BUT vs. The Wizard of Oz.
Crazy match-up, it might seem, but the protagonists certainly form a fascinating set of contrasts -- and BUT is the hands-down winner in this strange strength struggle. The Great and Powerful Oz masquerades as a mystical entity of unknowable and unspeakable omnipotence and brilliance (sort of like YOU-KNOW-WHO). But the"real" Wiz behind the curtain is a puny, frightened runt of the human litter, quaking at the very sight of little Dorothy, fellow-runt Toto, and his own shaky shadow.
Take a careful look at BUT, by contrast, to understand where the real power resides. In the previous sentences alone, as it surreptitiously slinks in the sordid shadow of the Wizard, it performs its strange and wondrous magic of meanings -- appears, that is -- five terrible times. While the Wizard struts and frets his hour upon the stage, BUT quietly and slyly, as usual, changes everything. Posing oh-so-cleverly as your common little nerdword, your everyday harmless conjunction-buddy, it manages to turn everything on its head. Beware, I warn you, of this word-asp lest it perform its Cleopatra/poison act on you -- as it did on me.
Example one:
The first couple of years of my marriage were not shining moments for either me or my general behavior. Or my wife's behavior, for that matter. Ugly arguments. If opposites really do attract, our marriage was, at best, the exception that proves the rule. We were certainly opposites, but the only things we attracted were mutual annoyance, disagreement on every issue from parenting to politics, and an endless stream of invective and verbal violence. Well, maybe it wasn't quite that horrible. But it sure wasn't a romance-fest, either.
My favorite tactic was saying, "I love you." But that, of course was never the end of the pronouncement. "I love you" was invariably followed with the infamous BUT clause:
I love you, but I hate your temper.
I love you, but I can't stand your constant unsolicited advice.
I love you, but I was a very happy bachelor.
I love you, but I can't understand how you can be such a disgusting right wing jerk.
I love you, but your behavior with my family is inexcusable.
I'm sure the strategy is clear. I figured that if I said "I love you" a lot, at least she would never be able to say, "You never tell me you love me." And she couldn't say I was not affectionate. And besides all that, everything I said was TRUE as I saw it, a fact which served the dual purpose of soothing my own conscience regarding my wretched behavior and making it impossible for her to call me a liar. In fact, however, each of the five examples above vividly demonstrates the amazing negative transformational power of BUT. In other words, it renders "I love you" perfectly meaningless. Worse: It makes "I love you" actually mean "I can't stand you." As I say, it turns meaning on its head. Eerily Orwellian.
Luckily, my wife finally said, "Can't you just once say I love you -- period?" And I actually realized at that moment the stubbornness and stupidity I had been perpetrating on her and myself. I was acting like a self-serving, self-deceiving idiot. Now I can't say, of course, that all our troubles magically disappeared after that revelation, but I CAN say that the ensuing disappearance of the BUT clause from my avowals of love represented the removal of an ingredient that had been poisoning our marriage -- which, incidentally, is now twenty-five-plus years along and doing fine, thank you -- but certainly no thanks to BUT.
Example two:
Joe to Jim: You have all the brains of a fence post.
John: That's ridiculously harsh, and you have no right to talk to Jim like that.
Joe to the Whole World: But it's the TRUTH!
I would say Joe should be summarily executed if not for the fact that his behavior is such a great demonstration of the negative power of BUT. It's also a wonderful demonstration that some of our most cherished moral axioms must be considered in many lights, and if they prove to be reflections of real wisdom in only SOME of those lights, amen. Almost EVERYTHING is relative, especially when the issue in question regards moral judgments. I'm speaking not only of the BUT clause ostensibly making abominable behavior both justifiable and inarguable; I'm also referring to the TRUTH vs. LIES relationship which is hammered into our heads from virtual infancy. TRUTH GOOD. LIES BAD. Yes, if we lie to protect our own interests when we know we've acted badly, we are very likely to find ourselves in that woeful web of deceit. Let alone conscience complications. But if we lie to protect the OTHER guy's feelings -- and nobody will suffer for it -- lying is not only okay; it's the only RIGHT thing to do. Joe, in other words, should say to Jim, "You are the second coming of Einstein." And Jim may even sort of believe it. And as a bonus for all concerned, he may even get smarter because of his new-found confidence.
Of course, BUT being the force it is, its power, like all great forces in the universe, may be utilized for good as well as evil, sometimes by simply reversing the word- and sentiment-order of the examples above:
I know we often disagree, but I also know you are a wise and sincere person.
I know you speak slowly and say "UH" a lot, but I'm sure that's because you, like all philosophers and prophets, choose your words very carefully.
