Barbershop harmony time!

December; George Winston

In the spring of 1982, Mr. T put together vocal ensembles for the Region 3 Vocal and Instrumental Solo/Ensemble Contest. The girl’s quartet that I liked to listen to rehearse sang a barbershop harmony song. Hey, Mr. T., can you put together a male barbershop quartet, too? “Nope. Not enough time. Maybe next year.”

The following year, I saw my name on a list, along with L., C. and T, as a barbershop quartet. All right! Together we would sing “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby”. Many times. We went to the contest and received a superior rating. The other three guys unwound in the afterglow of the victory … but I wanted more. MORE!!! Hey, Mr. T., can you find us more barbershop music to sing? “Nope. Not enough time. Maybe next year.” Mr. T. was a busy dude.

I found some barbershop music (I don’t remember where) and bought a couple of barbershop albums. My favorite quartet was called the Bluegrass Student Union and I proceeded to, “ahem”, garner – manually obtain? - much of their repertoire. Over the course of that spring, during the summer and into the fall, we rehearsed, a LOT, and came up with a sizable collection of songs – about fifteen, as I recall – and I began to book us on a few gigs here and there. I look upon all of this with much amusement now. Some enterprising teenage musicians have their own rock band. I had my own barbershop quartet. And ... we had hats. Being mostly from Volga, SD, we called ourselves The Volga Note-men. Catchy? You betcha. I remember Mr. T. saying, “I’ve created a monster.”

In the fall of 1983, Uncle D. had let it slip that the Bloomington Sportsmen Barbershop Chorus, the group he sang in, would present their fall concert in October. I wanted to go. It took some doing, but I talked Mom into going. So, on a blustery Friday, Mom, Grandma and I stocked the car with root beer and hit the road for the Cities (Midwest slang for the Twin Cities) to hear Uncle D. and the Sportsmen Chorus. The concert was a hit, all the way around. And we enjoyed the afterglow party at the Holiday Inn even more.

When the time came to head back to Uncle D.’s place, I got put in T.’s car. Who’s T.? “That’s Cousin W.’s fiancé.” Oh. I thought I was riding with Uncle D. “Well, T. doesn’t have heat in his car and Grandma got cold on the way to the concert. So you have to switch.” Oh. Okay.

So, who are we listening to on your tape deck? “That’s George Winston. Have you heard of him?” Nope. But I like him. “He’s kind of a jazz pianist but has a real mellow sound. I guess I would use the word contemplative to describe him. They play him late at night on Minnesota Public Radio.”

I acquired “December” the next day before I allowed Mom and Grandma to leave the city. And by the time Christmas came, I had, “ahem”, gleaned – extracted? – Mr. Winston’s arrangement of “Carol Of The Bells” and began a tradition of setting the mood for the Christmas Eve Candlelight service with this quiet blockbuster. I have never heard Mr. Winston perform live. I wonder if his creations sound the same every time or if they serve as a launching pad to something even more ethereal. In either case, I particularly enjoy the introspective nature of his music

I have observed that, though we call the holiday New Year’s Day, we actually celebrate more the passing of an old year. And in all truthfulness, we celebrate the whole month of December in the same way. Whatever we do during the rest of the year, it pales in comparison to what and how we do anything in December. So, on this last day of December, I don’t celebrate the trackless jungle before us as much as the trail behind us that boasts of good cheer and best wishes.

Happy New Year.

Credits: To L., C. and T., for creating memories of a lifetime and making some darn good barbershop harmony with me.

Killing time in London

The Christmas Album, Snowfall; Tony Bennett

In 1993, I again chaperoned those crazy high school age musicians in the concert choir and symphonic band around Europe. At the end of the tour I only had four days before I met up with the Crown Odyssey in Tilbury, England. So, instead of flying all of the way back to the US only to turn around and fly back to Europe, I parted ways with the traveling musicians in Frankfurt, Germany, and spent four days in London, England, by myself with approximately eight million other people.

I had enjoyed the tour with the high school kids. My sister K. had come along this time. She sang in the choir and shared a seat with me on the bus. But after the two-week excursion, I needed sleep. So I stayed in bed on my first day in London just to get caught up on sleep.

Days two and three happened to fall on a Saturday and Sunday. I left my hotel room early on these days with no intentions of returning until evening. Having seen a great deal of London just a few weeks earlier, I decided that I wanted to invest my time in a concert and a show.

The show came on Saturday evening with one of the last open rehearsals of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s “Sunset Boulevard” before officially opening. Patti LuPone starred as Norma Desmond. Having never seen the movie “Sunset Boulevard” with Gloria Swanson and William Holden, I got caught up in the plot, missing some of the subtle nuances in the performances of the actors on the stage. I heard some years afterward that the producers of the show felt that someone a little older would play the role made famous by Gloria Swanson with a little more credibility. So, when the show came to Broadway, they booked Glenn Close to fill the role, even though Ms. LuPone held the contract. She sued and won a million-plus settlement, using part of the money to build the “Andrew Lloyd Weber Swimming Pool” at her home in Connecticut.

On Sunday afternoon, I went to Royal Festival Hall and enjoyed an afternoon listening to Tony Bennett. After an evening of drama and divas, I found refreshment in this affable and uninflated master of song. He seemed so relaxed as he emerged from the wings, genuinely pleased that someone would come and listen to yet one more interpretation of some of the world’s greatest tunes. I particularly enjoyed his pianist, Ralph Sharon, with his tasty fills and his deft touch. After an afternoon of some hard swingin’ and some deep ballads, and a few encores, Mr. Bennett closed up shop with “I Left My Heart In San Francisco”.

The number of young people in the audience astounded me. I figured that my young years would distinguish me from the rest of the crowd. Hardly. Mr. Bennett has something that the younger crowd likes. On April 15, 1994, Mr. Bennett performed live for MTV’s series Unplugged, which, for Tony Bennett, provided a superfluous platform. “I’ve always been unplugged!” he declared with a smile. He won his audience over without changing his music one bit. And in the end, won a Grammy Award for Best Traditional Pop Vocal Performance from this April performance, and, more unexpectedly, Album of the Year.

