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Singing La Di Da to a Screen

Lennon Stella and Betcha visited students’ screens for Cornell’s StayHomecoming. 

Excited comments flood in on the side of my screen, replacing the usual cheers of a crowd. The Cornell Concert Commission (CCC) introduces the event of the night through Zoom. This reminds me that instead of being a part of a lively performance in Barton Hall, I am sitting on the bed in my room with my laptop screen staring back at me as my only source of interaction. As sad as this might sound, I could not have had a more perfect night, lounging in my PJs with a bowl of popcorn in hand. 

Even as the corona virus plagues many aspects of our lives, Cornell’s flow of music entertainment continues. On October 10th at 8PM, instead of walking into a concert venue, I logged in with my Cornell NetID for a free virtual concert presenting Lennon Stella with special guest Betcha, part of Cornell’s StayHomecoming initiative. With Lennon Stella being one of my favorite artists, I knew I had to tune in. 

Betcha appeared on my screen and I was shocked by the atmosphere, as I was so used to in-person concerts. Usually, there are bright lights that project onto the stage and lots of background dancers, so the band’s creation of a casual ambiance in their basement served as a stark contrast to pre-corona times. Yet, at the same time, I did not mind this difference. I felt as though I was hanging out with the artists on their couch, just having a jam session with them. It almost felt more personal, despite them being miles and miles away from Ithaca. 

I was not familiar with Betcha’s music before watching this concert. Their musical artistry—the command of their instruments and the lead vocalist’s emotion-filled, gritty voice— combined with the genuine chemistry between the four musicians made me question why I had not listened to the band earlier. I found myself swaying to their retro, alternative rock sound and I could imagine how lively the crowd would have been if it had been in person. This feeling was intensified by the fact that their sound was a bit low despite being on the highest volume, making me wish I could hear each lyric better. However, their energy still managed to reach me through the screen. Their first performance “If That’s Alright” had the artists belting the catchy lyrics “Hey, Oh… Say So.” The gentle and insistent acoustic guitar met with the hectoring and proud electric guitar to create a unique sound. This was a mesh of instruments that I had not seen before, and the two distinct sounds blended surprisingly well. While showing their musical talents through other hits such as “Lucy Lucy,” “Deja Vu,” and “July,” the band was also able to connect to the audience and show their personalities. Between songs, they introduced themselves, joked around, and spoke to the audience of Cornell. Their lead vocalist concluded the performance by singing “Falling” while projecting pink lights around the room. By playing just his acoustic guitar, he took a more mellow approach to the original, upbeat tune. This acoustic setting gave off a warm sonority that made the whole performance feel more intimate even through the often arid medium of Zoom. 

After Betcha’s last song came a Q & A, led by a fellow classmate from MUSIC 2311, Miles Greenblatt. Even through Zoom, they could interact with the audience in this way. They were able to answer individual questions, something that an in-person concert rarely does. I found myself absorbed in the band’s words as they spoke about meeting their freshman year of college, the advice they give to young musicians, and their musical inspirations and influences. I loved getting to learn about this band, but I was also anxiously awaiting Lennon Stella to come onto the screen. 

A quick intermission came before the main performance, and photographs of the CCC’s past work were shown on the screen. It was definitely strange to see maskless students at crowded, outdoor concerts. As pictures of the members carrying speakers to the stage came up, I recognized that the members still have a lot of weight to carry on their shoulders because of the new virtual setting. This made me appreciate these Cornell students, and all they have done to flip around how they run their club and bring us this event. 

A CCC member emerged on my screen, from their own bedroom as well, to introduce Lennon Stella. Suddenly, Stella was staring back at me. Her joyous spirit immediately took over as her smile spread from one side of my screen to the other. She began to strum her guitar and the comments quickly streamed in, as fans recognized her hit song “Kissing Other People.” It sounded just like her acoustic recording of the song, stripped down with just her guitar and her soft falsetto. There was also one piano player in the background of her performance who simply accompanied whatever direction Stella went, and let her do the talking. I felt as though I was having a coffee chat with her and that she was playing her music solely to me. I wondered if her performance would have been like this in-person or if it would have been much more extravagant.

After finishing up her other popular song “La Di Da,” Stella said, “even though I can’t hear you, I can feel you.” A few songs later, she also said “it’s so weird to sing to a screen with zero interaction when I know people are there. But I hope everyone is having a good time!” I was glad that she mentioned how bizarre this experience was for her—it would almost feel weird if she had not. Of course, it was a new experience for the audience to be sitting at home watching a virtual concert, but it was just as strange of an event for the performer.

Yet, Stella did an incredible job at still connecting with the audience. She made an effort to look directly at the camera, and talked to us between performances. She explained the meaning behind each song, citing her “very cheating boyfriend” that inspired her song “Bad.” She even had an iPad next to her in order to read the comments coming in. Stella also made a fun production out of her otherwise bland living room scene. Even sitting on her stool, she swayed along to the melody, making me feel like I was truly watching a concert, rather than listening to a recording.

With Stella’s last song “Goodnight,” it was time for her to say goodbye and goodnight to the audience as well. Just like that, with a click of a button, she exited the screen. Concerts that I have attended in the past do not end this abruptly— there is this lingering excitement even after the singer exits, there is merchandise to buy, and conversations with friends as you walk home, reminiscing about the event. Despite this unusual setting, I was pleased by this performance. It could have been my introverted self who liked sitting in my room instead of going out, but I also believe that Betcha and Stella made the best out of the situation. This first virtual concert of mine surpassed my expectations, and my respect towards these musicians grew immensely, even if I had not left my bed the entire evening.

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All Time Low’s Basement Noise, but Make it Virtual

“We’ll See You Next Time for Another Installment of Whatever the F*ck this is,” says Alex Gaskarth at the virtual All Time Low concert on October 23rd.

The flyer for All Time Low’s virtual concert series.

