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March 8, 2021
Marcia Butler's Playlist for Her Novel "Oslo, Maine"
In the Book Notes series, authors create and discuss a music playlist that relates in some way to their recently published book.
Previous contributors include Jesmyn Ward, Lauren Groff, Bret Easton Ellis, Celeste Ng, T.C. Boyle, Dana Spiotta, Amy Bloom, Aimee Bender, Roxane Gay, and many others.
Marcia Butler's engaging second novel Oslo, Maine is filled with unforgettable characters an an immersive Maine setting.
Booklist wrote of the book:
"For all their furtiveness, the flawed but deeply relatable characters in Butler’s second novel ... exude an authentic sense of humanity..."
In her words, here is Marcia Butler's Book Notes music playlist for her novel Oslo, Maine:
In my novel, Oslo, Maine, I’ve assembled a cast of average/extraordinary people who find themselves in challenging situations (often of their own doing) where they make dubious choices and then either pay the consequences or get away with it. Collateral damage is both trivial and profound, but isn’t this what makes people, and life, interesting? Take Claude Roy who labors at his paper mill job and on the side runs an illegal animal trapping business. And his wife, Celine, addicted to pills due to the stress of their son, Pierre, suffering from memory loss caused by a mysterious accident. Classical musicians Sandra and Jim Kimbrough behave like the quintessential town do-gooders but also have their share of secrets. And Edna Sibley, a rich widow with a coveted house on the lake, worries incessantly about her troubled adult grandson, Luc. Throw in a female moose and you’ve got a twig eater who observes it all from her very own point of view. It’s not a surprise that two of my characters are musicians because for many years I was a professional oboist in New York City. Though I retired from music in 2008, it continues to occupy a big part of my heart and life. I am excited to set Oslo, Maine to the music I love.
Raúl Esparza, Take Me to the World, Sondheim 90th Birthday Concert, (Evening Primrose)
Listening to music has always been my portal to emotions. I need to access these emotions because I want to understand what my characters might feel and also who they really are underneath their exterior identity. While writing Oslo, Maine I’d often cue up “Take Me to The World” from Stephen Sondheim’s Broadway show Evening Primrose, in which he explores pure optimism. “Take me to the world that's real, show me how it's done. Teach me how to laugh, to feel. Move me to the sun.” With these lyrics in mind, I unearthed the hidden vulnerability in a deeply limited man like Claude Roy. I located Celine’s strength to show her son love in spite of her addiction, which has all but destroyed her self-worth. And I remained open to the possibility that all of my characters, against odds, might finally pivot toward the good in themselves. Then: “I'll hold your hand and know I'm not alone. We shall have the world to keep. Such a lovely world, we'll weep. We shall have the world forever for our own.” These words always, always made me weep. You may recognize Raúl Esparza from Law and Order: SVU, but he began his career in Broadway musicals. He gives a particularly emotional rendering of this song which was recorded for Sondheim’s ninetieth birthday celebration during the time of COVID.
Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah, (Live in London)
Claude Roy’s marriage is moving through difficult paces, all due to Pierre’s memory loss. In an early chapter Claude tries to connect with his wife, whose anger has placed him in that classic male posture: much bluster and no answers. They alternately argue and consider sex with little consensus on the latter. When Pierre returns home the family shares a rare three-way embrace and Celine begins to sing his favorite song, “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. The song has religious references which Cohen weaves around sexual imagery, alienation and redemption. Cohen once said: “We’re broken human beings, all of us, so stop pretending, and we can all use the word hallelujah because what it comes from is being open and transparent before God and the world and saying, ‘This is how it is, mate.’” And then this: “But listen love, love is not some kind of victory march, no. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.” A perfect lyric for the Roy family as they negotiate the sadness that has descended on their once happy family. Leonard Cohen himself interprets his deeply complex song which is a classic for every generation who discovers him.
