Michele Brourman: Fools and Little Children

First of all, in the interest of full disclosure – I must tell you that Michele is my sister. I am also a co-writer on one of the songs on this album, so my objectivity is limited. None of that is relevant. I am in awe of her artistic achievement.

I was adding the album to my digital music library, and when it came time to tag its genre, I was stumped. I sighed and typed in “eclectic”. Michele draws from such a wide spectrum of musical traditions that it is truly difficult to categorize her work. This will be a bit lengthy. I just couldn’t figure out which cuts to skip, so I have reviewed all of them.

Let’s start with the first track, “Aurora”. Unexpectedly, there is the sound of very delicate piano arpeggios, setting the mood for a musical retelling of Sleeping Beauty. In this version, the princess asks the prince if he will “sweep (her) up behind him and carry (her) away”. (The prince explains that he “only stole a kiss”—Sound familiar?) Already, we know this is not going exactly according to the Grimms brothers’ plan. The song ends on a note of triumph. Aurora reveals herself as a fully realized modern feminist – all within the framework of an enchanting, haunting folktale.

The second cut, “Heart On My Lips” is an understated, trance-like groove with a strong reference to middle-eastern music. The vocals have a sensual and seductive quality.

“Shirt Upon Her Back” is a paean to our immigrant grandparents (yes, this is the one we wrote together). We originally wrote it as a country song, but Michele added the dimension of a wild, Bartók-esque folk dance (a lot of credit goes to the brilliant Novi Novog on viola). The result is joyous and raucous.

“Old Love”, a waltz, was written with Amanda McBroom, who lends her lovely voice in a simple narrative of two people who find each other in the twilight of their lives. It is sweet and touching. (Get out your hanky).

“Love & Take Out” is the exact opposite. This song borrows heavily from the tradition of the great blues singers, especially Bessie Smith. It is filled with clever double-entendres. No need for a hanky.

“Once In Love” was written with John Bettis, and is a beautifully crafted country ballad, beautifully sung. The background vocals give just the right lift to the choruses. (Retrieve your hanky).

“In The Dark Silence” is a song so personal, so raw in its depiction of childhood loneliness, that it is hard to imagine the courage it would take to write it, let alone sing it with such naked emotionality.

“The Ballad Of Robin and Marian” is reminiscent of an old, medieval English folk song, which of course, is in keeping with the subject matter. But as in “Aurora”, we soon realize that this “Maid Marian” is not what legend depicts The rollicking tempo mimics the rhythm of hooves galloping into battle.

This is followed by a collaboration with Sheila Rae, “It’s Never Perfect”, an appreciation of love of the quiet and enduring kind found later in life, sung as a duet with Amanda McBroom.

“Erik and the Coyote” deals with the death of a beloved cat. It is sad, haunting and transcendent.

Michael Silversher co-wrote “Sailing On” and sings with Michele in this poignant ballad. Love appears, then disappears, and life must continue. The music and the lyrics are perfectly wedded, creating an atmospheric, trance-like experience.

Lastly, we come to “My Favorite Year”. Suffice to say that this is one of the all-time great love ballads. Others have sung this song, but none are so genuine in their rendition as the composer herself.

There is a recurring theme here of loss and redemption. You can listen with your ears and be well rewarded by the unerring musicality. But you can also listen with your heart and you will experience something much deeper. It’s a “five-hanky” album. In fact, just keep the Kleenex box next to you and give yourself a little time to recover before you go back out into the world.

To learn more about Michele and her work, please visit www.michelebrourman.com

Christmas, Loss, and Frosty

It’s January 1st. Time to strike the Christmas set. Time to strip the house of all of our little gee-gaws and doo-dads — the reindeer mugs, the Christmas Tree candles, the holiday tablecloth, the Christmas cards from our near-and-dear who are scattered hither and yon all over the world. Finally, it is time to take down the tree.

Every year when we take down the tree, I am filled with sadness. There is something so utterly poignant about denuding this beautiful, well — this creature, who has been a most hospitable house guest for the past three weeks. She has silently endured the indignity of being festooned with ornaments and strung with colored lights. She has endured countless hours of my playing the Beach Boys’ Christmas album. She has spread her branches like outstretched arms welcoming our brightly colored packages. She has allowed our cat, Henry, to sleep under her wings, peacefully enjoying her delightful aroma of earth and pine. She has weathered the unending hours of having the fireplace blazing only four feet away, literally sucking the life out of her by depriving her of her moisture. She has beamed her beauty for all, including our little neighbor, Stone, who came over frequently during the holiday season, I suspect, at times, just to feast his eyes on her. But now, it is time for her to leave us.

This year, for the first time, I actually cried as we undressed her. I had thought that this year we would be more lighthearted when it came time to say goodbye. We had made a point this year of spending lots of time with her and enjoying her company. And she never disappointed. So I thought when the first of the year rolled around, we would be able to part company with a sense of completion.

But this is the year that I lost my mother. Whatever that something is we feel when we have to let someone or something go, it was especially hard for me this year. The fact that we had tried so hard to honor her and treat her with the respect and admiration she deserved did nothing to ameliorate the sorrow of her loss. Am I talking about the tree or about my mother? For today, anyway, it feels like it’s all the same. Loss is loss. The harder I try to grab life with both hands and hold on tight, the more I feel it slipping away from me and vanishing into the Great Beyond.

But part of the joy of life, and of Christmas, is that it is not permanent. It has its season, and then it’s gone. But, as with just about anything in life I can think of, it reappears at some point, maybe different in some aspects, but also, thankfully, very much the same in others. Every year I say, “This is the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had!” — and every year it is true.

So now, I have dried my tears and just about put away Christmas for the year. I will miss our lovely green friend. I will try to remember the parable of “Frosty The Snowman”, according to the Beach Boys: “But he waved goodbye saying ‘Don’t you cry, I’ll be back again some day!’”.