André De Shields |
The sun rose clear Wednesday morning. Bright sun, cloudless skies. warm. I hooked up Kitty and we headed out, hoping the brisk walk would drive away the fantods of the long Tuesday election night vigil. It was 1 a.m. before I gave up and went to bed. How could he win again? How could he even come close?
Nah, I don't quite believe that either. If the past four years have taught me anything, it's the importance of framing—where you focus, which facts you spotlight. It's like one of those illusions you see first the young lady, then the crone. You can see those who are 100 percent committed to doing whatever Donald Trump wants, in Arizona, where they're behind, chanting "Count the votes!" while in Georgia, where they're ahead, chanting "Stop the count!" Or you can see those who line up for hours to try to put an end to it, who march and argue and educate.
Music seemed essential. I set aside Mark Twain's "The Innocents Abroad," to find comfort in the first song I could think of, "I Still Believe," by the Call. A good anthem for when things get dark, with one of the better opening lyrics: "I been in a cave, 40 days, only a spark, to light my way..." and the chorus, "I still believe."
Do I still believe? Sure, I still believe. But in what? America? In my fellow citizens? How can I? Even if Joe Biden should squeak this out, look how close a thing it was. Four years of staring at the monstrosity of Trump and millions and millions want to sign up for another go around. We live in a time when belief has a bad name, when you see what people believe in. Maybe faith in the decency of America is just another baseless delusion. Not maybe, obviously. Look around.
Do I still believe? Sure, I still believe. But in what? America? In my fellow citizens? How can I? Even if Joe Biden should squeak this out, look how close a thing it was. Four years of staring at the monstrosity of Trump and millions and millions want to sign up for another go around. We live in a time when belief has a bad name, when you see what people believe in. Maybe faith in the decency of America is just another baseless delusion. Not maybe, obviously. Look around.
Old woman or young? |
People are foolish and brave, hypocritical and idealistic . That I do believe.
A neighbor coming the other way, another silver-haired man, also walking a little dog. I might have been approaching a mirror, but, well, he's taller and handsomer. He looked at me. I popped out an Air Pod.
"The city didn't burn down," he said. Must be a Trumpski, if he's still fretting about those riots in May. Worried about Black people coming through his window in Northbrook and taking his Precious Moments figurines. Probably armed.
"The sun rose clear," I replied, puffing the dust off a little Thoreau. "I was downtown last night. Very quiet."
So the Trumpskis and the Bidenites are talking. That's good, right?
"The city didn't burn down," he said. Must be a Trumpski, if he's still fretting about those riots in May. Worried about Black people coming through his window in Northbrook and taking his Precious Moments figurines. Probably armed.
"The sun rose clear," I replied, puffing the dust off a little Thoreau. "I was downtown last night. Very quiet."
So the Trumpskis and the Bidenites are talking. That's good, right?
We went our ways. I finished "I Still Believe," started it again, gave up—kinda mid-1980s—and switched immediately to "The Road to Hell," the opening number of "Hadestown," Anais Mitchell's Broadway musical.
"And on the road to hell there is a lot of waiting..."
"And on the road to hell there is a lot of waiting..."
Ya think?
Just before the pandemic set in, last February, my wife and I flew to New York over Valentine's Day weekend, to visit our older son. Our younger came up from Virginia, and I suggested the family take in a Broadway show. Through some rare, perhaps unprecedented arrangement of the spheres, they not only all agreed, but took my suggestion, "Hadestown." And there were tickets available.
I had been a fan of Mitchell, and her initial version of the musical, for years, but the Broadway cast is even better. I've listened to it several times since the pandemic set in. The musical is a mash-up of Greek myth, of Orpheus, who follows his love Eurydice down to hell, and Hades and Persephone, the king of the underworld and his queen, all set to a New Orleans roadhouse beat, with blatting trumpets and whisked drums, starring that longtime Chicago actor, AndrĂ© De Shields, who's in his 70s now, but radiates energy and charm and cool, with his precise singing style, all sly humor and calibrated and a kind of drawl. He's Hermes, the messenger, narrator of the story—he won a Tony for the role.
I had been a fan of Mitchell, and her initial version of the musical, for years, but the Broadway cast is even better. I've listened to it several times since the pandemic set in. The musical is a mash-up of Greek myth, of Orpheus, who follows his love Eurydice down to hell, and Hades and Persephone, the king of the underworld and his queen, all set to a New Orleans roadhouse beat, with blatting trumpets and whisked drums, starring that longtime Chicago actor, AndrĂ© De Shields, who's in his 70s now, but radiates energy and charm and cool, with his precise singing style, all sly humor and calibrated and a kind of drawl. He's Hermes, the messenger, narrator of the story—he won a Tony for the role.
De Shields' voice is a muted trumpet snarl, and sometimes when quarantine somnolence threatens to completely numb me, I steel my spirit just by thinking of him, in his French Quarter funeral finery, spreading his arms and exuding, "The world... came back... to life!!!"
It's gonna happen. All we have to do is wait until spring.
The lyrics touch upon a number of contemporary woes, from our ever more extreme weather, to the gap between those who have and those who don't, the world we dream of and the world we've got, with dewy eyed youth seeking something and crafty age grasping more, Orpheus penning his song in a bar and Hades building his wall in hell. Like the seasons, there is a circularity to the story, an old story, whose ending we know, but we tell it anyway.
By the time I got back to the house, I was fortified, ready to face the latest news, and found rays of hope piercing the gloom. A good walk and good music will do that. It's an old song, and in our hearts we know how it must end, in tragedy. But we sing it anyway.