By |

Last night, in a text conversation with Michael Tino, we got to talking about our frustrations with some of the arrangements in Singing the Journey, in part because some of the songs come out of popular music and many members have memories of the originals (or of well-known covers). And thus, when we get to the arrangements here, and they don’t go places we expect them to, congregants and songleaders alike stumble and get a little confused. It’s like the day I heard “Stairway to Heaven” on Musak… it was familiar, but weirdly arranged and wildly confusing.

In this conversation last night, I said “wait until we get to ‘Lean on Me'”…. and then saw it was coming up today. No need to wait! Here we go… diving headlong into an earnest but terribly confusing arrangement of the Bill Withers classic.

First, let’s get one thing straight here: it’s an amazing song, perfect for our time and all time. We need this message, this reminder – not only that others are there, but that we can be there for others. I love the commitment that this song asks us to make, and the space it makes for us to lean into that commitment, that covenant, that we can lean on each other, we can call on each other to be present for us.

Now before we get too far, let’s listen to Bill Withers (or we’re just gonna be all kinds of distracted by the ear worm):

After the lyrics, I’ll share part of an interview with Withers talking about this song, but first, I need to talk about our arrangement.

Bless his heart, David Moran tried to make this fit a typical hymn form – verses and chorus. Somehow the bridge got tacked on, but the dénouement – “call me” – is omitted. And while the accompaniment is well written, the arrangement of this song that’s emblazoned upon our minds is in conflict with the music on the page. And then we wonder why it doesn’t work to sing it in our congregations.

And the truth is this – except for the “call me” – all the pieces are here, and many accompanists can rearrange the parts on the pages a bit to make it match the songwriter’s intent and our memories. I’ve put the lyrics in as Withers has it in his original recording, but the lyrics (minus “call me”) are as printed in STJ.

Sometimes in our lives
we all have pain,
we all have sorrow.
But if we are wise
we know that there’s
always tomorrow.

Chorus:
Lean on me when you’re not strong
and I’ll be your friend, I’ll help you carry on,
For it won’t be long ‘til I’m gonna need
somebody to lean on.

Please swallow your pride
if I have things
you need to borrow,
For no one can fill
those of your needs
that you won’t let show.

Bridge:
Just call on me brother when you need a hand.
We all need somebody to lean on.
I just might have a problem that you’d understand.
We all need somebody to lean on.

Chorus

Bridge

If there is a load
you have to bear
that you can’t carry,
I’m right up the road,
I’ll share your load
if you just call me.

Call me… call me…

In researching for today’s post, I ran across an amazing interview with Bill Withers at SongFacts, conducted in 2004. He says this about the song:

A lot of time you go back and fill in the blanks. This was my second album, so I could afford to buy myself a little Wurlitzer electric piano. So I bought a little piano and I was sitting there just running my fingers up and down the piano. That’s often the first song that children learn to play because they don’t have to change fingers – you just put your fingers in one position and go up and down the keyboard. In the course of doing the music, that phrase crossed my mind, so then you go back and say, “OK, I like the way this phrase, Lean On Me, sounds with this song.” So you go back and say, “How do I arrive at this as a conclusion to a statement? What would I say that would cause me to say Lean On Me?” Then at that point, it’s between you and your actual feelings, you and your morals and what you’re really like. You probably do more thinking about it after it’s done.

Being from a rural, West Virginia setting, that kind of circumstance would be more accessible to me than it would be to a guy living in New York where people step over you if you’re passed out on the sidewalk, or Los Angeles, where you could die on the side of the freeway and it would probably be 8 days before anyone noticed you were dead. Coming from a place where people were a little more attentive to each other, less afraid, that would cue me to have those considerations than somebody from a different place. I think what we say is influenced by how we are, what’s been our life experiences. Now, I notice young guys writing about shooting each other in the city and stuff like that, well that was not my experience, so I would never have said anything like that because it was not my experience. I’m not from a big city. I think circumstance dictates what people think.

…

I’m from an environment where it was practical to do that. That’s probably why somebody from New York did not write that song, or somebody from London, or somebody from a large city. It’s a rural song that translates probably across demographical lines. Who could argue with the fact that it would be nice to have somebody who really was that way? My experience was, there were people who were that way.

They would help you out. Even in the rural South. There were people who would help you out even across racial lines. Somebody who would probably stand in a mob that might lynch you if you pissed them off, would help you out in another way.