Take a second to reminisce on your last hurrah of a concert before the pandemic hit. Do you remember it more than others? Does it give you a feeling of nostalgia like no other concert has given before? This is how I feel about my own last in-person concert on December 29th of 2019. That end-of-the-year concert also brought an end to the era of jam-packed, obnoxiously loud venues. The concert that I went to was given by All Time Low, a pop punk and rock band that I have been obsessed with since my emo middle school days. I remember buying the ticket as I sat locked in the library during finals season—my only motivation to get through exams was the prospect of being in the same room as my favorite band, screaming the lyrics with them. It seems unreal that I now go from studying for my prelims to watching a virtual All Time Low concert all in the same room. 

Virtual concerts seem reasonable for a performance by an artist with an acoustic guitar, or one who plays soothing classical piano music. However, an All Time Low concert is not meant to calm the soul. The band brings an exhilarating atmosphere to its tours, with risky crowd surfing above heads and screaming fans drinking to the sound of electric guitars and loud drums that pierce everyone’s ears. For this reason,  I was shocked at how jittery and excited I still managed to feel as I sat in bed, logging onto the website for All Time Low’s Basement Noise Concert Series.

I arrived at the “venue” about 15 minutes early out of eagerness, but also curiosity. Would the pre-concert ambience still be the same? Would I feel like I was alone or as if I was watching with other fans? Would I feel the same rush with every change in lighting as I anticipate the lights going down and the band coming out? These were the thoughts that consumed my mind before the page loaded and a rectangle with All Time Low’s logo appeared on my screen. On the side was an influx of comments flooding the screen every second with all caps “WHY AM I SHAKING IT’S A VIRTUAL CONCERT” to a slew of crying emojis. This feature truly created a community amongst us fans who were joining from all around the world. There were people commenting that it was way too early in the morning for them, and it was mind-boggling that in Ithaca it was 6pm. I realized that virtual concerts are significant not only for the times that we live in, but also for people that usually do not have the opportunities to attend a real-life concert. The ticket for this event was inexpensive compared to the in-person one that I had to save up money for. It also required no travel, so is perfect for people who live far away from places that the band generally tours. In this way, I felt connected to even more fans than I would in a small, limited capacity room. 

All the names of the commenters were in yellow, thus confusion arose when a few green names began to pop up. Then, I read those green names—Alex, Jack, Zack, Rian. They were the members of the band, virtually interacting with us! This filled me with happiness, and for a moment I forgot that the band was across the country and not with me in my room. As I sat wondering how they were commenting so close to the start time, the band appeared on my screen right at 6pm. This is when I grasped that the concert was going to be a pre-recorded event, not a live performance. This was one disappointing aspect, but with the band’s comments on the side, I still felt as if they were with us, albeit in a bizarre way. 

The band’s virtual performance was complete with bright lights and colors.

In the introduction, the band explained that they wanted to give a true performance on a stage with colorful, flashing lights surrounding them. This October 23rd concert was a part of a series of concerts that the band prepared. In July, they tested negative for the virus along with their crew, and were able to record the performance for the fans. Each concert in the series had a distinct setlist that was decided by one of the band members. This particular concert was curated by Rian Dawson, the quirky drummer. Everyone in the fandom, from the comment section to Twitter, was commenting that Dawson would likely pick the most obscure songs to play because that is just his personality. 

To my surprise, Dawson had some incredible picks for the setlist. They were unexpected, yet all songs that I had been craving to hear. In about 45 minutes, they were able to cover 12 songs. The majority of these songs came from the 2015 album Future Hearts, which is (objectively) the best All Time Low album. These are songs that I use to jam out to in my bedroom, and still do to this day when I need to get my teen angst out. In the upcoming concerts of the series, the other members will have a lot to live up to after Rian’s setlist. 

The band could not have chosen a more vocally challenging set. I suspect that with the virtual concert, they were able to take more breaks between songs because each song still managed to have crisp vocals and lots of movement without excessive sweating from the members. Starting with “Kicking and Screaming,” I could already tell that this concert was about to be incredible. The band stood on the stage with their usual formation, and as the camera moved between members, I could see each of their faces and movements more than I could on my tippy toes at the back of a concert hall. Instead of hearing screaming fans, I could hear their vocals much more clearly, and Alex Gaskarth’s range did not fail to impress. As the songs came on, one after another, I could not help but smile to myself at how well done this entire production was. 

When “Cinderblock Garden” came on, lead guitarist Jack Barakat commented on the side, “I’m killing this verse” and he was not exaggerating. His guitar solo gave me chills as his roaring sound consumed the stage. I bopped my head along to the rhythm, and squealed out loud when Gaskarth took off his flannel and threw it at the camera and made eye contact with the viewers. For many of the songs, the band changed it up a little by incorporating harmonies or solos from various members. When they sang “Kids in the Dark,” they told us to turn off the lights in whatever room we were in, and they dimmed their blue lights on their stage too. It was evident that they tried their hardest to make the concert feel as “normal” as possible and that thought alone made me love the band even more. 

My favorite part of the All Time Low concert that I went to in December was their commentary in between songs. The band’s music is what initially drew me into the fanbase, but after years of watching interviews with them, I fell in love with their personalities as well. During the short intermission video, the band joked around together, debating the pronunciation of the word “wolf” in the song “Dancing with a Wolf” and making fun of Barakat for being a not-so “Life of the Party.” Gaskarth laughed off the crazy times that we find ourselves in, saying that “You don’t want to be near us anyway. We smell bad.” 

I was honestly having an amazing time at this virtual concert, sitting in bed with my punk eyeliner on. I found myself tearing up as the band announced their last song from the classic Future Hearts album. The white lights shone in every direction and the band jumped up and down, creating the sparkling, energetic atmosphere that any All Time Low concert has to end with. In any other year, I could imagine myself being in the middle of a mosh pit, getting crushed by the crowd. For this concert though, I was satisfied with the idea of moshing in my room alone. It was a different type of rush for sure, and I think for a band like All Time Low, a virtual concert will never live up to its live counterpart that causes deafening of ears and packed bodies. Yet, shutting my computer with an increased love for this breathtaking band was not the worst way to spend my Friday night and I will be forever grateful for “whatever the f*ck” they provided.

