Richibi’s Weblog

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Category: pictures to ponder

“Hank Williams: The Show He Never Gave”


                        Hank Williams


halfway through The Last Picture Show
recently, a celebrated movie from the early 
Seventies I was watching, about the early
Fifties, I was sidetracked by the Hank  
Williams soundtrack till I was out and out 
stopped by its fervent Cold, Cold Heart 

I put the film on pause 

another love before my time, I warbled,
made your heart sad and blue, and so 
my heart is paying now, I wallowed, for 
things didn’t do, in anger unkind words
were said, I rued, that made the teardrops 
start, why can’t I free, your doubtful mind, 
I fretted, and melt your cold, cold heart 

but I wanted to hear Hank Williams do
it too, live if I could, and lo and behold 
got it

but listed as an option among other 
options nearby was also a longer  
feature purporting to be a 
representation of a concert he 
never  gave the night, December 31, 
1952, he died, the movie is called,
not inappropriately, Hank Williams:
The Show He Never Gave

the actor who plays Williams steps
right into his shoes, he’ll break your 
heart, you’ll need a lot of Kleenex

one of he best film biographies I’ve 
ever seen 

watch it

Hank Williams died of a heart attack
on the night of December 31, 1952

he was 29

may he rest in everlasting peace


me in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East, the bathroom‏

Numériser 3
me, at 54 Jubilee East, by the woodpile

 les enfants, my mother
would call, wake up children, it’s time 
to get ready for school
we’d scuttle down the stairs from our 
the vent that crouched between the 
toilet and the wall that enclosed, at 
a ninety degree angle to the toilet, 
the tub 
the vent allowed hot air to come up 
from the oil furnace my dad ‘d only
recently put up in the basement, the
foundation for the house he would 
slide the old chicken coop from the 
back of the property onto, to build  
our new home
where the bathroom would be, there’d 
been a wood stove, we children would 
dress there, beside the hot oven, then,
while my mom got ready for work, the 
lady up front, in the only house that
had been there at the start of all this, 
54 Jubilee East, now rented from my 
folks, and took care of us while both 
my parents were working
I very vaguely remember this, but I 
remember well heading towards the 
heat, putting on my socks, 
underclothes, there, until the chill 
fell out of the morning
often my sister got there first, but I did
so also often, there was never any 
dissension, we were two consensual 
peas in a pod, each the other’s keeper
my mother had had to chop wood, she 
told me, and haul water, during the winter
my dad had gone north to work, up near 
James and Hudson Bays
she’d heat the water on the stove, there 
was no electricity, nor power tools, my 
aunt, her sister, had had to chop the 
wood cause my mother couldn’t 
manage, the axe ‘d bounce off the 
block she’d be trying to chop
my dad ‘d set up timber against our
meagre living quarters, what I’d later 
callsardonically, our manger, to 
supply my mom for the winter he’d 
be gone
my mother couldn’t’ve been more than 
twenty years old, then, her sister a few 
years younger, my own sister had barely 
been born, would’ve been not one 
this could explain why my mother cried 
I would’ve

me in B major – 60 Jubilee East, the attic‏


I’m the one on the right


been a door originally, from which 
they would’ve swept out hay, I’d
think, where chickens might’ve 
roosted, but my dad had built a 
couple of bedrooms for us there, 
my sister and I, one at either end 
of what would’ve been that attic
much of this is conjecture, I don’t 
remember living in the chicken
coop, though I remember living
in the garage, there’d been an
outhouse behind it, and men
would come over to clean it out
every so often
there was also a milkman, who led
horse and milk wagon, and for 
whom we’d clean out and return 
the bottles
also in summer, a man with a pony
for kids took pictures, I still have
ours imprinted on a cup
between our bedrooms, my dad had
built a closet, where we could both 
hang all our clothes, and beside it,
on either side, a row of shelves we
could individually use adjoining our 
separate bedrooms, hers was pink, 
mine was blue, baby blue, this was 
probably already more than most 
other kids had, though I would’ve 
been too young to be aware of it  
behind the closet, there was a door 
into a confined area under the roof,
with beams and an itchy brush that
served as insulation, we were 
curious but ever too afraid to go in 
there, where confinement lurked, 
nor had I wanted to get into the dryer 
down in the basement for the same 
reason, I might, I told myself, lock 
myself in
a short staircase towards the back of 
the house led onto a landing, where
a window looked out onto our back 
yard, if I remember well, and beyond 
that to the brush that preceded the 
forest, and a rocky elevation
a longer staircase in the other direction
took us downstairs, into the main living 
my sister and I were only a year apart,
I was older, protective, she was younger,
trusting, this has never changed

