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      in Music

      Girls Are Outnumbered in Jazz. At This Summer Camp, They Run the Show.

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      Jazz Camp for Girls, a four-day program in Denmark, has expanded to Finland, Poland and Sweden this year, giving young musicians a space to play music and build friendships.COPENHAGEN — On a morning in late June, 16 girls arrived at an urban courtyard for the timeless summer ritual of camp drop-off. Some came clutching their parents’ hands; others raced ahead to greet old friends. One young teenager with strawberry-blond curls, who had come because her working parents told her she couldn’t sit home alone all day, stood nervously waiting for things to get underway. But it wasn’t long before the 13-year-old happily joined an ice-breaking game. “Hi, my name is Anna,” she chanted, as she clapped out a rhythm that the others repeated back to her: “Ba-BAH-ba-ba-BAH.”The campers, who ranged in age from 9 to 15, had just gotten their first lesson in jazz. Over the next four days, they would learn about the genre’s distinctive rhythms and melodies, and try their hands at improvising on a number of different instruments. But perhaps the most important lesson for the students at Jazz Camp for Girls is that there is a place for them in jazz at all.Plenty of art forms have a gender imbalance, but in jazz, where men heavily dominate the industry’s production, consumption and education, the inequality is especially pronounced. From 2007 to 2018, women musicians led or shared the lead on less than 20 percent or so of the 50 best albums in the NPR Jazz Critics Poll. One recent study found that just 4 percent of notable jazz musicians in the United Kingdom are women. And even in supposedly egalitarian Denmark, the proportions have been thoroughly uneven; a 2012 report found that women made up only 20 percent of the rhythmic music industry there.From left: Sarah Lilja Buch Callisen, Flora Aaris-Hoeg and Anna Kirkhoff Eriksen at jazz camp in Copenhagen. This year’s camp was held in 11 cities across Denmark.Betina Garcia for The New York Times“It was a shock,” said Agnete Seerup, deputy director of JazzDanmark, an organization that co-founded the girls’ camp in 2014 in response to that damning study, and today oversees the program alone. “So we created the project to encourage more girls to play rhythmic instruments. And hopefully change the gender balance down the road.”The jazz musician Johanna Sulkunen was thinking of the effects of that imbalance when she enrolled her daughter in the Copenhagen camp. “You’re not taken seriously,” she explained. “You don’t get solos. You’re not seen as a musician.” Saying goodbye to Alma, who is so small that she has to rest the bottom of her saxophone on a stool when she plays, Sulkunen said she hoped things would be easier for the 9-year-old. “I really hope that for her, it can just be about the joy of making music.”This year’s camp was held in 11 cities across Denmark from June 27 to 30. Grouped into eight-person bands, the girls were taught by instructors who are also working musicians. The four days culminated with a concert for family and friends.On the first day of the Copenhagen camp, held at the Rytmisk Center music school, the girls gravitated to instruments they knew — Lola Engell, a 10-year-old in a Rolling Stones T-shirt, tapped out a beat on drums while Flora Aaris-Hoeg, 11, strapped on an electric bass. Jazz Camp focuses on rhythmic instruments to counteract the historical relegation of women in jazz to singing, which was often cast as “entertainment” rather than the serious art practiced by men. And it makes a point of moving the girls through a number of them.Over the camp’s four days, the students are encouraged to rotate from instrument to instrument.Betina Garcia for The New York Times“Rotation is a big part of what we do,” said Cecilie Strange, an instructor and saxophonist. “We’ve had girls who have never sat behind a drum set, and when you ask them to play it, some of them will be like, ‘I don’t think so.’ But it’s really important to get everyone to try everything. And sometimes you see really fast that a girl has a knack for an instrument she had never tried before.”The emphasis on rotation is also intended to help the girls overcome the self-consciousness that sometimes limits them. “Girls naturally have almost the same interest in the instruments as boys,” Strange said. “But they need more control: they worry about how they look and don’t want to make mistakes. That can be a barrier.”Flora, the 11-year-old whose first instrument is bass, said she liked not having boys around: “It just makes you more comfortable.”Encouraging the girls to improvise — there is no sheet music at the camp — builds confidence while also introducing an important aspect of jazz performance. Strange taught the girls to play a few classics from the jazz repertoire, like Sonny Rollins’s “Sonnymoon for Two,” but the camp’s other instructor, the saxophonist and composer Carolyn Goodwin, took the girls in a more experimental direction. “I want these girls to feel like even if they don’t identify with the traditional approach, that they can still find themselves in the music in another way,” she said.On the camp’s second day, Goodwin got the girls started on their own improvisation by playing a selection from “Zodiac Suite,” and asking if anyone knew the composer. When none of the campers raised her hand, Goodwin told them that women composers were part of jazz’s story even if they weren’t well known. “This one is by Mary Lou Williams,” she said. “Can you say her name?”Viola Sisseck Rabenhoj, 10, had a knack for composition; even before camp, she and her fellow camper Alma had written a piece about Alma’s pet hamster, Vinny. Now, Goodwin took a melody that Viola had created, and asked the girls to follow Williams’s example and riff around a Zodiac sign both by playing and by writing a short text. They later put the elements together into a song with spoken-word lyrics. Practicing it on the final day of camp, Aya Knudsen Rein worked a flourish into her drum solo, then smiled proudly.Carolyn Goodwin, an instructor at the camp, helping Ella Hargreave with a guitar. Betina Garcia for The New York TimesYears after participating in the 2014 and 2015 Jazz Camps, Kathrine Stagsted Lund, now 23, remains grateful for the experience. “It most certainly had an impact on me,” she said. “I got introduced to the double bass, which I continue to play. I volunteer at a jazz club and always seek out the jazz concerts in Copenhagen.” More than anything, though, the experience helped her navigate playing in rhythmic ensembles: “As a young female instrumentalist always outnumbered, it gave me a sense of confidence and courage.”For the first time this year, Jazz Camp for Girls will also be held in Finland, Poland and Sweden. But for all their anecdotal success, the programs still have some ways to go before their impact is measurable. Last year, JazzDanmark studied why the needle hadn’t moved much on the 80/20 gender distribution. “We found out that private networks really matter in jazz,” Seerup said. “Many jobs in the music industry are given out one night at a bar, and if you’re not part of that private network, you’re less likely to get one. What we’re focusing on now is creating strong relations between girls now, so they might become networks later.”On the final day of Jazz Camp, those networks seemed to be off to a good start. Anna Kirkhoff Eriksen, the strawberry-blond drummer who hadn’t known anyone when she arrived at camp, had become fast friends with Sarah, who played keyboards, and Liva, who thrilled the audience at the final concert with her trumpet solo. And Flora, who was comfortable on the bass but had been nervous to be performing her first drum solo, was delighted with how it had all gone.“That was great!” she gushed, as she exchanged phone numbers with her new friends, Aya and Lola. “We should form a band!” More

