Grace Potter and the Nocturnals soar with national tour and new CD: Local band touches back down in Vermont for three celebratory shows

On a frosty, midwinter night three years ago, I walked out of a tiny local nightclub certain I'd just witnessed one of those watershed moments in a band's evolution, just before it shifts into high gear and rockets off toward far bigger and well-earned horizons.

Though the venue was cramped — with a stage about the size of a cocktail napkin, no dressing room and a standing-room-only audience — Grace Potter and the Nocturnals seemed endearingly unaffected by it all. After nearly three transcendentally muscular hours of blues-infused original rock, which had visions of vintage Aretha, Elmore James and The Band dancing in my head, this young quartet of consummate musicians was as blithely matter-of-fact about the 18-degree night air into which they had to retreat between sets as they were the roaring crowd.

When duly summoned back inside, the band cheerfully maneuvered its way through the chairs and, shivering in the filmy blouse that enshrouded her small but powerful frame, Potter settled back down at her keyboard, flipped auburn Nico-esque bangs out of her heavily-mascaraed eyes and with a broad, intrepid grin quipped, "Ah, can't beat winter in Vermont."

She should know. Still based in the Waitsfield house in which she was born and raised, Potter is keeping one foot firmly planted on hometown soil as the band's trajectory moves into the steep, fuselage-shuddering incline I'd felt sure that crushingly soulful performance had portended.

Three bars into their first tune and the charismatic, ambrosial convergence of Potter's seasoned, smoky voice, Scott Tournet's vivid guitar, drummer Matt Burr's propulsive percussion and Bryan Dondero's probing bass had us all utterly transfixed.

I wasn't in the least surprised, therefore, when channel surfing late-night options last summer I caught the foursome jolting Craig Ferguson's audience into a frenzy with a raucous rendition of "Ah, Mary", a searing comment on the political climate that ends with Potter howling "Ah-merica …" with the same ferocity of Merry Clayton's scorching lamentations in the Rolling Stone's "Gimme Shelter."

Not only a powerhouse singer but a prolific songwriter as well, Potter infuses everything she does with the authentic grit of a woman who, at a mere 24 years old, possesses a profoundly intuitive understanding of the human condition, with a breadth of wisdom that conveys everything from feisty optimism and unflinching defiance to palpable despair and gin-soaked regret.

Disc No. 4

"This Is Somewhere," the band's newest CD, is their fourth release in as many years and has all the blistering vocals, vigorous musicality and soulful depth of Etta James, Lucinda Williams or the Stones in their early-'70s prime, balanced by the fresh conviction and fearless energy of a group that's untethered but earnest.

Having co-produced the album with multi-instrumental guru Mike Daly, former member of Whiskeytown, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are boldly venturing into pivotal professional frontiers while keeping a firm grip on both their creative process and their roots.

Home for the holidays in the midst of a triumphant national tour — with highly anticipated shows at Burlington's Higher Ground tomorrow night, Saturday and New Year's Eve — Potter pulsed with state pride when I asked about the experience of working with the bigwigs at Hollywood Records.

"I always drag them here to Vermont so they can see what's going on", she laughs, "and so they won't think we're this stupid band that won't take its training wheels off. They don't always get us because we're this indie group but it's important for us to maintain a good relationship and I want to show them that Vermont promotes clear thinking!"

That clarity informed her choice for the CD cover as well. With a title that references "Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere" by Neil Young and Crazy Horse, one of the band's many influences, the meaning in the image on "This Is Somewhere" is metaphorically germane to her abiding sense of pride, both national and familial.

Taken by her photographer father, Sparky, it shows a cluster of men struggling to control what was to be the world's largest American flag draped across the Triborough Bridge for the 1976 bicentennial. Strong winds plastered all four acres of sailcloth to the bridge and it had to be cut up before taking down the entire structure.

"It's a comment on what's going on now in the U.S., of the ego in thinking we can hoist this massive thing up and not tear ourselves down. We're struggling hard but it's futile."

Potter's use of the photo also reflects family bonds that have sustained her throughout her career. "My whole family is out of their gourds about it all", she attests, "and they've believed in me from the start."

Meet the band

Guitarist Tournet, also a native Vermonter and equally effervescent despite being, at a ripe 31, the self-described "old guy" of the band, wholly concurs and sees a direct correlation between those ties and the band's core audience.

"We all have close relationship with our folks," he explains, "and they listened to cool music so Woodstock is a source — Santana, Hendrix, Richie Havens, CSNY — but then we also go back to the origins of all that."

