Commentary
True music secrets revealed
it you promise to listen closely,
I’ll let you in on a secret. But first I
should explain why it’s a secret.
I have experienced how talent
seeking music listeners find
discouragement from the music of
this generation. Groups lack
performance, consistency and hard
work, so they often slip out of the
system.
Yet, my oracle of truth, my
secret — this band has climbed the
music rhombus, singing only to pay
homage to the gods of the night
sky. They play modestly, letting
their talent carry them to success,
not money.
My concern with revealing my
secret is knowing it’s going into the
right ears. If I tell you my secret
and, say you don’t personally
investigate the music and instead
begin a habit of trusting others’
opinions of what is good and what
is bad music, then you would be
zipping through the forest with the
curdling fleas; confused, meager
and unaffected by the music.
If I can trust you will listen
closely to my secret, I’ll let you in.
You don’t necessarily have to like
them, but you should have an
appreciation for a more diverse
talent. Although this may sound as
if I’m undermining my readers, I
would gladly invite you to listen if
I could know you were sincere.
Why am I so selfish about my
music?
Well, perhaps some of you can
recall listening to certain music
because of an oldor sibling. My
older brother didn’t find my
interest as flattering. He con
demned me from any and all of his
music. On a good night, Brian
would allow me to stand in his
doorway and plead to borrow a
piece of paper, let alone anything
having to do with music.
He is a musician, and I learned
that musicians are very protective
Lara Duda
of these things.
Something happened one night
in the spring of 1990 that would
change the aura of the Duda
household forever. Brian decided at
some point during my sophomore
year — his senior year — in high
school that the quality of music
seeping through our thin walls had
finally gained his musical approval.
On this notable evening, he
came knocking at my door (which
in itself was curious because he
usually would pound). He came to
ask me if I wanted to listen to a
new bootleg his friend from out
East just sent him.
“It’s pretty cool. You can
borrow it for awhile. You may
actually like it,” he said. So, of
course, I jumped at the opportunity
and listened to the treasure my big
brother had given me. I stared at
my old boom box while a guy sang
to me about a “tipsy fuddled boozy
groogy elevated prime did edit her
hellbom elf child.” It was different
to say the least. These bizarre
sounds and instruments somehow
created a tune of intertwining
rhythms that sounded pretty good
until ... chhhhhhkkkkkkshhhhhh
click!
My eyes popped and my
stomach knotted. The situation was
an unfortunate entanglement of my
brother’s new tape and my death
was flashing before me. But instead
of reaching for the nearest knife to
quicken my fate to come, I began
to operate on the plastic.
For two hours I untwisted, cut,
taped and reeled the thread back
inside the plastic container. When I
finished I prayed for a few minutes,
went to my brother, handed him the
tape and said, “Thanks, Bri. Yeah,
you were right; they were pretty
cool.”
It worked, I guess, or at least I
got away with it, because he never
said a word. I had not only saved
myself from losing the respect from
my brother I had waited my 14
years to earn, but I received an
extra gift on the side — Phish,
that’s my secret — the greatest
musical talent of the decade and
beyond.
And if you know someone who
believes music is more than just a
good beat or provocative lyrics,
you’ll already know what I’m
getting at.
My concern with letting people
in on Phish is that, although the
group is fairly new in the popular
music industry, they have already
have a following — kind of like the
Grateful Dead. And some trendy or
undedicated listeners might listen
because they’re “cool,” or maybe
even because drugs can sometimes
be found at Phish shows — like
most concerts.
And that’s not what people
should be looking for in music. A
Phish listener should appreciate the
talent and endorse the creativity.
My brother was waiting until he
thought I understood this concept,
he told me later. Call it selfish, but
music for we die-hard listeners is
personal.
So, if you’re willing to take a
dip along the suspending drift of
Phishy waters, go ahead, but I give
it to you as I would any secret.
With the trust that you’ll listen.
Duda is a Junior news-editorial and En
glish major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist
Ethnic humor not always funny
in tnese sensitive times, you
would think that a U.S. senator
would be hip enough to avoid
clumsy attempts at ethnic or racial
humor.
Especially a senator from New
York, with its diverse population.
But Sen. A1 D’Amato stuck his
foot in his mouth when he went on
a radio show and ridiculed Judge
Lance Ito’s handling of the O J.
Simpson trial by jabbering in what
he thought was a Japanese accent.
His clumsy performance made
headlines and was broadcast by die
TV networks for the whole nation
to hear.
Now he has had to sheepishly
apologize to angry Japanese
Americans and anyone else who
was offended.
As foolish as D’Amato was, I
can sympathize with him. Like
him, I am part of a generation that
used to take ethnic jokes for
granted.
And like him, I once managed to
blab myself into an embarrassing
situation. The memory still makes
me cringe and feel ashamed.
It happened when I was the best
man at a wedding and the master of
ceremonies at the big reception
banquet.
As emcee, I thought I would get
the crowd loose with a few jokes.
So I told the one about how the
German field marshal and the
Italian general who were mapping
last-minute strategy before leading
their combined armies into a great
batde against the Allied forces in
World War II.
When the meeting ended, the
German field marshal said to his
orderly: “Otto, get my coat.” And
he put on a coat of blazing red
leather.
The Italian general pondered
that for a moment, then said: “Hey,
Mike Royko
that ainta bad idea. Luigi, getta me
my brown pants.”
Well, about half of the audience
laughed heartily. But the other half
just stared coldly at me.
Then I remembered — the bride
was of Italian ancestry and I had
offended her many Italian-Ameri
can relatives.
