Book Review: How to Listen to Great Music, by Robert Greenberg

This was an impulse purchase from Costco. (I know, I know...) I noticed that it has the symbol for Great Courses on it, and as I've had the excellent fortune to experience one or two of the video versions that Great Courses offers, I thought I'd enjoy the book for a fraction of the cost.

Professor Greenberg is obviously a man who knows his stuff, and I'm rather sorry I didn't have the opportunity to watch him in a video course. As it is, I appreciate his style of writing, because he presents the material effectively and avoids sounding stuffy. In fact, he infuses a playful tone into the writing without diminishing the significance of what he's talking about. That's tough to do, but he maintains the balance very well. All in all, it's a fun read, as well as a highly educational one.

I should point out that I'm no novice to classical music, and this book focuses largely on what most readers would identify as classical music. As a child, my parents bought me and my sister classical music selections; my dad used to lie on the living room floor with headphones on listening to Haydn and Vivaldi, and we would have conversations about various pieces; when I was being homeschooled, my mom insisted that we only listen to music without lyrics. In the final case, that wasn't really a problem, because by that point my tastes were honed in that direction. What is more, I took about twelve years of piano lessons and got to know various composers quite well. (For the record, though, I never have and never shall love Chopin. I gave him a try, but I find him drippy and insipid. I acknowledge his genius but have to accept that it isn't to my taste.)

In spite of my knowledge and familiarity, there was quite a bit to be learned from Professor Greenberg. He takes the reader through the history of what he calls "great music" (noting at the beginning that the term is fairly arbitrary but that it will have to do -- in part, since "classical" refers to only one era under discussion). In fact, Professor Greenberg does a great job of setting up the discussion, pointing out that there's no perfect set of terms to use in presenting the information but that if we all agree not to get bent out of shape about imperfect qualifications, we can get down to the real business of learning how to understand and appreciate the exceptional music that spanned several centuries. And for what it's worth, Greenberg sets this as starting around 1600 and ending around 1900 (give or take a few years).

I mentioned it before, but I'll point out again that what makes this book so fun is that Professor Greenberg maintains a conversational tone throughout. He never loses site of his own credentials, of course, so there's no chance the reader will take the man for a fool. But he also sees no need to wave his expertise in front of the reader's face all the time. He's sharing information in the book in much the same way he might in a lecture, and if the book is any indication he's probably a thoroughly enjoyable teacher.

The book is divided into 33 easy readable chapters, and in each chapter there is a "Music Box" selection that is highlighted as a recommendation for listening. Thank goodness for YouTube and the many music fans who add pieces there. I had the chance to discover, and rediscover, exceptional pieces of music to enjoy. And frankly, after listening to great music the contemporary tripe on the radio is almost unbearable. This isn't to say that I've become a snob (as I feel certain I crossed that bridge long ago) but rather to point out that there's a difference in quality and thus in the value of listening to something. In other words, life is short; give Mozart a chance if you already haven't.

And just to wet your whistle:



(I love this piece. Hey, I might as well share my recommendations too.)

Year of publication: 2011
Number of pages: 334

Book Review: Death of a Hollow Man, by Caroline Graham

Death of a Hollow Man was never my favorite Midsomer mystery, but I went ahead and decided to try the book. Graham's background is in the theater, and I thought there was a chance the book would have more to offer. What it ultimately offers, or rather what it offered for me, was a cleaner plot. Additionally, Graham imbues the story with her own passion for the theater, with a sense of how actors think, how it feels to prepare for a role, how it feels to be on the verge of stepping onstage. The fear, the adrenaline rush -- Graham brings this out with great effectiveness for the reader.

Additionally, it ties up some loose ends that, rather oddly, made their way into the film version but don't make any appearance in the book. For one, the character of Agnes Grey and her murder early in the film. It's not in the book. At all. Not even a whisper of it. I don't know why it's in the film version, but in retrospect it feels a bit unnecessary, and it proves to be completely unnecessary in the book.

The book opens with the Causton Amateur Dramatic Society getting ready for its production of Amadeus. Tensions run high; actors are still struggling with their roles; staging has the potential to be a mess. And the director, Harold Winstanley, is behaving with his usual arrogant high-handedness. Harold is one for whom the quality of graciousness is utterly foreign. He is full of himself, angry with his actors for not being professionals (overlooking, it seems, the fact that he runs an amateur dramatic society), and constantly pointing out how he missed his calling in the big leagues. For some reason, everyone just goes along with this and endures his abuse. I guess it's the call of the stage. Or masochism. Or perhaps the two ideas are connected.