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And yet, China sings

In spite of its gimmicks, the 10 year old Chinese reality singing competition, Sing! China, maintains its calling power with its earnest performances.Sing! China - Wikipedia

I am of the dying breed of consumers unable to follow any television series to completion, even with Netflix forcing the next episode on me. I have little patience in particular, for overwrought reality shows driven by needlessly hysterical scripts. And yet, every Friday at 9pm sharp, you’ll find me watching Sing! China, a reality singing competition with a blind audition concept. 

Sing! China is replete with the foibles of reality television. All are welcome, but most contestants have professional training, and everyone on the first episode mysteriously succeeds. Product placement is as subtle as a giant milk bottle mascot dancing in the stands. All media is political; this is no exception. Contestants returning from abroad declare their renewed national pride and the finals begin with a patriotic song. That this season was filmed at all, with an unmasked studio audience no less, declares the Chinese success in managing the coronavirus while other countries grapple with lockdown. 

But despite the show’s affectations, the sincerity of the performances prevail. 

Zhao Zi Hua (赵紫骅), a thirty-three-year-old independent musician, looks utterly unassuming, as he takes the stage to sing his composition, Because You Came By. He does not sing as much as speak in his warm tenor, asking the audience “what hurt do you carry? ”(你带着什么伤) with a forthrightness that cuts to the quick as he sketches the uncertain road through adversity to aspirations. The conversation turns inward into an interrogation, and his answers are devastating in their unflinching truth. Though many have spoken to this subject, he is distinguished by his genuine delivery. When he says he is searching for a path through life’s uncertainties, you believe it, because he sings with his voice so charged with vulnerability and stripped of pretense. He does not belabour the point, but narrates with a calm, unblinking honesty what feels like hard-won truths in a few sparse lines of life-affirming poetry. 

If Zhao’s calling card is his time-weathered wisdom, his competitors, Zebra Forest (斑马森林), a three piece band of twenty-somethings, are the youthful exuberance of big dreams and beginnings. In their composition Lighthouse, they’re easy on the ears with their radio-friendly hooks and guitar-heavy pop sound, if a little generic. Their appeal doesn’t derive from the technical complexity of their performance, but their candour. The lead vocal croons with an uncomplicated belief about summer evenings sprawled on the grass and chasing dreams in a big city far away, and you nod along in spite of yourself. Their writing and delivery needs fine-tuning, but still they moved the most serious judge to grudgingly groove along. I’m hopeful that I’ll hear them on the radio in a few years, topping the charts. 

Like most other televised singing competitions, Sing! China is plagued by advertising spectacles, tacky branding and all the other uncomfortable accoutrements of reality television. But the sincerity of its contestants and their music will keep me coming back, week after week, and for seasons to come. 

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A Man of Many Words and Meters

After his passing, Neil ‘The Professor’ Peart leaves a rich legacy of rhythm and intellect that will have a lasting influence on how musicians approach their craft.

Peart waves farewell to the audience at his last concert with Rush in 2015.

When the spotlight was shining, Neil Peart was an untamed tiger; he showed up to every concert ready to pounce and viciously devour each song with perfect time and execution. But when the spotlight faded and the house lights came up, the tiger quietly retreated back into the wild to search for his next meal. Peart was one third of the famed Canadian prog rock trio, Rush, and his unabashed drumming on his 360 degree kit covered more ground in a single concert than most drummers could in a lifetime. From the small clubs to the massive stadiums, Peart had fans air-drumming his complex and unique drum parts throughout the concerts, and the rhythms he wrote for what have become classic Rush songs are as integral to the tunes as the guitar riffs and melodies. However, the man behind the kit was much more restrained. Peart was a living dichotomy; his private personal life, full of tragic family deaths, was unrecognizable from his demeanor on stage. When Rush completed their R40 tour with their final show in 2015, fans across the world were devastated. But upon hearing the news that Peart had died on January 7, 2020 after suffering from brain cancer, fans were shocked beyond belief.

Rush made its debut in 1974 with their eponymous album, but the lineup on that album is not the band fans have come to know and love over the last forty years. While high school friends Alex Lifeson (guitar) and Geddy Lee (vocals, bass, synth) founded the band and remained in it ever since, the original drummer was John Rutsey, who left the band after the first album as a result of health issues. This first album was unapologetically straight-ahead, and Rutsey’s simpler drumming certainly fit the style. But with Peart’s blazing debut on their second album Fly By Night (1975), right from the intro of the first song “Anthem” the contrast between the two was day and night. And Rush chose to fly by night. Peart’s playing was technically nuanced, and he executed complicated polyrhythms and time signatures with ease. His playing pushed Lifeson and Lee to a new level on this second record, and it was only a taste of what was to come for the next forty years.

Rush digs into a hard-hitting song on their 1975 tour.

A well-read intellectual, Peart also brought immense knowledge about literature and history to the band, and he became Rush’s primary lyricist for the remainder of the band’s career. While the stereotypical drummer of a rock band from the seventies was said to be the least smart of the bunch, Peart ignored the playbook and added more to the band than they could imagine. He wrote about fantasy novels and classics by famous authors such as Ernest Hemingway in the song “Losing It” (1982), as well as The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in their well-known hit “Tom Sawyer” (1981). Peart’s literary contributions brought attention to the importance of lyrics in rock music; his words, in addition to his backbeat, were imperative to Rush’s continued success over the course of their musical trajectory.