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      in Theater

      Boston Revisits ‘Common Ground’ and Busing, Onstage

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      The Huntington Theater Company is staging a play based on the seminal J. Anthony Lukas book, reconsidering the legacy of the busing crisis.BOSTON — It’s been nearly half a century since a federal judge ordered the city schools here desegregated by busing, and 37 years since the writer J. Anthony Lukas plumbed the resultant turmoil in his Pulitzer-winning tome, “Common Ground,” which entered the canon of seminal Boston texts.Now a leading nonprofit theater here, arguing that the shadow of busing and the depictions in “Common Ground” continue to shape this city’s reputation and its race relations, is staging a reconsideration of the book, filtered through the prism of a diverse group of contemporary artists.The play, “Common Ground Revisited,” which opened June 10 at the Huntington Theater Company, has been 11 years in the making, begun as a thought experiment in a classroom at Emerson College, and delayed, like so many stage projects, by the coronavirus pandemic. The cast is made up of Boston actors, and the work layers their observations on top of the events in the book, which follows the busing crisis through the lives of three families.“This book has a strong, vibrant legacy in Boston — many people have read it, and there are varying opinions about it and what it means,” said the playwright Kirsten Greenidge, who developed the project with Melia Bensussen; Greenidge wrote the adaptation, and Bensussen, who is the artistic director of Hartford Stage, directed it.“We’re insistent on the ‘revisited’ part,” Greenidge said. “It’s not a straight up adaptation of the book — it’s having the book be in conversation with us, in the present day.”The play, bracketed by several alternative ways of staging — and seeing — a final high school encounter between two students, one Black and one white, is not a takedown of the book, but does gently suggest that there are other historical figures whose stories also matter to Boston’s history, or, as one actor says during the play, “There’s more than one book.”The play, like the book on which it is based, depicts three families affected by busing. Cast members include Lyndsay Allyn Cox, Shanaé Burch, Omar Robinson, Elle Borders and Kadahj Bennett. T Charles Erickson“Boston, to me, as it was sold: Revolutionary War, maybe a little bit of busing, and then somehow we’re here, with ‘The Departed,’ ‘The Town’ and ‘Good Will Hunting’ sprinkled in there,” said Omar Robinson, a Baltimore native who relocated to Boston and is one of the actors in the cast. “But our actual history is so rich and multicultural and Black, and that is very frequently overlooked. Maybe not anymore, hopefully.”That history can sometimes feel very present, and sometimes very distant. The play is being staged in the city’s South End, described in “Common Ground” as “a shabbier, scruffier part of the city,” but now polished and pricey. The city, long led by white men, now has its first Asian American mayor, Michelle Wu; she followed an acting mayor, Kim Janey, who was the first Black person to hold that office, and who had been among those bused for desegregation purposes when she was a child.The school district’s demographics have also changed enormously: Today, just 14.5 percent of students in the Boston public schools are white, down from 57 percent in 1973. And the school system is about half the size it was: There are currently 48,957 students, down from 93,647. (By comparison, in New York City there are about 1 million public school students, of whom 14.7 percent are white.)Although many in the 12-person Huntington ensemble are too young to have lived through the busing crisis, it still looms large. During that era, the actress Karen MacDonald’s stepfather taught at the city’s Hyde Park High School; the actor Michael Kaye’s friend’s father was a state trooper assigned to Charlestown High School, where busing had been greeted by walkouts, protests and an attempted firebombing of the building.Kadahj Bennett, another member of the cast, noted that the events of those days had changed the course of his own schooling a generation later. “My father is an immigrant from Jamaica, moved here and he was involved in busing — he got bused to West Roxbury High and had a miserable time,” he said. “With that, my parents decided I wasn’t going to go to public school.”Theodore C. Landsmark, a city planner and scholar who now directs an urban policy research center at Northeastern University, was on his way to a meeting at Boston City Hall in 1976 when he was