Anyway, Inspector Barnaby's wife Joyce is part of the dramatic society and has been cast as Salieri's cook in the play. (The running joke, of course, is that Joyce cannot cook at all. As in, flavor flees from her efforts, and meals that she prepares tend to be inedible. Joyce does, however, have a background on the stage and particularly in singing, something that is never mentioned in the film version to my knowledge.) Barnaby hangs around the theater during rehearsals, assisting with stage details and offering what assistance he can. Usually, he's consigned to moving things around and touching up backdrops. He's happy with that.

Opening night finally arrives -- though not until around page 100, I should add; Graham takes her time setting up this story -- and everyone is as ready as it is possible to be. The whole play moves toward a stunning climax when Salieri is supposed to cut his own throat. The stage assistance has carefully prepared a shaving razor with tape to ensure safety, and the lead actor, Esslyn Carmichael, is ready for his big moment.

Well, it's stunning all right. It turns out that the tape has been removed, and Esslyn cuts his own throat on stage in front of the audience. Quite ghastly. Barnaby is, naturally, in the audience, and he springs into action. As far as fresh murders go, this one is literally still bleeding right in front of him. In fact, Esslyn dies in the arms of Barnaby's sergeant Gavin Troy who is also in the audience (and who, I'd like to point out, is far less lovable in the books than he is in the films). Barnaby goes to work asking questions, and the immediate consensus is twofold: (1) the tape wasn't secured properly, or (2) Esslyn must have killed himself. After looking into things more closely, however, Barnaby has to rule both ideas out. In the first place, the tape wasn't just on the razor badly; it was completely gone, as though someone had taken the trouble to remove it altogether. In the second place, Esslyn has little obvious reason to commit suicide. He's a man "of a certain age" who has recently married for the second time to the young, attractive, perky (ahem) nineteen-year-old Kitty. They also announced her pregnancy.

So Barnaby is left with the far more plausible explanation of murder. The challenge in this case, though, is that the cast of possible murderers is made up of people he has known for years. He counts them among his friends, and now it looks like one of them has murdered Esslyn Carmichael. The plot thickens.

I totally had to do that.

Moving on, I would have to note again that the book is far more satisfying than the film version. That's interesting enough, but I don't know that it does the book much justice. There's a lot of "play within a play" in the book; Graham interweaves the theatrical at every opportunity, but it's so skillfully done that it's not absurd or painfully self-aware. The one thing that I'm not sure I loved is the way that Barnaby solves the mystery to everyone by taking the stage himself and presenting the solution. That one pushes it a bit, especially since he's not naturally the most dramatic of characters. At the same time, the whole story leads up to the inevitability of such a conclusion, so I can't really fault Graham for following through.

Another excellent read. When I ordered the books, I selected 1, 2, and 4, because I remember that I didn't love the third story in the series (Death in Disguise). But reading Death of a Hollow Man has given me hope that Graham can infuse that story too with more sense than the film version did.

So are you ready yet to join me in Midsomer? Murder and mayhem aside, I definitely recommend the experience.

Year of publication: 1989
Number of pages: 307

Book Review: Written in Blood, by Caroline Graham

This is actually book four in the series, but I accidentally read them out of order. (In my defense -- not that it's terribly important -- the TV series has this episode second, just after The Killings at Badger's Drift. The second book in the series, Death of a Hollow Man, doesn't come until later in the series.) It was actually this particular episode that made me think I needed to start reading the books. There was just a little too much missing. Essentials were glossed over, and the conclusion was wrapped up quickly. A number of things always felt wrong to me, and I had questions. I wanted to see if the book answered those questions. And, boy, did it ever.

Written in Blood is the story of a writing group, the Midsomer Worthy Writers' Circle to be exact. The writers invite published authors to speak at their meetings, and until they invite Max Jennings they usually find themselves short on luck with respected authors. But for whatever reason Max Jennings says yes. And for whatever reason the group's secretary Gerald Hadleigh is opposed to the idea from the start. He forcefully argues against Jennings; he claims that it's a bad idea, that the group should come up with someone else. But there really isn't anyone else, and Jennings, it turns out, has recently moved into the area. So a trip to Midsomer Worthy won't be that difficult, and there's a good chance of his agreeing to attend. Gerald remains against the plan, and he even recruits one of his fellow Circle writers, Rex St John (who does not appear in the film version, by the way), to stay with him during the entire meeting that Jennings attends. Gerald doesn't say why; he just mentions vaguely that he knew Jennings from before and that he doesn't want to be left alone with Jennings. Rex senses Gerald's emotional struggle and agrees to stay with him the entire time.