Mendelssohn – Opus 13, String Quartet no 2 in A minor‏

           "Caricature of Felix Mendelssohn" -  Aubrey Beardsley

Caricature of Felix Mendelssohn

Aubrey Beardsley


my music teacher on the Internet,
a woman of impeccable credentials,
said about Mendelssohn that his
music was “instantaneously

I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and
thought, not to me, honey, despite
my erudition I’d never even heard
of Mendelssohn’s Opus 13, String
Quartet no 2 in A minor

it was full of atonalities, you could
be forgiven, I thought, for thinking
it might be even after Brahms, by
you I mean, of course, me

but an incontrovertible tenderness
and courtesy runs like blood through
it, enough to anchor it to the very
engines, entrails, gut, if you’ll permit
me, of Romanticism, it was 1827

but there wasn’t a single tune I’d
ever heard, in contradiction to my
nevertheless highly respected
teacher, however ever pleasant,
however ever amazing the

I was surprised, I’d expected some
Proustian, which is to say, inchoate,
reminiscence, encounter

Mendelssohn was 18 when he wrote
this, sowing his oats, some oats


Grieg, Piano Concerto in A minor‏

Arthur Rubinstein

Arthur Rubinstein


inspired by a favoured blogger of
mine who’d highlighted an obscure
composer who’d written an
unforgettable cultural ditty we’d
all heard but never further thought
of, Hugo Alfvén, I was reminded of
another Scandinavian giant, Grieg

stop, watch, don’t just listen, to
Arthur Rubinstein make history
with Grieg’s A minor Piano
, he is the very
representation of all of the
proprieties of a late 19th-Century
aesthetic, noble, aristocratic,
austere, yet authentic, capable,

André Previn’s orchestral
accompaniment is unobtrusive,
and disappears, for all intents
and purposes, behind the sheer
dedication, conviction, of the
true maestro, the veritable muse,
the instigator, Arthur Rubinstein,
watch him leave all of them behind
in flurries of electrified inspiration

this performance bursts beyond
all literal expectations, expect
nothing short of transcendence


at the XVth International Tchaikovsky Competition – Maria Mazo

  "L'oiseau de feu" -  Leon Bakst

L’oiseau de feu (1910)

Leon Bakst


after playing Scriabin’s 4th Sonata,
in F# major, opus 30, a passionate
but poised performance of a work
dated 1903, Ravel maybe, or
Debussy, at first I thought, though
neither had ever been so furious in
my recollection, then a transcription
for piano of the last movements of
Stravinsky’s “Firebird”, a work as
obstreperous as the Scriabin, and
as revolutionary, relentless and
brash, much more audacity than
diplomacy however ultimately
treasured universally and celebrated,
Maria Mazo undertakes no less than
the mightiest of the mighty, gasp,
Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier”

she takes on the first two movements
at something of a clip, not an
unwelcome occurence so long as you
have the fingers for it, which on the
strength of her earlier numbers I
deemed she would, and did, which
only added to the gravitas of her then
largo, which thereby became
resplendent, luminous, utterly and
verily, indeed, transcendental, note
the cherubs twittering halfway
through, just before Beethoven
enters the portals of very Heaven
and is transformed into radiance and
incandescent light before your
very astonished sensibilities