When Tournet, Potter and drummer Burr first met in upstate New York six years ago, a local music shop helped them germinate the seeds of their future sound. "There was nothing to do there except get cheap records … The Beatles, The Band, Aretha, Led Zeppelin … and just listen and hang out."

"It enabled us to create to our own little creative bubble and draw from influences that weren't necessarily cool." A teacher at St. Lawrence University, Tournet and his cohorts would pay homage to their elders at local gigs. "We'd play these cover songs for college crowds and they wouldn't get it."

Well, we grown-ups get it, loud and clear. Potter's songs, meticulously arranged, textured and colored by the rest of the band, gracefully stitch together entire genres, resulting in a cohesive amalgam of ragged Delta blues, poetic folk, satiating garage rock and sweet Memphis soul.

When I told her that some of their new stuff brings to mind Dusty Springfield, in particular the essential "Dusty In Memphis" album, Potter blurted, "Our producer would love you! That's all he would talk about the whole time. That's the platform for everything he does … he's a classic producer."

The intimate, husky timbre of her voice perfectly cradles songs like "Apologies," an achingly lush melody that starts out declaring "Love is like a blanket, it's a little bit too warm sometimes" and exquisitely unravels under a cadence of anguish, waxing and waning to a tear-stained end — "and now it's too late for a soliloquy, way too late for dignity, too late for apologies."

Likewise," Lose Some Time," with its sparse, rustic patina and poignant, organic charm transports us to an earlier era, musically and lyrically, with lines like, "Finding time to lose with you is water in the dust bowl."

Two incandescent power-pop gems, "Mr. Columbus" and "Ain't No Time," rip the lid off the band's versatility and confirm that, amidst remarkable technical expertise, they're a dynamic freighter of fun as well, with Potter's surging Hammond B-3 and Wurlitzer weaving pure ebullience into Tournet's fervent inverted chords and brawny strumming.

The feisty mettle in Potter's vocalizations also evoke shades of The Animals at their hard-driving, R&B best and, as in their case, there is both a fierceness and fragility in Potter's songs stemming from an astute veneration of the spiritual heft and raw candor in southern musical traditions.

"I always loved gospel and blues," she asserts, "Lightnin' Hopkins and Sister Rosetta were two of my original influences, especially when I saw her playing a big electric guitar with a slide."

At the suggestion that, collectively, she and the Nocturnals seem to have a remarkably old soul, she agrees wholeheartedly. "It's because we all grew up appreciating classic rock. The Who and Led Zeppelin have been my favorite rock bands since I was seven."

As for current inspirations, Tournet's favorite these days is Wilco. "Their new album is really different and we want our next one to be simple and soulful. It's cool because it feels like there's so much room for exploration."

Having played legendary venues such as The Fillmore in San Francisco and New York's Bowery Ballroom, with Lincoln Center slated for February, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are doing Vermont proud out in the big world while still holding on to the roots they cherish.

"It's important to feel connected to a time and place," Potter reflects. "I'll have these weird twinklings of homesickness, that I want to be in one place that I'm so far from, but sometimes I feel I'm exactly where I want to be and that's when I'm performing."

Whether Vermont or center stage is the place, with such primal musical connections to "Dusty In Memphis," "Gimme Shelter" and "Everybody Knows This is Nowhere," all of which were recorded in 1969, the same year Woodstock happened, perhaps that's the time.

Regardless of where the road takes Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, their enthusiasm about this weekend's shows give me the sense that their song "Here's To the Meantime" — which closes with a rousing "You gotta get yourself back home, before I find you and kindly remind you" — must be something of a mantra.

They're home all right, so get over to Higher Ground this weekend, strap yourselves in and hang on for what's sure to be a wild, eclectic and multi-generational ride.

*Note: I'll be recovering from too much fun at GPTN's shows, so no Sover Scene next week but I'll be back on the 10th!

Online: www.gracepotter.com
www.highergroundmusic.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

How lovely are their branches: The existential culture of conifers

Tracing the origins of the noble Christmas tree is a bit like trying to figure out who invented egg-nog. Nobody is really sure where the tradition started but most of us are glad for it.

The Tannenbaum is thought to be an amalgam of cultures and faiths, including pagan sacrifices amid sacred, patron trees a millennium ago, saints investing cone-shaped evergreens with the import of the Holy Trinity in an attempt to convert said pagans and 16th-century guilds bringing their conifers indoors and decorating them with nuts and fruit for children to enjoy on the big day.