The best laid plans...

The evening progresses without incident, and everyone eventually begins to file out. Jennings is also on his way out; Rex accompanies him to the door; and then Jennings claims to have forgotten his gloves. He goes back inside and slides the bolt shut, leaving Rex out in the cold. Not knowing what to do, Rex lingers for a bit and then finally goes home. And the next day it's discovered that Gerald has been brutally bludgeoned to death.

The news comes as a shock to everyone in the Writers' Circle. Several of them take it very hard indeed. Rex, for one, sinks into a serious depression at the thought that he failed in his charge. The others try to make sense of it, and no one can seem to think of single reason someone would have wanted to harm Gerald. He was, himself, harmless. He was kind, gracious to everyone, kept to himself; a little bland, perhaps, but all in all a very likable man. Of course, there is always a public front that people put on. Of course, there is always something below the surface that isn't as picture-perfect.

And of course, Inspector Barnaby is on the scene to scratch away the veneer and get to the truth that it conceals. For one, he has to find out what happened between Gerald and Max Jennings, why Gerald was so afraid. This isn't easy to discover. Max Jennings, it turns out, is nowhere to be found. His wife thought he was going to Finland for a book signing, but there's no record of him on any flights. Meanwhile, Barnaby sets to work uncovering more about Gerald Hadleigh. It isn't easy. The house is a showcase of bland anonymity. Whoever Gerald Hadleigh was, he didn't indicate it in his home, his belongings, or even his writing. (The others comment that Gerald's stories were always correct in their style and composition but easy to forget.) So Barnaby is left with a mystery murderer, as well as a mystery victim. Gerald had always told people that he was a retired civil servant, yet the civil service people have never heard of him. No one in the village can quite pin down his character or his personality. He was, all in all, a "nice" man -- which really isn't such a great description for someone. It certainly doesn't tell you anything about that person.

What I loved about this book is that Graham's writing style has really developed from the first book I read. The story is more complex, the characterization more apt, the plot more seamlessly woven together. What was more difficult to appreciate was the reason for the disparity between certain elements of the storyline in the book and in the film version. They're really not that similar. And I can't figure out why. Then again, that makes the book just a little more interesting, because things were switched up just enough to keep it from being predictable. I do want to reiterate, though, that there are things within the book that explain missing details from the film. In these elements, there was enough similarity to create a useful link and provide the answers I needed.

All in all, this ranks as my favorite of the Midsomer books I've read (and there is one more that I've read and am still waiting to review). It's a lush, complicated story with fascinating characters at every turn. And if nothing else, I think Graham had loads of fun with the character of Brian Clapton. These are some of the most memorable descriptions of a character I've come across: "the sort of man whose personality was out of print before the ink was dry on his birth certificate" and "about as deep as clingfilm but not nearly so useful."

A highly recommended read.

Year of publication: 1994
Number of pages: 435

Music Study: Andante Con Moto

My entire body throbs at the frequency of this music. Like, seriously: heart palpitations and weeping. Who knew A flat major was so powerful?

Art Study: Paradisaical Greens

Urutaú, by José Gamarra
Oil on canvas, 1983

I like the greens. I'm not sure I want to find out what the symbolism is, particularly with the men on horseback carrying flags (in what I assume is Uruguay, since the artist is from there). But the vivid use of greens was just too lovely, so I decided to post the image. By the way the urutaú is a type of bird.

From the Met.

Music Study: Or At Least That's My Excuse for Posting This

Can't. Get. It. Out. Of. My. Head.

Care to join me? :)

Book Review: The Killings at Badger's Drift, by Caroline Graham

I am a huge fan of Midsomer Murders. I get my hands on every episode I can find, and I enjoy each one immensely. Even the mediocre episodes, of which there are inevitably a few, still make for a fun evening of murder and mayhem. My husband has gotten into them as well. (He particularly likes the Christmas episodes -- something about mulled wine, hot mince pies, and overall aura of "ye olde England," I guess.) Despite the fact that Midsomer Murders can always be counted on to deliver a grisly murder, the program manages to provide an ongoing sense of the cozy.

