Singin' your own songs

Randy Newman; Simon Smith and his Amazing Dancing Bear

In 1993 I was the band leader aboard a cruise ship called the Crown Odyssey. We had an eight piece band and we played for dancing and for the shows in the Odyssey Show Lounge. In January of that year the ship cruised to Hawaii and back. And after we returned, the ship was chartered for four days by the Nissan company. I think they were honoring their top 200 sales people.

The highlight of their cruise was to dock in Long Beach, CA, and attend Super Bowl XXVII which was held at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena that year. Their Saturday night entertainment was a concert by Randy Newman.

Randy Newman, at that time, was mostly famous for the song “Short People”, a novelty tune that annoyed a lot of people and that Mr. Newman probably never figured would become a national hit. For years, Mr. Newman has been writing unique songs that became other people’s hits. And since the 80’s, he has become a sensation as a film composer, writing for “The Natural”, “Toy Story”, “Toy Story 2”, “Pleasantville” and “Sea Biscuit”. I particularly like his performance of the song he wrote for the television show Monk called, “It’s a Jungle Out There”.

Randy Newman is a Steinway artist and his contract stipulates that he must play a Steinway. We had a Yamaha. So, on the morning that we welcomed the Nissan people to the Crown Odyssey, a Steinway was brought on board. And not just a Steinway. A Hamburg Steinway. A Hamburg Steinway is a Steinway that was built by the old Steinway family back in the old country. Many pianists consider a Hamburg Steinway superior to an American Steinway. What did I care? For four days I played a Steinway instead of a Yamaha. It came with its own piano technician to assure that Mr. Newman was satisfied. Although, it probably wouldn’t have mattered much in the end, because at the concert Mr. Newman was drunk.

I am a fan of the Muppets. The Sesame Street muppets and the Muppet Show muppets, specifically. I’m not a fan of what they became after Jim Henson’s death. On the very first Muppet Show in January of 1976, Scooter and Fozzie perform one of Jim Henson’s very favorite songs, which was, “Simon Smith And His Amazing Dancing Bear”, written by Randy Newman. It was a match made in Heaven, complete with Rowlf the dog in the background playing the piano.

Now, here's the secret to help you appreciate the song "Short People". Randy Newman’s schtick is to write lyrics from the perspective of a character far removed from Mr. Newman’s own persona. And usually that character is not completely reliable. It’s a brilliant premise from which to work.

The only way that I knew of "Simon Smith" was from The Muppet Show, and when I read one day that Randy Newman was the composer, I spent the ninety-nine cents that it cost to download the song from iTunes. And I knew it would be interesting for the following reason.

Randy Newman, as creative as he is with words and music, is absolutely atrocious at singing his own creations. Over the years of hearing him on the radio and television, and at the concert on the Crown Odyssey, I have yet, with the exception of Monk, to hear him present a performance of his music that is a well-thought out, nicely packaged rendering of his craft with style and finesse. Maybe that’s part of his charm, maybe he believes that the words and music can carry their own weight. I wouldn’t be able to get away with it. I would be completely miserable.

And speaking of miserable ... Super Bowl XXVII: Buffalo Bills 17, Dallas Cowboys 52. BOOOOOOOOOO!!

Credits: To all of my fellow cruise ship musicians, who endured indignities galore while nurturing musical growth during one of the most glam jobs we might ever have. Thank you for sharing part of your musical life with me.

Checkup: I lost 2 lbs.

A Brazilian CD

Origem; Ijexa

After moving to the Washington, DC, area in 1999, It wasn’t long before I was playing jobs and making new friends in the area. One of my first gigs was with a close colleague named Glen D. The first time I played with his group, I was utterly blown away by the drummer.

Now, there are some people who know me who are dropping their computers right now. And to you, I apologize. I should have thrown up my usual warning:

Danger!! Danger!! Drummer Compliment Ahead!! Consider Alternate Route!!

I am not renowned for my praise for all things percussive. However, my respect for artists who have developed their talent and skill to a point far beyond the median, who seek to say something profound and personal with every stroke of their brush, whose music is not the end but a means to a much broader, even universal, artistic end, my respect for these artists is not limited to people who play instruments that I like. And these qualities were personified on that evening in the guise of a quiet, unassuming gentleman named Alejandro Lucini.

