Author Archives: danielgabriel

Interviewed for PBS Documentary on August Wilson

19 June 2013

Last winter I started getting calls from Nicole London, a WGBH staffer in Boston, asking questions about how it was that I knew the late lamented playwright, August Wilson. (For those who have not yet discovered the man, his Century Cycle of 10 plays about African American life in each decade of the 20th century stands as one of the greatest achievements in the history of the American theater. He won two Pulitzer Prizes, and has a Broadway theater named after him.)

I could tell that they’d spotted my St. Paul Almanac piece, “August Wilson’s Early Days in Saint Paul.” (See link on Home page, under Upcoming Events. August and I were writing partners for years, and given that our wives were close friends at that time, we also shared many other adventures as well.) The more we talked, the more excited PBS seemed to become. Eventually, they decided that they’d better add Saint Paul to their filming schedule. They’re in the process of completing a major documentary on Wilson that will air in the Fall of 2014, and prior to our discussions, had not seemed to fully understand the pivotal role that his time in Saint Paul played in the development of his oeuvre.

1981: Daniel & Judith Gabriel outside August Wilson’s Grand Avenue apartment in Saint Paul, with the man himself and—I swear—a casual passerby whom August’s wife Judy insisted be in the photo.

Late in May, producer Sam P, Nicole L, and crew rolled into town and set up in Penumbra Theater, home to more August Wilson productions than any other theater in the world. They ran me through my paces during a 20-30 minute interview, and then ravaged the piles of memorabilia I’d brought along. There were posters from the Penumbra productions of Wilson’s first plays, early draft manuscripts of his first major successes, and obscure reviews that had appeared down through the years. I also had photos from the night he won his first Pulitzer Prize (for Fences). A handful of us gathered to celebrate and hear him declaim a fatherhood scene from the play, and he held my infant son Alex in his arms as a prop. There were also over a dozen rare letters from him to me, including sections (which I’d long forgotten) where he lamented that he was giving up on Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (his first breakthrough play), and others where he offered tight-knit advice on pieces of my work that I’d sent him.

1987: On the night that FENCES won the Pulitzer Prize, young Alex Gabriel gets his first exposure to the power of a scene declaimed by August Wilson.

Hanging out backstage with the folks from WGBH, and jiving about the various bits of memorabilia and their significance was even more fun than the actual taping. (By the next day, of course, I’d thought of all sorts of comments that I wished I’d made during the interview.) What really seemed to hit home to the producer was that Wilson’s time in Saint Paul marked that magical period in any great creative artist’s life when they find their true and authentic voice, and discover how to control it. I can still vividly remember the sessions of sitting across from August in some funky cafe, listening to him riff and ramble until he found his way into a scene–and then watching him catch his rhythm and start muttering aloud the rough drafts of what later became full-blown scenes in his iconic plays. I had the great privilege of watching a clutch of August Wilson Broadway hits–Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, Fences, Jitney, The Piano Lesson, Joe Turner’s Come and Gone, etc.–find their earliest shape.

The single most vital piece of transformation in Wilson’s approach came as he shifted his characters’ dialogue away from Borges-esque convolution and wordplay into the deep declarative poetry of the Blues. Once he’d learned how to turn his plays into overlapping Blues songs (with each character playing their own notes, or at times producing their own countervailing songs) the rest was a matter of harnessing his active and fertile imagination.

August Wilson died in 2005, his Century Cycle complete. But I still listen hard for his advice every time I sit down to write. And I can still see those piercing eyes pushing me forward along my own writing path. Like the man said, “If you’re going to Brownsville, got to take that right hand road . . .”

FLASHBACK: “The Wonderment of Welsh”

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7 May 2013

Border castles still dot the landscape in much of Wales.

Readers of Tales From the Tinker’s Dam, my collection of stories set in a Welsh country pub, may enjoy this excerpt from a piece I published a few years ago. It’s a portion of a faux-book review (purportedly, The Wonderment of Welsh: Lingua Franca for Ages Past and Future by Dr. K.F.C. Belugabrahmanyan), featuring any number of authentic geographical and linguistic details, but whose meanings are bent in an unusual direction by the effulgent Dr. B:

. . . Dr. B, whose original tongue is Tamil, postulates the existence of a pan-global proto-Brythonic snake of linguistic affinity stretching from Ireland in the west to the NIcobar Islands in the east. Besides Tamil and Welsh (which he considers to be the cornerstone of any such clustering), he finds tempting links between the now extinct Cornish, south Indian Telegu, ancient Etruscan, several of the more obscure languages of the Caucasus mountains, and the previously unclassifiable Burushaski. . . .