And so, when Jon Stewart had his show “The Jon Stewart Show” (before he had “The Daily Show”) it was only natural to bring on Tony Bennett to PLUG his UNPLUGGED album, and, since it was Christmas, he and the Ralph Sharon Trio performed “I’ll Be Home For Christmas”. The track made for a remarkable addendum to an “old school” Christmas album that Mr. Bennett had recorded in the 1960’s.

Sometimes I see and hear musical artists and wonder about the future of music. I see young people embrace the music of Tony Bennett and I rest a little easier.

Credits: To Buck Ram, Kim Gannon and Walter Kent, for composing “I’ll Be Home For Christmas”, a song with a sentiment that has brought a glimmer of hope to millions who can’t get home for a special day.

A New York Christmas

Christmas with Maureen McGovern; Maureen McGovern

I have enjoyed the artistry of Maureen McGovern since I first heard her on The Tonight Show some time in the 1970’s when she sang “Spain” by Chick Corea with the NBC Orchestra with Doc Severinson. I wish that I could tell you that I’ve purchased more than one of her thirteen albums. But I haven’t. I wish that I could tell you that I bought the singles “The Morning After” in 1973, “We May Never Love Like This Again” in 1974 and “Can You Read My Mind” in 1979. But I didn’t. I wish that I could tell you that I heard her live at Carnegie Hall in 1989, on Broadway in “Little Women”, in concert as a headliner or a guest with symphony orchestras all over the country or in cabaret at any number of solo rooms throughout Manhattan. But I heardn’t.

I guess you would have to call me a casual fan. I’ve never forced my hand to make myself appear where she performs. And, to tell you honestly, I don’t even remember the circumstances under which I purchased this CD. Yet, here it is. And I love it.

The energy on this album has all the hustle and bustle of New York; you can hear the uptown-ness in the arrangements. In “Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town”, she makes reference to the tree at Rockefeller Center, the show at Radio City Music Hall, Deer Park, the snowflake at 57^th and brunch at the Blue Note.

She brings freshness to all of the standard Christmas songs: “The Holly And The Ivy”, “O Holy Night”, “I Wonder As I Wander”, “Sleigh Ride/Winter Wonderland/Let It Snow”, “White Christmas”, “The Christmas Song” and the like. She makes the rounds with Alfred Burt, singing “Bright, Bright, The Holly Berries”, “Some Children See Him” and “Caroling, Caroling”. She also includes a jazz tune called, “A Child Is Born”, a song attributed to jazz composer Thad Jones with lyrics that COULD pertain to the nativity scene but historically don’t.

“Toyland”, by far the most creative segment, is absolutely fat with recollection of youth, evoking priceless hours of childhood fantasy played out to scale, and made all the more real by the mere presence of a truck, a ball, a doll, a cowboy hat, a magic wand, a football helmet or a stuffed bear.

When you’ve grown up my dears,

And are as old as I,

You’ll often ponder on the years

That roll so swiftly by, my dears,

That roll so swiftly by

And of the many lands

You will have journeyed through,

You’ll oft recall

The best of all

The land your childhood knew!

Your childhood knew.

… goes the verse. The music box ending so poignantly suspends in mid-air the imagined spectacle, so far away, of a boy with his toy horse and a girl with her fairy princess tiara. Worth the price of admission.

People audibly gasp when I reveal that I’ve never watched “White Christmas” on TV. I haven’t specifically avoided seeing it. We’ve just never been in the same room together. “Christmas with Maureen McGovern” has provided me with the only recording that I’ve ever heard of “Count Your Blessings Instead Of Sheep”. Somebody had to actually tell me that this song comes from “White Christmas.” Until that time, I assumed that Ms. McGovern had intended to include an obscure Irving Berlin Thanksgiving song in the mix.

The powers what be have (stupidly) opted to discontinue the manufacture of this CD. If you can find one, prepare to pay many dollars if it’s new. Used ones usually fall into the “reasonably priced” category.

I hope you had a blessed and merry Christmas.

Credits: To Victor Herbert and Glen MacDonough, for their operetta “Babes In Toyland”, and their unique insight to the magical lure that toys possess, and the power of reminiscence they can engender.

Children's Christmas for adults

John Denver and The Muppets: A Christmas Together; John Denver; The Muppets

I’m a snob. I’ve made reference to my snobbery in other places on this blog. I’m a piano snob. I’m a cookie snob. I’m a television show snob, I’m a Mac computer snob, I’m a mac and cheese snob, I’m a bottled water snob. I’m even a living room and kitchen lighting snob. I’m also a Muppet snob.

The Muppet Show franchise that I know and love closed shop on the day that Jim Henson died on May 16, 1990. Although I admire the diligence, drive and perseverance of his children in their efforts to keep the Muppets alive, to me the heart and soul of muppetdom, through which all other muppeteers sang, spoke and performed, emanated from the real life character of Mr. Henson.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve found immense satisfaction in observing the relationships fostered by the Henson/Frank Oz union: Kermit and Fozzie, Bert and Ernie, Kermit and Miss Piggy, Rowlf the Dog and Fozzie, Dr. Teeth and Animal, and Kermit and Sam the Eagle. Each character pairing differs from another, but the foundation of love, respect, comedic timing and ability to focus on task permeates one of the closest artistic collaborations in the history of show business.

I remember when “John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together” aired on TV in 1979. I loved it. Nearly every performing artist that ever had interaction with a Muppet has brought some level of credibility to their exchange. But John Denver summoned an extra measure of child like conviction that made all of us believe that HE believed that Muppets were sentient beings and not merely the extension of a talented Muppeteer's hand, lending credence to their celebration of Christmas and sincerity to the effects of smoke, mirrors and glitter.

I don’t know why upper management has never released this special onto DVD. I know people have searched for it for thirty years. Thankfully, the CD has illuminated our Christmases for at least two decades. “The Twelve Days Of Christmas” reigns as the brightest shining star on this tree, amongst “Christmas Is Coming” and “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”, where Miss Piggy balks at “Piggy pudding!?” urging Gonzo to reply, “No, figgy pudding, made with figs.” “Oh. Sorry.” “And bacon.” “What?”

