Face the Music

There may be trouble ahead,

But while there's music and moonlight,

And love and romance,

Let's face the music and dance.

Dear Friends,

I can't prove that Irving Berlin had Riga in mind when he penned those eminent lyrics in 1932, but if Rigans were singing and playing music as much then as they are now, he certainly could have. The personal awareness of my insatiable appetite for music is nothing new to me. My father very wisely put a cap on my CD-purchasing during my teenage years, and Dad, I still heed your advice most of the time. As many of you know, Jacksonville is a great place for a music lover to be, in fact. You don't have to wait too many weeks until the next fine McGaw show comes to town or the high schools and colleges offer a concert or production. Jacksonville may be the musical balm in midwestern Gilead, but, for the first time, here in Riga, I'm in a city that entices me with something musical around every corner. Every venue is nearby and tickets range in price between 5 and 10 Lats ($10-20). Thus far, my plate has been filled and my palate has been extremely satisfied.

Shakespeare understood this kind of hunger. If music be the food of love, play on.

I'd love to share with you brief descriptions of some of the music I've faced this past week, beginning with Shakespeare, in fact. Saturday night, my fellow expat (albeit Czech) Ali and I ventured to The Museum of Riga History and Navigation to take in an evening of "Shakespeare's Poetry in Music." The concert took place in a small ballroom of sorts. Old maps adorned the walls, and a second-story observance area wound around the rim of the room. The first half of the concert we faced north and enjoyed the sounds of a harpsichord among other instruments. The second half of the concert, facing south, however, brought about the world premiere of "Midsummer Night's Dreams after William Shakespeare" by a Latvian composer in the audience that evening. The avant garde performance was stirring and evocative, but didn't take itself too seriously, as demonstrated by the percussionist's playing of paper -- yes, paper. Amazing what the sounds of syncopated paper-ripping and quill-scribbling can contribute to an ensemble! The end of the piece found the players exiting the floor while sustaining a note on their respective instruments and randomly whispering a Shakespearean line or two. Hey, if Shakespeare's characters can be turned into asses on stage, why not? I think Nick Bottom would be pleased with the innovation.

Tuesday night, at the last minute, I wandered into the Riga Small Guild (or Maza gilde) to check out a trio's renderings of Mozart's and Brahms's Chamber Music. The music was wonderful, of course, but my foremost memories of that night are unrelated to the music. After sitting down in the front row, I immediately heard American voices behind me... two couples. I consciously listened to them chat the way Americans chat and (silly as it may sound) it occurred to me that they have no idea that I too speak English. In fact, being a member in a crowd in Europe is kind of like being a chocolate in a box; one never knows the inside of someone until communication is attempted. After a few moments, I turned around to the couples -- what can I say, their bantering felt so familiar and enticing and I'm not shy -- and, true to American form, after a good ten minutes, I knew all about their jobs and children and they knew all about mine. Well, my job, that is. (I didn't bring up the children.) On a five week tour of the Baltics and Russia, one of the men said, "We just wanted to go somewhere different." Perhaps Rome and Paris have become cliche.

The other vivid memory of that night has to do with the flowers. At the end of the performance, each player could hardly contain his/her instrument because of the meticulous task of trying to balance bushels of flowers given my people in the audience. If Americans like their Big Macs and Cruise Nights, 'tis true that Latvians love their music and flowers!


Definitely the most memorable musical evening, however, was Friday when I accepted a last-minute invitation to attend the opera (my first opera) Turandot by Puccini in the exquisite and stately National Opera House. (This particular opera was first performed in Riga in 1930.) I had been warned that people tend to take in their operas fully dressed in their finest. So, stepping into the main lobby wearing my black suit and tie, I was met by a white-gloved doorman and a host of tuxedo-clad attendants. And that was just the foyer. Inside the ornate theater itself, I was overcome by the magnitude of the chandelier. And that was just the lighting. The performance was tremendous -- and much to my delight, I was able to bask in the live rendering of the famous baritone aria "Nessun dorma". Even though the libretto offered the audience texts in both Latvian and English, my ears predominantly held sway over my eyes.

And that was just the performance.

An English-teaching colleague of mine had invited me to the opera when one of her cousins was unable to attend. Ieva is Latvian, but fled with her family to the United States via Germany when she was a girl. She spends the second semester of her year teaching ESL at Rice University. She emanates an enticing professorial sagacity; I leave her company feeling enlightened and informed. Saturday evening she brought me a beginner's book to Latvian Language -- designed for first-graders, that is non-Latvian first-graders! The level suits me perfectly.

Well, the third person in our party that evening was Ieva's first cousin, Andy, from Canada. The two of them had met each other for the first time this month when Andy decided to glean a first-hand account of his parents' homeland. (Turns out, there are a lot of people reconstructing their families after years of widespread Latvian diaspora.) The two -- really perfect strangers to one another -- were incredible company and welcomed me with open arms. Prior to the show, they had placed their orders for intermission beverages and dessert and had reserved a small table with an impressive view of the gardens in front of the Opera House. They asked me to join them, and I gladly obliged, but by the time I arrived with my chocolate cake and glass of champagne and a few snapshots had been taken, the bells indicating the commencement of the third act began to chime. Ieva took a good look at me and my full glass of champagne and said, "Well?" I had little choice but to chug. Laughing, she said, "Ah-hah, so this is the type of guy Fulbright sends us!" I cordially agreed... but neglected to mention my homey love of racing crabs at Don's Place from time to time.

Leaving Ieva and Andy after the show, I crossed the bridge in the central park. The night was warm and my black rain jacket was slung over my arm. Latvians, like Americans and all people I suppose, have many traditions. On the day a couple weds, the bride and groom are to cross seven bridges. As a token of their newfound love, on one bridge, they leave their mark by locking an engraved padlock to it, giving the bridge a kind of Victorian-era-meets-chain-gang feel. I glanced at the hundreds of moonlit, shimmering locks on this bridge over the canal and remembered my favorite line from the opera (dressed in English, of course): "I have traveled for so long with you in my heart."

It was one of those mystical nights where music had unlocked my heart to an extent.

I hope trouble stays far ahead of you, my friends. And as you sing in the choir or shower, face your tune a little surer knowing I am a traveler who is holding you close in his heart.

Yours,
Tim

PS-As for the "dancing," well, there have been some attempts at salsa, but I shall save those stories for another time.