attacked by a man wielding an American flag. This photograph, by Stanley Forman, won a Pulitzer Prize.StanleyFormanPhotoOne striking aspect of performing a play about recent history in the city where it took place: Many people in the audience have memories of the scenes depicted, or even know some of the characters. Some nights, the actors say, patrons come up to tell them what they got wrong, or right, in portraying the city and its struggles, and to share their own memories.Some still have deeply personal connections to the history being depicted.Tito Jackson, a former Boston city councilman and mayoral candidate who now runs a cannabis company, has a particularly remarkable link: He learned a few years ago that his birth mother was Rachel E. Twymon, who was a child in one of the families featured in the book. Twymon became pregnant at age 12, and her mother insisted that the child be given up for adoption. Just last year, The Boston Globe reported that Jackson had discovered he was that child.“I read the book four or five times when I was in college — I was a history and sociology major — so finding out that my birth was in the book was a huge surprise and pretty emotional,” Jackson said in an interview. The book describes the pregnancy that led to Jackson’s birth as the result of sexual experimentation and “foolin’ around,” but Twymon said the truth is she was raped, and Jackson credits the Huntington play with making that clear.“Her life was indelibly stamped, and often framed, by this book, and, frankly, the short shrift that the book gave to a pregnancy and the birth of a child,” Jackson, who is now 47, said. “Then the folks at Emerson questioned how a 12-year-old, in 1975, with one of the strictest moms ever, got pregnant.”Jackson said of the play, “I’m very touched, and I feel that Rachel’s story — her perspective as well as her truth — was finally acknowledged.”His mother, who is now 60, is less enthusiastic, feeling that the play doesn’t sufficiently capture the horrors of the busing era. “You’re talking about a time when things were very hectic, and very unstable,” Twymon said. “The play was told nicely, and that’s not how Boston was at that time.”“Boston, to me, as it was sold: Revolutionary War, maybe a little bit of busing, and then somehow we’re here, with ‘The Departed,’ ‘The Town’ and ‘Good Will Hunting’ sprinkled in there,” said the actor Omar Robinson (foreground). T Charles EricksonAnother intense personal connection to the play is that of Theodore C. Landsmark, who now directs an urban policy research center at Northeastern University. Landsmark has had a distinguished career, but will forever be known as the Black man who was set upon by a white man wielding an American flag as a weapon in Boston’s City Hall Plaza in 1976; Stanley Forman’s photograph of the assault won a Pulitzer Prize, and came to symbolize the racism and violence of the busing era.“Initially I found it off-putting to have all of my life defined by that one moment,” Landsmark, 76, said. “Over time I’ve gotten used to it, and I recognize it’s an opportunity to talk about things I care about — the inequalities that continue to exist in Boston, particularly within our professional ranks.”Landsmark said “Common Ground” remains hugely influential. “The book is assigned to all kinds of high school and college classes as a point of entry into understanding Boston, and I know that many people look at Boston through the prism of ‘Common Ground’,” he said. “People who have never been to the city will immediately raise either the book or the photograph as a reason for their reluctance to relocate from places that are easily as racist as Boston is.”Bensussen, the director, said she wasn’t sure whether the play would have a life outside Boston, given its intensely local focus, but noted that local students were more likely to study the national Civil Rights movement than the Boston busing crisis, and said she was hopeful that the play might prompt some rethinking of that. Landsmark said he could imagine excerpts from the play being staged in a variety of settings to spark discussion about ongoing forms of segregation.As for the actors, several of them said they wanted to feel optimistic that progress is underway, but were torn about whether that is realistic given the state of the nation today.“I want there to be hope, but it’s not a thing I see every day — it’s not a thing I’ve encountered during my nearly 20 years in the city,” Robinson said. “Reading this book, working on this, it shined a bright light on its past, and therefore its present, in a lot of ways for me. Not just here in Boston — this country has got a loaded history. But I hope for hope.” More

