Scott Joplin: Treemonisha

Scott Joplin’s (1867–1917) opera Treemonisha is the only opera in existence about the Reconstruction era African-American experience written by a black man who actually lived through it. This fact alone makes the opera a work of tremendous significance. Further, Joplin’s music is profoundly expressive and as stylistically unique as anything ever created in America. Through his score and libretto, Joplin vividly documented a culture that has left us few other artifacts: The echoes of the “field hollers,” spirituals, fiddle tunes, revival hymns, and ancient African dances of his rural childhood are all heard, along with the dialects of his people rising up from slavery. Yet for all of its obvious significance, Treemonisha has been a deeply misunderstood work. The opera was complex and virtually unprecedented, two reasons why 1910s America could not embrace it. And tragically, Joplin's original 1911 materials for the opera were almost entirely destroyed in the early 1960s. In the early 1970s several attempts were made to reconstruct it, but for the most part these were not concerned with the opera’s cultural origins or historic authenticity. But now, on the centennial of this extraordinary creation, comes this new recording of a completely authentic reconstruction of Treemonisha by Rick Benjamin, based on eighteen years of research.

The Daughters of Bridget McGhee

When Huxley proposed, Blythe imagined herself fifty years into the future at his funeral. He was such a good man, they’d say. Seventy-two is too young, they’d say. She’d nod and, she had imagined, remember this moment – them lounging in her bed during the early afternoon with the sunlight threatening to burst from behind the drawn shades, him lying on his side with his left arm anchored around her waist, and the tickle of his thumb as he traced circles on her bellybutton. She rubbed her nose against his neck and breathed. His scent was different from that of Walter. Huxley smelled of pears and basil. Walter smelled of leather and soap. She didn’t smell Walter intentionally, of course. He walked into the White Dog the prior day while she was drinking a mint-mocha cappuccino and studying for an exam on medical physiology. The wind whiffed his odor towards her. She didn’t look at him, but she couldn’t stop from inhaling. “People get married after college,” Huxley swung his right leg over and straddled her, forcing her to look at him. “It’s almost been a year since we graduated. It’s what we should do.” She had wondered if he could donate organs if he were seventy-two years old. Not his liver or heart or anything like that, of course, but maybe his eyes. It’d be a shame if they couldn’t preserve his eyes. She noticed them first: they were alert and misty blue, like Santa’s. But then she wondered if eye characteristics like color were even changed during cornea transplants. Walter had plain brown eyes. She hated brown eyes. She told people that she had brown eyes, because they were dark and no one ever looked close enough. Except Huxley. They were at dinner with mutual friends and were talking about eye color, and how they all wished that theirs were like those of the young Afghan girl on the 1985 cover of National Geographic.