U Smile, Sorrido Anch’io

Quick confession: I don’t actually mind Justin Bieber’s music.  Ok, actual truth?  I kind of enjoy it.  Its slick production and lyrical innocence remind me of pop music of the 90s.  Remember them?  The bull market, third way centrism, the tech boom—optimism.  The only tough choice you had was between The Backstreet Boys and Nsync.  I actually preferred 98 degrees, which is, I know, ridiculous.  But don’t tell me that “The Hardest Thing” wasn’t a kick-ass song.  Trust me.  I just watched the video.  I still love it but now miss my fleet of turtleneck sweaters.

But the Bieb’s music also shares an aesthetic heritage with a slightly older genre: the eighteenth-century sentimental opera aria.  Before you declare my argument utter fancy, just compare the lyrics of Bieber’s hit “U Smile” with Don Ottavio’s aria “Dalla sua pace” from Mozart’s Don Giovanni.  Both describe an innamorato’s dependence upon his loved one for his every happiness.  In the eighteenth century, this declaration of one’s entimental nature—of one’s empathy—was a sign of refinement and nobility.  They weren’t called  gentleman for nothing.  Since the mid-century the sensitive man was all the rage.  Teenage girls, it seems, might have liked Don Ottavio just fine.

Bieber: “U Smile” (Bieber/Duplessis/Altino/Rigo)

I'd wait on you forever and a day
Hand and foot
Your world is my world
Ain't no way you're ever gon' get
Any less than you should
Cause baby
You smile I smile
Cause whenever
You smile I smile

Don Ottavio: “Dalla sua pace” (Da Ponte/Mozart)

Dalla sua pace la mia dipende;
Quel che a lei piace vita mi rende,
Quel che le incresce morte mi dà.
S'ella sospira, sospiro anch'io;
È mia quell'ira, quel pianto è mio;
E non ho bene, s'ella non l'ha.	

[My peace of mind depends on her / what pleases her gives life to me / what grieves her brings me death / If she sighs, I sigh, too / her wrath and her sorrow are mine / and I cannot be well if she is not]

Don Ottavio is by no means a beloved character of opera.  Despite his highly empathic declarations, critics have often criticized his inaction and even implied his impotency.  His fiancée, Donna Anna, doesn’t seem to have a lot of respect for him.  Poor guy.

His situation is made slightly worse because most opera productions demand that Ottavio sing both his arias (“Dalla sua pace” was added for the Vienna production of 1788, a year after it debuted in Prague).  This means that he spends most of his time onstage singing about how sensitive he is.  What a bore.  Musicologist Joseph Kerman, though, cut him some slack: “Ottavio’s reputation for blandness does not take into account this capacity of his for sympathetic chromatic resonance.  One does not begrudge him his bonus aria.”  In other words, Mozart’s music makes it all worthwhile.

I’m not sure that the Bieb’s music will stand up as well as Mozart’s.  But for the time being, his particular brand of bubble-gum pop makes me smile.  One should not begrudge him his success. 

When His Thoughts Was as Free

Many apologies for not updating this blog in several months.  I’m going to try to do better in future.

It has currently reached that point in the day when I require a pep-talk to forge on with work.  The eye of heaven has cast its gaze on parts west and so I feel like I can put my labours to rest.  But humans invented artificial light for a reason, and so I should really continue on.  I will, however, sneak in a short post.  You won’t tell, will you?

Sometimes during long days at the office my mind starts to wonder.  Especially on gray, soggy winter days like today it settles on good memories of careless summer days.  Few poets better captured the simple joys of maidenhood youth better than James Whitcomb Riley (sorry for briefly recalling Camelot).

Riley was a poet who spent most of his life in Indianapolis.  Many of his early poems were published in a Hoosier dialect (like the one below).  His collection “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” (1883) is every bit as folksy as the title suggests.  One of his most famous poems, “When the frost is on the pumpkin,” is published in the volume.  One of my favourites is “The Mulberry Tree.”  It could have been a very grating elegy for a misremembered past.  But there’s a tinge of melancholy in the poem that I think gives it a bit of emotional heft.  Sentimental, of course.  But totally effective.  Here’s the last stanza: 

Then its who fergit the old mulberry

   tree

That he knowed in the days when his

   thoughts was as free

As the flutterin’ wings of the birds that

   flew out

Of the tall wavin’ tops as the boys come

   about?

O, a crowd of my memories, laughin’ and

   gay,

Is a-climbin’ the fence of that pastur’ to-

   day,

And a-pantin’ with joy, as us boys ust to be,

They go racin’ acrost fer the mulberry tree.