We all want to believe in Muppets. They represent all that remains child-like and innocent in all of us. Adding John Denver and Christmas to the mix only sweetens the potency.

Credits: To John Denver, for the breath of fresh air that tinges every song you sang and brightens our day with the sunshine you gleam on our shoulders. And to Rowlf the Dog, for "Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore."

Finding God in London

Adeste Fideles! Christmas Down The Ages; Emma Kirkby; The Westminster Abbey Choir; Martin Neary, conducting

I first went to London in 1991 while chaperoning the group of high school age students that formed a concert choir and symphonic band. I don’t recall where the band played. The choir provided special music on Sunday morning during 11 AM Worship at John Wesley’s Chapel, mere steps away from The City of London proper. The choir sang from the upper gallery. I accompanied from the piano down on the main floor and sat with the organist during the service. At one point I noticed a large bandage on the thumb of his right hand. I don’t think it stopped his hands at all from doing their liturgical dance on the keyboard of their 1891 pipe organ. What did you do to your thumb? “Oh. Occupational hazard, don’t you see.” No, I guess I don’t. Do you mean you maimed yourself while practicing the organ? “Ah! No. I also serve as the gardener, and we have a frightfully barbarous rose bush that guards the cloisters out back.”

Following church, and after wolfing down some lunch, the group had an afternoon bus trip in store, hitting up St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Covent Garden, the smallest building in London, the British Museum, and the area of London terrorized in 1888 by the notorious Jack the Ripper. Dr. C., however, had made a special request, during our lunch break, that when we stop to see Westminster Abbey, we do so during Evensong. I liked this request.

We only had three days in this city, and most of our stops on our bus tour consisted of us getting out of the bus and having different features pointed out. We never really got to tour anyplace substantial and substantially. We more than likely would have stopped at Westminster Abbey for just a few moments to receive a quick history while admiring the gothic structure from outside. In this case, though, we could walk inside this living piece of Anglican history, every bit as much a British museum as the British Museum, and worship God in a place where Christians have met, and the pageantry of English history has played itself out, for nearly one thousand years. Since Christmas Day in 1066, when William the Conqueror had himself crowned the King of England, every British monarch has presented him or herself for coronation in this bastion of Anglican Christianity.

I don’t know how much the young travelers got out of the service, but I sat mesmerized by the learned preaching, the subdued yet reverent recitation of scripture, and the glorious music from the Choir of Westminster Abbey. My colleagues and I later shared this impression: In a country that lies many thousand miles from our own, whose national history has stood apart from our's for more than two hundred years, in one of the largest cities of the world, whose international flavor dictates a more secular, a larger and more culturally encompassing worldview, in a structure that contains burial places of and memorials to notable and celebrated citizens of the United Kingdom, the surreality of it all stood aside long enough for all of us in this place, American and Britton alike, to share in the same God, the same Christ, the same Holy Spirit that we worship in our own churches, wherever they may be.

In a place that so soon may boast of a millennium of virtually continuous worship, the Choir of Westminster Abbey on “Adeste Fideles! Christmas Down The Ages” displays a proclivity for Christmas music as worshippers would have sung it at different times in its illustrious history. Leaving behind the grand arrangements, the polish and gloss of extravagance, and the really big “Joy To The World”s, the choir, its guests and soloists bring their trademark excellence to a more intimate, a more potent because of its compact presentation, and certainly a more acoustic observance of the coming of Christ.

Credits: To those who travel the world and who seek the familiar God they know and find it amidst all that deviates from the customary, the routine, the ordinary and the run-of-the-mill.

Where's that song?

Ed McCurdy; The Miracle Of The Wheat

KBRK AM radio frequently played a curious song at Christmas during the formative years of my sisters and me. As I’ve mentioned once or twice, when I listen to a song, I typically process it as I hear it, noting chords, melody and key. Somebody can tell me words later. “The Miracle Of The Wheat” would always make my sister D. and I laugh in derision at the sound of the soprano on the two-line chorus:

“Hear the glory of a story, the miracle of the wheat,

Hear the glory of a story, the miracle of the wheat.”

rendering attention to the rest of the song impossible. If you will recall, sensitivity to dorkiness occurs at its strongest during the high school years and a brown spot found anywhere on the apple ruins the whole apple.

I don’t remember why I got curious about this song a few years back, but I jumped aboard the world wide interweb in an effort to locate an mp3 file of the song to see if its dorkiness has held up since D. and I ridiculed its weaker moments. I couldn’t find anything then, and my attempts to find one have failed on other searching expeditions. But recently I struck gold. Not only did I find the song, but I also discovered that others have been searching for this song, too.

Ervin Drake and Jimmy Shirl wrote “The Miracle Of The Wheat” in 1951. Sinatra’s “It Was A Very Good Year", Frankie Laine’s “I Believe” and many others came from the collaborating pens of Drake and Shirl. They wanted to write a song of Jesus’ birth under different circumstances that told a good story. They had success with the good story part, but with little commercial appeal. The only person to pick the song up was American folk singer Ed McCurdy who recorded the song in 1958.

The recording received substantial airplay in Cincinnati, OH, by Stan Matlock on WKRC-AM during his morning show “The Magazine of the Air” during the Christmas season in the 1950's and 1960's. He had, essentially, a talk show before talk shows had been invented. He didn’t like to play music except on very few occasions. And this song, for some reason, sat right with him. To this day, people in Cincinnati remember the song, though Mr. Matlock retired in the 1970’s and took his recordings with him.

Now, dig this: Ed McCurdy died in 2000. His wife, Beryl, hasn’t come across a copy of the recording he did of this song. Stan Matlock died in 2001. His widow, Louise, knows nothing of the recording of the song championed by her husband. Even Ervin Drake doesn’t have a copy of Ed McCurdy singing his song. But I have found one. And you may listen to it by clicking right … HERE!