K.F.C.’s greatest contribution may be in his consideration of the commonalities of loan words from both Tamil and Welsh into English. Welsh, of course, has given us such household terms as “lickspittle,” “toasted-turnip,” and “ab yrs,” which is found in particular usage in the British Isles. Dr. B even goes so far as to say that the reversed V sign formed by the pointer and middle finger (so often used in accompaniment to the “ab yrs“) finds its original home in a similar Tamil gesture.

Dr. B credits the Welsh love of unhedged fields for this rare example of a cross-fertilized public loo featuring no fewer than three anarchic sub-cults. Mods (60s), Teddy Boys (50s) and Punks (70s) all find mention above the line of slash.

Completely new to me was Dr. B’s assessment of the impact of Tamil on English. Words such as “potato,” “forensic,” and “submarine” all come, it appears, from the language of his youth. Add in the Tamil origins of place names like “Berkshire” and “Weston-super-Mare” and one realizes with a shock that the dominant language of South India has been inflecting the British countryside for centuries!

For all my admiration of Dr. B’s fine work, he did appear, at times, to be stretching the cultural links between South Wales and South India. True, both areas represent the southerly region of their larger nations, but I was not fully persuaded that Rugby Union derived from the Juggernaut festival in Orissa. Rugby League, perhaps, but never Rugby Union. Similarly, his finding that the settlement pattern of the South Wales mining valleys exactly replicates that of the leatherworking pits along the Bay of Bengal seems to me coincidental.

Perhaps the most intriguing along this line of inquiry is his linkage of the explosive growth of the 19th century Methodist Chapel movement in Wales with the missionary outpourings of a handful of go-ahead Tamils building on the ancient church founded in India by the Apostle Thomas.

Dr. Belugabrahmanyan locates the initial influx of these missionaries at one of the most famous educational institutions of the Celtic church: St. Illtud’s sanctuary in Llanilltud Fawr, long a site of monastic learning. While St. Illtud’s is no longer, its theological imprint has been passed down to the White Monks of Cymer Abbey. (Dr. B believes this sect to have been derived from the White Jews of the Malabar Coast.) And, given that the daily gruel of the monks residing at Cymer Abbey is masala dhosa, washed down with palm wine, he would seem to be on to a significant discovery. He cements this linkage with the observation that the Welsh cheer “hiraeth, hiraeth, herein,” finds echo in Tamil’s “hiya, hiya, haroo,” though I suspect that the following line in Welsh (“Hale y tywalltai ei gwin iddynt,” i.e. “Liberally I poured the wine for them”), which he discovered carved into the Abbey’s gateway, may indicate a commonality of a more sensual nature.

At times, Dr. B’s ingenuity surprised even me . . . I was not aware, for instance, that the word “ffwl,” or “fool,” is found in seventeen languages between the Ross of Mull and the NIcobar sea ledge. Or, indeed, that the Welsh poet Huw Llwyd’s cry “Nid hawdd heddyw byw heb wad, Er a geir o wir gariad,” (“It’s not easy to live today, no denying, despite what there is of true love,” or, as some authorities have it, “Noddy has run off with my purse”) is found carved (albeit crudely) into the interior temple wall of the Mahabalipuram temple outside Madras.

I was also much taken with Dr. Belugabrahmanyan’s close analysis of random linguistic affinities, which demonstrate the long-time impact of the Celtic Brithonic languages on those of other tongues. As he points out, the Welsh word for water (dwr) is remarkably similar to that of other languages (cf. French l’eau, Spanish agua, or Burushaski bruuum). And, once he has drawn our attention to it, we can see quite easily the close correlation between the Welsh query “Pa bath ya geid I ohirian?” and its English counterpart “Why are we kept lingering?” . . .

Originally published in Bibliophilos, Fall/Winter 2007

Dr. B posits that the Welsh use of the dragon as national symbol derives from the now extinct snow-dragons of the Tamil coast. Authorities remain divided on the matter.

Treading Syrian Roads

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24 April 2013

In the backlanes of the Christian Quarter in the Old City of Damascus, Syria, early morning deliveries are already under way.

As Syria crumbles inward under the weight of civil conflict (already more dead than all the Americans killed during the Vietnam War), and the refugee count rises to ridiculous proportions, it can be hard to recall that we were joyfully walking its streets a mere three years ago:

Wandering after dark through the narrow back lanes of the Christian Quarter in Damascus’ Old City, we started to notice that the only other people in the lanes were young and fairly pumped up, like they were heading to a party only they knew about. Their energy seemed to bounce off the enclosing stone walls of the silent compounds and courtyards of the Quarter, and with nothing else particularly on our minds, we fell into step behind them. Past another bend in the lane, across a point where two others joined, and now we were seeing further little knots and groupings of youth, all moving in the same direction. We’d been vaguely heading for Ananais’ Chapel, but now we were captivated by what might lie ahead. One more twist in the stone pathway and suddenly we emerged at the top of the steps above Bab Touma (Thomas’ Gate). Below us was teenage uproar. A packed mass of hipsters in hoodies and Dirty South gear, girls done up in pencil-jeans and four-inch heels, headscarves abandoned or transformed into exotic accessories, scooters revving at the curb, a freeflowing vibe of pumping cross-national energy ready for the night to roll on down. Lots of black males, everybody styling, all that vibrant tension of the evening just getting underway, cop station down the block but the cops staying cool . . . Who knew? Here was a total hip-hop scene on the steps of a stone gate in one of the most ancient—and repressed—cities in the world.