…

So, just like the whole American experience, it’s very complex and it has it’s own little rules and stuff. I thought it was funny when everybody got worked up over Strom Thurmond having this daughter, and I thought, “What else is new?” It depends on your socialization. My socialization was, it was very likely and very practical to expect a “Lean On Me” circumstance to exist. My adjustment was not adjusting to that circumstance probably being real and probable, my experience was trying to adjust to a world where that circumstance was not the rule rather than the exception.

It was powerful to read, knowing we’re not there anymore. And knowing that this song makes space for that kind of world to exist again.

May it be so.

By |

This song has been in the water for me since the late 70s, when somewhere (maybe Girl Scout camp?) I was taught the piece in the style of Art Garfunkel from his 1973 album Angel Clare. Sometime in the early 1990s, I sang a choral version that had the mark of Sweet Honey in the Rock all over it (although I can’t locate sheet music or a recording now).

Thus, I was both delighted and then a little baffled when I got to the version we have here – because there are places where the timing just seems off (specifically, there seems to be a measure missing after “we know we will” at the top of page 2), and there’s a squareness to the arrangement.

The original version, written by the Afro-pop band Osibisa, was first recorded in 1971. The original has a unique sound, a flowing rhythm, and a joyfulness that I don’t hear much in subsequent versions – even in this live version by Osibisa from 1995.

According to the UUA Song Information page,

Written by Ghanaian drummer Sol Amarifio, Woyaya is the title song of a 1971 album by Oisibisa, a musical group of Ghanaian and Caribbean musicians. It was frequently heard in work camps throughout central West Africa in the 1970s and 1980s. The arrangement in Singing the Journey comes from the version by Ysaye Barnwell (of Sweet Honey in the Rock). “Woyaya,” like many other African scat syllables, can have many meanings. According to the song’s composer, it means “We are going.”  This song is frequently used in bridging ceremonies (UU ceremonies of passage from youth to young adulthood).

Yet I wonder if it is used much anymore, because it seems to be, well, overused and thus has moved into a weird insipidness that is the death knell of many good songs.

And yet. Taking a step back from its sing-songy-ness and re-engaging the soulful joy of its Afro-pop roots somehow reclaims it for me. Because this is most assuredly the song we need a lot of days, personally and globally.

We are going,
heaven knows where we are going,
but we know within.

And we will get there,
heaven knows how we will get there,
but we know we will.

It will be hard, we know,
and the road will be muddy and rough,
but we’ll get there,
heaven knows how we will get there,
but we know we will.

Woyaya, Woyaya,
Woyaya, Woyaya,

Woyaya.

By |

Things I wonder:

Do some congregations sing this together fairly regularly?

Do some music directors and ministers flip past it because it is somewhat complex if you don’t know it already?

Do others flip past it because in 13 years we’ve learned that binary language is too restrictive?

Does composer and colleague Fred Small have some new lyrics for it? (12/8/17: He answered me! See the end of the post.)

Does any of that matter, given the origin story? That story goes something like this: in 1983, Small heard the distress of Janet Peterson, cellist and singer with the women’s music group Motherlode, whose nine-year-old son came home from school crying, because his friends no longer hugged each other to show that they liked each other, now the method was to hit one another. Parsons wanted a song she could sing to him to affirm the freedom to live and love as we choose, and the result was this gentle lullaby.

We have cleared off the table, the leftovers saved, washed the dishes and put them away.
I have told you a story and tucked you in tight at the end of your knockabout day.
As the moon sets its sail to carry you to sleep over the Midnight Sea,
Well, I will sign you a song no one sang to me—may it keep you good company.

You can be anybody that you want to be, you can love whomever you will.
You can travel any country where your heart leads and know I will love you still.
You can live by yourself, you can gather friends around, you can choose one special one.
And the only measure of your words and your deeds
Will be the love you leave behind when you’re gone.

Some girls grow up strong and bold; some boys are quiet and kind.
Some race on ahead, some follow behind; some go in their own way and time.
Some women love women and some men love men.
Some raise children and some never do.
You can dream all the day, never reaching the end of everything possible for you.

Don’t be rattled by names, by taunts or games, but seek out spirits true.
If you give your friends the best part of yourself, they will give the same back to you.