Note that "beware" probably comes from "be aware," so when I say, "Beware the great and powerful BUT (and I'm NOT referring to JLo here, guys), I'm really saying just be aware of its awesome but sneaky influence on everything you utter, and also be aware of its power both as the Good Guy and as Little Satan. Of course, you may choose to ignore my advice -- but you do so at your own peril.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Dizzy
I was listening to the news in my car the other day, and they ran a cut from one of the anti-health care speakers at the big Washington rally last week. The guy said something like, "No, you are NOT your brother's keeper," which was followed, of course, by a huge cheer from the assembled multitude. It's the old "Let 'em pick themselves up by their own bootstraps like MY people did" gambit. Never mind that that defies the laws of gravity. I had assumed that many Christians must be among that cheering crowd in Washington -- but wasn't it the BAD guy in the bible who said he wasn't his brother's keeper? Cain, maybe? Do those Christians simply not get the point of the story?
The whole issue reminded me, oddly enough, of an amazing and inspiring meeting I had with the incomparable Dizzy Gillespie back in 1973. I was working for Mercury Records as an A&R man (sort of like a talent scout) at the time, and Irwin Steinberg, the president of the company, had heard an album that Dizzy had recorded live several years earlier. Irwin loved the record and wanted Mercury to pick it up for U.S. release. So he had a contract prepared for Dizzy and, knowing I was a trumpet player, gave me orders to go to D.C. to get Dizzy to sign. I guess he assumed Dizzy and I would have something in common from the get-go, so I was the right Mercury guy for the job.
That was good thinking on his part even though it didn't work out the way he wanted. As for me, I couldn't believe my good fortune. Dizzy Gillespie was an idol for virtually everyone who was or aspired to be a jazz trumpet player. He was recognized, along with Charlie Parker, as the inventor of be-bop, a jazz form that redefined the idiom and demanded immense creativity and intelligence, sometimes almost as much on the part of the listener as the performer. It's almost impossible to even define Gillespie's greatness. His improvisational skill was intensely, almost absurdly, advanced and disciplined yet wildly creative. I couldn't understand a thing he did, really, and was certainly not capable of even attempting to imitate him. On top of all that, he was a monster just as a trumpet player -- technique, tone, endurance -- he had no real weaknesses.
And now I was going to meet him, to get him on "my" label.
I flew to D.C. and registered at the Watergate, a gorgeous hotel at the time, by the way. I had the phone number at Dizzy's hotel, so I called him immediately. He answered, I explained why I was there, and he very graciously said, "C'mon over." I got to his hotel right away -- a run-down, seedy, dusty place. The sofa he was sitting on had holes all over it. He said, "Why don't we just talk for a while before we get down to business?" That was sure okay with me. He asked me all about myself -- my personal history, how I got this job. He made me feel very much at home in that ratty old room. And I noticed his speech was completely devoid of jazz lingo. No "man" punctuating every direct address, no "cool," no "outa' sight," nothing like that. Anywhere. He reminded me most of a kindly, smiling old college professor happy to impart his wisdom to a first-year grad student. This was, to say the least, not the Dizzy Gillespie I had expected. Then he started talking about HIS aspirations and as-yet-unfulfilled dreams. He wanted, he said, to spread the joy of his music to countries all over the world, particularly to our perceived enemies and more particularly to China, the Red Menace of all Red Menaces. He felt that if only the Chinese people, including government officials, could hear and feel the power and love of his music, all of us could make a start toward mutual understanding. Maybe that sounds corny now, like some kind of naive idealism, but it didn't sound corny at all coming directly from Dizzy. It was deeply moving.
After that exchange of personal histories and ambitions, we got down to the business of the contract, which was filled with typical gobbledygook incomprehensible (I thought) legalese. Dizzy proceeded to take it apart clause-by-clause, word-by-word, and then he explained to me in stunning detail why he could never sign a contract filled with so much one-sided interest. Finally, he invited me to his gig that night and saved an up-front seat for me. His generosity, obviously, had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was a record executive offering him a contract. But even more amazing to me was his spectacular demonstration of academic brilliance -- IQ, if you will. It struck me that his IQ must be about 200.
But here's the real point. As a kid, Dizzy Gillespie was a wild man. His temper and unpredictability were legendary. As legend (history?) has it, he was playing in Cab Calloway's band, and when Calloway expressed his disdain for Dizzy's weird-sounding improvisations, Dizzy went after him with a pocket knife he always carried. I guess somebody pulled him off the bandleader before anyone got hurt. That Dizzy Gillespie was, of course, not the same man I met all those years later in Washington. What had changed him? Just time and experience? Impossible. Nope -- someone, somewhere along the way pulled Dizzy up by the bootstraps. Somebody who saw what this kid could become, namely America's most brilliant musical ambassador to the world, somehow positively influenced that wild kid -- through example? through prodding? through teaching? -- who knows. But somebody did it. As unique and smart as Dizzy was, nobody could have accomplished what he did alone.