Hip-hop clan gathers on the steps of historic Bab Touma, in the Old City of Damascus, Syria.

This was but one of many mind-bending moments during our time in western Syria. Now as we watch the denouement of the Assad regime, we are reminded that the status of the Assad clan as an Alawite religious minority meant they needed to cultivate support from other minority communities, such as the Christians who no doubt made up the majority of those kids on the steps of Bab Touma. Such tolerance (limited though it might have been) may no longer be available under the Islamist elements of the Free Syrian army.

What would never have been apparent without treading the roads of Syria is the swirling mix of cross-cultural elements that underpins the society. Even today, many Syrians seem to have family scattered strategically across the globe, which demonstrates a continuance of the longstanding Levantine merchant trading networks. It gives the whole culture a bit more of a cosmopolitan feel than, say, Jordan, where everybody seems more settled into the local landscape.

Centuries-old waterwheels speckle the Orontes River in Hamah, Syria

We knew in advance about Arab hospitality, but even so we were disarmed by the genuine, widespread warmth and friendship people extended to us. Many times in our travels we’ve been hesitant to announce that we’re from the US (and wouldn’t you expect Syria to be one of those places?) but often, after our response, eyes would light up, and we’d hear something like “Ameriki? America very good. We love Americans.” I can’t guarantee all those people were fans of our foreign policy, or anything like that, but they certainly were pleased to have a face-to-face encounter with a couple of average citizens.

The only possible evidence of anti-Americanism came on the outskirts of Damascus, where we whizzed by an elegant new steel-and-glass shopping mall. Its name: the “9/11 Center,” in bold, flashing neon. Anchor tenant? Target . . . so maybe it was simply meant as a memorial.

There’s more to say about Syria, but I’ll save that for another post. Next up: look for a Syrian gallery on the Travel Photos page.

Living as a Vagabond

FLASHBACK: The Rockcats Live at Duffy’s

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5 April 2013

Just occasionally, I’d like to drift back in time in order to share some of my earlier pieces. Here’s my first published review, from back when I was still trying to skate along the cutting edge of the latest sounds:

Rockats Barry, Dibbs, Smutty and Tim be-i-bicky-bi-bo-bo-go at Duffy’s. Minneapolis 1981.

Lights down, a crowd whistle and BAM! The Rockats rip into their opening song, bopping the beat with a slash of guitars and the drummer’s stick slaps tight beneath the vocal warble. It’s Rockabilly Time. From the bar comes a crowd eruption of collective dance mania. No urging needed. “I’m an easygoing guy,” sings Dibbs, “but I’ve always gotta have my way.”

The band is a lunatic fringe gone mad on pastels and pompadours, wearing scuffed suede shoes of varying hue, pants pegged tight at the ankle and billowing full to the waistband pleats (wrapped tight on the gut in skinny belts and braces). Rabbits’ feet and belt chains. String ties and western scarves. Outlaw striders, rough riders and hair piled six inches above the brow. (Have you heard the news? There’s good rockin’ tonight!)

No time to breathe. The Rockats kick out another gear and drown us in a riptide surge of rockabilly guitar while they stamp out a chorus that tells us we need “a whole lotta ‘room to rock.'”) No chance. Not in Duffy’s cramped confines. But the crowd makes its own room, bumping and bouncing off each other like robot dodge-ems caught in a 220 volt current.

Onstage, chaos threatens. The high-waved grease plume is flapping on the singer’s forehead. Smutty (the bassman) has stripped off several layers of vestments and rides his stand-up bass like a bitch in heat: climbs it, totters, jumps down and rolls beneath, dancing with the wooden bulk in a parodied jitterbug.

Behind him, guitarist Tim is standing on the drumkit: Black boots, white belt, black shirt, white braces, black hair, white face. He flings himself at the dance-crazed crowd like a madman loosed. No time to lose, no holds to bar.

“This one’s about animals,” says Dibbs, so cool and blond. He grins hard while bouncing tentacles of wiggling limbs jive madly stage front. This band concedes nothing to time. No museum piece purists here, this stuff bites: “Don’t treat me like a dog . . . love this kat.”