You can be anybody that you want to be, you can love whomever you will.
You can travel any country where your heart leads and know I will love you still.
You can live by yourself, you can gather friends around, you can choose one special one.
And the only measure of your words and your deeds
Will be the love you leave behind when you’re gone.
Oh, the love you leave behind when you’re gone.

It is sweet and sentimental, and oh so very 20th century in its language. I don’t know if any of my questions will be answered, but I hope some will.

Update: On the very active Facebook thread for this post, Fred Small offered this:

Thanks for all the kind words and thoughtful critiques of my song, “Everything Possible,” which I wrote in 1983 at the request of a lesbian mother trying to raise her 9-year-old son amidst the pressures of (toxic) masculinity. The song took off in the late 1980s when the Flirtations picked it up, leading to its performance by LGBTQ choruses around the world. The Boston Gay Men’s Chorus still sings it to their newest members at their first rehearsal. As a straight cis man, I’m deeply honored and humbled by the song’s embrace by LGBTQ singers and audiences.

I’ve thought about revising the lyrics to eliminate the gender binary. It’s not an easy fix. For now, my hope is that “You can dream all the day never reaching the end of everything possible for you” affirms an infinite range of sexual/affectional orientation and gender presentation/identity.

I don’t recommend that congregations attempt to sing the entire song because the verses and bridge are too irregular. Instead, I suggest the song be (1) performed by the choir or (2) led by a song-leader (with guitar or other accompaniment) who sings the verse and bridge and invites the congregation to join in on the chorus.

(To commenters who expressed distaste): Many of our greatest songs walk a fine line between heartfelt pathos and sentimentalized bathos. Whether “Everything Possible” crosses that line is a matter of personal opinion, and I respect yours.

Thanks to Fred.

By |

This might be, as the hymnal suggests, a spiritual from the time of American slavery. This might also be, as some online sources suggest, a traditional blues tune.

I hate when the search for information in inconclusive.

Because I don’t know whether to talk about the use of 19th century spirituals in our predominantly white congregations, or if we talk about the rich blend of traditions that occurred in the American south, as sounds from Africa, Europe, and the Americas all found themselves woven together into new music.

This is, however, an easy song to learn and lead, and I can see why it’s popular. Although if my searches are evidence of anything, it’s that a song like this can’t be tied down to one particular arrangement or melody – so I caution against the rigidity that other hymns may demand.

Come and go with me to that land,
Come and go with me to that land,
Come and go with me to that land
where I’m bound.  (2x)

There’ll be freedom in that land…

There’ll be justice in that land…

There’ll be singin’ in that land…

The truth is, I prefer how the song sounds in other versions, with variations on the melody we know, and with different patterns of call and response. I’ll leave you with this first known recording of the song, from Blind Willie Johnson with backing vocals by Willie B. Harris:

By |

For all the awfulness of Reddit (a  social news aggregation, web content rating, and discussion website that recently had to crack down on alt-right and Nazi content/users), there is also some wonderfulness – from the AMA (Ask Me Anything) posts with famous and not so famous people, to the joy of helping others find songs, films, and shows in Tip of My Tongue, to the highly rigorous academics of Ask An Historian, and of course Aww, where folks show photos of adorable pets (adorableness being in the eye of the beholder). There is even a group (subreddit) for us, called UUReddit, where we get a fair number of seekers.

Among the wonderfulness is Today I Learned (TIL); as folks go through their days, the share a fact they learned from an old article or interview. Sometimes we already knew that, sometimes we didn’t, but for me, the joy is in seeing someone sparked by new information. The posts always start the same: “Today I learned that….”

.

Today I learned that there’s a Weavers tribute band called Work o’ the Weavers. They’re based in the Hudson Valley, and essentially they have picked up (with accolades from original Weavers Pete Seeger and Ronnie Gilbert) where this important folk quartet left off, singing both songs from the Weavers’ albums and their own compositions.

Out of this new repertoire comes today’s hymn, written by Work o’ the Weavers member Martha Sandefer. And once you know it’s in the style of the Weavers, it makes perfect sense to be a bit bluesy, a bit folky, a bit repetitive, a lot justice-oriented.

We are building a new way.
We are building a new way.
We are building a new way,
feeling stronger ev’ry day,
We are building a new way.