Queen Victoria is credited with embedding this element of her German heritage into British holiday festivities, making the Christmas tree a centerpiece of family celebrations in the U.K. and eventually elsewhere as well. Through the decades, various pop-culture trends and interior design aesthetics have spawned new interpretations of this old custom, adding stylized dimensions to the merriment though Queen Vic would not have been amused.

I remember, when I was a wee sprat, pleading with my folks to buy a shimmering, silvery Sempervirens aluminatum, complete with revolving colored strobe light, as so many of my lucky friends had in their homes, but it was to no avail. Even though ours came out of a box it was, alas, standard-issue forest green.

Nevertheless, I got my kitsch fix every Friday night in December during shopping sojourns to Sears & Roebuck when I'd blissfully lose myself in surreal aisles of candy-colored plastic varieties from the genus pom-pomitus species, dreaming of a blue, yellow and fuchsia Christmas.

Not surprisingly, one of my favorite holiday memories is the scene in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" when he and Linus are dispatched by Lucy to "Get the biggest aluminum tree you can find, Charlie Brown, maybe painted pink."

During the 1980s, there was the fad that went one step further, which had people hanging their Christmas trees — faux or fir — upside down from the ceiling. One restaurant I went to in New York City had a 15-foot petroleum beauty suspended in the center of the room. But it looked so precarious, nobody would sit underneath it. That year I tried it at home, with a small flocked spruce upturned and twisting on a rope in my living room, but nearly all its needles fell off because there was no way to water the thing. End of trend, needless to say.

Christmas or not, I have cherished trees in general ever since seventh-grade science class when Miss Gustafson let me write a report on them in lieu of frog dissection. Everything I learned about trees —from photosynthesis and the science of dendrochronology, or tree-ring dating, to the difference between xylem and phloem (both transport tissues with distinct functions) — rendered me yet more awestruck by these silent, towering, foliated sentries.

By the time I finished the report, I was convinced I'd be an arborist or tree expert in one form or another some day, but then I took art history the following year and that was that. Now, I'm just your average tree-hugging hiker who venerates forests and thinks trees are far more resilient and wise than we humans.

It's all too easy to anthropomorphize trees, with their statuesque form and outstretched limbs, but when one considers the age and attendant hardiness of certain specimens, there is a fortitude about them that's only amplified by the teeming backdrop of human history with its pestilence, turmoil and destruction.

Nowhere has this profound sense of arboreal awe washed over me as profoundly as during visits to Sequoia National Park in Central California, where massive elderly trees dwarf not just humans, but civilization itself.

At 2,200 years old, 274 feet high and 102 feet around at its base, General Sherman — the world's largest tree — is one of those natural phenomena that tends to put things in perspective. When one considers that it was but a sapling right about when the Romans were taking over the Mediterranean, well, it makes our life spans seem a tad insignificant in comparison.

The oldest tree in the world, known as Methuselah and estimated to be 4,700 years old, is a gracefully gnarled Great Basin bristlecone pine in the Inyo National Forest about 60 miles north of General Sherman, though its location is not made public in order to protect it. Then there's the Pygmy Forest near Mendocino, Calif., where mature cypress trees shorter than the average person are said to be nearly a thousand years old.

The town I grew up in was named after El Palo Alto, a 900-year-old coast redwood and a source of great pride as historical records show that explorer Gaspar de Portolà camped underneath it with his men in 1729, rendering it a landmark. For a time it became denuded of much of its foliage due to post-industrial revolution soot from a nearby train track. With its skinny trunk and scraggly branches, it always made me think of a wet cat, but today it's much healthier and is even taking on the shape of, dare I say it, a Christmas tree.

I guess I've done a good deal more conifer-worshipping than I'd realized. Needless to say, when the holidays come around, my favorite part is getting to have one right in my living room for an entire month. I absolutely savor the ritual of picking out the tree with my kids — I've changed my ersatz ways and do the farm thing now — watching it get cinched up in one of those giant mesh corsets, carrying it home on top of the car, then dragging it through the house and wrestling it into the stand.

Every night after the kids are abed, I turn all the other lights off and just gaze at it all aglow with five strands of miniature lights and laden with ornaments, candy canes and strands of German tinsel. Trust me, the folks who started the Christmas tree tradition make the best tinsel and it'll satisfy any latent urges for shimmering artificial boughs.

