Concert Review
A Delight and Respite
from Harpeth Rising
Saturday evening with “Harpeth Rising,” was a welcome respite from my steady diet of writing lamentations on the state of culture and politics.
The three-woman trio plays “chamberfolk,” or, sometimes, “chambergrass,” the terms they coined for the genre they’ve invented, which synthesizes classical sound (plus banjo) and folk expression (hence banjo).
These are three academically-degreed, classically-trained musicians, Jordana with violin, Maria with cello, Michelle with banjo mostly and sometimes guitar.
That’s “with” not “on.” They don’t just play their instruments. They duet with them. The musicians challenge the strings, and the strings challenge the musicians, to explore each others’ boundaries.
As they do with a sense of adventure and humor: as Jordana strums her violin like a guitar, Maria pats her cello gently, with open palms, like a bongo, but as much a caress as a beat.
Then the strings and the musicians join to sing in a distinctively blended voice and sound, delivering
some seriously sly lyrics.
Their original instrumentation, melodies and harmonies are intricate, worthy of the classical chamber repertoire. One readily accepts that the women are steeped in that genre, too, but that they have more to say,
and more to play, to be contained by it.
Their arrangements of a familiar melodies, The Beatles’ (“Norwegian Wood”), Led Zeppelin’s (“Stairway to Heaven”), traditional folk (“House of the Rising Sun”) go well beyond “covers.” Liberated from lyrics, Harpeth Rising imbues their instrumentals with wicked sass, experimenting with rhythms and double- (triple-?) time meters. We recognize the tunes, but only after several bars, for the reinterpretations are all their own.
True to the title of their just-released CD, “Against All Tides,” their lyrics tend toward introspection and refusing to compromise with the zeitgeist they resist, but they’re more optimistic than dystopian.
They do allow themselves swipe at Congress (“535 (Are You Even Alive)”), but even that, expressed through the bluegrassy lilt of the banjo, left it pointed (do read the lyrics) but not mean-spirited.
After too short a respite, I’m redelivered to the turmoil of current events, yet refreshed by an evening with Harpeth Rising.
R.L.
May 2017
Concert Review
A Delight and Respite
from Harpeth Rising
Saturday evening with “Harpeth Rising,” was a welcome respite from my steady diet of writing lamentations on the state of culture and politics.
The three-woman trio plays “chamberfolk,” or, sometimes, “chambergrass,” the terms they coined for the genre they’ve invented, which synthesizes classical sound (plus banjo) and folk expression (hence banjo).
These are three academically-degreed, classically-trained musicians, Jordana with violin, Maria with cello, Michelle with banjo mostly and sometimes guitar.
That’s “with” not “on.” They don’t just play their instruments. They duet with them. The musicians challenge the strings, and the strings challenge the musicians, to explore each others’ boundaries.
As they do with a sense of adventure and humor: as Jordana strums her violin like a guitar, Maria pats her cello gently, with open palms, like a bongo, but as much a caress as a beat.
Then the strings and the musicians join to sing in a distinctively blended voice and sound, delivering
some seriously sly lyrics.
Their original instrumentation, melodies and harmonies are intricate, worthy of the classical chamber repertoire. One readily accepts that the women are steeped in that genre, too, but that they have more to say,
and more to play, to be contained by it.
Their arrangements of a familiar melodies, The Beatles’ (“Norwegian Wood”), Led Zeppelin’s (“Stairway to Heaven”), traditional folk (“House of the Rising Sun”) go well beyond “covers.” Liberated from lyrics, Harpeth Rising imbues their instrumentals with wicked sass, experimenting with rhythms and double- (triple-?) time meters. We recognize the tunes, but only after several bars, for the reinterpretations are all their own.
True to the title of their just-released CD, “Against All Tides,” their lyrics tend toward introspection and refusing to compromise with the zeitgeist they resist, but they’re more optimistic than dystopian.
They do allow themselves swipe at Congress (“535 (Are You Even Alive)”), but even that, expressed through the bluegrassy lilt of the banjo, left it pointed (do read the lyrics) but not mean-spirited.
After too short a respite, I’m redelivered to the turmoil of current events, yet refreshed by an evening with Harpeth Rising.
R.L.
May 2017
Just for the Love of Writing . . .