Peart’s creativity and curiosity also drove his interest in travel, especially by motorcycle. Peart began riding at age 12, and he was immediately enthralled by the feel and control while navigating uncharted territory. Peart’s obsession with riding became so great that beginning in 1996, he toured with Rush by motorcycle instead of by tour bus. Peart said that for him drumming and motorcycle riding went hand in hand: “They are a good counterpoint to each other. Drumming requires three hours of performing at the limit of my physical and mental capabilities, and motorcycling is very demanding physically, and especially, mentally. The concentration necessary to do it correctly, safely, life-preservingly is enormous. It feels like the vibration of riding actually loosens up my sore muscles, so it’s therapeutic in that way, and after so many years of concert tours, which can be tedious, motorcycling keeps me excited and challenged.” In between tours Peart also travelled the globe, finding new places to explore and attempting to satisfy his insatiable hunger to learn more. Peart put his adventures into words, and in 1996 he published a book titled The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa, in which he chronicled his adventures by motorcycle in Cameroon.

Peart poses for a shot with two of his favorite pieces of equipment: a motorcycle and a drum kit.

Writing is also ultimately what saved Peart after the tragic deaths of his 19-year old daughter, Selena, in 1997, and his wife of 23 years, Jacqueline, the following year. Rush had been touring non-stop up until the conclusion of their Test For Echo tour in 1997, but after Selena died in a car crash and his wife died of cancer, the band gave Peart time to mourn – a break that lasted five years. He spent years alone traveling by himself and meeting new people, an unmapped journey from his hometown of Quebec to various destinations such as British Columbia, United States, Mexico, and Belize. Upon returning home, he published his second book Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road in 2002, which focused on his journey of self-rediscovery.

This therapeutic travel experience put Peart in the frame of mind to resume working with Lifeson and Lee, bringing Rush back to life with their album Vapor Trails (2002) and extensive tour that followed. Before the deaths of his daughter and wife, Peart had avoided many press events and meet-and-greets with fans, and after the band resumed touring, the group made a collective and definitive decision that Lifeson and Lee would take care of all interactions with the press in order to give Peart more privacy and avoid him feeling uncomfortable from questions about his personal life. This gave Peart more time to explore the open road yet also remain focused on his craft.

Peart’s incessant need to learn and challenge himself was unmistakable in his growth as a drummer. For twenty years since he joined Rush, he had developed naturally into a virtuosic player, evident in his complicated parts he executed night after night. In 1995, however, after feeling himself become too metronomic of a player, he decided to reach out for lessons. Just a year earlier, Peart participated in the record Burning For Buddy: A Tribute To The Music Of Buddy Rich (1994), in which he played “Cotton Tail” with a big band. During this time he was introduced to drum teacher Freddie Gruber, who had also taught Steve Smith, the drummer of the rock band Journey. Gruber played a critical role in Peart’s development, advising him to change his grip on his drum sticks from “matched grip” to “traditional grip” and altering the heights of some of the drums on his kit, all with the goal to help Peart play with “circular motion” as opposed to the more rigid style he had been using. This change in style provided renewed impetus for even more creativity with Rush, and enabled them to continue producing quality work for the next twenty years.

In 2013, Rush was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Their performance at the event opened with the Foo Fighters, who are fronted by Dave Grohl, the former drummer of Nirvana. Grohl expressed how Peart’s playing changed the landscape for drummers: “An inspiration to millions with an unmistakable sound who spawned generations of musicians (like myself) to pick up two sticks and chase a dream. A kind, thoughtful, brilliant man who ruled our radios and turntables not only with his drumming, but also his beautiful words…I still vividly remember my first listen of 2112 when I was young. It was the first time I really listened to a drummer. And since that day, music has never been the same. His power, precision, and composition was incomparable. He was called ‘The Professor’ for a reason: We all learned from him.”

After Rush’s induction into the Hall of Fame, Peart’s health began to wane, and the future of the band became unpredictable. As he developed tendonitis from years on the road playing three-hour shows, executing his grueling drum parts became more difficult. Peart’s perfectionism manifested clearly in his playing, and since he accepted nothing less than his mile-high standards, he could not continue touring if that meant delivering subpar performances. Peart’s decision to make Rush’s final show on their R40 tour their last as a band set an example of how to leave the game with dignity, grace, and class. Peart’s unending desire to learn more is what enabled him to be successful and satisfied in his life filled with tragic loss. His recovery and legacy should serve as a model for anyone with a passion they are committed to mastering.

As Peart wrote in his book Far and Away: A Prize Every Time (2011), “Excitement is found along the road, not at the end, and likewise, peace is not a fixed point-except perhaps in the unwanted ‘rest in peace’ sense. PEACE is the breathing space between destinations, between excitements, an occasional part of the journey, if you’re lucky. PEACE is a space you move through very rarely, and very briefly-but you’re not allowed to stay there. You have to keep moving, and go do what you do. Because you can.”

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A Clandestine Concert

Midnight oil burned from a chandelier within Sage Chapel, spreading an iridescence across the stained-glass windows that cut starkly against the somber night. I was shuffling past, making my way through campus, when I caught the faint whimper of a melody. At first, I mistook it for the wind humming, or the crickets whistling, or my own desperate mind imagining the live music that I so desperately craved since the outset of the pandemic. But the whimper grew to a hiss, which built to a hum. I was now certain of what I was hearing. Stoked with curiosity, I crept across the courtyard and pressed my ear to the door. The grandiose voice of the pipe organ filled the empty pews.

Leaning against the door, I listened as the anonymous musician ascended the manuals and pedals. They attacked their instrument in sudden bursts, climbing upon harmonious phrases, shooting notes high into the rafters. On occasion they stopped abruptly, letting the resplendent tones reverberate within the chapel walls. Then, with the same vigor and conviction as before, they assailed the keys once again. Rolling arpeggios and quavering octaves washed over the room, seeping through the walls into the moonlit night where I stood hanging on every note. My secret serenader put on a remarkable performance.

This might have been the most intimate, personal concert that I have ever been to. As the lone audience member, every beat and bar were my own individual indulgences. Conversely, this was also the most distant of performances. The performer, after all, was oblivious to the very fact that they were performing. Nonetheless, the barrier between us was bridged by the resounding howl of the organ, which permeated the wall and burrowed deep into my bones.