This season, Vermonters have even more reason to be proud of their Christmas trees because just last month a 60-foot gem was ceremoniously removed from the Green Mountain National Forest, strapped into a rather behemoth corset and transported down to D.C. on a flatbed truck to take its place of honor as this year's Capitol Christmas Tree. Now fully festooned with 3,500 ornaments made by local artisans — from miniature birch bark canoes and delicate star baskets to meticulously painted slate and hardwood maple snowflakes — it's a magnificent reminder that Vermont has more trees per capita than any other state.

Vermont's bustling art scene wasn't the only reason I moved here. And to think I first got the notion years ago, watching Bing Crosby in "White Christmas," gleefully head to picturesque but fictitious "Pinetree," Vt.

On that note, happy holidays — and solstice — to all!

Online:  www.capitolchristmastree2007.org

The gift of art: Creative giving offers treasures untold

The other day I brought home a photograph I'd had framed to give to a friend for Christmas. Taken by Troy Paiva, a consummate night photographer out west, it shows a rotund and immobile but poignantly beautiful 1950s-era Cadillac surrounded by tumbleweeds in a high-desert junkyard near Joshua Tree National Park, its outdated plates hanging on by two bolts and unmistakable, one-of-a-kind detailing still distinct.

Admiring the finished piece before wrapping it, I was struck by the notion that when it comes to the ritual of gift-giving, original art is far more than simply a unique tchotchke. It's an unspoken way of honoring someone we care about. We're inspired by what we know to be true about a person, in this case, a passion for classic cars and a shared affinity for a particularly striking part of the country. It also connects diligent artist with devoted art patron, both of whom are unconventional guys who appreciate uncommon perspectives of the world around us.

Try finding all that on a shelf at Wal-Mart.

When I look on my own shelves and walls, I realize I'm fairly well surrounded by heartfelt gifts that came from people who obviously know me well or with whom I share a favorite interest or two.

There's the strange and wonderful small black box that sits atop my mantle and bears the words "Oblique Strategies" in gold along one side. An obtuse, limited-edition objet d'art co-created in 1975 by ambient music guru and producer Brian Eno, it contains a deck of 123 cards, each of which has an enigmatic phrase written on one side, the other being solid black.

Whenever I look through the cards, which say things like "Cut a vital connection" or "Trust in the you of now," half the fun is rereading the crinkly, inky letter I keep folded at the bottom of the box, which accompanied the deck when my Scottish friend Joe sent it a couple of decades ago. Seeing his return Edinburghian address is always a fringe benefit, as it transports me momentarily to one of my favorite cities on the planet and has me reflecting on how far we've come in our lives since then. An Eno disciple on the dole when I first met him, Joe's now a top music-industry exec in London who periodically sends e-mails letting me know that the Right and Honorable Mr. Eno came by his office again that week. So it's turned into a thoroughly groovy gift that keeps on giving, existentially and vicariously.

Likewise, a small, oval container — made of oxidized metal and housing a few ounces of lavender buds under its screened lid — sits on my bookshelf and has come to symbolize a cherished 25-year bond with my good friend Tamara, picture-framer to the stars of the San Francisco art world, who bought it from a local sculptor and gave it to me many moons ago. The powdery patina deepens each year and whenever I refill it with fresh lavender buds, I always think of her — diminutive and strong as steel — just like her cool gift. I've always loved art made with industrial materials and her consideration in combining that with my favorite flower was and still is extraordinarily meaningful to me.

Sitting on the same shelf is a hand-dipped candle given to me by my oldest friend Daphne, which, for the life of me, I cannot burn. It's got sage leaves somehow embedded into it, which is fitting as she's one of the wisest people I've ever known, whose counsel has been an anchor for me since we met in ninth grade 30 years ago. Maybe the next time she visits, we'll light it, but then I won't have it there to remind me of her, so … maybe not.

And then there are the handmade glass earrings that my dear friend Ann gave to me on my last birthday, which, goes without saying, make me think of her and our precious friendship whenever I wear them. No huge analogy there, beyond the fact that they're absolutely extraordinary, wonderfully luminous and positively incomparable, but I'm sure she wasn't thinking any of that when she bought them for me; she just thought they looked like my style and she was right.

The art on my walls pretty much tells my life story as well because of the generosity of various friends who've put great thought into personalized presents over the years.

An 1896 lithograph by William Bradley, depicting a Victorian woman riding on a sturdy, old-fashioned bicycle across a stylized field of poppies, was a thoughtful Mother's Day gift from my kids that was entirely orchestrated by their Dad, who knew it would remind me of my Mum, who'd just passed away. She never drove a car, but rode her trusty Raleigh every day to and from work through a 30-year career. Every time I look at that picture, I think of her, her tenacity, my kids and their terrific Dad.

