Evanston: seasons: ‘Carrighfergus’ re-revisited
Evanston: seasons: ‘Carrighfergus’ re-revisited
After Carol went to bed last evening, I sat in front of the fireplace, listening to music I had just bought from iTunes--and yes a glass of Laphroaig was at hand: my left hand, the side on which I can see. I felt good, at peace and yet filled with latent energy, like muscles that wait to be used. I wanted to throw myself not at the sea, but across it, skipping over waves on GANNET, land a thousand miles behind us, twenty or thirty knots of wind from astern, bow wave rising above the deck. What will that be like, I wondered? And smiled.
This is not to be interpreted that I regret being here. I do not. I enjoy living with Carol and know that I am fortunate that my life contains both her and the sea. Ecclesiastes again: “To every thing there is a season.” A time to love, to consider, to plan, to reread my poetry, to gather strength. And a time to sail.
As much as I have sailed, written, loved, I sometimes find myself thinking that I could have done more. But I probably couldn’t have. I need these quiet intervals.
Inexplicably my right eye has cost me four pounds.
During my adult life, except after survival situations, my weight has been steady at 156 pounds, plus or minus two. However, accompanying my half blindness, this year that figure has dropped to 152, plus or minus two. I was hardly fat at 156, but at 152 I’m trimmer. Perhaps too trim. When I don’t wear a belt my pants fall down.
The music I was listening to was two albums by Joan Baez, one by Eva Cassidy, and a rendition of Carrickfergus by the flautist, James Galway.
I’ve written of Carrighfergus twice before. Here and here.
A few nights ago we watched a documentary about Joan Baez during which she sang a version of Carrickfergus (as she spells it), unnecessarily introduced as a “very beautiful and very sad song.” She said that she had first heard it sung by Van Morrison. In her voice it is a beautiful song. In Van Morrison’s, which seems to be only on a discontinued Chieftains album, IRISH HEARTBEAT, it is grittier. Both change the lyrics in minor though telling ways.
“I wish I were in Carrighfergus” becomes “I wish I had you in Carrighfergus”--not at all the same thing--and “If I could find me a handsome boatman” becomes “If I could find me a handy boatman.” I suppose some record producer thought that people would not know that “handsome” can mean ‘skilled; adroit’. He might have been right. But you either bring your audience up to your level or you go down to theirs; and you define yourself by which you choose.
Still I like the Baez and Morrison versions enough to have downloaded hers and ordered a used copy of IRISH HEARTBEAT from Amazon. Neither approaches Cedric Smith.
While seeking information online about Joan Baez recordings, I chanced upon mention of Eva Cassidy, who died little known at age 33 of cancer in 1996 and has found deserved posthumous fame, following a BBC broadcast of her version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” I’ve commented here before on how difficult it is to make a too familiar standard sound original.
I bought her album, SONGBIRD, which also includes a rendition of Sting’s “Fields of Gold” that is at least as good as his own.
She has a remarkable voice and style. After listening to SONGBIRD a few more times, I expect I’ll buy more of her music.
When I came into the darkened living room at 5:30 this morning, the full moon was shining through a window.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012