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      in Music

      This ‘Cats’ Adaptation Has the Kids Singing

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      Heather Biddle, the theater director at J.J. Pearce High School in Richardson, Texas, wanted to put on a production of “Cats” for so long it became something of a comedy bit.Back in August 2020, following months of the pandemic shutdown and facing a year of remote learning, her students made commemorative T-shirts that read “At least we didn’t do ‘Cats.’”That all changed this month, when Biddle finally got her wish.J.J. Pearce High School students during a rehearsal. Many of them mostly knew the show in the context of its ill-fated 2019 cinematic adaptation.Eli Durst for The New York TimesShe staged one of the country’s first productions of “Cats: Young Actors Edition,” a one-hour version of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s hit 1981 musical, adapted by iTheatrics for Concord Theatricals, and released to schools across North America last fall. And as Biddle had expected, her students — many of whom mostly knew the show in the context of its ill-fated 2019 cinematic adaptation — came around to it.“I text Biddle all the time, ‘I’m no longer a ‘Cats’ hater!’” Ainsley Ross, a senior and the production’s musical director, said during a break from rehearsals on May 10. “Now that I’m working on it, I love it so much.”Ginger Johnson, as Munkustrap, during a break from the dress rehearsal.Eli Durst for The New York TimesAt a dress rehearsal inside the school’s auditorium three days before the show opened, the nervous energy was palpable. Dozens of teenagers ran about in scruffy bodysuits that had been hand painted by fellow students and Biddle.Spencer Van Goor, a sophomore who played Rum Tum Tugger, purred “Hello, gorgeous” to a teased out wig as he picked it up off the stage and put it on his head. “I’ve wanted to do this show for nine years now,” the 15-year-old said. “I really like the dance and the music; it’s exotic and weird.”Sophie Pong, a Dallas high school senior who was interning with Heather Biddle, applying makeup to Isabella Denissen, a junior who played Demeter.Eli Durst for The New York TimesAmelia Pinney, a junior who not only took on the dance-heavy role of Bombalurina but also choreographed the entire show, moved in tandem with Isabella Denissen, a junior who played Demeter. They were as attached at the hip as their two characters would be throughout the show.“It’s mesmerizing. It’s so different from any other show that’s been done,” Pinney said wistfully.Zoe Lehman was cast as Mr. Mistoffelees.Eli Durst for The New York TimesPinney, as Bombalurina, choreographed the show.Eli Durst for The New York TimesIn the greenroom, students paced excitedly as they waited to get made up as cats. “You look like a sleep paralysis demon,” one actor told another, which got a laugh from the larger group. The students practiced their dance moves, twirling their hands, spinning their bodies, and kicking up pointed toes. They manically discussed their other favorite musicals. They all agreed that Hailey Gibson, a sophomore cast as Grizabella, was going to blow everyone away with her rendition of “Memory.”Concord Theatricals, the licensing house that represents the stage licensing rights to the Andrew Lloyd Webber catalog in North America, has long made 60-minute, kid-friendly versions of other stage works in its collection, such as Rodgers & Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music” and Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes,” which J.J. Pearce students performed last fall.“I think people were shocked at how much they loved the show,” said Biddle, the theater director at J.J. Pearce High School in Richardson, Texas.Eli Durst for The New York Times“These editions do hundreds of performances a year; they are a gateway to theater,” said Imogen Lloyd Webber, a daughter of Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Concord’s senior vice president of communications.When the company decided to adapt Lloyd Webber’s work for younger performers and audiences, “Cats” was an obvious first choice. “It’s an ensemble show,” Imogen Lloyd Webber said. “Everybody’s got a part. Everybody can do a number. You can go mad with the costumes and the sets and the choreography.”The students meditated before the dress rehearsal.Eli Durst for The New York Times“And if you think about it, T.S. Eliot’s ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’ was originally a children’s poem,” she said, referring to the playful collection of poetry that makes up most of the musical’s book. “It made sense. Obviously, internally we’ve been calling it ‘Kittens’.”Final adjustments: Ava Johnson, as Victoria the White Cat, helping Uzo Bender, as Admetus, with his wig.Eli Durst for The New York TimesVan Goor, who was one of 32 students to perform in the production (five others contributed technical support), also appreciated that “Cats” is a true ensemble. “Technically everyone gets their own little feature,” he said. Though largely a plotless extravaganza, the musical is set in a junkyard where a group of so-called Jellicle cats have gathered for an annual celebration.“Cats: Young Actors Edition,” which is transposed in higher keys that are better suited for younger voices, was made with middle-school performers in mind. But Biddle really wanted it for her high schoolers. Most of them have worked with Biddle since they were 12 or 13, participating in her popular all-ages school summer program.The students’ parents were allowed to watch the final dress rehearsal on May 12.Eli Durst for The New York TimesThe show was J.J. Pearce’s first production without any pandemic precautions, like limited seating, masked performers or a masked audience. Three days after the rehearsal, there was still a vibrant energy among the students at their 2 p.m. show on Friday, which had been arranged not only for the performers’ high school classmates but also for local middle schoolers who were bused over after taking their annual standardized tests. Preteens and teenagers may have a reputation for not paying close attention at school-sponsored events, but the auditorium was silent when the descending riff of the musical’s opening number, “Prologue: Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats,” began.As the show went on, Biddle’s performers were not the only ones coming around to the idea of “Cats.” The audience seemed just as entranced by the musical, which is equal parts spooky, silly and sentimental. Though some momentary loud shuffling occurred when the period bell rang, dozens of students remained rapt in their seats, cheering along to Van Goor’s provocative performance of “The Rum Tum Tugger” and when Pinney and others did back flips and handsprings onstage.Biddle said she was thrilled to have converted “a whole new group of ‘Cats’ lovers.”Eli Durst for The New York TimesWhen the house lights rose after the performance, the high school students who had been in the audience ran backstage to congratulate their friends.And the performers? They were basking in the moment, thrilled that they had pulled off the show. They’d done “Cats”! And they would do it again that evening and the next day.When asked if this production was everything she hoped it would be, Biddle replied, without a moment’s hesitation: “I think people were shocked at how much they loved the show. It was worth the wait and I love that we converted a whole new group of ‘Cats’ lovers. ‘Cats’ now and forever!” More