Though I’ve played with him two times, I don’t know a lot about him except that he was born in Rio de Janeiro and that he and his brother have a band called Origem. We didn’t have much of an opportunity to talk, but we really didn’t have to. His whole persona was right there in his playing. He had some of his CDs with him the night I met him and I was happy to buy one.

“Ijexa” features the Lucini brothers' band Origem and is a Brazilian percussion feature throughout. Every performer is astounding on this album, particularly Alejandro’s brother Leonardo Lucini on bass, Peter Fraize on saxophone, and flutist Enrique Rios. A variety of keyboard players, Dan Reynolds, John Ozment and Vince Edwards give rock solid support and play some sweet, sweet piano. But the hero of the day on this CD is the rhythm; rhythm that glows on every track, rhythm that serves up the warmest Latin spices, rhythm that is never over the top but sets up camp right there at the peak, rhythm that proclaims, “This is Brazil, dance with us!” And all in the most capable percussive hands of Alejandro Lucini.

At the expense of perhaps preaching, allow me to say that I’ve worked with more than a few drummers who were there to keep the rest of us in line. They were the commanding officers in charge of one, two, three and four and thank heaven they were there otherwise the whole evening would have been a rhythmic nightmare. The drummers whom I have enjoyed working with the most are those who have confidence that rhythmic stability was there in the first place, without them, and that they were to supply what the rest of us couldn’t supply with a pitch. And if the tempo changed, they didn’t call the police, but saw that excitement was brewing and they wanted to come along. And they were warmly welcomed. All of us are drummers. Most of us just happened to pick a different instrument to play.

Credits: To Glen D., for recognizing a musician’s desire to make music with other musicians and for embracing them and welcoming them into a new community by hooking them up with playing opportunities, pronto. And for being a tremendous musician himself. Thank you, dude.

Language of the Arts

Martinu; The Epic of Gilgamesh; BBC Symphony Orchestra & Chorus; Jiri Belohlavek, conducting

My friend Jay M. is a fine musician despite being a tubist; maybe more because he’s a warm and engaging bassist. He’s also one smart feller. The circles and venues in which he typically performs attract a more casual listener who is no less engaging than those who listen to jazz more regularly but, due to a less frequent exposure to the improvisatory nature of the style, is just a little less informed. Subsequently he entertains more often than me the common question posed: “How do you memorize all those notes to all those songs?”

Of course, the longer answer involves an explanation of music theory, an understanding of the relationship of one note to another within the confines of a key signature, the basics of functional tonality and a grasp of the duties and purpose of each member in the performing ensemble. Jay doesn’t wish to be sophomoric nor condescending in any way to a very innocent and, if the inquiry is not rhetorical but relatively sincere, a very good question. He likens the activity in a jazz combo to the lofty conversations of a group of four or five rocket scientists. The syntax and terminology within their interactive exchange would confound the layman, but what they can accomplish would overwhelm and awe that same person. Musicians also understand a language with its own syntax and terminology, and, in the case of jazz musicians, make music by having an impromptu conversation. A song is a topic, a note is a word, a melody is a sentence, one time through the song is a paragraph, and, even though every player is “talking” at the same time, you can rest assured that each player is listening simultaneously to each other individually and the entire ensemble as a whole.

Another of my favorite “Star Trek: The Next Generation” episodes was aired on September 30, 1991, episode two of season five, and was called “Darmok”. The Enterprise has been dispatched to an uninhabited planet where a vessel bearing a race known as the Tamarians, or “The Children of Tama”, have established orbit and is transmitting a signal to announce their presence. The Tamarians had been encountered seven times in the past one hundred years, and had been deemed incomprehensible each time. When a meeting is set up between the Enterprise and the Tamarian ship, the premise that emerges is absolutely fascinating and irresistible in light of Jay’s mini treatise on musical improvisation. Both the Enterprise crew and the Tamarians use not only English words, but the full-fledged rules of syntax of, and the accurate grammatical usage of, English. And with no technical interference in their communication, they can’t understand one another. A Tamarian response to any Enterprise inquiry simply makes no sense.