D. and I still smile at the soprano singing on the chorus. The tune sounds like it comes from the old country. The design of the missive seems trite. All of the elements of recording and style make this a museum piece … Except that the uniqueness of the story and the sincerity in the performance bring a consignment of credibility and an abundance of truth to a basic yet everlasting mandate of peace and goodwill toward men.

Credits: To Bert Goetz and Stan Matlock, and other radio station DJ’s of yore, who perceived intelligence and trust on the other end of their broadcast mic, providing, therefore, adherence to integrity, excellence in content and sustenance to and prolongation of a listening community. Thank you.

Merry Christmas!

Noel, Christmas at King's, 33 Favourite Carols; King's College Choir, Cambridge

My sisters, my Mom and I learned many years ago not to give a book to Dad as a gift on Christmas morning until all of the other gifts had been given out. Otherwise, while the rest of us opened presents and celebrated the birth of our Lord by giving of ourselves to each other, Dad sat unengaged and let his gifts pile up around him while he continued to read his book.

One Christmas morning, when one of us had forgotten and given him a book during one of the first rounds of gift giving, I happened to see, from across the room where I was sitting, a picture of that guy from CBS Sunday Morning who does a segment called “Postcard From Nebraska” on the cover of the book he was reading. He wore a pair of bib overalls and had a funny smirk on his face. The title of the book was “Actors And The Men Who Love Them”. This was too weird. Which one of us would think that Dad could like this book? And why did Dad like this book? Two questions that I didn’t say out loud, because I didn’t want anybody to answer. A couple of hours later, I checked out the book and I saw that Dad’s fingers must have been covering part of the cover. The book was called “Tractors And The Men Who Love Them.”

I don’t have a CD to correlate with that story. I just thought I’d tell you more about our father.

Today I am with my family, socked in by another one of our fine and friendly South Dakota blizzards, with a house full of warmth, good cheer, lots of presents, Christmas gunny sacks fit to burst, French toast, oyster stew, cookies up the ying-yang and pumpkin pie. MMMMMMMmmmmmm pumpkin pie……….

The Christ child is born, and my favorite British vocal ensemble, seen many times on these pages, is singing Christmas Carols all day on my iPod through my Mom’s Bose speaker system to honor the celebration of His arrival.

Credits: To my family, immediate, extended, imagined and virtual. I love you very much.

Out of the mouths of babes

Benjamin Britten; A Ceremony Of Carols; King's College Choir; Stephen Cleobury, conducting

I have an addictive nature. It has plagued me for years. The adage “too much of a good thing” doesn’t register with me very easily. My subconscious can’t make sense of it. A voice cries out in the wilderness, “Amass all of the goodness you can find, in whatever form you can root out, that we may indulge and make that goodness part of ourselves!” Thus, I like food, and I eat too much. I like the Simpsons, The West Wing and Star Trek, and I watch them too much. I like Sudoku, and I play it too much. Thank heaven I have no penchant for drugs or alcohol, otherwise if my life wasn’t a living hell, it would probably be because I was dead.

In certain instances I have instinctively backed away from something that I could foresee as problematic. From the absolute beginning of the craze, I veered away from video games knowing of the expense and the amount of time that it would take away from practicing. Some who know me well have offered that I, of all people, should not take up golf. I can’t imagine getting caught up in golf. But, I also remember saying at one time, “I can’t imagine getting caught up in ‘Star Trek’.” One never knows where he will find and/or apply discipline.

I have about five compositions on my iPod that I have assigned to Category O; O for “Only listen to this piece one time a year.” Have you ever heard music of such profound beauty and industrial strength that it instantly bypasses all of the usual senses in order to completely redress the inner mansion of your soul? It doesn’t happen very often. I have drawn, in the proverbial sand, a very fine line whose parameters boast of an ambiguous nature. Yes, if I hear something that I absolutely and unequivocally love, I want to experience that music as often as possible in order to make its sound, its emotional dynamic, its harmonic language and overall artistic effect part of my personal musical arsenal. But if the music passes “the line”, then I never want that place of bliss, euphoria and penultimate exhilaration to which this music catapults me to ever become ordinary. And so, I allow myself to listen to a recording of such music just once a year, or, maybe, even less frequently than that.

My favorite part of Christmas Eve comes after the dinner, after the games, after the candle lighting, after Silent Night, right before I go to bed … when I listen to Benjamin Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols. This eleven-movement work for treble voices and harp occupied the composer’s time in 1942 while aboard the cargo ship Axel Johnson en voyage to Britain from the United States. Warning: Do not expect the Christmas carols we all know and love in this collection. It opens (“Procession”) and closes (“Recession”) with the ancient plainsong “Hodie Christus” from the Christmas Vespers, and in between them, Mr. Britten set to music eight ancient texts in archaic Middle English, each concerned with a mysterious aspect of the Christmas story, and each colored with a medieval understanding of God, the world and mankind. The text takes some liberties with scriptural facts, bringing the nativity scene to a freezing English winter. Though the subject matter is religious and the words are reverential to God and the baby Jesus, I would not characterize this presentation as sacred. Though it begins and ends with Catholic text, the passive aspect of the words suggests a more reactionary than participatory reflection of the birth of Christ. We seem to be observing the scene from the perspective of the author of the text.

But as much as I love the narrative aspect of this opus, the music tears me up with its atmospheric slant. When Mr. Britten wants you to feel cold, the temperature is absolutely glacial. With its unfamiliar harmonies and unorthodox melodies, Ceremony of Carols evokes a world quite alien from our lives and times. A Victorian, Dickensian, Oh-Come-All-Ye-Faithful, city sidewalks, gingerbread feeling, or Gap commercial Christmas would confound the folk who inspire this joyful yet somber Yuletide scene. The arrival of Jesus is serious business, indeed.

Mr. Britten’s true genius, though, lies in setting this quasi-liturgy for treble voices; not women, boys. When profound truths gush from the voices of little ones so young, innocent and devoid of the worldly wisdom we prize, the awe and wonder that electrify the air bring power and intense authority to the message proclaimed. Perhaps not quite unlike the arrival of the Savior of the world in the form of a baby born in a manger.

Merry Christmas.

