Of Simple Gifts and Hearts of Glass
On the joys of being wrong and living long enough to admit it
For years—decades, perhaps—I have hoped to live till July 1, 2025, so that I might publicly admit having been breathtakingly wrong about something in 1980. My dear wife, Alanna, who was my co-conspirator in error, passed away three weeks ago, but two or three months ago, she helped me write an earlier draft of this essay and advised me on the artwork. On November 22, 1980, we celebrated Aaron Copland’s 80th birthday by watching him conduct his masterpiece, Appalachian Spring. In the lull before the performance, Alanna and I speculated on which rising musician would be least likely to prompt a great outpouring of adulation on his or her 80th birthday. Our flippant answer was Deborah Harry, whose enormous portraits loomed down from every building and every bus in Manhattan that month, presumably in connection with the release of her new album—Autoamerican.
Well, July 1, 2025 is Debbie Harry’s 80th birthday, and the sheer volume of adulation heading her way today will likely dwarf that enjoyed by Aaron Copland on November 14, 1980. Today, I happily admit that for many years, two of my most common earworms—songs I repeatedly and compulsively hum—have been Copland’s “Simple Gifts” and Harry’s “Heart of Glass.” Harry has been a durable and innovative musician across sizable chunks of two centuries, as well as a trendsetting fashionista and cultural icon of the highest order.
Our error stemmed from the common phenomenon of contempt for whatever style of music and fashion is the rage among those half a generation younger than oneself. Alanna and I came of age amid folk, Beatles, and bossa nova. In 1980, Punk Rock and New Wave fashion irritated us, and it was some years before we got over our snooty condescension and came to appreciate those new aesthetics. But on the night of November 22-23, 1980, our snobbery nearly disrupted the gorgeous peace of Copland’s performance—thanks in part to the lateness of the hour and in part to an enormous head protruding from a tuxedo seated to my left. Let me explain.
CHURCH GIGGLES AT SYMPHONY SPACE
Our 1980 speculation regarding an octogenarian Debbie Harry would ordinarily have elicited a mild chuckle from Alanna and me, but instead our reaction recalled a 1975 episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show (“Chuckles Bites the Dust”), where Mary descends into uncontrollable, disruptive laughter at the funeral of Chuckles the Clown—a colleague who had been trampled to death by an elephant. This phenomenon, known widely as “church giggles,” occurs not because a comment is particularly funny, but rather because laughter is inappropriate in the situation and exit is difficult.
Cue the now-renounced Debbie Harry comments by Alanna and me.
In honor of Copland’s 80th birthday, New York’s Symphony Space hosted a thirteen-hour concert of Copland’s music. Great performers filled the day and evening with an enormous selection of Copland’s oeuvre, and the culmination was to be somewhere around midnight, when Copland himself would conduct Appalachian Spring, using the original instrumentation. The hall seated perhaps a thousand listeners, and people came and went as the hours ticked by. The rows were wide and close together, making egress difficult unless everyone in your row stood up to facilitate your exit.
Alanna and I had dinner around 7:00 p.m. and consumed maybe two glasses of wine each with dinner. (We consumed no other psychotropic substances!) Then we waited in line for hours and hours and hours. Sometime after 11:00, some seats opened up, and we were escorted in. We were both exhausted from her work, my classes, the long wait, the lateness of the hour, and the wine. A number of A-list speakers were onstage, recounting Copland’s massive influence on American music. Leonard Bernstein bantered onstage with Howard Shanet, who had studied with Copland and who later served as Bernstein’s conducting assistant at the New York Philharmonic. (I played French horn under Shanet’s baton at Columbia University from 1980 to 1984.)
There was a lull in the speeches as the onstage entourage awaited Copland’s arrival. That’s when Alanna and I made our comments about Debbie Harry and chuckled mildly. Seated to my left was a very tall man with an egg-shaped head protruding from a tuxedo. When we chuckled, he turned angrily toward us and glowered. A split second later, Copland strode on stage and lifted his baton. We channeled Mary Tyler Moore—laughing outloud—leading Tuxedo-Man to glower even more fiercely. The Church Giggles/Chuckles the Clown phenomenon swept over us. We managed to suppress our laughter by holding our noses and looking away from each other (though doing so forced me to stare straight at Tuxedo-Man—who repeatedly stared back. Our idiotic giggles returned periodically throughout the performance, always accompanied by the brutal disapproval of Tuxedo-Man.
THE BIRTH OF THIS ESSAY
On October 23, 2019, I received an email advertising a talk by Debbie Harry at Washington’s Sixth and I Synagogue. The blurb read:
“Debbie Harry evokes many images: seminal rock-n-roll figure, complex songstress, incandescent frontwoman, actor and fashion icon. Now, after decades as a vibrant global force and a shaper of pop culture, Harry recounts her journey from an irreverent Lower East Side punk goddess to a bona fide international ambassador of New York cool in her New York Times bestselling memoir, Face It.”
I showed the blurb to Alanna and told her that if we survived to July 1, 2025, I would publicly and joyfully admit to our wrongheadedness. One of the ironies of this tale is the fact that my dear Alanna and Debbie Harry never encountered one another. As an earlier essay described, in 1978, Alanna co-authored SoHo, the first book ever written on New York’s SoHo Arts District. In the course of her research, she roamed that quarter interviewing myriad artists and musicians. At precisely that time, Harry was emerging as an iconic figure in SoHo. Alas, their paths never crossed, and Harry isn’t mentioned in Alanna’s book.
Alanna missed today’s occasion by three weeks, but she knew it was approaching and helped with this article. I’m still kicking and thrilled to wish Debbie Harry the happiest imaginable 80th birthday.
“SIMPLE GIFTS” AND “HEART OF GLASS”
Meanwhile, here’s a recording, also from November 1980, of Aaron Copland conducting Appalachian Spring at the Kennedy Center. If you’re anxious to get to its most famous segment—the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts”—that portion begins just after the 17-minute mark. I fell in love with that melody in very early childhood, when Copland’s version served as the theme song for Walter Cronkite’s Sunday evening documentary program, The Twentieth Century—the watching of which was a religious ritual in our home.
And here’s Debbie Harry performing “Heart of Glass” with Blondie. I’ll likely be humming this all day long.
THE IMPOSSIBLY CHARMING MS. HARRY
Finally, here’s Deborah Harry in 2022, age 77, talking with Jimmy Fallon. Heading toward the adulation that she rightfully receives at age 80.
I have to lie down for a while to get my mind around the fact that Debbie Harry is 80 years old.
Great story.
> My dear wife, Alanna, who was my co-conspirator in error, passed away three weeks ago
I'm so sorry for your loss!