My musical tastes run from the overly sentimental toward the downright absurd. I do not deny this.
However, two days ago I went to a concert that was so over the top that it was even a bit much for me. A bit much. For me. Me who has a poster of Josh Groban in my baby’s room so the baby becomes used to his musical face.
“Celtic Thunder” is a new rip-off male version of Celtic Woman. I imagine the producers thought, “Oh, hey! Look how well these Irish broads sell. You know what will make more money with the over fifty set and bored 30-year-old alleged doctoral students? Irish MEN!”
Oh PBS. You know your viewers so well.
So I attended the Celtic Thunder concert because a week before the show tickets were offered for “buy one get one free.” This should have sent up a red flag but I saw Celtic Woman in concert twice. A merging of Josh Groban and Celts seemed like perfection.
The show seemed Celtic enough. The stage had platforms built to look like rocky cliffs. The screen and backdrops were lit to mimic a ship on the sea. And the production began with--I am not making this up--cloaked figures processing across the stage, while a hooded figure talked about the sea and sky on the screen.
The men with the big ol’ Celtic drums were in full-on kilt ensembles. Word.
But then. Then the nice men who make up “Celtic Thunder” came on and sang, oh, two songs that were vaguely celtic? The rest of the set list including covers of two Donny Osmond songs, Nights in White Satin, Desperado, and . . . wait for it . . . I want to Know What Love Is by Foreigner.
Oh, how proud the Scots must be.
I could ignore the choreography which consisted mainly of wandering around on stage and soulfully lifting the arms towards the spotlight. I could even ignore than the woman in the front row nearly broke a hip when the 15-year-old kid came out and sang “Puppy Love.” And I can overlook the random woman that came out and did an Irish jig during a song that was about, I think, how women chew you up and leave your broken heart for dead. But Foreigner? Come on, people.
This just proves to me that I need to watch the whole PBS special before committing to seeing it live. It’s just that they keep interrupting it to solicit donations. I can’t help that I saw the one song that actually kept mentioning Ireland over and over. My advice from all of this? Go see the “High Kings” instead. They sing what you think they’ll sing. And who knew that would be such a surprising thing?
Ah, John Murtha. You always bring such notoriety to my humble hometown.
And it’s sad, in a way. My parents had season tickets to the symphony for the better part of my youth. I fought to stay awake through many of those lovely, well-funded concerts.
And I’m a better person for it.
I should probably be enraged by the funding sources though, shouldn’t I? Or the implications?
But all I remember is the Mozart.
"So, apparently this senator in Nebraska is trying to sue God.”
“Oh?
“Yeah, for allowing natural disasters or acts of terror or something. A judge threw it out, though, citing the fact that God has no legal address and can not thus be served a summons.”
“Ah.”
“But the guy countered saying that since God is omniscient, God would know that there He was being served.”
“You know, indicting God has never really worked out for humans, as I recall.”
“Indeed.”
“And it’s not like God promised life would be pretty. Though, He did say there wouldn’t be a big flood that destroyed all the Earth again.”
“Yeah. I guess if that happens again, you could get God on breech of contract.”
“There you go. I’ll write the guy. Though, you gotta figure the courts are going to be the first things wiped out.”
“Or at least the lawyers.”
The closest I have ever come to marital infidelity has occurred this week, when I began my torrid love afair with the WorldCat Library system. My meager attempts to pretend to be a graduate student again have led me back into the dark embrace of information systems and my, things have changed. I had a casual flirtation with Lexus-Nexus and a drink or two with JStor, but I find myself putting the baby down for a nap as quickly as possible just to get in a few more minutes with WorldCat. When Peter is distracted I will try to slip by an advanced search or two. In the dark of the night when its just me and my friend the Medela, my fingers brush over keys whispering lightly the terms “narrative” and “theology” into my disembodied companion’s attentive ear.
The features are legion, friend. You can get reviews, library holdings, and synopses right there in several clever tabs. And--this is my favorite--there is a sidebar where it will look at Amazon and other booksellers and tell you where to find the cheapest used copy of books in your search.
The thought of that just sent a shiver down my spine right now.
We’ve had our differences, though. Yesterday, while looking for a specific book, it brought back about ten with the words narrative and theology in the title. What? Where were you when I was doing my prospectus bibliography? There is a narrative theology using the thought of John Wesley to look at the Bible? What? Why did not the vast stores of Boston University yield to me this information?
Its because they did not love me, that’s why. Not like WorldCat.
The baby is stirring. But I know I will try to keep her in the swing just a little longer because there is a used copy of “Why Narrative?” for 8.50 WorldCat wants to tell me about.
And I must listen.