Boston Pops, Tchaikovsky: 1812 Overture at Charles River Esplanade
Imagine yourself picnicking at a town square. If an orchestra is performing, the program might very well end with the 1812 Overture by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Fireworks will follow the bombastic conclusion. Everyone will cheer and revel around hotdogs and the idea of community. One night, Sandra Kimbrough has performed in such an outdoor concert. Pierre, her brilliant violin student, has come along to listen. During the ride home, they engage in a surprising discussion about Pierre’s burgeoning belief that the past and the future are useless ideas. The best way to live, he insists, is to stay in the present moment. Pierre is twelve years old. He switches on the radio just in time to catch the conclusion of a Boston Pops concert at the Charles River Esplanade. He and Sandra listen to the 1812 Overture and sing along at the tops of their voices. In this perfectly present moment, they are joyful. And also clueless to the fact that in the future, minutes in fact, nature will inflict herself upon them.
Eric Clapton, Layla (Live Aid, 1985)
Oh, to be the woman that two rock and roll legends wrote songs about. I’m talking about George Harrison with “Something.” And Eric Clapton with “Layla.” I’m talking about their shared romantic muse Pattie Boyd. One can only imagine the frustration Eric Clapton felt being in love with a Beatle’s wife, and for many years. "Layla" appears in my novel as a reference to a similar situation. Celine is having an affair with someone who will never commit to her. Of course, she feels guilty and is terrified they’ll be found out, but she’s also attached to this man with the same desperate longing Clapton sings about: “You’ve got me on my knees, Layla. I’m begging, darling please, Layla. Darling won’t you ease my worried mind.” So, when Celine shows up unannounced at her lover’s house, she begs him for the comfort Claude can no longer provide. But really, Celine is on her knees, trying not to take that next pill. Watch and listen as Clapton performs Layla at a Live Aid Concert in Philadelphia. And yes, that’s Phil Collins on drums.
John Coltrane, A Love Supreme (full album, 1965)
A Love Supreme, by John Coltrane, is by any standard and across all genres of music, one of the greatest compositions of the twentieth century. Every jazz musician knows it, has studied it and reveres it. But how did this breakthrough album come to be? The facts are that Coltrane had been fired from his dream job performing with Miles Davis due to a drug habit. Faced with addiction and money problems, Coltrane finally gave himself the gift of recovery. At the same time, he embraced spirituality. The product of that alchemy is A Love Supreme. The initial gong, Coltrane’s arpeggiation on perfect fourth intervals and a four-note bass line form the framework for the next 33 minutes of improvisation. In the process, he travels through all twelve keys, as if to say: anywhere you look and any way you listen, there it is: A Love Supreme. When I’m writing, I like to keep Coltrane’s own words close. “I didn't know what we were going to do. We couldn't really explain why things came together so well and why it was, you know, meant to be. I mean, it's hard to explain things like that." Yes, many times the best results come from not knowing exactly what you’re doing. I held on to this notion during early drafts of Oslo, Maine, writing with no particular plan in mind. And trusting that staying with the actual process, no matter how bewildering, would bring me to the right place. Listen to A Love Supreme, performed by the great tenor saxophonist and jazz icon John Coltrane. Listen to the brilliance of not knowing.
Donna Summer, MacArthur Park, Live in Belgium
About fifteen years ago I walked into an elevator in New York City and stood next to Donna Summer. Without hesitation I said, “I love you.” She answered, without missing a beat, “I know.” Oh, disco goddess. Give me Donna Summer singing Jimmy Webb’s “MacArthur Park” on my deathbed and I’d die a happy woman. Lyrics to disco music can be banal, perhaps even goofy. But the “MacArthur Park” line “someone left the cake out in the rain” simultaneously confounded and thrilled absolutely everyone. Why was the cake in the rain? Who would be so careless? And why, pray tell, did it take so long to bake? Then, there was that missing recipe. I’ll take metaphors for $600, Alex. (RIP) I include Donna (RIP) on this playlist because I liken the Disco beat to the propulsion of a novel, which must be carefully choreographed. I think a lot about tempo when making these decisions, such as allowing the reader to enjoy a paragraph describing a particularly gorgeous horizon. Then I might pull the reader out of the trance by having a moose walk by. Watch Donna as she bakes that cake—the production value of this live concert in Belgium is fabulous.