Some anonymous but profoundly important person was his brother Dizzy's keeper; we are all infinitely richer for it. And none of us can even begin to imagine how many more potential Dizzy Gillespies are out there just waiting for that lift -- to say nothing of all those potential doctors and architects and business owners and lawyers and Sonia Sotomayors and Barack Obamas and Walter Paytons and Thurgood Marshalls -- all of whom we so desperately need. If we can just recognize the absolute necessity of helping them to lift themselves up, just think of the dizzying heights to which THEY can ultimately take the rest of US.
The whole issue reminded me, oddly enough, of an amazing and inspiring meeting I had with the incomparable Dizzy Gillespie back in 1973. I was working for Mercury Records as an A&R man (sort of like a talent scout) at the time, and Irwin Steinberg, the president of the company, had heard an album that Dizzy had recorded live several years earlier. Irwin loved the record and wanted Mercury to pick it up for U.S. release. So he had a contract prepared for Dizzy and, knowing I was a trumpet player, gave me orders to go to D.C. to get Dizzy to sign. I guess he assumed Dizzy and I would have something in common from the get-go, so I was the right Mercury guy for the job.
That was good thinking on his part even though it didn't work out the way he wanted. As for me, I couldn't believe my good fortune. Dizzy Gillespie was an idol for virtually everyone who was or aspired to be a jazz trumpet player. He was recognized, along with Charlie Parker, as the inventor of be-bop, a jazz form that redefined the idiom and demanded immense creativity and intelligence, sometimes almost as much on the part of the listener as the performer. It's almost impossible to even define Gillespie's greatness. His improvisational skill was intensely, almost absurdly, advanced and disciplined yet wildly creative. I couldn't understand a thing he did, really, and was certainly not capable of even attempting to imitate him. On top of all that, he was a monster just as a trumpet player -- technique, tone, endurance -- he had no real weaknesses.
And now I was going to meet him, to get him on "my" label.
I flew to D.C. and registered at the Watergate, a gorgeous hotel at the time, by the way. I had the phone number at Dizzy's hotel, so I called him immediately. He answered, I explained why I was there, and he very graciously said, "C'mon over." I got to his hotel right away -- a run-down, seedy, dusty place. The sofa he was sitting on had holes all over it. He said, "Why don't we just talk for a while before we get down to business?" That was sure okay with me. He asked me all about myself -- my personal history, how I got this job. He made me feel very much at home in that ratty old room. And I noticed his speech was completely devoid of jazz lingo. No "man" punctuating every direct address, no "cool," no "outa' sight," nothing like that. Anywhere. He reminded me most of a kindly, smiling old college professor happy to impart his wisdom to a first-year grad student. This was, to say the least, not the Dizzy Gillespie I had expected. Then he started talking about HIS aspirations and as-yet-unfulfilled dreams. He wanted, he said, to spread the joy of his music to countries all over the world, particularly to our perceived enemies and more particularly to China, the Red Menace of all Red Menaces. He felt that if only the Chinese people, including government officials, could hear and feel the power and love of his music, all of us could make a start toward mutual understanding. Maybe that sounds corny now, like some kind of naive idealism, but it didn't sound corny at all coming directly from Dizzy. It was deeply moving.
After that exchange of personal histories and ambitions, we got down to the business of the contract, which was filled with typical gobbledygook incomprehensible (I thought) legalese. Dizzy proceeded to take it apart clause-by-clause, word-by-word, and then he explained to me in stunning detail why he could never sign a contract filled with so much one-sided interest. Finally, he invited me to his gig that night and saved an up-front seat for me. His generosity, obviously, had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was a record executive offering him a contract. But even more amazing to me was his spectacular demonstration of academic brilliance -- IQ, if you will. It struck me that his IQ must be about 200.
But here's the real point. As a kid, Dizzy Gillespie was a wild man. His temper and unpredictability were legendary. As legend (history?) has it, he was playing in Cab Calloway's band, and when Calloway expressed his disdain for Dizzy's weird-sounding improvisations, Dizzy went after him with a pocket knife he always carried. I guess somebody pulled him off the bandleader before anyone got hurt. That Dizzy Gillespie was, of course, not the same man I met all those years later in Washington. What had changed him? Just time and experience? Impossible. Nope -- someone, somewhere along the way pulled Dizzy up by the bootstraps. Somebody who saw what this kid could become, namely America's most brilliant musical ambassador to the world, somehow positively influenced that wild kid -- through example? through prodding? through teaching? -- who knows. But somebody did it. As unique and smart as Dizzy was, nobody could have accomplished what he did alone.
Some anonymous but profoundly important person was his brother Dizzy's keeper; we are all infinitely richer for it. And none of us can even begin to imagine how many more potential Dizzy Gillespies are out there just waiting for that lift -- to say nothing of all those potential doctors and architects and business owners and lawyers and Sonia Sotomayors and Barack Obamas and Walter Paytons and Thurgood Marshalls -- all of whom we so desperately need. If we can just recognize the absolute necessity of helping them to lift themselves up, just think of the dizzying heights to which THEY can ultimately take the rest of US.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)