A Reverie on the Love of Honey
Once, while picking a basket of blueberries, and eating almost as many, as I drifted into reverie, I asked a fellow-forager who approached me from the woods, just to make a pleasant late summer’s conversation, what is his favorite, comfort food.
He ignored me at first, like I was interfering with his search, then cocked his head one way, then the other, as though to consider my question from all sides, and then compose his answer.
“It’s honey,” he began, thoughtfully, with deliberation. “Yes, for sure, it’s honey. Honey is beyond a food. Honey is a joy . . .” he said the last part wistfully.
“Let me tell you . . .” and then he did . . . like a rhapsody . . . with a passion.
“From early Spring, I look forward to Honey Season. Thinking about it all the time.
“The first honey of the Spring is flavored by the blossoms of — what else? — the honey locust trees. Their blossoms perfume the air, heralding sweet things to come.
“Next, the small, white blueberry blossoms, never in great volume. The honey they inspire is delicately flavored, slightly tart. Rare. A delicacy.
“When I see white blossoms in the orchard trees, it’s pears. Then the pink ones herald apple blossom honey.
“There’s clover in July. I loved watching the bees alighting on each white pom-pom, harvesting its pollen grains, speck by speck, then hovering to the next and the next, until their cargo sacs were full, then back to the hive.
“I just couldn’t wait until they had their stores full! Just thinking of all those honey cells, in all those honeycombs, full of pure sweet delight. I can scarcely resist. I confess, often I don’t resist. I just have to have some!
“So I’ll help myself to a mid-summer harvest. (I owe an apology to the bees, I know I do.)
“A kaleidoscope of August wildflowers enabled them to recover from my incursion. The summer’s last stand was goldenrod. Flowers the color of honey! Fields of honey!
“Lately, now, see how the sun’s hanging lower in the sky. Shadows going long in the late afternoon. Days getting shorter.
“The air’s taking on a crispness, little more, day by day. The morning chill is refreshing, though, after the humid summer we had.
“Soon the leaves will fall, carpeting with fallen leaves the grounds around the honey yards. They permeate the air with a distinctive Autumn scent.
“A little after that, that leafy scent mixes, more and more frequently, with wafts of smoke in the evening air, plumes from the fireplaces which begin to ignite again – coming out of their summer’s hibernation.
“It’s bracing. Invigorating. It’s not yet cold, but just enough to get thinking of my thick winter coat.
“This time of year, I can, truly, gorge on honey. As much as I can find . . . I can consume it all. Yes, it can put some pounds on me. And several inches, indeed.
“But, ah, such comfort food! Oh, I’m so-o-o-o comfortable . . . And ready for a long nap . . .
“See you again in the Spring,” he strolled away, disappearing into the shadowy undergrowth.
“How will I find you, then?” I asked.
“Just call me,” he said. “I won’t be far.”
“I’m Pooh!”
Concert Review
A Delight and Respite
from Harpeth Rising
Saturday evening with “Harpeth Rising,” was a welcome respite from my steady diet of writing lamentations on the state of culture and politics.
The three-woman trio plays “chamberfolk,” or, sometimes, “chambergrass,” the terms they coined for the genre they’ve invented, which synthesizes classical sound (plus banjo) and folk expression (hence banjo).
These are three academically-degreed, classically-trained musicians, Jordana with violin, Maria with cello, Michelle with banjo mostly and sometimes guitar.
That’s “with” not “on.” They don’t just play their instruments. They duet with them. The musicians challenge the strings, and the strings challenge the musicians, to explore each others’ boundaries.
As they do with a sense of adventure and humor: as Jordana strums her violin like a guitar, Maria pats her cello gently, with open palms, like a bongo, but as much a caress as a beat.
Then the strings and the musicians join to sing in a distinctively blended voice and sound, delivering
some seriously sly lyrics.
Their original instrumentation, melodies and harmonies are intricate, worthy of the classical chamber repertoire. One readily accepts that the women are steeped in that genre, too, but that they have more to say,
and more to play, to be contained by it.
Their arrangements of a familiar melodies, The Beatles’ (“Norwegian Wood”), Led Zeppelin’s (“Stairway to Heaven”), traditional folk (“House of the Rising Sun”) go well beyond “covers.” Liberated from lyrics, Harpeth Rising imbues their instrumentals with wicked sass, experimenting with rhythms and double- (triple-?) time meters. We recognize the tunes, but only after several bars, for the reinterpretations are all their own.