We are working to be free.
We are working to be free.
We are working to be free,
hate and greed and jealousy.
We are working to be free.

We can feed our every need.
We can feed our ev’ry need.
We can feed our ev’ry need,
Start with love, that is the seed.
We can feed our every need.

Peace and freedom is our cry.
Peace and freedom is our cry.
Peace and freedom is our cry,
Without these this world will die.
Peace and freedom is our cry.

I don’t love the second verse – it feels like it’s missing some words – and maybe in the original it’s worded better. But it’s definitely of a time, and now that I have learned, I see that it’s purposely so.

It’s a popular piece in our congregations, but I’m not sure I like it, although I have a greater appreciation for it now. I’m not quite sure how “building a new way” sits on the ears of those whose land greedy Europeans have taken, either, as it sounds to me a bit like John Winthrop’s “shining city on a hill.” But I know people like it and use it. I’m not sure I ever have or ever will.

—

Photo is of people ACTUALLY working on building a new way, not just singing about it: Rev. Dr. Liz Theoharis (Kairos Center  and fellow Union alum), Rev. Susan Frederick-Gray (UUA president), Rev. Traci Blackmon (UCC national officer), and Rev. Dr. William Barber II, launching the revival of the Poor People’s Campaign in Washington, DC, yesterday, on the 50th anniversary of the original campaign.

By |

I’m sad to say I’ve not sung this very much.

I’m sad because I’ve opted for comfort and chosen other hymns for justice-oriented services, in part because I’m not as comfortable singing Spanish as I am other languages, in part because I’ve not had accompanists willing to try it, and in part because – at least in the last congregation I served – the people would barely make an effort and it would be a train wreck.

And that too is sad. I’m sad for my lack of courage, my lack of perseverance. I am sad that I too leaned on comfort in cases like this, not wanting to die on the hill of a hymn that would, I hope, become a favorite. I’m not sure who it is I’m apologizing to, but to whoever needs to hear it, please know that I am sorry. I know there’s no changing the past, but I will try to do better in the future.

I am also sad, because this is actually a beautiful song. written by Rosa Martha Zárate Macias, its minor key sets a tone for truthtelling, its driving melody sets a tone for action. You can hear a traditional version here, and a rocked-out version here.

Refrain:
Profetiza, Pueblo mío, profetiza una vez más.
Que tu voz sea al eco del clamor de los Pueblos en opresión.
Profetiza, Pueblo mío, profetiza una vez más,
anuncíandole a los pobres una nueva sociedad.

Profeta te consagro,
no haya duda y temor
en tu andar por la historia;
sé fiel a tu misión.

Refrain

Anunciales a los Pueblos,
que se renovara,
el pacto, en la justicia,
la paz florecera.

Refrain

Denuncia a quienes causan,
el llanto y la oppression,
la verdad sea tu escudo,
se luz de un nuevo sol.

Refrain

Esta sea tu esperanza,
esta sea tu luchar,
construer en la justicia,
la nueva sociedad.

Refrain

English translation by Elsie Zala:

Refrain:
Prophesy, oh my people, prophesy one more time.
Let your voice be the echo of the outcries of all oppressed.
Prophesy, oh my people, prophesy one more time.
Announce to them the coming of a new society.

I sanctify you, prophet.
Banish all doubt and fear.
Be faithful to your mission;
the quest that leads us on.

Refrain

Announce to all the people
that justice promised long,
Restored to every nation:
true peace throughout the world.

Refrain

Denounce all who are causing
oppression, sorrow, tears,
Let truth be your protection,
the light of a new sun.

Refrain

Let this be what you hope for,
the battle that you choose:
To build a social order
with justice at its core.

Refrain

I didn’t find much about the song or songwriter; the UUA Song Information page says only that it was “written in 1975 and first sung at the II National Convention of Spanish Speaking Catholics in Washington, DC.” I found more about the Rosa Martha Zárate at the GIA Publications page, where I learned that she migrated from Mexico to the US in 1968, and much like other notable singing activists, combined music and leadership to champion human rights – in her case, the rights of Latinx immigrants. She often talked about the power of people organizing to help them ” become agents of our own history and our own destiny.”

Amen.

 

By |

There was a moment in 2013 when I learned how to be not just a preacher but also a pastor.

I had been scheduled to preach at the UU Congregation in Queens, a place I often preached, and because my date fell on Veterans Day, I saw this as a perfect opportunity to finally do a piece I’d been thinking about called Making Peace with War.