Gently, the organist lifted their finger off the final key, relieving the organ of its eternal duty and releasing me from its captive lure. Reentering reality, I became conscious of how ridiculous I looked to the passersby. I had stood for fifteen minutes with my ear glued to a doorframe, wide-eyed and smiling. Soon thereafter, I realized how emphatically more insane I would appear to the organist, who might walk through that door at any moment. I collected myself and slipped softly back into the night from which I came.

I will admit that I felt a bit creepy leant up against that wall, soaking in the live music like a moth to a porchlight. Then again, no concert in the era of COVID has followed a conventional format. We’ve swapped theatres for drive-ins, Lincoln Hall for a tent pitched on the Arts Quad. Seeing this, I’d like to believe that my midnight eavesdropping was not the most eccentric manner in which someone has pursued live music over the past few months. Anyhow, the lengths that we’ve all gone through to chase live music only proves the essentiality of the medium. Like a note perpetually pressed upon an organ, our desire to see a show will never dissipate.

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Sun-Bathing in Lockdown

Cornell Daily Sun, front page, April 16, 1918

—Friday, November 13th

During the dark days and nights of the pandemic I occasionally rummage in the archive of the Daily Sun in search of a sense of how Cornell coped with the Spanish Flu a century ago. Such then-and-now comparisons fascinate not least for the exotic look of a vintage broadsheet even when leafed through in digital form:  the front-page cartoon crowning the seven-column layout; the creativity and craft of the advertisements that open windows onto the vibrancy of Ithaca’s urban life with its cafeterias, smoke shops, haberdasheries, and many theaters (both live and movies). At every turn one encounters juxtapositions and synchronicities, international wire stories jostling with campus announcements, as in the issue of April 16, 1919—Eastertide—and the call for Cheerleader try-outs placed just below the headline about peace terms being presented to the Germans at Versailles. The ominous subhead runs: “Paris Believes the Central Powers Will to Balk at Hard Conditions.” To the left of the cartoon making light of the looming introduction of Prohibition, we read of a Bolshevik defeat, corruption in state government Albany, and a strike on the docks of New York. Just below the illustration of a drunken Noah watching his bottles of booze toddle towards the Ark, comes an announcement of University Organist James T. Quarles’s pre-Easter potpourri program that ranges from Chopin’s Marche funèbre to the Good Friday Spell from Wagner’s Parsifal on which the recitalist is joined by his wife Gertrude, a contralto. Gone are the days when an organ concert, even in Easter Week, makes it onto the front page of any newspaper.

On page three another cartoon calls for funds to bring the troops back from Europe by depicting the Doughboys forced to swim home across the Atlantic. Almost comically moored alongside the cartoon is another watery column about changes to the order of the rowers in the Cornell varsity eight. On page five we read that the number of “English” deaths has surpassed births, nearly 100,000 having fallen victim to the flu. Just below this report comes news that the Cornell Mandolin Club has given up plans to re-form because its long-time director is still France. These and other collisions bring home the mortal truth that Spanish Flu was spread and worsened by war.

From University Historian Morris Bishop’s classic History of Cornell published in 1962 one learns that that in October 1918 the university began quartering soldiers on campus. With them came the flu. There were 900 cases at Cornell, some 1,300 in Ithaca. Thirty-seven students died, and about the same number in the town. In 2020 by contrast, the first Covid death in Tompkins County, home to Cornell, was reported a month ago. In the autumn of 1918 many doctors were overseas, so local resident and students were called on to help the stricken.

In World War I, Cornell’s fraternities were converted to dormitories for soldiers, with as many as seventy-five cots in each house. There were no campus clubs, no publications, no athletics. Tompkins County had voted to go dry already in October of 1918, more than a year before the Eighteenth Amendment went into effect. The cessation of student activities and the popularity of the movies, as Bishop wryly noted, “operated to keep the students away from beer’s redolence.”

During Covid there has been more than a little beer pong played. Today there’s a cluster of new cases at Cornell caused by party-hopping students.  Rather than facing quarantine in fine style in the Statler as has been the case in the present crisis, one could have been sent off to the trenches instead, not for contracting the disease but for being alive.

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November: A Pick-Me-Up Playlist

“Dora” – Tierra Whack

One of the most exciting rappers working today released her first single of the year, an anthem celebrating Gucci sheets, going vegan, living on the beach, and leveling up in all areas (mostly financial). Bouncy hi-hats and a casual flow give way to immense talent and just enough optimism to make the future look bright, at least for two and a half minutes.—MILES GREENBLATT

 

“Little Drummer Boy  (feat. Mzansi Youth Choir)” – Leslie Odom Jr.

The release of Hamilton star Leslie Odom Jr.’s 2020 holiday album resuscitates Little Drummer Boy from the catalog of overplayed Christmas music. The invigorating, alluring voices of 50 young choristers of the Mzansi Youth Choir sprinkled with an anticipating drum beat generates a refreshing gusto to the 1941 American tune. And while there’s nothing wrong with listening to Christmas tunes before Thanksgiving, it does help that the advent of distinct genres of pop, R&B, and traditional South African choral music make the song a suitable listen for anytime of the year. You’d never expect the bitter and green-eyed Aaron Burr to be so full of holiday cheer.—PATRICIA KU

 

“Probably Up (Live in SF)” – Lawrence

The soft, sweet trickle of piano notes leads you in, but you’d be jumping the gun to characterize this song as soft or tender. Any sentimentality is shattered by the horn line, which is elevated by punchy jabs at an electric organ. Add in a tight beat and the staccato tease of a guitar and you’ve got one serious funk groove. Drawing energy from the audience, Clyde Lawrence coats the tune in a warm, throaty wail that won’t fail to stave off your impending winter woes.—JONAH LEVINE

 