Instead of shifting gears and
leading them in a song or a toast, I
foolishly decided to tell another
joke.
It was the one about the guy
who walks into a joint and said to
the man behind the counter: “I
want a Polish sausage sandwich.”
The man behind the counter
said: “Excuse me, sir, but are you
Polish?”
The customer indignantly said:
“What kind of question is that? If „
somebody came in here and
ordered a salami sandwich, would
you ask him if he were Italian? If
someone wanted a corned-beef
sandwich, would you ask him if he
were Irish? So just because I order
a Polish sausage sandwich, why do
you ask me if I’m Polish?”
The man behind the counter
said: “I asked you that, sir, because
this is a hardware store.”
Well, now the bride’s Italian
relatives chuckled a bit, but the
groom’s side scowled in obvious
disgust.
And too late I remembered —
the groom was of Polish ancestry,
so I had offended his many Polish
American relatives.
At that point, I should have told
the orchestra to strike up a tune and
got everyone dancing so they could
work off their anger.
But I panicked and foolishly
tried to save the day with one last
joke.
It was the one about the two
Irishmen who lurched out of a bar
and looked up at the sky.
One of them said: “Look, *tis
the sun.”
The other one said, “Nah, you’re
daft. ’Tis the moon.”
And they leaned against a light
pole and argued: “’Tis the sun. ...
No, ’tis the moon.”
Then a third Irishman staggered
out of the bar, and they said: “Tell
us, friend, is that the sun or the
moon?”
The third Irishman looked up,
then shrugged and said: “How
should I know? I don’t live in this
neighborhood.”
There were a few soft snickers,
but a voice came from a man
sitting nearby. “An unkind stereo
type, my boy, and a corny one at
that.”
It was the family priest who had
married the couple. He shook his
head sadly and sighed.
And I remembered — he was
from Ireland and a teetotaler to
boot. .
Well, I have never felt more
foolish in my life. Fortunately, the
orchestra began playing, so nobody
was listening when I said:
“Hey, did you hear about the
man from Mars and the farmer’s
daughter?”
(c) 1995 Tribune Media Services, Inc.
Support wholesome
TV: Watch ‘Christy’
For some, it’s Holy Week,
and the broadcast networks are
responding in their usual ways.
Reaching back into the archives
they are giving us the ancient
film “The Ten Commandments”
with Charlton Heston in his
water-dividing role of Moses.
And we’re getting another look,
for the umpteenth time, at “The
Sound of Music,” starring Julie
Andrews when she was still a
virgin and before her gender
blurring role in “Victor
Victoria.”
Most of commercial televi
sion remains a garbage dump,
from the daytime talk shows that
feature trash talk and trashier
people, to the nighttime foul
language, partial nudity and the
portrayal of dysfunctional lives
as normal.
But wait. CBS is resurrecting
a show that, when it premiered
last Easter, attracted more than
30 million viewers and for six
straight weeks delivered higher
ratings than the network’s
average for its time period all
last season (or this season). The
demographics were good,
especially among women, whom
networks and advertisers love to
reach. But for reasons known
only to the alien life forms called
network executives, the show
dropped out of sight after its
initial episodes.
Yet remarkably CBS is giving
the show “Christy” one more try.
This Saturday and next at 7 p.m.
CDT, CBS will air two new
episodes of a story set in
Tennessee’s Smokey Mountains
featuring some of the loveliest
scenery and most wonderful
acting one is likely to see on
network television. The series is
based on Catherine Marshall’s
best-selling book, set in 1912,
about a young teacher in Appala
chia who succeeds in making a
difference in the lives of pov
erty-stricken children. (Speaker
Gingrich and President Clinton,
please note.)
This week’s story, “To Have
and to Hold,” is full of the
virtues we once promoted as a
nation: selflessness, reconcilia
tion and family closeness. It
takes a little getting used to —
no special effects, nudity,
profanity, car crashes or other
gimmicks often used by the
networks to appeal to our lower
natures.
If ever a show — and its
writers, producers, actors and
Cal Thomas
sponsors — deserved to occupy a
regular time slot on a network,
“Christy” is it. One of the
executive producers, Ken Wales,
believed in the story so much
that he mortgaged his house and
spent all he had just to buy the
rights from MGM, which was
sitting on it with apparently no
intention of bringing the story to
the screen.
If “Christy” and any other
show like it is going to succeed,
it will need an outpouring of
support from people who have
been critical of television.
Groups that regularly condemn
television’s content and some
times boycott its advertisers now
have a wonderful opportunity to
show what they’re FOR.
Thinking about “Christy”’s
fight for life, I recalled a
conversation I had some years
ago with the then-president of
NBC Television, Robert
Mulholland. He said that on one
prime-time night, CBS had
broadcast the 1981 Best Picture
Academy Award-winner “Chari
ots of Fire,” and NBC counter
programmed with a film based
on a Jackie Collins novel.
“Guess which film had the
higher ratings?” he asked me. It
was the trash film, of course.
The implication was that CBS
had given people what many said
they wanted, but they failed to
respond in sufficient numbers.
The next two Saturday nights
are opportunities for those who
want to see some light shine in
the network darkness. Turn on
your sets, watch “Christy” and
then flood the network and
sponsors with letters of approval.
And buy the advertisers’ prod
ucts. This may be one of the few
chances left for good television.
It’s time for those who have
been making so much anti-TV
programming noise to put up or
shut up. There couldn’t be a
better vehicle than “Christy.”
Moses and the Von Trapp family
can wait.
(c) 1995 Los Angeles Times Syndicate
SUPPOSED TO BE
WE NOT
VET//
DELWTING
Mike Luckovlch