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      in Movies

      ‘Mr. Bachmann and His Class’ Review: Learning From the Best

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      Maria Speth’s enthralling documentary spends a year in the classroom of an unconventional teacher in a German industrial town.The students in Dieter Bachmann’s class are sometimes bored. They’re in the sixth grade, so this is to be expected, though there’s a decent chance that these particular adolescents, observed by the filmmaker Maria Speth over the course of the 2016-17 academic year, are less bored than most of their peers, thanks to their energetic and unconventional teacher.What is certain is that, even at more than three and a half hours, the fly-on-the-wall documentary Speth has culled from her time in the classroom is the opposite of tedious.By virtue of its length, the elegance of its editing and the warmth of its curiosity, “Mr. Bachmann” and his class might remind you of a Frederick Wiseman film. The comparison only goes so far. Wiseman tends to be interested in how collective and impersonal structures — neighborhoods, organizations, institutions — illuminate individual personalities and relationships. Speth’s attention moves in the opposite direction.Her film starts with the teacher, whose patience and charisma draws out the children and magnetizes the viewer. Gradually, a group portrait emerges that is also a remarkably detailed and complex picture of a town and a nation. And more than that: an intimate, humanist epic.The town is Stadtallendorf, Germany, about an hour north of Frankfurt. A rural village for most of its history, it was industrialized by the Nazis, who built armaments plants and forced-labor camps. After World War II, “guest workers,” mostly from Turkey, were recruited for metalworks and other factories. (You’ll learn these facts and more on field trips and during class discussions.)Bachmann’s pupils are mostly the children of immigrants — from Bulgaria, Morocco and Azerbaijan, among other countries. Their proficiency in German varies, as do their academic prospects. Part of Bachmann’s job is to decide which secondary-school track is right for each student, a task he undertakes with clarity, compassion and some reluctance.A former sculptor and sociology student now in his 60s, usually dressed in a knit cap and a hooded sweatshirt, Bachmann is aware of the tension between his countercultural impulses and his bureaucratic duties. He administers tests and hands out grades, but also keeps musical instruments and art supplies on hand for jam sessions and creative projects. Even though his anarchist streak is partly what makes him a benevolent authority figure, you wouldn’t say he’s soft or lenient with his students. Instead, he’s honest with them, treating them not as friends or peers but as people whose entitlement to dignity and respect is absolute.They test and tease him and can be inconsiderate or cruel with one another. They’re kids, after all. A handful come into special focus, nearly upstaging their teacher and contributing to the emotional richness of the film. We don’t learn much about their lives outside of school (or about Bachmann’s), but each one is a universe of feeling and possibility, vivid and vulnerable.And lucky to have crossed paths with Bachmann. The film ends with his retirement after 17 years of teaching, a bittersweet moment that Speth observes with tact and understatement. This isn’t a heroic-teacher drama about idealism in the face of adversity. It’s an acknowledgment of the hard work of learning, and the magic of simple decency.Mr. Bachmann and His ClassNot rated. In German, with subtitles. Running time: 3 hours 37 minutes. Watch on Mubi. More