When the captain of the Tamarian ship, Dathon, abducts Captain Picard to the planet surface in an attempt to bridge their language gap through an intense shared experience, in this case, doing battle with a hostile entity with the capability to disappear, it is after Dathon is mortally wounded that Picard begins to understand the semantics of his new friend’s language. As it turns out, the Tamarians use metaphor to communicate and the roots of their reference points lie deep within the boundaries of local civilization. As Dathon lay dying, yet conscious to what Picard is learning, Picard begins to regale his counterpart, after learning and then using some of the Tamarian metaphors, in a notable retelling of perhaps the world’s oldest novel, “The Epic of Gilgamesh”, poetically coinciding Gilgamesh’s mourning for his slain companion Enkidu with the death of the brave and wise Tamarian captain.

“The Epic of Gilgamesh” by composer Bohuslav Martinu was written in 1955, and is a sacred cantata, a secular oratorio, an instrumental symphony and very strange, all at the same time. And for accuracy’s sake, let us note that, in this form, we are not an epic. We are three episodes that come from an epic and last about an hour. An hour’s worth of anything, even watermelon, is remote from being epic. And yet none of these aspects detract from the piece’s greatness. It is scored for chorus, orchestra and four soloists. Mr. Martinu was Czech and lived from 1890 to 1959.

I don’t know yet if I like this piece. So, I include it here to show that full appreciation of a work of art can take some time. In the same way that I eat a portion of peas every six months or so just to make sure that I still don’t like them, I listen to this recording every ten to twelve months in the hope that the music will draw me in a little closer than the last time. The cards may be stacked against me. I don’t like to make reference to a particular recording’s foibles. This CD came with an issue of BBC Music, a magazine that I picked up from somewhere, I don’t remember where or when, and the performance was recorded live with the BBC Symphony and Chorus in Royal Festival Hall. A live performance will make things exciting for sure. But since this is recorded for an English audience, and the choral and solo text is in Czech, they seemed to feel it necessary to include a narrator who provides incomplete play-by-play in English to keep the audience apprised of the plot. I don’t remember this being done in the Mozart Requiem or in Puccini’s “La Boheme”.

I’m reminded of a short skit performed by the comedy troupe “The Kids In The Hall” where a customer comes into a store to ask the proprietor where he can buy a pair of shoes, who matter-of-factly states with no hint of an accent, “I’m sorry, I’d love to be of assistance to you but I’m afraid I speak no English.”

The customer balks, “Pardon?”

“Ah, I can see by the look on your face that you are confused by my statement. Perhaps you doubt its veracity, but let me assure you, I speak not a word of English.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You see, everything I’m saying to you I’ve learned to speak phonetically. As to the meanings of the individual words or the percumbent rules of syntax, I haven’t a clue.”

Boy, I wish I could write with just metaphors. These blogs would be a lot shorter.

Credits: To patrons of the arts, everywhere, suspecting and unsuspecting alike, who sometimes accidently discover that they like something that they’ve never encountered before.

Nelson

The National Park Series; The Sounds of Yellowstone; Randy Petersen, composer

1998 was the second year in which I served aboard the legendary steamboat Delta Queen as dining room pianist, calliopist and band pianist. My fellow band members and I worked on a rotation where we would work everyday for six weeks and then have two weeks off during which a relief band would cover our absence.

This was also the year that I heard about the piano opening in “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band. Before even taking an audition, and being, perhaps, a bit presumptuous, but certainly optimistic, I established that I was in the market for a vehicle that could ably cart around me, a keyboard, an amp, a keyboard stand, a drum throne and be able to reach any job in any kind of weather. A gigmobile. So, in August, after shopping around, I zeroed in on a shimmering little honey named “Nelson”: a 1998 4X4 Dodge Durango. When I drove up in the yard with my new purchase, the first thing my mom said was, “I’m getting you running boards for your birthday.”

My family is pretty tight. The only real sadness of parting that I knew up to this time was the passing of my father, my grandparents and our cat, Snoopy. Thus, I was not properly and emotionally prepared, after only four days together, to be separated from the new love in my life for six weeks. SIX WEEKS!! For 46 DAYS my baby sat in the driveway of my cousins in Bloomington, MN, while I moped up and down the oh, so lonely, Mississippi River.

The reunion was a happy one. I disembarked the DQ in St. Paul, MN, with my bag in hand to see Nelson glistening in the cool October dawn by the bank of the Mississippi. My cousin Tim had driven her (him?) to the river that morning before going to work. I loaded up my gear, headed to the airport to drop off a friend, stopped at Emma Krumbee’s to pick up a Dutch apple pie, and headed to South Dakota.