True to the title of their just-released CD, “Against All Tides,” their lyrics tend toward introspection and refusing to compromise with the zeitgeist they resist, but they’re more optimistic than dystopian.
They do allow themselves swipe at Congress (“535 (Are You Even Alive)”), but even that, expressed through the bluegrassy lilt of the banjo, left it pointed (do read the lyrics) but not mean-spirited.
After too short a respite, I’m redelivered to the turmoil of current events, yet refreshed by an evening with Harpeth Rising.
R.L.
May 2017
Just for the Love of Writing . . .
A Reverie on the Love of Honey
Once, while picking a basket of blueberries, and eating almost as many, as I drifted into reverie, I asked a fellow-forager who approached me from the woods, just to make a pleasant late summer’s conversation, what is his favorite, comfort food.
He ignored me at first, like I was interfering with his search, then cocked his head one way, then the other, as though to consider my question from all sides, and then compose his answer.
“It’s honey,” he began, thoughtfully, with deliberation. “Yes, for sure, it’s honey. Honey is beyond a food. Honey is a joy . . .” he said the last part wistfully.
“Let me tell you . . .” and then he did . . .
like a rhapsody . . . with a passion.
“From early Spring, I look forward to Honey Season. Thinking about it all the time.
“The first honey of the Spring is flavored by the blossoms of — what else? — the honey locust trees. Their blossoms perfume the air, heralding sweet things to come.
“Next, the small, white blueberry blossoms, never in great volume. The honey they inspire is delicately flavored, slightly tart. Rare. A delicacy.
“When I see white blossoms in the orchard trees, it’s pears. Then the pink ones herald apple blossom honey.
“There’s clover in July. I loved watching the bees alighting on each white pom-pom, harvesting its pollen grains, speck by speck, then hovering to the next and the next, until their cargo sacs were full, then back to the hive.
“I just couldn’t wait until they had their stores full! Just thinking of all those honey cells, in all those honeycombs, full of pure sweet delight. I can scarcely resist. I confess, often I don’t resist. I just have to have some!
“So I’ll help myself to a mid-summer harvest. (I owe an apology to the bees, I know I do.)
“A kaleidoscope of August wildflowers enabled them to recover from my incursion. The summer’s last stand was goldenrod. Flowers the color of honey! Fields of honey!
“Lately, now, see how the sun’s hanging lower in the sky. Shadows going long in the late afternoon. Days getting shorter.
“The air’s taking on a crispness, little more, day by day. The morning chill is refreshing, though, after the humid summer we had.
“Soon the leaves will fall, carpeting with fallen leaves the grounds around the honey yards. They permeate the air with a distinctive Autumn scent.
“A little after that, that leafy scent mixes, more and more frequently, with wafts of smoke in the evening air, plumes from the fireplaces which begin to ignite again – coming out of their summer’s hibernation.
“It’s bracing. Invigorating. It’s not yet cold, but just enough to get thinking of my thick winter coat.
“This time of year, I can, truly, gorge on honey. As much as I can find . . . I can consume it all. Yes, it can put some pounds on me. And several inches, indeed.
“But, ah, such comfort food! Oh, I’m so-o-o-o comfortable . . . And ready for a long nap . . .
“See you again in the Spring,” he strolled away, disappearing into the undergrowth’s shadow.
“How will I find you, then?” I asked.
“Just call me,” he said. “I won’t be far.”
“I’m Pooh!”
Concert Review
A Delight and Respite
from Harpeth Rising
Saturday evening with “Harpeth Rising,” was a welcome respite from my steady diet of writing lamentations on the state of culture and politics.
The three-woman trio plays “chamberfolk,” or, sometimes, “chambergrass,” the terms they coined for the genre they’ve invented, which synthesizes classical sound (plus banjo) and folk expression (hence banjo).
These are three academically-degreed, classically-trained musicians, Jordana with violin, Maria with cello, Michelle with banjo mostly and sometimes guitar.
That’s “with” not “on.” They don’t just play their instruments. They duet with them. The musicians challenge the strings, and the strings challenge the musicians, to explore each others’ boundaries.