“I Wanna Get Better” – Bleachers

There are certain songs that beg you to dance, transforming your mundane life into an early-2000s rom-com montage, and Bleachers’ “I Wanna Get Better” is the pick-me-up we all need sometimes. Each time the choppy piano starts to play, my head prepares to bop and my pulse quickens, the booming drums enveloping me in energy. Though the lyrics detail moments of hopelessness and fear: “And I’ve trained myself to give up on the past ‘cause / I froze in time between hearses and caskets” each verse ends with Jack Antonoff’s optimistic belting. Bleachers’ first hit single is sure to inspire you to reflect on your troubles and decide to grow from them…because the first step in becoming happier is telling yourself, I wanna get better.—GRACE STASOLLA

 

“Hawái” – Maluma

Maluma, the Latin superstar from Colombia, took the world by storm when he released a summer bop on the 29th of July 2020 titled ‘Hawai’. The single quickly shot to top billboards for countries around the world and the official YouTube video has accumulated over 400 million views to date. With a soft entrance laced with synths and an electric piano, accompanied by Maluma’s soothing and rich tone, the listener is left to sway their head to the ballad-like nature of the opening. The classic Latin percussion enters shortly after, immediately transforming the song into a rhythmic and energizing piece of music for all people to enjoy and dance to. From catchy melodies to danceable rhythms, Hawái is the perfect song to blast on our porch speakers with the company of your friends on a hot summer day.—AARIK IBANEZ

 

“TWFNO” – Tiffany Day

Following her viral debut video of her singing “Hallelujah” into a well in Italy, Tiffany Day has been releasing her own airy, bedroom-pop songs ever since. “TWFNO” came out right before the pandemic hit, and the song’s candid idea that time waits for no one makes the world seem a little more manageable. The words “all that s*** built up inside is okay, feel alive” is met with a steady beat of the drum that gives a feeling of an unwavering, balanced life. When the drums are not playing there are electronic melodies that drift through the background and crisp snaps that will make you want to snap and sing along with Day. With its heart-to-heart lyrics and uplifting beat, “TWFNO” is the perfect song to blast when you want to forget about time and any responsibilities.—MIA GLASS

 

“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” – Marvin Gaye

If darkness is the absence of light, then Marvin Gaye’s legendary tune is the absence of sadness. Much like the persistent narrator of the song will not allow any obstacle to infringe on his ability to get to his love, so to will Gaye not stop from making the listener smile. The song has a melody that inspires a smile immediately, and the lyrics are as happy as can be. Gaye didn’t let the rock formations of thousands of year old glaciers stop him, and neither should you let the events of the day impact your life. There ain’t no mountain high enough to stop you from getting to the top and screaming that today will be a good day!—JON DONVILLE 

 

“Proof” – Paramore

Maybe you’re not in love. Neither am I. Proof by Paramore is still the perfect alt-rock song to enliven oneself, but also to forget about the imminently setting sun. With dynamic lyrics about the force of love and vibrant guitars and melodies, Proof is the shimmering reset for the inevitable seasonal melancholy (as well as the current pandemic). Swim in this song for a few minutes and don’t forget about the blushing, reggae-inspired bridge where Hayley Williams’ vocals shine with lovestruck joy. Taylor York’s deep guitar lines meld with Williams’ voice for that unique Paramore sound: the brightness of Hayley’s vocal melodies and the shadows of true emo influences from their early 2000s days. Proof begs to be danced to, giving you a reason to smile and sing along.—ANDIE CHAPMAN

 

“Tongue Tied” – Grouplove

Nearly ten years later, “Tongue Tied” by Grouplove is the one song that never fails to lift my mood. It’s the anthem that every Zillennial knows and loves, and has inspired countless Spotify playlists such as “if tongue tied by grouplove was a playlist,” which boasts 8,747 followers to date. This song remains Grouplove’s most popular song, as it’s often hailed as the synth-pop, alt-rock teenage party song of the decade. One scroll through TikTok today will reveal countless travel videos and summer memory montages set to “Tongue Tied.” From the chorus of crescendoing “Woooo!”s at the end of the guitar intro to the energetic, bouncy verses, there’s only one way to describe “Tongue Tied”: the auditory form of serotonin.—EMILY HURWITZ

 

“Some Skunk Funk” – The Brecker Brothers

There is nothing better than tapping your foot to an upbeat jazz tune, and “Some Skunk Funk” by The Brecker Brothers is no exception. At the same time that this song will push your jaw through the floor, especially the hyper-speed live version on their Heavy Metal Be-Bop (1978) album, the band is so deep “in-the-pocket” that the groove is bound to make you feel great. The Brecker Brothers is a jazz fusion duo fronted by Michael Brecker on sax and Randy Brecker on trumpet, and the band’s energy while playing this virtuosic piece live is so infectious that it feels like you are in the audience yourself while listening to the wild flow of melodic lines. If you prefer a more laid-back version of this masterpiece, head over to their The Brecker Bros (1975) album and you will be equally stunned and uplifted. “Some Skunk Funk:” groove first, then speed. —SPENCER NACHMAN

Buttercup by Hippo Campus

I’m not good with motivational quotes or the saccharine pep of “you can do it!” songs. Buttercup, by indie phenoms Hippo Campus, is the perfect cocktail of self-deprecation and obstinate resolution to shake off a bad day. Acerbic lyrics play off against the jaunty, teasing bounce of the guitar and synths, keeping the song taught with mischief even as it puts an uncomfortable finger on all the things going wrong.  Whether it’s an incomprehensible academic reading or a perilously close deadline, there’s something cathartic about yelling “yeah, swing, sucker swing, finish sobbing” with the band in full chorus. And like a charm, after those three and a half minutes, I feel ready to peel myself off the floor and lurch back into society. —LYNN HONG 