Credits: To everyone who has been reading my blog, for providing insight, correction, supplemental information, recognition and encouragement. My "Thank You" to you is woefully insufficient, yet I offer it to you wholeheartedly. Thank You.

When limitation isn't a crutch

Wintersongs & Traditionals; Billy McLaughlin, guitarist

I wish I knew more about art. About paintings. About painters. About aesthetics. About the elements that make an artistic piece beautiful, interesting and powerful. I spend so much time with music that the rest of the art world gets shoved out of the way instead of smack dab in the middle of my focus where it belongs. I turn beet red when I consider the pitifully meager amount of time I have spent in museums. And, yet, when I go, I have a glorious and memorable time.

One such time occurred on a beautiful fall day with my cousin W. on a spontaneous outing to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, MN. I have to tell you that I don’t remember a thing of what I saw. I did, however, manage to wake up a lonely corner of my soul, one that sees the light of day too infrequently. And, on this day, my spirit danced for joy at the notion of delving into the tangible artistic expression of one who converses in a different medium than I do. I profited more from how I felt than what I saw.

On the way out of the museum, I heard Christmas music; very good Christmas music. Museum gift shops often feature and hawk the recordings of a local performing artist. On this glorious autumn day, months away from Christmas, guitar player extraordinaire Billy McLaughlin from the Twin Cities had a new winter album and he wanted me to buy it. Having no Christmas guitar music, I complied and was treated to a work of clarity and wonder. I marvel at the capacity of such a talented musician to bring the whole package, a melody or improvisation, harmony and a bass line, to the vanguard of musical maxim using only six strings and five fingers. Most of the selections on this album would resonate with his hearers as standard winter or Christmas fare. The rest escaped from his compositional pen.

Only recently did I discover that Mr. McLaughlin suffers from focal dystonia. Like Parkinson’s Disease, the body no longer can relax naturally when it should. Practiced movements become unpredictable and, as you can imagine, frustrating. Unlike Parkinson’s Disease, the focal dystonia isolates itself to one area of the body – in Mr. McLaughlin’s case, the left forearm, hand and fingers. This spells almost imminent death for a trained guitarist.

One of my favorite Lisa Simpson quotes comes from an early episode of “The Simpsons” where she quotes her mentor and hero Mr. Bleeding Gums Murphy. He says that, “music is a fire in your belly that comes out of your mouth, so you better stick an instrument in front of it.” When the music flows, you have to find a way to state your business. Meaning, if you have focal dystonia and you can’t play the guitar in the way that you were trained, you have to find another way to play the guitar. Mr. McLaughlin, for the time being, plays the guitar standing up with the guitar standing upright on the floor in front of him, tapping the strings with the fingers of both hands. I found a video of him playing in this way on his website and it utterly astounds me what he accomplishes.

He reminds me of Sammy Davis, Jr. I understand that Mr. Davis would refuse to leave the stage until he had won every ounce of respect that he could get from you. Mr. McLaughlin has that same “never say die” spirit.

Credits: To Billy McLaughlin and other musicians and artists, who accept physical limitations or disabilities, but deny the impact that these limitations or disabilities have on their art. Thank you.

A little trip to Rochester

The King's Singers; Kiri Te Kanawa, guest; City of London Sinfonia; Richard Hickox, conducting

I have suffered from wanderlust for years. Even when attending first and second grade I would have this curiosity to see other lands, big cities, the ocean, mountains, even a different town one county over. Even to a point where I secretly wished that we would move; move to a different house, move to a different state, anyplace different. This yearning for travel didn’t come from a sense of dissatisfaction with the location of our home. I just knew, at the ripe age of six or seven years, that I wanted to travel, to see new things that I had never seen before … to encounter first-hand hard proof, before my very eyes, that the universal landscape didn’t consist entirely of endless rows of corn.

One day in June of 1976, after attending swimming lessons that morning, my sisters and I came home to find out that we were to take the bus to Rochester, MN, to visit our Aunt J., Uncle A and our cousins R. and T. for a week. A WEEK! No parents! Just we three kids on an adventure in a bus – IN A BUS! – along the cornfields of Minnesota. How in the world was I going to get through the next few weeks with this kind of excitement pumping through my veins?

Well, the answer to that question came with the date of departure: July 5, 1976; the day after our nation celebrated its two hundredth birthday. I had more than a touch of the patriot in me as we approached Independence Day 1976 and I suppose I got caught up in all of the pomp and pageantry of parades, special church services, picnics and fireworks. Our trip of a lifetime occurred almost as an afterthought; but, indeed, an exceptional afterthought. On Monday morning, Mom and Dad put us on the bus and our journey of a million miles began.

Aunt J. and Uncle A. picked us up at the bus station in Rochester and we commenced with one of the most refreshing weeks I had ever experienced. We had picnics, we went to the races, we rode bikes, we toured the Mayo Clinic, we played with our cousins and we made new friends. And through it all, I began a love affair with the city of Rochester because, at this point, Rochester represented every place in this world that I wanted to visit. But best of all, the icing on the cake, J. and A. didn’t drive around in a car … they had a VAN! On the following Saturday, I felt like a million bucks riding in FIRST CLASS in a VAN (!) along the cornfields of Minnesota, westward this time, to go home. My baby steps out into the world satisfied, for a while, my wanderlust.

My sister K. graduated from SDSU in 1985 and, following a summer job in Alaska, got a job in Rochester, MN, working at the Mayo Clinic. For the first few years, she had an apartment. Then she found this awesome place. One of the Mayo brothers had built a tiny two-story study that stood separate from the main house on the Mayo estate. It sat back in a canyon a few miles drive out in the country from the city of Rochester. I loved coming to visit her, especially around Christmas time.

During one such visit, she left me at this magical house of hers while she went to work, and I wrapped presents. Not wanting to wrap presents in silence, I raided her Christmas CD collection and found The King’s Singers’ Christmas album called “A Little Christmas Music”.