As they do with a sense of adventure and humor: as Jordana strums her violin like a guitar, Maria pats her cello gently, with open palms, like a bongo, but as much a caress as a beat.
Then the strings and the musicians join to sing in a distinctively blended voice and sound, delivering
some seriously sly lyrics.
Their original instrumentation, melodies and harmonies are intricate, worthy of the classical chamber repertoire. One readily accepts that the women are steeped in that genre, too, but that they have more to say,
and more to play, to be contained by it.
Their arrangements of a familiar melodies, The Beatles’ (“Norwegian Wood”), Led Zeppelin’s (“Stairway to Heaven”), traditional folk (“House of the Rising Sun”) go well beyond “covers.” Liberated from lyrics, Harpeth Rising imbues their instrumentals with wicked sass, experimenting with rhythms and double- (triple-?) time meters. We recognize the tunes, but only after several bars, for the reinterpretations are all their own.
True to the title of their just-released CD, “Against All Tides,” their lyrics tend toward introspection and refusing to compromise with the zeitgeist they resist, but they’re more optimistic than dystopian.
They do allow themselves swipe at Congress (“535 (Are You Even Alive)”), but even that, expressed through the bluegrassy lilt of the banjo, left it pointed (do read the lyrics) but not mean-spirited.
After too short a respite, I’m redelivered to the turmoil of current events, yet refreshed by an evening with Harpeth Rising.
R.L.
May 2017
Just for the Love of Writing . . .
A Reverie on the Love of Honey
Once, while picking a basket of blueberries, and eating almost as many, as I drifted into reverie, I asked a fellow-forager who approached me from the woods, just to make a pleasant late summer’s conversation, what is his favorite, comfort food.
He ignored me at first, like I was interfering with his search, then cocked his head one way, then the other, as though to consider my question from all sides, and then compose his answer.
“It’s honey,” he began, thoughtfully, with deliberation. “Yes, for sure, it’s honey. Honey is beyond a food. Honey is a joy . . .” he said the last part wistfully.
“Let me tell you . . .” and then he did . . .
like a rhapsody . . . with a passion.
“From early Spring, I look forward to Honey Season. Thinking about it all the time.
“The first honey of the Spring is flavored by the blossoms of — what else? — the honey locust trees. Their blossoms perfume the air, heralding sweet things to come.
“Next, the small, white blueberry blossoms, never in great volume. The honey they inspire is delicately flavored, slightly tart. Rare. A delicacy.
“When I see white blossoms in the orchard trees, it’s pears. Then the pink ones herald apple blossom honey.
“There’s clover in July. I loved watching the bees alighting on each white pom-pom, harvesting its pollen grains, speck by speck, then hovering to the next and the next, until their cargo sacs were full, then back to the hive.
“I just couldn’t wait until they had their stores full! Just thinking of all those honey cells, in all those honeycombs, full of pure sweet delight. I can scarcely resist. I confess, often I don’t resist. I just have to have some!
“So I’ll help myself to a mid-summer harvest. (I owe an apology to the bees, I know I do.)
“A kaleidoscope of August wildflowers enabled them to recover from my incursion. The summer’s last stand was goldenrod. Flowers the color of honey! Fields of honey!
“Lately, now, see how the sun’s hanging lower in the sky. Shadows going long in the late afternoon. Days getting shorter.
“The air’s taking on a crispness, little more, day by day. The morning chill is refreshing, though, after the humid summer we had.
“Soon the leaves will fall, carpeting with fallen leaves the grounds around the honey yards. They permeate the air with a distinctive Autumn scent.
“A little after that, that leafy scent mixes, more and more frequently, with wafts of smoke in the evening air, plumes from the fireplaces which begin to ignite again – coming out of their summer’s hibernation.
“It’s bracing. Invigorating. It’s not yet cold, but just enough to get thinking of my thick winter coat.
“This time of year, I can, truly, gorge on honey. As much as I can find . . . I can consume it all. Yes, it can put some pounds on me. And several inches, indeed.
“But, ah, such comfort food! Oh, I’m so-o-o-o comfortable . . . And ready for a long nap . . .
“See you again in the Spring,” he strolled away, disappearing into the undergrowth’s shadow.
“How will I find you, then?” I asked.
“Just call me,” he said. “I won’t be far.”
“I’m Pooh!”