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      in Television

      Broken Lights, No Glue: ‘Abbott Elementary’ Has Teachers Talking

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      A new sitcom by Quinta Brunson about a Philadelphia public school is a relatable balm during a period of intense stress for educators.In the second episode of “Abbott Elementary,” a new ABC mockumentary about a group of (mostly) dedicated educators in an underfunded public school in Philadelphia, a second-grade teacher named Janine resolves to fix a flickering hallway ceiling light that the school had ignored.“The more senior teachers are just used to giving in,” says Janine, the bright-eyed protagonist (played by the show’s creator, Quinta Brunson), “but I, however, am young, sprightly and know where they keep the ladder.”For Maurice Watkins, a 28-year-old music teacher in Maryland, Janine’s take-charge approach was laughably familiar. Just recently, he had taken a trip to a discount store to buy mops and brooms to clean the classroom floors of the three public schools where he teaches. While the traditional classrooms undergo a regular cleaning, the spaces where he teaches band and orchestra do not.“As a teacher, you’re left to fix it yourself,” said Watkins, who works with fourth through sixth graders. “Almost every day I go through one of those situations.”(Luckily, Watkins’s attempts at janitorial duties did not go sideways like Janine’s did: After she adjusted a loose wire, much of the school’s power went out.)Six episodes in, Brunson’s “Abbott Elementary” has quickly become a talker among teachers who see themselves and their colleagues reflected in the show’s main characters, who are repeatedly pushed to their wits’ end by administrative chaos, paltry resources and the antics of their students. On social media, some viewers gushed about how relatable the show is to them.The ratings have been strong thus far, with more than 7 million total viewers across all platforms over roughly the first month after the premiere, according to ABC. (There’s Hollywood buzz, too: On Jimmy Kimmel’s late-night show, the host brought on Joyce Abbott, Brunson’s sixth-grade teacher whom she named the show after, bringing the actress to tears.)Teachers say they recognize the fictional school’s staff in their own halls: the young teacher who is too new to be cynical, the self-serving principal, the ace veteran teacher who is stubbornly set in her ways and the white teacher who falls all over himself trying to seem progressive around his Black students and colleagues.Watkins said that the day after the first episode of “Abbott Elementary” aired in December, “every teacher at school was talking about it.” For some, though, it hit too close to home.“Some teachers I know can’t even watch it,” Watkins said.Teachers say they identify strongly with the challenges Janine and her colleagues face on a daily basis: a persistent lack of funding, behavioral problems of students and struggles with introducing new educational technologies.“D — all of the above,” said Alisha Gripp, a principal at a charter middle school in Kansas City, Mo. One aspect of the show that she adamantly does not identify with, however, is the school’s incompetent principal, Ava Coleman (played by Janelle James), who spends her time trimming her Chia Pet and organizing student files by who has the hottest dad.“I think she’s hilarious — but I am nothing like her,” Gripp said with a laugh.In one episode, teachers take to TikTok to drum up school supplies for their students; Janelle James, right, plays the principal. Gilles Mingasson/ABCGripp, who has been an educator for 17 years, said she thought “Abbott Elementary” was a more true-to-life depiction of teaching than those in much other Hollywood fare, including “Boston Public,” a Fox drama from David E. Kelley. That show tended to lean into melodrama in the fictional high school where it was set, making Gripp think to herself, “They’d be fired; they’d be fired; that kid would be suspended.”“It really is cool to have a more realistic, but still entertaining, take on education,” she added.Much of the show’s background comes from Brunson’s mother, who was a public-school teacher in Philadelphia for 40 years, according to two of the show’s executive producers, Justin Halpern and Patrick Schumacker. The producers and writers also interviewed teachers, school staff members and board members about their jobs.Many of the plot points come from real-life educators, including the main arc of an episode in which Janine becomes wildly successful at using TikTok to ask people to donate school supplies. It comes off as both funny and grim because she has to resort to social media for basic materials like scissors and glue.The TikTok episode reminded Kristina A. Holzweiss, a 52-year-old former teacher and librarian who is now an education-technology specialist at a Long Island high school, of a time several years ago when she independently raised more than $100,000 to buy enrichment materials like Chromebooks and a 3-D printer for her library. This was before TikTok took off, but teachers could use a website called DonorsChoose, which helped them with crowdfunding for their classrooms.“Teachers should not have to do this; this is not in our job description,” Holzweiss said, “but teachers always put their students first.”For some, a show that highlights hard-working, committed educators is particularly welcome right now. As schools across the country reopened after extended pandemic closures, teachers were put in the center of battles over mask mandates and in-person versus remote learning.The struggles of teaching during a pandemic — as well as long-term issues around low pay, benefits and erratic hours — contributed to a nationwide labor shortage at schools, which have struggled to find substitutes for sick teachers and teachers who quit.Melissa (Lisa Ann Walter, left) and Janine in an episode about a new gifted program that goes awry.Liliane Lathan/ABC“When the pandemic happened and everything closed, teachers were heroes,” said Jennifer Dinh, a 31-year-old second-grade teacher in Chino Hills, Calif. “But as soon as the next school year rolled around, it all went out the door.”“Abbott Elementary” tackles the issue of teacher burnout from the outset, showing a young teacher walking out of the building carrying a box of her belongings and raising a choice finger on her way out. (“More turnovers than a bakery,” quips Barbara Howard, played by Sheryl Lee Ralph, who has been teaching in the school district for 20 years.)A theme of the show is the clash between young, newer teachers like Janine, who are learning the physical and emotional toll of trying to fix a dysfunctional school, and the more experienced teachers, who have learned to accept certain things — a flickering light, for example — so that they avoid burnout.“If we burn out, who’s here for these kids?” asks Melissa Schemmenti (played by Lisa Ann Walter), a straight-talking, Sicilian American second-grade teacher.After more than three decades of teaching, Jocelyn Hitchcock, a 57-year-old fan of the show, is determined not to burn out. After 20 years as a music teacher, she grew frustrated by dwindling funding for the arts and shifted to the core subjects. This past fall, Hitchcock started teaching at a small elementary school on the Walker River Paiute reservation in Nevada.Her school has recently dealt with a serious shortage of teachers (the principal has had to teach in the classroom), and she now spends time before and after school tutoring children to help them catch up from the learning deficits created by the pandemic.In “Abbott Elementary,” she said, she finds validation in seeing people on TV going through what she experiences day to day.But because the show is set in a nonpandemic world (at least thus far), Holzweiss said she thought the show was missing an exploration of the greatest challenges that teachers face right now: hybrid teaching, staffing shortages and students lagging behind academically and socially.“It’s an entirely different world now,” she said. More

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      Barry Harris, Pianist and Devoted Scholar of Bebop, Dies at 91