Mom had been convalescing after a couple of surgeries in July and September and was suffering from cabin fever. I was at home about 30 minutes before we had loaded her bags, picked up a friend, Bev N., in Sinai, SD, then headed to Missoula, MT, to see my sister K. This was to be a relaxing trip for all of us. No rush to get anywhere. So we stopped in Pierre, SD, and at Devil’s Tower and stayed in Cody, WY.

And on an absolutely beautiful October morning, with the colors of autumn out in industrial strength, we drove through Yellowstone National Park. We hadn’t gone through the gate five minutes when we saw three bears standing right in the middle of the road waiting for us. And it was just the beginning of a good day. We saw buffalo. We saw elk. We gazed in wonder at Artist’s Point on the lower falls of the Yellowstone River. We ate leftover pizza from the night before for lunch while drinking in the glory and majesty of a brilliant waterfall. And didn’t see many more than 30 cars during our entire visit.

In about the middle of the afternoon, we pulled up to Old Faithful Inn and I let Mom and Mrs. N. out so that they could see the famous geyser. I quickly parked the car and returned to where I’d left them only to find that I’d missed the eruption of the great geyser by three minutes. Mom and Mrs. N. saw it, though, and that was most important. So, I headed back to the Durango, but made a pit stop in the gift shop. While there, I stopped for a few moments to see what they had and happened upon a curious CD.

“The Sounds of Yellowstone” will most likely surprise you as one of my favorite CD’s. It is put out by a small company called Orange Tree Productions from California. Randy Petersen has composed music that is beautiful, thoughtful and interesting, yet extremely subdued and doesn’t detract for a second from the “real” music that is proclaimed by the title of the CD. The recording engineers went out into the Yellowstone wild with a unique microphone system to record birds, buffalo, moose, creeks, waterfalls and much, much more. One of the most haunting, stunning tracks on my entire iPod features an elk bugling in a valley where you would swear you could see the lateness in the day, feel the fog suspended above the heather, and sense nearby the presence of the untamable community who have paused to listen to his rugged, enchanting hymn of nature. The whole CD functions like a movie soundtrack and made most memorable the rest of our ride through Yellowstone.

Orange Tree Productions has produced similar CDs for each of the major national parks and donates a generous percentage of its sales to National Parks Associations and Funds in an effort to preserve our National Parks and wildlife sanctuaries. You should look them up on the ol’ world wide interweb. They do honorable work.

A year ago this month, Nelson threw up the white flag without an apology and accurately declared that 10 years and 269,000 miles was enough. We had driven the glamorous streets of Hollywood, dragged the strip of Las Vegas, cruised the Going-To-The-Sun road in Glacier National Park, criss-crossed the nation from Nevada to Maryland, and parked by the house of the President. We even had an adventure out on the tarmac of Dulles International Airport. As I took one last glimpse in the mirror as we parted for the last time, I thought of the final track on this CD, with the campfire crackling and a pack of wolves in the distance, howling a missive of farewell.

Credits: To the people who work in our National Parks, who know the sacrifice of comforts to ensure the sustainability of some of our Lord's most majestic places.

Mary and Duke go to Washington

Respighi; The Pines of Rome; Orchestre Symphonique de Montreal; Charles Dutoit, conducting

In the summer of 1988, I took a couple of trips. One was to Calgary, Alberta, to help my friend Chad H. move to his new apartment after college. The other was to Washington, DC.

My companion on this trip was my friend Mary B. Normally, I would refrain from disclosing certain features of a friend when it isn’t pertinent to a story; not out of embarrassment, but either because it doesn’t matter, because of privacy or in an attempt to shorten a story. Mary B. is blind. And in virtually every other aspect, it doesn’t matter, except that it provided for a third companion: her handsome helper hound named Duke.

Mary would have me stress that Duke be designated here as a Leader Dog and not as a Seeing Eye Dog. There is more of an air of protection surrounding a Seeing Eye Dog which is typically a German Shepherd. In a Leader Dog, the emphasis is on helping and guiding. Duke was a Golden Retriever. And although Duke wasn’t a blackbelt in Tae Kwon Dog, I think that if danger ever visited upon Mary B., the assailant would have his or her hands full.

