on a test I took in English class in the 7th grade. The reason I remember the question so well is that it is one of the few times in my life, so few that I could probably list them all, that a teacher marked a reply of mine on a test incorrect when I felt that my reply was correct. In fact, in this case, not only did I feel that my reply was correct, but I felt that the reply that the teacher thought was correct was incorrect. (Still with me?)

I showed the test to my father and asked his opinion. Not only did he agree with me, but he adduced evidence to support my point of view. Funnily enough, I don't recall whether I disputed the point with my teacher.

I had pretty much forgotten about this episode until about 7 years ago, when I was at a small dinner party. Something triggered my memory of it and I related it to those present and accounted for, and asked what answer they would have given. To a person, they all gave the answer that my teacher wanted.

At this point, I know that you are bursting at the seams on pins and needles (ah, the danger of mixing metaphors) to find out the answer. Without further adieu, my fellow wordsmith:

• The response my teacher was looking for: shallowness.
• The response I gave: height.

Now I would certainly agree that the opposite of deep is shallow, just as the opposite of hot is cold, the opposite of rich is poor, and the opposite of tall is short. In each of these cases, one word indicates a large quantity of the property being measured, while the other word indicates a small quantity.

But to my mind, depth and shallowness are not opposites, but rather synonyms, for both indicate the very act of measuring a property. Is there a difference between saying that the depth of a pool is 5 feet and the shallowness of the pool is 5 feet?

This is the reason I chose height as the opposite of depth: one is a measure of distance from the ground upwards, while the other is a measure of the distance from the ground downwards.

And the evidence which my father mustered in my support comes from Irving Berlin:

How much do I love you?
I'll tell you no lie.
How deep is the ocean?
How high is the sky?

By the way, I'd be happy to hear from someone who disagrees with this and can explain my teacher's point of view. I think part of the disagreement stems from the fact that the very concept of opposites is to a degree subjective.

If that same teacher were to give me the same test today, I'd give an answer which I believe would be in line with her way of thinking on the issue, but which I think she would nevertheless find highly unexpected. I wonder whether she'd give me credit for it.

Superficiality.

Light My Fire - Illuminated

One of the most well-known American pop music bands of the 1960's was The Doors. Far and away the most popular member of the band was front-man and lead singer Jim Morrison, who, in 1971, joined an exclusive club to which few would wish to be accepted: the club of musicians who met their demise at the age of 27.

But in 1998, it was keyboardist Ray Manzarek who was interviewed by NPR's Terry Gross. The interview may be read here or listened to here. Hear, hear!

Ray was an extremely intelligent, interesting, friendly and charming interviewee. In fact, I found myself thinking that he was the kind of person with whom I would really enjoy to spend time. Such a positive person. An absolutely delightful interview.

(An interesting aside. Around the same time, I listened to another interview conducted by NPR's Terry Gross, this one of David Hyde Pierce, who was then starring in the hit sitcom Frasier. What I found so fascinating was the contrast between the interviews. Whereas every question put to Ray served as a springboard to a sprawling 5-plus-minute-long tale of adventure, David's replies, while polite, informative, and interesting, were brief and to the point, almost to the point of being perfunctory, as if he were taking a test and his goal was to reply to each question in a manner which would simply ensure that he would get credit for answering that question correctly.)

In the interview, Ray, an expert racounteur, regaled with various stories revolving around the band, such as how the band formed from a chance encounter on the beach between Ray and Jim, and Jim's antics during his tenure with the band, which on at least one occasion landed him in jail.

For me, the highlight of the interview is when Ray discusses, at great length, the recording of the band's most famous song: Light My Fire. This happens to be not only my favorite song by the band, but one of my favorite songs of all time, to my ear a perfect synthesis of the "coolness" and improvisational style of jazz with the "sweetness" and "edginess" of pop rock music.