And then superstorm Sandy barreled through.

Most members of the Queens congregation were not directly affected, though a few were. And up in Morningside Heights where I was, the storm brought nothing but rain and a few hours of heavy wind. But after the storm had passed, we all realized how close we were to significant damage, and how little we could do at that moment.

I knew I couldn’t preach as planned, and I wasn’t entirely certain I could preach at all. Instead, I gathered some thoughts about what we might be feeling, with songs to help us through. I contacted dear friend and Queens music director Jed Levine, who was happy to change up the music. On the day, I dragged a stool to the front of the pews, invited folks to sit close, and I talked.

The energy in the room was full of fear and frustration, and there was a tenseness, along with that striking isolation of hunkering down. I know I felt it, wondering what I could do, wondering why I was so lucky when just a mile away people had lost so much.

That’s when we got to this song. We sang tentatively at first, but soon we found our voices and sang from deep in our souls.

And when we finished, it was better. The energy was better, we felt lighter, we knew something had changed and that we actually could go on.

The rest of the service continued to hold them – and me – as we made space for our feelings and our need to connect.

And I am grateful that this song helped me be a pastor.

Though days be dark with storms
And burdens weigh my heart;
Though troubles wait at ev’ry turn,
I know I can go on.

When sorrow heals my soul
And burdens make me strong,
Though troubles wait at ev’ry turn,
I know I can go on.

My sister in my heart,
My brother in my song,
Though troubles wait at every turn,
I know I can go on.

And though the journey is long,
The destination is near,
Though troubles wait at every turn,
I know I can go on.

So brothers take my hand,
And sisters sing my song,
When hope awaits at every turn,
I know we will go on.

A bit about the song itself, from the UUA’s Song Information page:

Written in the gospel style, and it is a collaborative effort between the composer, Jeannie Gagné, with lyricist, Rev. Dennis Hamilton, and arranger, Mark Freundt. It comes from hope, prayer, and a strong will. The melody came to Jeannie in about twenty minutes one evening, which she says happens rarely but when it does, she trusts it! They hope this hymn is as inspiring to sing as it was to write.

Now I am aware there is binary language here – I don’t know if the composers have offered different lyrics, but I hope there are suitable replacements for “brother” and “sister” forthcoming.

Meanwhile, I am grateful for this song – for what it taught me about who I am as a minister, certainly – but mostly for how it helped a hurting congregation one Sunday morning.

By |

If you open your hymnal, you will see that the song has a different title printed.

Now if you’ve been paying attention, you have also marked up this song’s title and lyrics, as per the composer’s instructions, changing “standing on the side” to the much less ableist and much more active “answering the call.” I won’t rehash Jason Shelton’s commentary on the lyric change – You can see what he’s said about it here. What I will say is that I whole heartedly support the change; it is evidence of a living tradition that is forever responding to new ways to draw the circle of love ever wider.

And it’s been a while since I listened to it, but I think Jason covers the origin story in the linked post/sermon as well.

So what’s left to say?

First – I like this song. I like the lyrics (especially now), I like the melody, I like the general feel of the piece. It moves, too – so many of our hymns are musically static; they establish a melodic phrase and pattern and then just sit there. But as I learned in conversation with Jason this past week, like the great composers, he thinks deeply about the picture the music paints and how the image we begin with changes by the end of it.

And we are the better for it. As I’ve talked about before in this practice, our music is where our theology is writ large – and I’m beginning to conclude that we will be stronger as a faith when most of what we sing from our hymnals is written by Unitarian, Universalist, and Unitarian Universalist composers. Singing the Journey – and songs like this – go a long way toward that goal.

Back to the song: if it’s unfamiliar to the congregation, introduce it with a soloist or a choir, and consider an additional use with a soloist on the verses and the congregation joining in the chorus. Before they know it, they’ll be humming it along with the rest of us.

With the new, authorized lyrics.

(Pardon the weird formatting – typing on my phone today as I left my laptop right near the front door so I wouldn’t forget to bring it with me to Peterborough. You have permission to laugh at me.)

The promise of the Spirit:

faith, hope and love abide.

And so ev’ry soul

is blessed and made whole;

the truth in our hearts is our guide.

.