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      For decades, he performed, taught and toured with unflagging devotion. He also helped to lay the foundation for the widespread academic study of jazz.Barry Harris, a pianist and educator who was the resident scholar of the bebop movement — and ultimately, one of its last original ambassadors — died on Wednesday in North Bergen, N.J. He was 91.His death, in a hospital, was caused by complications of the coronavirus, which exacerbated a number of underlying health problems, said Howard Rees, his longtime business partner and collaborator.[Those We’ve Lost: Read about other people who have died in the coronavirus pandemic here.]Starting in his teens and continuing beyond his 90th year, Mr. Harris performed, taught and toured with unflagging devotion, evangelizing for bebop’s stature as a form of high American modernism and helping to lay the foundation for the widespread academic study of jazz. Yet throughout his career he remained an independent educator: He never joined the faculty of a major institution, instead choosing to embed himself within New York’s music community, reaching students of all ages.For almost half a century, Mr. Harris led a weekly series of low-cost classes in the city, while also playing at prominent clubs around town and jetting off to perform and teach overseas. He was known for his acerbic tongue and his demanding nature, evidence of his passion for teaching.Writing in 1986, the New York Times critic Robert Palmer described Mr. Harris as a “one-man jazz academy.”He came up in the late 1940s and ’50s in Detroit, where a thriving scene fostered some of the greatest improvisers in jazz. Many of the hometown musicians he grew up around — the vibraphonist Milt Jackson; the guitarist Kenny Burrell; the Jones brothers (the drummer Elvin, the pianist Hank and the trumpeter Thad); the saxophonist Yusef Lateef; the pianist Tommy Flanagan — would soon become leading figures, and their contributions would help define the hard-bop sound: a sizzling, blues-drenched style that boiled down some of bebop’s scattered intensity.But Mr. Harris never eschewed bebop’s high temperatures, clattering rhythms and dashing melodies. He remained an evangelist for what he considered the apex of American music making.“We believe in Bird, Diz, Bud. We believe in Art Tatum. We believe in Cole Hawkins,” Mr. Harris told his students later in life, name-checking bebop’s founding fathers. “These are the people we believe in. Nothing has swayed us.”Mr. Harris was named a National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Master in 1989. He received multiple honorary doctorates, and was often referred to by friends and students as “doctor.”Mr. Harris in performance in San Francisco in the early 1980s.Tom Copi/Michael Ochs Archives, via Getty ImagesHe recorded more than two dozen albums, including a string of celebrated releases in the 1960s for the Prestige and Riverside labels. All those LPs featured him either in small ensembles or alone at the piano, demonstrating his wily, wandering harmonic sense and his unshakable feel for bebop rhythm.A stroke in 1993 slightly limited his mobility at the keyboard, but it did little to slow him down. As he aged, he developed a stooped posture, but when he sat at the piano, bent lovingly over the keys with a look of enamored study, his hunch became impossible to notice.He is survived by a daughter, Carol Geyer.Barry Doyle Harris was born on Dec. 15, 1929, in Detroit, the fourth of Melvin and Bessie Harris’s five children. His mother was the pianist at their Baptist church, and when he was 4, she began teaching him to play.As an adolescent, he set himself up at the elbow of some of the more experienced pianists around town. Almost immediately upon learning the fundamentals of bebop, he became a kind of junior scholar of the movement, building a pedagogy around the music that Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, Bud Powell and their comrades had invented together in Harlem just a few years earlier.He started hosting informal lessons at his mother’s house, and musicians with considerably more experience often sought out his off-the-cuff symposiums, hoping to seep up what he called his “rules”: exercises and frameworks that could help them unpack the complex — but often unwritten — structures of bebop.“Trane took all my rules,” he told The Daily News of New York in 2012, referring to John Coltrane. “I made up rules for cats to practice.”His process as an instructor was just as improvisational as his performances. “To watch him in action is to witness the oral tradition at its most profound,” the critic Mark Stryker wrote of Mr. Harris in his book “Jazz From Detroit.”In demand as both a bandleader and a side musician throughout the 1950s, Mr. Harris backed some of the era’s leading musicians when they performed in Detroit, including Miles Davis. He sometimes sat in with Parker, bebop’s leading man, when he was in town.Mr. Harris went on tour with the pioneering drummer Max Roach in 1956, and began traveling to New York frequently to record with the likes of Thad Jones, the saxophonist Hank Mobley and the trumpeter Art Farmer. But he had started a family in Detroit and was happily ensconced as a pillar of the scene there.In 1960, at 30, he was finally persuaded by the saxophonist Cannonball Adderley to join the tide of Detroit musicians who had moved to New York. He continued living in the metropolitan area for the rest of his life, teaching and performing almost nonstop and appearing on albums like the trumpeter Lee Morgan’s 1964 hit “The Sidewinder.”Not long after arriving, he became friends with Pannonica de Koenigswarter, the heiress and musicians’ advocate known as the jazz baroness, and she invited him to take up residence at her sprawling home in Weehawken, N.J., overlooking Manhattan and teeming with scores of cats. (Ms. de Koenigswarter arranged for Mr. Harris to stay in the house after she died; he continued living there for the rest of his life.)In 1972, Thelonious Monk moved in, and he stayed until his death 10 years later. So Mr. Harris carried on at the elbow of a fellow master, trading information and further soaking up his language. The Monk songbook remained a pillar of Mr. Harris’s repertoire throughout his life; perhaps thanks in part to his time spent living with Monk, his playing grew both more lyrical and more tautly rhythmic as he got older.Starting in 1974, Mr. Harris held intensive weekly workshops in New York, open to adult students of all ages for a relatively low fee. Students could buy single-evening passes or pay for an entire year. He never stopped teaching the classes, continuing until the pandemic shut things down in March 2020, and then conducting them via Zoom into this year.Mr. Harris teaching a class in Midtown Manhattan in 2020. He held intensive weekly workshops from 1974 until the pandemic shut things down, then continued to teach via Zoom.Jonno Rattman for The New York TimesIn 1982, Mr. Harris opened the Jazz Cultural Theater, a multipurpose space in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, where he taught classes seven days a week and hosted performances at night. At some of those performances, he featured a choir made up of children from the neighborhood.Ms. de Koenigswarter helped to finance the establishment, but Mr. Harris declined to sell liquor, favoring a community orientation that would allow for children to be there at all times. As a result, he didn’t turn a steady profit.The theater closed after five years when the rent jumped, but Mr. Harris just moved his operation elsewhere and kept on teaching: at public schools, community centers and abroad.He never really stopped performing either, gigging regularly at venues around New York into his 90s, including a more-or-less annual run at the Village Vanguard.His last performance was in November, in a concert featuring recipients of the Jazz Masters award. He did not play the piano, but he sang a rendition of his own ballad, “The Bird of Red and Gold,” a tale of inspiration and triumph he had first recorded, in a rare vocal performance, in 1979.Over time, Mr. Harris’s students fanned back out across the globe and committed to carrying on his work. With his blessing, one former student set up a venue in Spain called the Jazz Cultural Theater of Bilbao.Interviewed by The Times shortly before the pandemic, Mr. Harris had lost none of his passion for teaching. Contemplating the experience of hearing a student improve, he said, “It’s the most beautiful thing you want to hear in your life.” More