Then we get Smutty’s “All Through the Nite” and it’s over. Fierce cheering brings them back for three encore songs. Still that full-bore, cliffwalking, all-but-out-of-control surge of sight and sounds: Cockney singer jiving and twisting beneath his lines, guitars a double burn, songs flung past like empyy beer cans from a speeding car. They cap it with “Around and Around.” “The joint was a-rockin’,” sure enough . . . and then they’re gone.

THE END

First published in Sweet Potato (now City Pages), July 1981.

The Lost Art of Map Reading

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22 March 2013

As the world rushes to embrace GPS and MapQuest and other forms of electronic dependency, it saddens me to see more and more people who are incapable of grasping not just the utilitarian value of maps, but the joy of discovery to be found within them.

Sure, there are plenty of times when one’s sole object is to get from point A to point B in as efficient a manner as possible (though even then I’m always attracted to the additional context provided by a decent road map). But life is about taking side turnings, and dodging roadblocks, and following barely glimpsed tracks off into the unknown. When I sit down to pore over a map history unfolds, geography is laid bare, the lay of the land reveals its secrets.

Each morning I’d climb out of my sleeping bag in the back of the car, slide into the front, and start scoping out the day’s possibilities. British Isles, 1978.

Does that dusty-looking roadway along the winding river eventually lead to a bridge? Where along the edge of that lake might be the best camping spot? What’s the altitude and how steeply do the hills decline on the far side? Is there a pass, or a barrier, or just a smuggler’s track across?

Or: look how that town sprawls across the border—though the border isn’t even open. What’s that symbol for a fortress doing on the hilltop—are there crumbling walls, or just a dungeon left behind? Here’s an historic site; there’s an overlook. How is it that pieces of Belgium and the Netherlands are sprinkled like splattered paint on either side of the frontier?

Or this: just reading through the place names can trigger memories of battles fought, passes crossed, or the tug of war between colonial powers. Why would a site on the Namibian coast be called Luderitz? If a place name says Leningrad what does that tell me about the era in which the map was created? Should I refer to the city as Georgetown or Penang?

Pathmarked portion of the classic Michelin “Afrique Centre et Sud” map.

When Dexter Doyle studies his maps in Twice a False Messiah he sees abandoned camel routes listed with a dotted line . . . wells marked optimistically as “good water” . . . isolated settlements in the desert persisting without a road anywhere nearby . . . markings for “Ruins” that immediately evoke antiquity. . . . It is the very map itself that allows him to dream his way forward, and many is the time I’ve done that very thing myself.

I can fold my maps down to focus on a single city and conjure walking routes for the day, or open them out to sprawl across a dumpy hostel bed and expand my vision of the possible. I can mark my passage and return to it days or years later, reliving the trail I traversed and conjuring sights and smells so that the journey comes alive once more. I don’t want to be TOLD which way to go. I want to discover that for myself.

Recent Forum on TWICE A FALSE MESSIAH

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6 March 2013

Had a great time this past week leading a Forum on “Inside the Heart of Twice a False Messiah” at Dayton Avenue Presbyterian Church (DAPC) in Saint Paul. A number of family members showed up, and between them and the inquiring minds of DAPC regulars, we had quite a lively discussion. The focus of attention was meant to be on how various Christian elements work their way through the book, and mesh (or clash) with themes in the other monotheistic desert religions—Judaism and Islam. We touched on items like Unity vs. Dualism; the power of the Word; and the complexity of understanding different streams of faith, such as disparities between the Western church (Protestant and Catholic) and the Eastern (Orthodox) and Monophysite branches such as Maronite, Copt, Thomist, etc.

Backstreet in the Armenian Quarter, Jerusalem

But we soon diverged into personal backstory, which sidetracked us into how past journeys of mine contributed to elements of the story, and how the use of inside references (e.g. “. . . the leeward side of Martinique . . .” or ” . . . the house on the bridge in Cesky Krumlov”) was meant to signify something special to certain readers.

We also talked about how the input of advance readers, prior to publication, had modified the telling of the story. One example: as a quick aside, explaining how the narrator is beginning to question the limits of western rationalism, I had dropped in this tidbit: “Then too, there’d been the . . . band of witches who’d changed my snickering to full-blown terror in one excruciating Walpurgisnacht of demonic assault. I’d escaped with my life—but little else—intact . . .” But I had said no more about that particular night. Advance reader Kevin Cole told me I was crazy not to explore that further. How could I leave the reader hanging? And so an entire subplot was born.

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DANIEL GABRIEL

World traveling author presents his books and blog posts

Author Archives: danielgabriel

Interviewed for PBS Documentary on August Wilson

FLASHBACK: “The Wonderment of Welsh”

Treading Syrian Roads

Living as a Vagabond

FLASHBACK: The Rockcats Live at Duffy’s

The Lost Art of Map Reading

Recent Forum on TWICE A FALSE MESSIAH