Above a door in my kitchen is a black-and-white taken by Dirk Bleicker, a photographer friend in Berlin, Germany, who, during a trip to S.F. years ago, took an overhead close-up of the hands of my roommate Iris as they were cracking open an egg over her dress-covered lap and out-of-focus feet below. Her delicate fingers and the familiar pattern of our old kitchen floor beyond them trigger many fond memories of all the talks, soirees and fuzzy-headed breakfasts we shared in that kitchen. When Iris — who has remained a beloved and altogether down-to-earth friend — visited last year, "Das Kleid," or "The Dress," as Dirk chose to call it, made us laugh with all its dramatic eccentricity and it gives me a chuckle and a reminder of her sporting nature every day.

I suppose this is all a case in point that it's also the thought that counts: These folks could give me a bucket of dirt and I'd display it fondly.

Sometimes, though, gifts come from surprising quarters, often bringing unexpected insight into the giver.

Hanging prominently above my couch is a handsome, minimalist etching by eminent Bay Area painter Christopher Brown and its meaning to me is multi-faceted and substantial. A square of stacked, horizontal rows of individually-sketched cannon balls, entitled "60 Good Ways To End a Sentence," it is a perfect marriage of the two most important staples of my intellectual existence: art and writing about art. Brown was immersed in the Civil War when he made the piece nearly 20 years ago and the lines of grapeshot — in light of the literary title he gave it — have always been symbolically motivating to me as a writer, as if urging me to keep loading the cannon, to just keep writing.

The fact that this inspiring prized possession came from the imperious, acerbic gallery owner for whom I worked at the time — when I was fresh out of college and too broke to afford art — offers a lesson about life as well. I still scratch my head over how a person who was seemingly self-absorbed and dismissive could have understood me and my aspirations so acutely as to have bestowed this profoundly significant gift upon me. It's become emblematic of my professional journey and I'll always be grateful that she took the time and consideration to honor who I was and who I wanted to become.

Again, try finding any of that at your local "Tarjay."

With so much high-caliber art surrounding us right here in Southern Vermont, instead of doing the big-box thing this year, I encourage everyone to head to nearby galleries, museum gift shops, craft stores and artists' cooperatives instead, with all the unique traits, tastes and dreams of relatives and friends in mind.

Here are just a few options to get you started — now go forth and buy art!

Online

www.brattleboromuseum.org

www.benningtonartsguild.org

www.buyvermontart.com

www.galleryatthevault.com

www.svac.org

www.lostamerica.com

The enthralling appeal of klezmer: Community rejoices in cross-cultural tradition

Sometimes the most delightful discoveries are those made out of context, when one stumbles upon an unexpected goldmine of one sort or another and it ends up usurping the original draw of a place or event. It was just that type of serendipity that led me to one of the most culturally fertile, intoxicatingly festive sounds known to mankind.

I first heard it one December, about 30 years ago, in the unlikeliest of places. My parents and I were strolling through the bough-bedecked halls of a full-on, Fezziwigged, chestnut-roasting, wine-mulling Dickens Christmas Faire, housed within a warehouse along the San Francisco Bay. I, the captive teenager, was finding it all positively soporific.

Trapped in an ersatz English village — comprising painted cobblestone lanes lined with overpriced boutiques selling corsets and bonnets, sweet shoppes offering "real scones" as dry as sheetrock and clusters of actors feigning social interaction by absolutely murdering Cockney rhyming slang — I'd come to feel that the entire experience demanded a suspension of disbelief not even Golden Gate Bridge engineers could have devised.

Rather than sugarplums dancing in my head, the visions I was having were more about going home and lounging on my shag rug with a pair of headphones and a bottle of Orange Crush. Then something completely out of place pleasantly infiltrated my stupor, an exhilarating mix of vibrant gypsy accordion, lilting clarinet, pounding feet and raucous applause, with a bit of puckish tuba thrown in and it was all refreshingly, unquestionably authentic: Klezmer music, wafting above "London's" rooftops ever so persuasively.

Having evolved in Eastern Europe before the Renaissance, klezmer is a Jewish musical tradition that integrates instruments, intonations and folklore from throughout the Diaspora. A derivation from "kley" which means vessel or instruments and "zemer," or song, klezmer is often sung in original Yiddish and, with themes drawing from centuries of perseverance amidst hardship, it is a joyous celebration of the indefatigable spirit and tenacity of Jewish culture.