So many of the Christmas albums that famous ensembles or artists release come across as just another take on the same old material. But this group has invested an enormous amount of time in preparation for this album. The arrangements are creative and well thought out. They play off the title of the album, referencing the English translation of Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik”. “A Little Christmas Music (Medley a la Mozart)” includes snippets of Mozart melodies, specifically the Alleluia from “Exsultate Jubilate” and the main theme to Piano Sonata in C Major, K. 330. Comedy laces the entire project, but quality never gives in. The City of London Sinfonia assists them on a few numbers, most notably the last track which combines Patapan with Bizet’s rendition of Farandole or “March of the Kings”.

Fun comes at a price. Somebody has to pay. My father turned forty-six on July 3, 1976. He and Uncle M. baled hay that day. Late in the afternoon, my cousin D. drove out to the hayfield on his motorcycle and Dad asked if he could go for a ride. After going for a quick spin he returned to the hayfield and slipped on some loose hay, fell and broke his collarbone. Dad spent all of the next few weeks with his left arm in a sling. The best laid plans … yada, yada, yada.

Credits: To Aunt J. and Uncle A, for reprieving a young boy of his hopeless case of counter-homesickness (where you’re sick of home) and providing him with the hope that some of the world isn’t cornfields.

The singing Coronet lady

White Christmas; Rosemary Clooney

“Extra value is what you get when you buy Coronet.”

Well, now, that’s strange, I thought. Usually the person who sings the jingle stays outside the purview of the camera. Yet, here’s this woman, singing this one line, and it’s packed with character, style and consumer confidence. And she wants me to purchase Coronet paper products. Well, I’m sold. Dad, who’s that singing on TV? “Why, that’s Rosie Clooney. I haven’t seen her in years.” Did she sing anything famous? “I think she was the one who sang ‘This Old House’.” Dad provided the first of a variety of answers to similar queries about this mystery woman. “I think she sang ‘Come On-A My House’.” “Wasn’t she in ‘White Christmas’?” “She sang a bunch of Italian songs.” Oh, was she Italian? “No.” “I think he’s Nick Clooney’s sister.” Who’s Nick Clooney? “I don’t know.” “She’s married to Jose Feliciano.” The blind guy who sings “Feliz Navidad”? “Oh, uh, no. No, I guess not.” So, I wrote down her name to look up later when the world wide interweb was invented.

In 1982, one of the major TV networks broadcast a television movie called “Rosie: The Rosemary Clooney Story”. Finally, I could find out more about this woman with the velvet voice. Oddly enough, I don’t remember too much from the movie. However, I could see that she came from old Hollywood, her career had started in a promising way, but, that she had suffered from some stumbling blocks along the way; namely, a bipolar disorder which led to a nervous breakdown while she was on stage in Reno, Nevada. Her recuperation process took eight years to complete. In 1974, her “White Christmas” co-star, Bing Crosby, invited her to appear on a show with him marking his 50^th anniversary in show business. She accepted, and a comeback began.

Over the years, I saw her many times on TV, most notably on Larry King as she was a favorite of his. During the last twenty years of her career, she recorded for the Concord Jazz label. My sister K. remembers when she guest-starred on an episode of “E.R.”, a show which included her nephew George as a member of its cast. She received a Primetime Emmy Award nomination for that role.

One day, while strolling through the mall around Christmas time in 1996, I saw that Ms. Clooney had put out a Christmas album and I had to get it. Her voice had lost a little of the luster that she enjoyed in her younger days, but whatever qualities she missed she more than made up for with style, interpretation, warmth, compassion, credibility and sincerity.

I have to tell you about the cover. The first pressing of this CD included a clear plastic packet in front of the picture on the cover. Inside the packet was some type of clear liquid, maybe water, I don’t know, and glitter, supposedly giving you the sense that it was actually snowing on the cover of her CD. It didn’t really work too well, but you could see what the producers of the album were trying to accomplish. That made it special.

All of those novelty tunes that Ms. Clooney’s management had her sing at the start of her career cost her a little bit. She never received a fair shake at singing something a little more legitimate. Time, though, has proven her more than equal to the task. My favorite part of this CD comes when she sings “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow”. On the last pass through the tune, she sings the following:

When we finally say “Bonne Nuit”,

How I’ll hate going out in the sleet.

But if you really care for me,

Come On-A My House and warm up my feet.

Credits: To Rosemary Clooney, for overcoming humongous obstacles and, after pushing away excess emotional baggage, finding a voice and a song to go with it. Thank you. We miss you.

My first choral gig

CarolSinger; Cynthia Clawson

In November of 1990, I returned home from working on the Golden Odyssey. I disembarked the ship in Athens, Greece, flew to Zurich, Switzerland, flew to Chicago, and finally to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. In the weeks that followed, I prepared for an audition with “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, did my Christmas shopping, and considered where I would find my next gig if I didn’t win the audition with the Marines.

At the breakfast table before going to church on that first Sunday home from Europe, Mom said, “Erik, I think the Grace Lutheran choir should prepare a Christmas concert, and we don’t have anybody who can direct us but you.” After that short speech, Mom got up from the table, strategically vacating the room before I could say, “But, Mom…” After church, Mom got up in front of the choir and said, “Choir, I think the Grace Lutheran choir should prepare a Christmas concert, and we don’t have anybody who can direct us but Erik.” And that’s how I got my first choral conducting gig. I got it from my mom.

So, I put together a concert that we could do on the second half of the worship service on the Sunday before Christmas. We had six choir numbers, three duets and a trio. The choir sang two numbers that they knew from years past, and then they learned four new songs. I must commend them, even now, on their willingness to learn something new. At that time, their choir library consisted of forty songs, a repertoire that took them from Labor Day to Memorial Day. And to keep the congregation on their toes, they would mix the order throughout the year, so that nobody could come to church on that Sunday where the choir sang “that real zippy number.”

One of the songs that I had them sing came from Cynthia Clawson on a CD that I mentioned a while back called “Carolsinger”. In addition to a sensational singing voice and a talent for composing, she has a touch of the poet in her soul. She opens her album with these words:

Stand still and wait for the night to pass over;

Under cover of darkness the morning shall rise;

From the east comes our hope and it’s wrapped up in sunrise;

So, rest, close your eyes and wait one more hour,

Our joy has come in through the sky.