At times, I wonder how many people are left in the Midsomer district to murder, especially considering that the program is well past its tenth season, but the filmmakers always find someone new to bump off. Happily, for all eager viewers.

My point in mentioning all of this is that I finally decided to wade into the books that inspired the films. I've known Caroline Graham's name for a while now, but the books are a little hard to find in the U.S. Most libraries don't carry them, and I was never sure if I wanted to commit to ordering them. I recently discovered, though, that Netflix has loaded several seasons of Midsomer Murders on the instant view, and after watching a few of them I realized it was time to try the books. Happily, for me.

The Killings at Badger's Drift is the first of the books, and I'm glad I went ahead and read it. The film version was never my favorite -- a bit on the icky side -- but I re-watched it last night after finishing the book and found that it made a lot more sense. I can see where the writer(s) and director had to tweak the story; I can fill in the confusing spots (as there always are a few) with what I know from the book; and ultimately, I can enjoy both much more.

The story opens with the elderly Emily Simpson on her way into the woods to locate a rare orchid. She and her friend Miss Bellringer (whose first name escapes me, and now I've loaned the book to my mom) have an ongoing competition each year to see if one of them can find the orchid. The one who finds it must give an elaborate tea for the loser. It's been several years since the last spotting of the orchid, so Miss Simpson has high hopes of being the one to locate it. She's already planning that special tea in her mind when she sees it near an old tree. Her elation knows no bounds. And then she sees something that she certainly wishes she didn't see. A few feet away, unusual sounds draw her closer, and her eyes catch sight of the last thing in the world she would expect. It is a young couple, engaged in (shall we say) carnal delights. It is the identity of the couple that shocks Miss Simpson. And it is the identity of the couple that remains a mystery until the end of the story.

Miss Simpson runs home as fast as possible, and then she makes a phone call to the local help line. She rambles on about how she's seen something, that it's shocking, that she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't say what, but she does murmur, "Poor Annabella!" Well, that makes no sense, especially since there's no one named Annabella in the village. Before the person on the other end can get more information, there's a knock on Miss Simpson's door, and she hangs up. Soon after, Miss Simpson is discovered dead of an apparent heart attack. She's eighty years old, so it doesn't surprise anyone, however sad it might be.

The only person who raises the issue is Miss Bellringer who believes that something is very, very wrong. She saw her friend return from the woods without a word, saw her leave her bicycle against the fence (when she normally chained it up), and heard her slam the door. That, she insists, is not like Emily. She continues to believe that Miss Simpson was murdered, and she demands that the police take a closer look. Fortunately for Miss Bellringer, Inspector Barnaby is on the case and is willing to nose out strange events. When he requests a post-mortem and the results reveal that Miss Simpson died of hemlock poisoning, the investigation goes into full swing.

Caroline Graham has been compared to P.D. James, and I can see the similarities. James's books tend to be a bit richer, stronger in the psychological side of murder, and featuring a somewhat more complex character in the form of Adam Dalgliesh. Tom Barnaby isn't much like Dalgliesh, and there's something decidedly more "normal" and more of what you'd expect in the police officer about him; but that makes him, in some ways, the constant center of good sense and strong reason that is necessary in the often nefarious and occasionally bizarre world of the Midsomer villages. What Graham does that reminds me of James, though, is bring out the peripheral characters and discuss them rather extensively. For instance, in Badger's Drift she devotes a full chapter to talking about Barbara Lessiter, the wife of the local doctor and for all intents and purposes a minor character. But the chapter doesn't feel as much like a deviation as the reader might expect, and the whole story is richer for it. In other words, Graham reminds us (again, like James) that everyone has a story, and beneath the surface of the respectable there's often something very strange, very corrupt, or just very sad about that story. This could have turned into another Miss Marple-esque series: life in the seemingly idyllic English village is rife with murder and intrigue. Ho-hum. It's been done. But in Graham's hands, something new, something fresh, something fascinating appears.

The ending to this one is just plain shocking -- at least it was for me the first time I saw the film version. But Graham minimizes the ickiness of it by focusing on the motivation instead of offering unnecessarily lurid detail. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. What could have become a fairly inappropriate description of bedroom activities turns into food, albeit somewhat distasteful, for thought. Graham keeps things balanced by remembering that ultimately she's telling a story. And if you want my opinion, it's quite a story.

Year of publication: 1988
Number of pages: 272