For 15 minutes, Ray gives a wonderfully detailed exegesis on the genesis of all aspects of the song, including:

• The lyrics and melody, a collaboration between guitarist Robby Krieger and the other band members and Johann Sebastian Bach;
• The time signature and the rhythm, influenced by both jazz great Johnny Coltrane and Latin flamenco music;
• The chord structure, with a clever interplay between major and minor keys;
• The introduction, a musical pattern known as a circle of fifths, based on the aforementioned baroque composer; and
• The 4-minute instrumental, an eloquent dialog between Ray's keyboard and Robby's guitar (which, much to the outrage of the band members, is cruelly excised by the producer for the single version, to bring the song's length down from 7:05 to 2:52)

Ray analyzes each of the above elements of the song with consummate musical erudition, bringing a crystal clear illumination of the evolution of how this masterpiece of a song came into being. And I must mention that Ray has his keyboard with him during the interview, so throughout, he is constantly elucidating his expositions musically.

So of course, once the interview was over, I decided that the thing to do was to now listen again to the song Light My Fire, having now learned all of the myriad facets of the song. The result was an experience that I will never forget. Like many experiences, it is very difficult to explain in words. I can use an analogy and say that it was like seeing life in black and white and suddenly seeing it in color for the first time. Every single second of the song just exploded in my mind, rife with the multiple layers of musical meaning contained therein. With every note, I was hearing simultaneously the note itself, and Ray's beautiful explanation of the process that had gone into its creation. What a superlatively rich experience!

Dear reader, if you wish to do yourself a great favor, I highly recommend that you treat yourself to this experience, and listen to the interview and the song, in that order. I'd be most happy to hear your reactions.

Footnote. In the interview, Ray states that the song's introduction, which he terms the "turnaround", was the last piece of the song to be composed. I find this very odd, since every phrase of the instrumental seems to be an improvisation based on that turnaround. As I composed this post today, I just learned sadly that Ray died earlier this year. So it looks like I will not get the opportunity to ask him about this point.

Keep On Smilin'

Upon my completion of high school, I spent 2½ years in Israel, studying at two Jewish theological seminaries. The first year-and-a-half of that period was spent in an institution in Jerusalem called Yeshivat HaKotel. The school is located in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem's Old City, just a few minutes' walk from the holy Jewish site known as The Wailing Wall, or, in Hebrew, as HaKotel, meaning simply "The Wall".

There were approximately 300 students in the Yeshiva, enrolled in various programs. Most of the Israelis ranged in age from 18 to 23 and were there as part of a five-year program known as Hesder, which is a combination of military service and religious study. There were also a few dozen students in their mid-20's in the Rabbinical program. And there were about 70 non-Israeli students, mostly from the U.S., who, like myself, were just out of high school. Most of them returned to their respective countries of origin after a single year at the Yeshiva.

Obviously, in an institution with a student body of that size, I didn't get to know the majority of the students. I made friends of varying degrees among both the Israelis and the non-Israelis.

But there was one student with whom I shared a very special friendship. He was an Israeli, a couple of years ahead of me, on the short side, with thick, long, straight black hair and a thick, long, wispy black beard. We would see each other only every few weeks. In all the time I knew him we never uttered a single word to each other.

But every time we would pass each other, typically in the large study hall, which was often by filled with the roar of 200-to-300-plus students engaged in Talmudic discussions, he would radiate towards me the most beautiful, beatific, beaming smile, not from his mouth, but from his entire face, and, it seems, from his entire body. I never ceased to derive enormous pleasure from these brief encounters, and I think I reciprocated very much in kind.

But although I always enjoyed these interactions with my cheshire friend, for some reason it never occurred to me to take the friendship to the next level and engage him in conversation. Indeed, I never even learned his name. I think that in my mind, and very likely in his as well, our silent relationship was so complete, in its total mutual expression of good will, that any words would have been superfluous.

Then one day a few months later, another Israeli student flashed at me a similar Mother Teresa smile. This student was younger, of average height, with thick straight fair hair and no beard. But this encounter began a new friendship which was identical in all respects to the friendship I had with my bearded ami. I found it both sweet and amusing that I now had not one but two special friendships of this kind.

One day, not long before the conclusion of my tenure at Yeshivat HaKotel, I learned somehow that my two mute best friends were brothers.