Just this past week, my friend Ernie G. and I had an opportunity to discuss what advent does for our respective souls. Advent puts me in the same place as the shepherds who were keeping watch over their flocks when the angel of the Lord came upon them and the glory of the Lord shone round about them. Since the day I first heard Jesus’ name, I knew that I had a savior who paid the price of all of my iniquities. My shepherd friends knew of no peace of mind like this. For their transgressions, they needed to extend a burnt offering. Yet, my own peace of mind notwithstanding, I know that I must look to the second coming of Christ to seek what I can’t imagine, putting me on roughly equal footing with the shepherds, who sought the first coming of a king, yet didn’t know what they’d find when he came.

Ernie contends that Advent doesn’t coincide with the winter solstice by accident. As we approach the nativity, the sun falls behind the horizon earlier and earlier, the earth becomes colder and colder; as we wait for this new beginning, things also must come to an end. We shouldn’t wonder, then, that our Advent hymns soak themselves in an ablution of melancholy.

At the end of the album, Ms. Clawson superimposes her advent song over the most timeless, personal and starlit offering of “Silent Night” that I have ever heard; forever suspending that moment where waiting disappeared and joy came into the world. I don’t like to declare favorite albums. It goes contrary to my subjective persona. But if I COULD pick a favorite ……

Credits: To the Grace Lutheran Church choir of Bruce, SD, for singing “Heaven Came Down”.

Now I’ve a hope that will surely endure after the passing of time.

I have a future in Heaven for sure there in those mansions sublime.

And it’s because of that wonderful day, when at the cross I believed;

Riches eternal and blessings supernal from His precious hand I received.

Thank you, my friends.

The Madrigal Dinner

Jesus Christ The Apple Tree; Best Loved Christmas Carols; Choir of King's College Cambridge

Dr. C. conducted the SDSU Concert Choir during my last two years in college. He brought a fresh perspective to the art of choral singing. And he also brought a couple of keen performance ideas. Dr. C. introduced the SDSU Music Department to the Christmasse Madrigal Feaste.

It was a fancy affair. The concert choir students would transform Peterson Recital Hall into a regal 16^th century English banquet chamber, complete with jesters, the Wassail toast, presentation of the Boar’s Head and a royal court in charge of entertaining attendees with singing, dance and theatre. Over the course of the evening, the Madrigal Singers would perform several songs.

One of the songs that I remember hearing came from a poem purportedly penned by an unknown New England poet in the 18^th century. 20^th century English composer Elizabeth Poston composed the music.

1. The tree of life my soul hath seen,

Laden with fruit and always green;

The trees of nature fruitless be

Compared with Christ the apple tree.

2. His beauty doth all things excel:

By faith I know, but ne’er can tell,

The glory which I now can see

In Jesus Christ the apple tree

3. For happiness I long have sought,

And pleasure dearly I have bought:

I missed of all; but now I see

‘Tis found in Christ the apple tree.

4. I’m weary with my former toil,

Here I will set and rest a while:

Under the shadow I will be,

Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

5. This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,

It keeps my dying faith alive:

Which makes my soul in haste to be

With Jesus Christ the apple tree.

Some have suggested that this poetic allusion to the apple tree from Song of Songs 2:3 might draw inspiration from the abundance of apple trees in early New England. I find that it challenges us to compare the amplitude of goodwill, benevolence, compassion, amnity and accord that we offer to and share with each other with the compass of life-giving peace and serenity that Christ extends to us if we but ask for it.

Credits: To poets, who enter the world through a different door than the rest of us, bringing order of expression and commentation on the worldview from their threshold.

A year of teaching

By The Fireside; Turtle Island String Quartet

I have heard tell that many of the most effective public school teachers spent their own formative high school years at odds with the learning “establishment”. During that period in their life they might have lacked a vision of what their education could do for them, didn’t see how the present curriculum had anything to do with their preferred vocation or just plain, flat out didn’t like school. At this point in my life, I can understand and respect that viewpoint a little better than when I had to endure it in other students when I attended high school. However, that way of thinking confounds me.

I love learning and always have. So you can see how it brought profound sorrow to see my colleagues in school sabotage efforts to improve musical performance in order to see the band director lose his temper. I cannot wrap my mind, such as it is, around that type of mindset.

In South Dakota, the only visible objective to attaining a college degree in music was to become a music instructor. I remember a music educator telling my parents and me, “Well, you could go to SDSU, major in music education and become a high school band or choral director in South Dakota, or you could go to SDSU, major in piano performance and become a high school band or choral director in South Dakota.” It took a leap of faith to decide that the best thing for me was to attend SDSU, major in piano performance and resolve never to be the one in front of a group of kids holding the conducting stick.

It got worse. That image of them (students) verses me (teacher) became so pervasive that I began to see other music majors from a standpoint of sympathy. Why would they want to put themselves through the indignities that today’s high school students require of their teachers? It never occurred to me that my music education friends might have a heart for such an endeavor and it took me a long time to realize it.

After the five year era of working on cruise ships, I spent time on the farm deciding what comes next. While waiting, a call came from Brookings High School. On the last Friday before school started on Wednesday in August of 1995, BHS found themselves searching for a choral conductor for the school year. With more reluctance than you can see from the top of your house, I took the job. I didn’t do a poor job. Neither did I do an excellent job. Shall we say that I simply confirmed my suspicion: I am not cut out to be a music educator. The music was the fun part and we made outstanding music. But I didn’t care for the experience, and found myself looking forward with increasing intensity to the end of the year. I felt like I was let out of jail.

During the preparations for the Winter Holiday concert, Karen A., the orchestra conductor, had told me that she couldn’t wait for the end of school one day. She and her husband had plans to go to Sioux Falls so that she could purchase the new Turtle Island String Quartet CD. Who are they? “You’ve never heard of the TISQ?” Nope. “Oh, Erik, you would love them! They have successfully made the cross from classical to jazz, playing Mozart and Miles Davis on the same concert and winning over both the classical and the jazz camps in the audience. Their new CD is kind of a Christmas CD. Do you want me to get you one?” Well, yes, if they’re everything you say.