Maria Mazo should win


at the XVth International Tchaikovsky Competition – Daniel Kharitonov‏

Daniel Kharitonov

Daniel Kharitonov


Daniel Kharitonov will be 17 in
December, I think he could win

after the usual misconceived, to
my mind, Bach, which he ends,
however, with lengthened notes
that evoke the organ instead of
the more skittish, less ceremonial
harpsichord, giving credence to
some, at least, rubato in Bach,
for Bach wrote exceedingly for
the organ, he then not only
recaptures your confidence with
an unexpectedly sparkling
“Appassionata”, not easy after
so many, then polishes off his
laurels with virtuosic Liszt,
Chopin and Rachmaninov after
having played a lovely, aptly
contemplative, “Méditation” of

Daniel Kharitonov is going places,
indeed has gone, Carnegie Hall, for
instance, in 2013, he would’ve been



the XVth International Tchaikovsky Competition‏

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

(1840 – 1893)


my musicologist friend alerted me to the
fact that since the 15th of this month, and
onwards till the 3rd of July, the XVth
International Tchaikovsky Competition
on, at which point I raced to my position,
got a front row seat, for you as well
should you decide to join me, at the gala
, check it out, performed in the
Bolshoi Hall of the Moscow Conservatory,
in, of course, Moscow, no less

you’ll be reminded of the monumentality
of Tchaikovsky, his melodic sense, his
emotional power, his subtlety

also Russia’s

the introductory “Capriccio”, conducted
by Vladimir Fedoseyev, is rousing,
probably the best you’ll ever hear, though
it should’ve been called “espagnol” rather
than “italien”, I’ve always thought, there’s
even a redoubtable tambourinist – how
Spanish is that – you’ll want to watch out
for, however far from Spain he might, in
his quenched enthusiasm, seem

Tchaikovsky’s “Mélodie”, op. 42, no. 3,
played in all innocence by a 14-year-old,
a cherub in the guise of already an angel,

the concert suite from his “Nutcracker”,
mastered by a 13-year-old with the
command of a prodigy, after that

you’ll remember Daniil Trifonov from
the 13th Rubinstein Competition, which
he won, accompanying a soprano here,
but you’ll also see him bring down the
house with his last two movements of
Tchaikovsky’s iconic 1st Piano Concerto

why would they have left out the
thunderous, wonderful first, I wonder

Daniil also won the last Tchaikovsky
Competition, the 14th, also in 2011

most of the program is in Russian,
with some considerations for a
perhaps interested English audience,
thanks to Valery Georgiev, a conductor
of considerable note, not at all the
vagrant here that he seems

my musicologist, who speaks everything,
understands the Russian, but it’s not
difficult to understand, the message
is one of harmony and peace

the opposite of war is not peace, they
are saying, it’s art, and specifically
here music, these are here actions to
unite, beyond borders, beyond creeds,
beyond even transgressions

they signal out Van Cliburn, who plays
all, incidentally, of Tchaikovsky’s 1st

I signal out Eurovision, the Tchaikovsky
, now in its XVth year



a birthday wish

  "Happy Birthday"- Fernando Botero

Happy Birthday (1971)

Fernando Botero


a friend of mine was eighty today,
she’s gone off to London to celebrate,
she didn’t want anyone to make a fuss

a fuss, I said, it’s your eightieth birthday,
one should make a fuss, she’s gone to
London anyway

from this side of the ocean, and indeed
from this side of the continent, it seemed
nevertheless remiss of me not say

but as in Hallmark cards, sometimes
the message is better in someone
else’s words, in this case Bob Dylan’s
but sung by Joan Baez, just click

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the light surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

Bob Dylan

happy birthday, dear friend, may you
live forever


“February”- Margaret Atwood‏

Arlen Redekop - "Cherry blossoms..."

Cherry blossoms have bloomed at the corner of Nelson and Bute in Vancouver, B.C., February 11, 2015

Arlen Redekop


Vancouver has been unimpeachable this
February, my sister through her
intercession with my dad, who is as close
to us as heaven, must’ve brought along
with her the sun and the unfettered blue
sky from her otherwise wintry home

there has been rain but sparsely here,
just enough to wean spring blossoms
out of hiding, as pictured above

but we are aware that not everywhere is
the same

here’s what Margaret Atwood thinks of



Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Margaret Atwood