Full Frontal Non-Nudity

One day, many years ago, I was on my way to meet a woman with whom I had arranged to go out on a date. She had told me to meet her at the place where she then worked, a drugstore on a main street. As I walked along the sidewalk towards the drugstore, I felt a sudden call of nature. And this call became quite loud quite quickly. I quickly entered problem solving mode.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, the only obvious venue in which to respond to the call presented itself: a municipal swimming pool. With a mixture of urgency and gratitude, I proceeded towards and entered the building which housed the locker rooms, found the pertinent facilities, and expressed my rejoinder to the call of nature.

On my way out from the facilities, I again passed through the men's locker room. But I was unprepared for the vision which greeted me when I entered it.

Apparently I had entered the room at precisely the moment when the pool swimming hours had ended, or some such. For I found the room full of men who had clearly just completed a swimming session, as the water dripping from their bodies and their discarded bathing suits indicated, and were therefore at that moment in a state of complete undress. The incongruity of being the only clothed man in a room full of completely disrobed men was jarring.

In fact, there's but one word that perfectly captures how I felt at that moment.

The Heart of Darkness at The Heart of Darkness

When I was about 14, my parents bought me, as a Chanukah gift, the Joseph Conrad novel, Heart of Darkness, which I soon proceeded to read -- after a fashion. What I mean by that last phrase is that although I certainly went through all of the pages of the book and took in all of the words, if you would have asked me what I came away with from the book, my response would have been: precious little.

Why I bothered to read an entire book that I really didn't understand at all escapes me. I have certainly been known to abandon books in the middle. For example, after adoring Fyodor Dostoyevsky's 900-page sprawl The Brothers Karamazov, I next attempted Crime and Punishment, and when I found that book inaccessible, I put it down, after a 150-page investment.

On the other hand, I do have a streak of stubborn tenacity. I went through a George Orwell period in high school, thoroughly enjoying Animal Farm, 1984, Keep The Aspidistra Flying and Burmese Days. When I then tackled his The Road To Wigan Pier, which, unlike the other works, was not a novel but rather a collection of essays on socialism, I bravely plodded through the entire tome, even though it largely went over my head.

And when I was in my Somerset Maugham phase, during which I happily devoured his four volumes of short stories, as well as his novels Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge and The Moon and Sixpence, I eventually found myself face to face with his memoir, The Summing Up, which I found inscrutable, but which, again, I nevertheless muddled through.

Back to Conrad. Flash-forward a year. English class. Our teacher announces that the next novel we will be studying will be Heart of Darkness, by the author Joseph Conrad.

A loud Ohhhh noooooooo! immediately rings through the classroom. All eyes turn to the source of said sad groan: moi. I relate to my curious classmates that I had already read the book and it was absolutely dreadful. (No doubt, a secondary reason for that groan was boastfulness, that I was such a well-read man-of-letters that my intake of literature included even obscure novels by authors that nobody else in my class had even heard of.)

Our teacher gave us a few days to read the novel, and then, before we began to study it, gave us a very brief quiz, consisting of a few very basic plot questions.

Receiving a failing grade on this quiz, which was designed simply to see whether we had read the book, on a book that I had by now read not once but twice, was certainly an interesting experience for me.

Meanwhile, a fellow classmate, who admittedly did not even crack the book open, aced the quiz. His secret? He told us that he had seen the film Apocalypse Now, which was based on the novel.

(This in turn reminds me of the occasion when our teacher gave us a similar quiz on a different novel, and the highest grade in the class had been attained by a different classmate, who had also eschewed the novel, but who had managed to get hold of the comic book version.)

At any rate, for the next few weeks, we studied the novel in class. And even though my own reading of the novel, twice!, had led to very few insights for me, when our teacher explained to us the various themes which the novel addressed, I gradually found myself increasingly fascinated by all of the profundities that it touched upon, such weighty matters as altruism, hypocrisy, man's inhumanity to man and the very nature of evil.

By the time we had concluded our unit on this book, I was positively enthralled with it. So much so that I resolved to myself with considerable enthusiasm:

This has been such a wonderfully illuminating experience! Now that, thanks to my perspicacious teacher, I completely understand all of the complex motifs of the novel, I am going to go back and read it again, so that the words will finally come alive to me, and I will be able to imbibe their profound wisdom!

Armed with my newfound erudition, I then eagerly proceeded to read the novel for the third time.

And did not understand one word.