Cymru fo am byth!

I like to be well-rested before classical performances, such as operas and concerts, because of the degree of concentration that the music demands. But circumstances conspired against me on Sunday: I'd forgotten the date of the choral concert and committed myself to a late screening the night before and a morning brunch the day of. I was up before 9 a.m. and eating bacon in Boystown shortly after ten. We walked around for a while with MG--who showed a Bay Arean's unhealthy interest in local rents. When he left us, monshu and I found ourselves slipping into a bar before noon in order to use the restroom. I ordered a beer to make me sleepy enough to nap when we got home.

Which I did, but not before getting a message from Nuphy and agreeing on a time to meet at the church. I crashed on monshu's sofa for about an hour, hurried home to grab my ticket, and cabbed it down to Lincoln Park, settling into my seat mere moments before the chorus began filing in...and continued filing in...and kept on filing in until all sixty or so members of the Côr Meibion Pendyrus were massed in the apse. (Despite monshu's raillery regarding eye candy, there were only about ten or so that I considered adding to the Bearam. Admittedly, Nuphy's toothsomeness ratio was much worse.)

The opened with the national anthems--of the nation where they were, then the nation they'd come from. Fortunately, I had the good manners to remain standing for "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau" this time. The following hymn didn't sound like I thought "Cwm Rhondda" should and, sure enough, the director turned around afterwards and addressed us, saying, "Now where was that in the programme?" It turned out to be a selection from Thomas' Under Milk Wood, set to music by a composer whose name I didn't catch, as well as our first "encore". Because when you tell people that you've been to a concert, explained Mr Samuel dryly, "they'll ask you 'Was there an encore?' And if you tell them, 'No', then they'll say, 'Well, it wasn't a very good concert then, was it?'" The logic was inescapable.

The director's commentary made the experience something more than just an afternoon of really excellent singing. He had that knack for making paying customers feel like privileged guests. Nowhere was this more evident than the finale, where he delivered a passionate monologue about how, no matter how much they are hated elsewhere in the world, Americans will always have friends in Wales. The choir, which had been humming sotto voce all this time, then launched into their third encore, an overpowering rendition of "America the Beautiful". Yes, it was hackneyed and sentimental and somewhat contrived and, yes, those were tears I was brushing from my eyes.

Another high point was "The Rhythm of Life", a song Nuphy has a particular fondness for because of all the times he's heard it performed at Interlaken. Something about hearing it sung with strong Welsh accents amused me without detracting one whit from the impact of the performance. These men even made "Simple Gifts"--a song I've never much cared for--sound fantastic. But I'd come foremost of all to hear Welsh and, boy, did I! "Rhyfelgyrch Gwŷr Harlech", of course, and "Ar Hyd y Nos", but also "Myfanwy" and--my favourite--the bouncy, wistful "Na Byddai'n Haf o Hyd" along with several other hymns and folksongs.

All told, over two hours of singing, although rather too much of this was taken up by a young soprano who'd joined their American tour in Pennsylvania. Not that she was bad---no, her technique was polished and her voice was perfectly pleasant. But "Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix" needs much more than that, y'know? It was only during her pieces (and perhaps one or two of the slower hymns) that I felt any sleepiness. Otherwise, I was too engaged in the amazing wall of sound flooding the nave. A final irony could be found on the back of the programme in the form of an ad for Welsh whisky (or "single-malt welch", as I insisted on calling it). Somewhere among the tombstones of the Taf Valley, the spirits of Methodist ministers are weeping.

Come lately?

I must admit, despite the high geek factor among my Friends, I'm surprised that my_tallest is the first to even mention (and then only in passing) the fact that, like, there's a pennant race going on. Yeah yeah, sports are stupid, there are much more important things in the world then who wins a damn game, rooting for a team is vulgar tribalism, yadda yadda yadda. I admit that, despite being a lifelong Cardinals fan, I've been paying only half attention, expecting them to walk all over those upstart Astros. Well I'm awake now!

I stumbled into consciousness last night after Chinese class when I popped into Big Chicks for my $11.75 dollar burger (once one figures in cheese, tips, beers, and such). Initially, I paid no interest to the game being televised all around me. NY and the Sox had already gone nine innings by then. But after an hour or so, I was on the edge of my seat waiting to see what would happen next. I was fascinated by the concentration on Loaiza's face even as I found myself rooting for each Red Sox batter in turn. I hissed when Jeter stepped up to the plate and laughed when he struck out. And I joined half the bar in cheering Ortiz when he brought in the winning run.

I couldn't find anyone who admitted to being a Yankees man; the half who didn't cheer were apathetic, not opposing. One of them was a young guy from my home town, equal parts handsome and drunk, who was outrageously flirting with me. His technique was karaokic: After some initial quips, he began warbling Erasure, Morrisey, and REM into my ear. (Or attempting to--there was a lot of *mumble mumble* in place of lyrics.) When Ortiz stepped up for something like his tenth at-bat of the night, I said to him, "How can you not root for that man?" Poor guy; with competition like that, he didn't have a chance of winning away my affections.

I may just have to pop in again tonight.

Let's have a little onomastics

It's a reflection of how diverse the Cardiff area has become that the names of the choristers in Pendyrus aren't as stereotypical as you'd imagine. That doesn't mean that there aren't a lot of Williamses, Evanses, and Joneses, just that they're not all Williamses, Evanses, and Joneses.

Most of the given names are pretty standard, but there are a few beauties, Rhydfen formost among them. Since this is pronounced /'r@dvEn/, Nuphy immediately hit upon the theory that it was the origin of the unusual British name Ruthven (pronounced /'ri:vn/). Sadly, the learned consensus (based on a personal survey of available reference works) does not support this.

Ruthven is one of those surnames-turned-given-names, which started out as a toponym in Perthshire. There are two prominent etymologies, one Norse and one Gaelic, but both referring to ruddiness and dampness. So either rauðr "red" + fen "swamp" or ruadh "red" + abhainn "river"--take your pick.

The only thing we can say for certain is that has nothing to do with a Welsh name that apparently means "white ford". That is, assuming that Rhydfen is simply a variant of the more common Rhydwen from rhyd "ford" and gwyn/gwen "white".