“Budapest Concert (ECM)” – Keith Jarrett

After all the pulse-racing, mood-boosting excitements of this playlist, here’s a dose of sonic calm to re-balance mind and body. One of the most wide-ranging, expressive, and original pianists of the last half-century. Keith Jarrett turned seventy-five in May, but he was not celebrating.  He was struggling to recover from two strokes suffered two years ago.  With aid, he walks again, but can no longer play the piano. Last month his famed record label ECM released a double album of his live 2016 concert in Budapest, a sprawling hour-and-a-half of music that traverses a vast stylistic terrain: jazz, classical, free improvisation, coloristic tableaux, and percussive ruminations. Jarrett’s kaleidoscopic cosmopolitanism is self-indulgent only in the best sense:  personal, inimitable, compelling, expansive. Jarrett has Hungarian ancestry and saw the Budapest Concert given at the Béla Bartók National Concert Hall as a kind of homecoming. Bartók has long been a vital influence on the pianist and its echoes, dances and sings throughout the evening, the audience enraptured by the music’s masterful surety and unbounded imagination. All material is original and spontaneous, Jarrett returning toward evening’s end—just before two popular song encores—to the Blues of his native land, the sound of one home heard in another. That this irreplaceable musician will not perform again is a devastating loss, but in the Budapest concert—and in the wealth of recordings stowed in the ECM vault to be released in the years ahead—there is uplift enough for several lifetimes, and for generations of listeners still to be moved by Jarrett’s undying art.—DAVID YEARSLEY

 

Complete playlist here:

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Intros For the Ages

Eight of the best song intros ever, to take you into the weekend. 

via GIPHY

While I will most certainly never know, I imagine there to be nothing as cool in this world as playing a show in front of thousands of screaming fans. Like Freddy said in the movie School of Rock, one great Rock show can change the world.

But while hundreds of artists have played sold out shows around the world, very few have come up with tunes that are so recognizable, and so damn awesome, that they will push the crowd into a frenzy with just a few notes. Inspired by this week’s reading on The Who, this is my very unscientific list of the songs with the best first 10 seconds. For the sake of clarity, the best songs ranked by what you hear before the first lyric. You know these tunes, I know these tunes, and thats the point. When you hear one or two notes, you scream. I scream, you scream, we all… ok you get it. Here we go.

Baba O’Reilly – The Who

The Who provided the inspiration for this list, so only fitting they take the first spot. The keyboard solo at the beginning is as widely recognizable as they come, perhaps only matched by the emphatic guitar that breaks in. The Who rock, and their biggest hit proves why.

Thunderstruck – AC/DC

Most of AC/DC’s jams could have made this list, but Thunderstruck is my personal favourite face melter. After finishing high school I attended a prep school in New England for a year. Easily my proudest legacy was getting to the locker room before any of my teammates for hockey and lacrosse games, and blasting Thunderstruck as loud as the speaker would go. There was a cafe and student hang out space above the locker room, that I was told would start shaking slightly when I would start my routine. Eventually people learned what it meant, and that hearing the song simply meant that the weird Canadian was at the rink. If my tombstone reads “Here lies Jon Donville. The Thunderstruck Guy” then I think I will have lived a good life.

Neon – John Mayer

Neon isn’t a rock anthem. I wanted to include it not only to show I have taste (not to brag) other than famous rock songs, but also because my father is a die hard fan(boy) of Mayer. I am quite sure he will never read this, but life is too short to worry about probabilities.  I actually thought of this very video when I was making the list, because Mayer goes on for over a minute strumming some freestyle riffs, but when he switches to Neon, the crowd picks up on it immediately. That is when you know your tune is iconic, when the audience recognizes immediately that they are about to start crying. Its John freakin Mayer.

Mama, Just Killed a Man – Queen

If I could go back to any moment in history, it might be Live Aid. With Queen, U2, The Beatles and more, it would be great value for my imaginary time travel money. Freddy Mercury defies categorization, which is to say he fits squarely in his own category: The Freddy Mercury category (population: 1). Like AC/DC, Queen has a number of contenders for this list. But if you can excite 72,000 folks with a few taps on the ivory, you belong in the music hall of fame on my list of great songs on Ezra’s Ear.

Sweet Home Alabama – Lynyrd Skynyrd

The guitar riff to start this song absolutely shreds. I really don’t know what more I can say. Also I was today years old when I learned that the proper spelling of the bands name was in fact Lynyrd Skynyrd. Here at Ezra’s Ear, we are humble enough to admit our previous spelling shortcomings. We are all learning today!

Jump – Van Halen

The synth keyboard in this song starts it off with a bang. A psychedelic, awesome bang. Eddie Van Halen passed away recently, and the world is worse because of it. RIP to a legend.

Enter Sandman – Metallica

Two of the craziest videos on Youtube, Metallica takes no prisoners. Old School, bad-ass, rock and roll music. Still alive decades later. Enter Sandman belongs on this list.

Born in the USA – Bruce Springsteen

This week especially, it seems only proper to end this list with the Boss. There is perhaps no more quintessential American icon, Springsteen is as widely loved as it comes. Born in the USA is probably his best tune, and it starts hotter than most. Drums, keyboards, and patriotism. An awesome combination.

There you have it folks, my list of the best song intros ever. Have a healthy, happy, and stress free (just kidding I know that wont happen) weekend. In the words of AC/DC – For those about to rock, we salute you!”

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Good Morning from Bingalee Dingalee

Every morning, the clocktower rings over the entire campus to signal another day. The chimes and their masters remain an integral part of the Cornell experience. 

A Cornell music performance cannot get more local than the glorious clock tower that rises over the Arts Quad, serenading students every day with its powerful chimes. This past Friday, Emily Liu, a Masters Engineering student at Cornell, began her morning at the bottom of the clocktower steps to meet me. As we breathed in the crisp, morning air and trudged up the 161 steps, she asked me to choose the songs for the concert. I started rambling off some of my favorites, chuckling at my intensely eclectic mix of choices. She nonchalantly responded, “Sure, works for me!” and my heart raced with excitement (and from the steep ascent).