Whoa!! Everything and more. I can’t tell you how much their music energized and exhilarated my musical Christmas experience that year. I especially enjoyed the way that they jazzed up sections of Tchaikovsky’s “The Nutcracker” and portions from the winter section of Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons. The arrangements are full of life, creativity, and, most of the time, good humor. Any “Prairie Home Companion” fan will find hilarity in the selection called “Do Something Nice For Your Mother”. A rambunctious version of “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” will thrill the Beatles lovers in the crowd.

The gloom and doom that I have had for music educators since my “Mr. Apland” experience has toned down to about two from eleven. Virtually all of the music educators that I personally know expertly hone their craft with the students under their charge. But the pessimism still lurks. I guess I just don’t like to see anyone take a haphazard approach to music when greatness looms just over the horizon.

Credits: To the music educators who taught me: Miss W., Mrs. P., Mrs. D., Mr. D., Mrs. B., Mr. P., and Mr. T. Thank you for your patience and your passion. Thirty-eight to twenty-six years later, the lessons you taught are holding strong.

The spirit of community

Christmas with Thomas Hampson; The Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra; Hugh Wolfe, conducting

One of the greatest charms of the upper Midwest is the great sense of community. The community in which my sisters and I grew up in South Dakota encompasses a tiny town with a population of about two hundred and fifty people. The larger community may have six to seven hundred folks and probably takes up more square mileage than Manhattan. It’s interesting to note that communities around the world may be similar in size population-wise, give or take a thousand. But they vary wildly in square footage.

There’s no hiding in a farming community. And quite often any farmer’s level of success has everything to do with his or her relationship with virtually everyone else. In a major city, it seems that you only move a block or two and you have to embrace a completely different community. I like to tell how my mom moved from the farm into a house on the far side of town and only moved about a mile and a half. In states where agriculture is the leading industry, community seems to be the default mindset. Case in point: Minnesota.

They have the Minnesota Vikings, the Minnesota Twins and the Minnesota Orchestra. Minnesota Public Radio is one of the largest cross-sections of National Public Radio. The Minnesota State Fair is advertised as “The Great Minnesota Get-Together”. Having been to that fair, I can vouch for the accuracy of that slogan. I got a sense, while I walked around the grounds, that everyone knew everybody else; they just hadn’t necessarily met each other yet. My cousin says that the Minnesota State Fair is one of the largest state fairs in the country; second largest in fact. The Texas fair is larger. Freaks.

The Twin Cities area is one of the few major metropolitan areas to have two internationally recognized professional orchestras. I would guess that the sole reason for not calling the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra the Minnesota Chamber Orchestra is to avoid confusion with the names. The St. Paul Chamber Orchestra is an outstanding orchestra under the baton of Hugh Wolff. And the pairing of them with Thomas Hampson is fantastic.

After having to lift his voice above the quality din of an opera orchestra in a monumental opera house, it must be a relief to sing with an ensemble that is more intimate by design. I hear a lot of delicate nuance here, subtle differences in dynamic and ample opportunity to try things that are difficult to accomplish with a huge orchestra. This CD offers the occasion in which to hear how huge Mr. Hampson’s voice is but without his having to put out so much volume. The repertoire is classic and very formal, harkening back to the type of Christmas album that might have been made in the 50’s or the 60’s. I especially like “Alleluia”.

I enjoy winter time in South Dakota and Minnesota. The hearty folk who live in these close-knit communities know the temperature-based burden they bear. It’s kind of like living in a house full of people with only one bathroom; the millstone around each person’s neck weighs the same; nobody’s situation is really any worse than anyone else’s.

Credits: To the people of Minnesota, who live the life of community.

I hear even more voices

An Evening In December, Vol. Two; First Call; David Maddux, singer and arranger

In 1922, Bates Burt took the job as the pastor of an Episcopal Church in Pontiac, Michigan. Reverend Burt also, in that same year, began the tradition of creating an annual Christmas card which he could send to family members and parishioners. On the cover of the card he rendered an original Christmas carol, setting both the words and music himself. For many years he did this. Reverend Burt’s son, Alfred, born in 1920, had shown an interest in music at the young age of ten. After learning the cornet and piano, he attended the University of Michigan and graduated with a Bachelor of Music in 1942.

For the family Christmas card in 1942, Reverend Burt asked his son to compose the music for that year’s carol, “Christmas Cometh Caroling.” From that point on, Alfred wrote the music for the family’s Christmas cards, with the tradition continuing through 1954. Mr. Burt died in February of 1954 only 24 hours after having composed “The Star Carol”, the carol that Mrs. Burt put on the final family Christmas card. Over the years, their Christmas card roster had grown from 50 to 450 recipients of this unique art form. The famous fifteen Alfred Burt Carols include “Caroling, Caroling”, “We’ll Dress the House”, “Some Children See Him”, “All On A Christmas Morning” and “This Is Christmas”, sometimes called “Bright, Bright, the Holly Berries”.

In 1987, after the success of “An Evening In December”, First Call entered the studio for a second evening in December. This second album matches the original album in quality and style. It opens with a rich arrangement of Alfred Burt’s “Caroling, Caroling” and closes with a resplendent chart on “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day”, using both the traditional tune and the strain made popular by Frank Sinatra.

Melody Tunney, Marty McCall and Bonnie Keen marketed themselves as a ready-made trio dubbed “First Call” for backup vocals and other studio recordings. Having the reputation as the “first call” for music producers, their name also fit with their conviction in making their Christian beliefs first in their lives. Initially, “An Evening In December” only served as a side project to their vocal backing vocation; none of the members of the trio foresaw any type of recording or touring career. But sales of the album took off, and offers began to pour in from high profile Christian artists like Amy Grant and Sandi Patty to join them on tour. They have recorded several albums since the two volumes of “An Evening In December”.

Credits: To Bates and Alfred Burt, for seeing that a very precious gift, indeed, is one that has been created by your own head and your own hand, investing time, not money, in a creation for one whom you love.