Donny Hathaway, A Song for You (Live)
Let’s say you’ve survived a long marriage. Recall the accommodations you’ve made, and the compromises agreed to. Feel the soft bruises to your soul and the harsher blows to your self-esteem. Notice how love can feel rapturous and wretched, all at once. Then imagine Sandra Kimbrough standing in the middle of her bedroom when she realizes that her husband has betrayed her. She watches Jim sitting on the bed across the room, and within seconds she silently decides to forgive him. This is the story of many marriages. Nothing earth-shattering. Just that somehow the algorithms of the heart push all the reasons to stay to the top. Leon Russell’s “A Song for You” came to me when I wrote this chapter. The lyrics: “You taught me precious secrets of a true love, wanting nothing. You came out in front when I was hiding. But now I'm so much better and if my words don't come together, listen to the melody because my love is in there hiding.” Then: “I love you in a place where there's no space or time. I love you for my life, you're a friend of mine.” I see a plea for forgiveness and a reconciliation of devotion in these words. Donny Hathaway brings this song, in a live performance, to a new level of beauty.
Schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht, Op. 4 - Boulez
Toward the end of Oslo, Maine, Claude and Luc sit on a bench watching the sunrise. Luc is sleepy and his head lands on Claude’s shoulder. In this moment of uncomfortable intimacy, Claude has reached a turning point. One boot straddles the way he has always viewed Luc—a weak man who needs help navigating the world. His other boot lands squarely in a muddy puddle of realization—that Luc has completely screwed up Claude’s life. The plot pivots on this scene because Claude’s next actions will impact everyone, and ultimately Claude himself. All of which brings to mind Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night) by Austrian-born composer Arnold Schoenberg. Verklärte Nacht sounds like a primal howl. Every phrase is pressed to the limit of intensity, intimacy, urgency, even stridency. Yet, it is unrelentingly romantic. It is also music on a precipice. Schoenberg’s next composition, “String Quartet #2,” broke ground with an entirely new way of composing music. As a writer I pay close attention to the space in between, when things irrevocably change. When my characters either understand something new or take an action that propels the plot toward unknown territory. In that space, an entire universe might very well explode, just as it does between Verklärte Nacht and String Quartet #2. Listen to Pierre Boulez lead the epic L'Ensemble Intercontemporain through a piece many musicians say has been the biggest influence on their creative life.
Tim Akers & The Smoking Section, Uptown Funk, 4/23/15
A few years ago, I happily discovered Tim Akers & The Smoking Section’s kick-ass cover of "Uptown Funk" by Bruno Mars and Mark Ronson. This version (with over two million hits) is completely in the pocket—smooth like glass with some sand thrown in. When musicians of this caliber play together, they experience a profound sense of connectivity. Watch their bodies. They barely move. Yet I guarantee a hundred pistons are firing in every second, mostly intuitive. But there also exists a conscious awareness of where one is going within the context of the music’s thrust. And it has to make sense, note after note. I transferred that idea, and what I know from my own performances, to the final draft of Oslo, Maine as a kind of laborious check list. After each sentence, I mentally inserted the phrase: and therefore. Which is to say that each sentence must come from somewhere, go somewhere, and most importantly read as inevitable. This process helps to create a rock-solid narrative for my readers. And it is exactly what we see and hear in this performance of "Uptown Funk." The musicians know the end game and understand how to get there. You’re in for a treat. This band is made up of the best session musicians in Nashville. Jump on it.
Marcia Butler, a former professional oboist and interior designer, is the author of the memoir, The Skin Above My Knee, and debut novel, Pickle’s Progress. With her second novel, Oslo, Maine, Marcia draws on indelible memories of performing for fifteen years at a chamber music festival in central Maine. While there, she came to love the people, the diverse topography, and especially the majestic and endlessly fascinating moose who roam, at their perpetual peril, among the humans. After many decades in New York City, Marcia now makes her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Visit www.marciabutlerauthor.com
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