As the chimes came into view, Liu turned to the cabinet and started scouring through the thousands of files of sheet music to fulfill my requests. She then kicked off her shoes, set up the papers on the music rest, and proceeded to adjust the bells.

The clock struck 7:45 and the concert began. Every morning concert starts with the “Cornell Changes,” also known as the “Jenny McGraw Rag.” The level of physical movement shocked me, despite hearing the song every day. The songs seem almost automatic from down below, and one tends not to ponder the lively acrobatics that are actually taking place up above. Liu swiftly glided across the floor with her socks, with frequent one-footed hops to depress the large keys as her arms crossed over one another in order to quickly transition between notes. I could feel each vibration, each undertone of the piece that I had not recognized before. Liu’s rendition was vivacious, and at the same time, heartwarming. As the strings moved up and down, it looked as if they were cheerfully dancing to this lively melody. I could feel the Cornell spirit seeping out of her and onto the bells. 

Up next was my first song request, “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles. This song has a prominent chorus that is repeated throughout, so it required less side to side movement, but Liu’s short height required her to fully reach her legs out to get to the lowest note and operate the hulking levers. Despite the extra time it took to do this, she was able to continue with smooth, effortless transitions. The meaning of the song rang true, and even my not-so-morning person self was happily woken up as the sun was pulled from its own slumber by the echoing chorus.

My bizarre music taste chose “La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin” by Debussey to follow the Beatles. This slower melody still required Liu to move her diminutive frame with energy and expertise, but this time, her movements matched the mood of the song. She looked graceful, and carefully lifted her hands up in the air before softly placing them on the handles. She expressed the emotions of the song through beautiful dynamics, progressing from subdued, calming sounds to more forceful at times. 

To satisfy the Disney fan in me, Liu played “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. This was the only slightly weaker performance due to a few errors and pauses. I was still impressed that she was able to spontaneously play such a fast-paced song, and again, make it so animated. If I were a student walking by the tower, her performance of this song would have added a beat to my step. 

To end the concert, Liu played “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. The chimes are a loud instrument, but Liu’s command of the different volumes throughout the piece was incredible. She clearly knows the lyrics and the dramatic sentiments of the song, playing with a crescendo as the man in the song “pulls out a ring and says, ‘marry me Juliet.’” I could feel the emotions behind the lyrics, despite it being fully instrumental. Liu perfectly encapsulated the poetic expressiveness of the original through her subtle hesitations and dynamic swells through the song’s different fragments. 

After the performance, we climbed to the highest point where we could see the verdant hills with their first blushes of fall color crossing over the landscape of Cayuga’s Waters. As we overlooked the buildings and students from above, I realized how quintessential this clocktower and its chimes are to the Cornell experience. As the tunes drift through the air and into libraries and classrooms, there is this overwhelming sense of belonging to the common rhythm of Cornell. Liu showed me her talents that day, of course, but her concert also represented how some simple bells can bind a community together. 

 

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A Socially-Distanced Octet

Chamber music during COVID: a logistical challenge with spontaneous rewards

6 feet apart please

It began with an email. “Well, the weather is glorious–see you at the tent at 5:30!.” What was supposed to be a normal Friday rehearsal in Lincoln Hall transformed into a concert thrown together last-minute by our octet coach. 8 musicians were not what innocent passersby of the arts quad were planning to see.

The tent? At our first rehearsal three weeks ago, I was sure that one of the following two scenarios would define the fate of our chamber music group: 1. We get through this first meeting and the school shuts down all in-person gatherings the following week, or 2. We don’t get shut down, but we continue rehearsing aimlessly without the traditional semester-end chamber concert to look forward to. So, when news arrived (granted at the latest possible moment) of this rehearsal-concert hybrid, I was euphoric. The weather gods had gifted us 82 ֯F weather that Friday to play a socially-distant outdoor concert.

Much like the case of the pandemic, however, chaos ensued. Nothing about this concert was extravagant in any way. In fact, it was as far as it could be from refined.

I had imagined walking into the tent with my fellow musicians, sitting down, and playing seamlessly through the first movement. But instead, we found ourselves scrambling to secure our sheet music on the wobbling stands with masking tape amidst the aggressive flapping of the canopy tent in the unanticipated wind.

Insert intermission here. Those first twenty brutal minutes of logistical triaging called for a necessary contingency plan.

Like any musical group, we wanted to execute our piece to perfection. So as per our coach’s request, we ran through parts of the development and recapitulation to recalibrate. That process didn’t work too well though. With our socially-distant seating arrangement and lack of walls, we might as well have been playing in individual soundproof rooms. Then came the point of the dreaded synchronous, or so they were supposed to be, sixteenth notes. I do not exaggerate when I say that this segment has always been the ultimate test of our octet’s musical chemistry, so when a passionate gust of wind knocked over one cellist’s stand and jeopardized the already precarious tape holding all the music together, I was bracing for a crash landing. Sure, a couple violins and violas dropped out of the race here and there, but that one persevering communal brain cell we shared that somehow allowed us to reconvene at that last chord was an accomplishment, to say the least.

I do not doubt the fact that Mendelssohn was most likely rolling in his grave hearing the harmonic discord of our performance. But given the fact that Mendelssohn was only 16 when he composed this universally celebrated work, I’d like to believe that he would have appreciated the youthful mayhem of our concert. The piece features extremes in fortes and pianos and the umpteen use of hairpins throughout, mimicking the bipolar weather throwing us, quite literally, around. Mendelssohn meant for the octet to be full of “youthful verve, brilliance, and perfection,” as music critic Conrad Wilson describes. We blundered on the last requirement but definitely exceeded all expectations on the first.

This glorious mess of a concert was not destined to be ordinary, and I wouldn’t have liked it any other way. When would I ever get the chance again to play the Mendelssohn Octet in E-Flat with this same group of musicians in the middle of a pandemic wearing masks seated six feet apart (more or less) under a tent in the Cornell arts quad with dogs playing fetch and four different games of spike ball happening simultaneously?