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      Musicians Flee Afghanistan, Fearing Taliban Rule

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      Dozens of artists and teachers from a prominent music school that promoted girls’ education left the country, but more remain behind. “The mission is not complete,” its founder said.More than 100 young artists, teachers and their relatives affiliated with the Afghanistan National Institute of Music, a celebrated school that became a target of the Taliban in part for its efforts to promote the education of girls, fled the country on Sunday, the school’s leaders said.The musicians, many of whom have been trying to leave for more than a month, boarded a flight from Kabul’s main airport and arrived in Doha, the capital of Qatar, around midday Eastern time, according to Ahmad Naser Sarmast, the head of the school, who is currently in Australia. In the coming days, they plan to resettle in Portugal, where the government has agreed to grant them visas.“It’s already a big step and a very, very big achievement on the way of rescuing Afghan musicians from the cruelty of the Taliban,” Mr. Sarmast, who opened the school in 2010, said in a statement. “You cannot imagine how happy I am.”The musicians join a growing number of Afghans who have fled the country since August, when the Taliban consolidated their control of the country amid the withdrawal of American forces. Among figures in the arts and sports worlds who have escaped are members of a female soccer team who resettled in Portugal and Italy.Still, hundreds of the school’s students, staff and alumni remain in Afghanistan and face an uncertain future amid signs that the Taliban will move to restrict nonreligious music, which they banned outright when they previously led Afghanistan, from 1996 to 2001.The school’s supporters, a global network of artists, philanthropists, politicians and educators, plan to continue to work to get the remaining musicians out of Afghanistan. “The mission is not complete,” said Mr. Sarmast, an Afghan music scholar. “It just began.”A girl practiced at the music institute in 2013. Hundreds of the school’s students, staff and alumni remain in Afghanistan and face an uncertain future under the Taliban.Musadeq Sadeq/Associated PressYo-Yo Ma, the renowned cellist, helped raise awareness about the plight of the musicians among politicians and other artists. He said he was “shaking with excitement” by the news that some of them had escaped.“It would be a terrible tragedy to lose this essential group of people who are so deeply motivated to have a living tradition be part of the world tradition,” Mr. Ma said in a telephone interview.Of the musicians who remain stuck in the country, he said, “I am thinking about them every single hour of the day.”The Afghanistan National Institute of Music was a rarity: a coeducational institution devoted to teaching music from both Afghanistan and the West, primarily to students from impoverished backgrounds. The school became known for supporting the education of girls, who make up about a third of the student body. The school’s all-female orchestra, Zohra, toured the world and earned wide acclaim, and became a symbol of Afghanistan’s changing identity.The school has faced threats from the Taliban for years, and in 2014 Mr. Sarmast was wounded by a Taliban suicide bomber.Since the Taliban returned to power, the school has come under renewed scrutiny. Mr. Sarmast and the school’s supporters have worked for weeks to help get students, alumni, staff and their relatives out of the country, fearing for their safety. The government of Qatar helped arrange safe passage for the musicians to Doha, and played a key role in negotiating with the Taliban.An empty room at the Afghanistan National Institute of Music last month. The musicians plan to resettle in Portugal, where the government has agreed to grant them visas.Wakil Kohsar/Agence France-Presse — Getty ImagesSeveral students and young artists affiliated with the music institute said in interviews with The Times in recent weeks that they had been staying inside their homes, for fear of being attacked or punished by the Taliban. Many stopped playing music, hid their instruments and tried to conceal their affiliation with the school. They requested anonymity to make comments because of the fear of retribution.In the final days of the American war in Afghanistan, the school’s supporters led a frantic and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to evacuate nearly 300 students, teachers and staff affiliated with the school, along with their relatives. The operation was backed by prominent politicians and security officials in the United States. At one point, the musicians sat in seven buses near an airport gate for 17 hours, hoping to get on a waiting plane. But the plan fell apart at the last minute when the musicians were not able to obtain entry to the airport and as fears of a possible terrorist attack escalated.The Taliban have tried to promote an image of tolerance and moderation since returning to power, vowing not to carry out reprisals against their former enemies and saying that women would be allowed to work and study “within the bounds of Islamic law.”But they have sent signals that they will impose some harsh policies, including on culture. A Taliban spokesman recently said that music would not be allowed in public.“Music is forbidden in Islam,” the spokesman, Zabihullah Mujahid, said in an interview with The Times in August. “But we’re hoping that we can persuade people not to do such things, instead of pressuring them.”John Baily, an ethnomusicologist at the University of London who has studied cultural life in Afghanistan, said it would be difficult for the Taliban to eradicate music in the country entirely, after years in which the arts have been allowed to flourish.“You have got literally thousands of young people who have grown up with music,” he said, “and they’re not going to be just kind of switched off like that.” More