Upon hearing this aural elixir, I darted toward it at a fast clip, swishing through a sea of elegant hoop skirts in the Victorian taffeta dress Mum had so patiently made for me. Rudely ditching her and Dad, I was on a mission to find the source of the enticingly rowdy sounds that seemed to be emanating from a dimly lit room at the far end of the "village." Though I love a pretty carol chirped sweetly by Dickensian street urchins as much as the next guy, I was ecstatic to have found something a bit more lively and engaging.

My dad was duly drawn in as well, hearing a constellation of his favorite instruments, including fiddle, flute, trombone and guitar, all of which were being deftly wielded by the boisterous members of The Flying Karamozov Brothers, a multitalented collective that, to this day, incorporates klezmer music into various other skills, such as juggling, folk dancing and slapstick skits.

The music was what mesmerized us, though, and it became a centerpiece of the faire for me and Dad thereafter. While Mum indulged in a time-warp amble down expat lane, he and I would sit enrapt by a feisty gaggle of musicians filling the faux 19th-century pub with rousing tunes whose origins lay along a broad geographic swath of rich Jewish culture from Munich to Morocco and Bulgaria to Bosnia.

The incongruity of hearing Jewish klezmer music in an environment that was as steeped in Christmas as plum pudding in brandy was as wonderfully absurdist as the sardonic sense of humor in the Karamozovs' snappy patter and lyrics.

Their inventive songs were cleverly crafted, with astute references to current events that were at once serious and silly. That dual message in klezmer music has intrigued me since and I've wondered how — considering the staggering adversity faced by Jews throughout history — could their lyrical themes be so full of life, merriment and wry wit.

I gained great insight recently when I spoke with consummate local klezmer authority, fiddler and singer-songwriter, Yosl Kurland, who leads The Wholesale Klezmer Band that will be performing at Congregation Beth El's community Hanukkah celebration in Bennington Friday night.

"There's an expression in Yiddish," he explained, "which is: 'To laugh with tears.' I think that for reasons that have to do with both history and religious outlook on life, laughing with tears is built into the culture."

Though many of the songs that The Wholesale Klezmer Band plays are old compositions from past centuries and distant lands, Kurland's own lyrics — often set against vintage melodies — continue this tradition of infusing hardship and sociopolitical strife with a charmingly droll humor, as in a song they performed last year during a fundraiser for an NPR radio station:

Do you want Scott Ritter to tell you the truth?
Learn how Diebold threatens your dear voting booth?
From Bartok to Chartok and all in between,
Reb Yidl give WAMC some more green.

Since its inception in 1982, The Wholesale Klezmer Band has performed everywhere from private functions and community events to Carnegie Hall, during its 100th Anniversary Celebration of Folk Music concert, and Bill Clinton's presidential inauguration.

With the next few weeks taking them to Hanukkah parties, nursing homes and café gigs, not to mention a benefit concert for a synagogue social action program, The Wholesale Klezmer Band shares its cross-cultural musical traditions with a decidedly diverse audience and to extremely positive ends.

No matter what the setting, it's all about honoring the bountiful heritage of Jewish culture.

"We teach people about the old customs," Kurland says. "One example is at weddings when there's the custom of breaking the glass. This is to remember that there are parts of the world still broken and that we must be mindful of that even at times of greatest joy.

"We rejoice at festivals — it doesn't matter if you're going through great troubles, you still have to rejoice and if you look at history, we've been through tremendous troubles and only humor has allowed us to survive."

It is this bittersweet element of levity prevailing despite sorrow that makes the symbolism of klezmer music resonate so powerfully for everyone, regardless of creed. With deep historical roots and an immensely inviting, invigorating sound, it is an ethnically diverse celebration of the human spirit that resonates globally, particularly at this time of year when, as Dickens put it, "Want is keenly felt and Abundance rejoices."

Part of that rejoicing is in the form of dance, which Kurland heartily encourages, stressing that there is no wrong way to move to klezmer music.

"We like to say that it doesn't matter if you're stepping onto your right or left foot, as long as you're not stepping on someone else's foot."

Join The Wholesale Klezmer Band tomorrow night in Bennington at 6 p.m., where everyone is welcome at Congregation Beth El's annual community Hanukkah party, vegetarian potluck and lighting of the menorah candles. And be sure to wear your dancing shoes!

Online

www.cbevermont.org

www.wholesaleklezmerband.com

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com