Chorus:

We are answering the call of love:

hands joined together as hearts beat as one.

Emboldened by faith, we dare to proclaim

we are answering the call of love.

.

Sometimes we build a barrier

to keep love tightly bound.

Corrupted by fear,

unwilling to hear,

denying the beauty we’ve found.

.

Chorus

.

A bright new day is dawning

when love will not divide.

Reflections of grace

in ev’ry embrace,

fulfilling the vision divine.

.

Chorus

Amen.

—

Image comes from Prairie UU – a few of our fellow UUs answering the call of love.

By |

Hmm.  Welcome to another edition of “I want to like this one.”

I hate when I get to these moments in this practice; I often wonder if I’m being too critical, or too obtuse, or too…something. But this prayerful round, written by UU composer Henry Flurry, feels like a camel – a horse built by committee. All the parts are there, but they don’t quite seem to work together for me.

One issue I have is with how the lyrics land rhythmically on the melody – it feels unnatural to put emphasis on the wrong syllables; this piece asks us to sing “o-PEN my HEART TO all THAT i give” where in natural speech we’d say “O-pen my HEART to ALL that I GIVE.” I think that it’s rare that songwriters can get away with that sort of thing – Alanis Morrisette is about the only one I can think of off the top of my head – and it’s hard to learn a song when it doesn’t sit naturally.

The melody is fine, but with the words it poses – for me – a struggle.

And speaking of the words, I’m not 100% sure I agree with the theology. Now I know that the last time I suggested I didn’t like the theology of a song, I got a raft of angry comments and emails, so I am exceedingly gunshy at the moment. But I’m not sure I like the implication of the second line that I am not already part of the love. It sits wrong on my heart. I’d rather my prayer be one of helping me express the love, or pass on the love, or feel the comfort and healing of the love.

Open my heart to all that I seek;
Let me be part of the Love You give.

Anyway… I look at this song and think it’s so close, I want to like it and use it… but I probably won’t.

 

By |

Back in the 1980s, there was a series of commercials produced by the group Partnership for a Drug-Free America that became memes before memes were a thing; perhaps most famous is the “this is your brain on drugs” one, featuring an egg in a hot frying pan. But in second place is the one featuring a man confronting his son about drugs. “Who taught you how to do this stuff?!” he shouts incredulously. “You! I learned it by watching you” is the shocking reply.

That commercial came to mind when I sang this song, because it too is about how the ways we behave as adults affect our children. Shelly Denham’s wonderful song reminds us to take our role seriously – whether we’re parenting or just part of the community that holds our children in care.

When I am frightened, will you reassure me?
When I’m uncertain, will you hold my hand?
Will you be strong for me, sing to me quietly?
Will you share some of your stories with me?
If you will show me compassion,
then I may learn to care as you do,
then I may learn to care.

When I am angry, will you still embrace me?
When I am thoughtless, will you understand?
Will you believe in me, stand by me willingly?
Will you share some of your questions with me?
If you will show me acceptance,
then I may learn to give as you do,
then I may learn to give.

When I am troubled, will you listen to me?
When I am lonely, will you be my friend?
Will you be there for me, comfort me tenderly?
Will you share some of your feelings with me?
If you will show me commitment,
then I may learn to love as you do,
then I may learn to love.

On the UUA Song Information page, we learn the origins of this song:

This song, also titled Then I May Learn, was commissioned in 1999 by the First Unitarian Church of Dallas for their Hymnal Supplement (Voices of the Spirit) which was published for their Centennial Celebration. Because of her life-long commitment to working with and empowering youth, Shelley took the opportunity to write a piece based on children’s yearning for truth, respect, and engagement with adults. In keeping with a philosophy that “children are watching, what are they learning?”, Then I May Learn is meant as a reminder that all children deserve and need compassion, acceptance, commitment…and that they often learn to both give and receive these essential elements of relationship through the simple act of observation.

In my short time in the parish, I didn’t dedicate any children, but you can bet I would have used this song as part of that ritual. And maybe we need to be reminded of this outside of those moments as well.

What we do matters. How we show love matters. And it matters not only to our children but to each other and this hurting world. It matters, as we continue to be traumatized by this administration. It matters, as we find the courage to resist, to fight, to say “me too.” We need each other to be present for each other as we fight the good fight. It matters.

—

The image is a still from the above-mentioned commercial.