We were in town for a week and we kept busy. The Smithsonian museums were on our docket nearly every day. We visited the Capitol and the White House. Arlington National Cemetery took up a large part of one afternoon. And the monuments were Duke’s favorites as we were able to remain outdoors. Except for the Washington Monument, which was inside and made him a little jittery.

One memorable evening was at the National Theatre where we watched “Ain’t Misbehavin’” with Nell Carter. We attended the Friday Evening Parade at the Marine Barracks at 8^th Street and I. On our last evening in town we dined at a restaurant called “The Jockey Club” and was where the Reagans celebrated one of their anniversaries. The food was terrific, of course, and the service was unbelievable. “Bonjour, Duke!” our international waiter exclaimed, after learning his name, and when our entrees were presented, a stunning silver bowl of water for Duke was placed at his feet.

And on Thursday evening, we went to the steps of the Capitol to hear a free concert by the United States Air Force Band. An ensemble of tremendous musicians, they performed a typical band concert program consisting of marches, an overture and a soloist. And they closed their program with a wind transcription of Ottorino Respighi’s “The Pines of Rome”.

This 20^th century Italian masterpiece is one part in a trilogy of symphonic poems that together essentially form a musical biography of the city of Rome. Each movement in this work portrays the location of pine trees in the Eternal City at different times of the day and her life. The pines in the Borghese gardens, close to the catacombs in Campagna, near a temple of the Roman god Janus on the Janiculum hill, and along the famous Appian Way inspired Mr. Respighi to compose towering harmonic structures that support sometimes impossibly long ribbons of song and chant. The children are playing in the first grove. The trombones are priests in the second grove. The third movement is a nocturne in celebration of the Roman new year. And of course, what are trees without birds? The nightingale is heard at the end of the third movement by virtue of a phonograph, the first time this feat is presented in a classical music score. The finale is a parade of the Roman Legion in the misty dawn as they return triumphantly beside the pines of the Appian Way.

Although the density of the music is never so thick that you can’t see through it, the chords are full most of the time, particularly so in the 2^nd and 4^th movements. The lower wind instruments simulate a vast pipe organ with its 8’, 16’ and 32’ pedal tones. And in 1988, when National Airport noise pollution was not as closely monitored, the distant jet takeoff and landing rumblings mixed uniquely and well, I think, in those specific passages so excellently performed by the United States Air Force Band.

During the entire concert, Duke lay on the warm marble steps of the Capitol with his nose at Mary’s feet, at rest, yet “on”. A few year’s later Mary married, and for a few more years the relationship between Mary and Duke and that of Mary and her husband dovetailed. Then when Duke’s muzzle was white and it was time for Mary’s husband to assume the duties that had been those of a devoted friend, Duke retired to a farm where he no longer needed to be “on”.

I have, since that time, played the piano and celeste parts of “Pini Di Roma” in three performances; twice with “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band and once with the Chesapeake Orchestra on the River Concert series in southern Maryland. Each time, while I counted idle measures and listened to the strains of early 20^th century Italian romanticism, I remembered fondly my first trip to Washington, DC, and inwardly celebrated the concrete bond between Mary and Duke.

Credits: To service animals and their trainers worldwide. The profound nature of the partnership between devoted animal and the person who needs and depends on them is the stuff of legend and a love story for the ages. The “Thank You” that is extended to you here is just as profound.

A new stereo

The Good Life; The Oscar Peterson Trio

In the early 1900’s, sisters Bertha and R. Esther E. grew up on a farm in South Dakota. By the time they and their siblings were in their teens, rural life had set the stage for a marvelous life. South Dakota weather had acquainted them with the melancholy of a late autumn afternoon and the renewal of a fresh, early spring morning. They were socked in by winter storms for days on end and, in the wake of any given blizzard, sledded down 40-foot drifts in the lane east of the trees. No doubt, in the summer, after collecting eggs, doing the dishes and tending to a menagerie of animals, they skitted through the trees, rode their bicycles on country roads, played in the barn, took walks in the pasture … and absorbed from the tree-spare, openness of the plains an almost tactile perspective of humility; the world is way too big to be very much about any one of us and to help each other is to help ourselves.

My sisters and I grew up on that very same farm on the other end of the 1900’s. The shelterbelt around our acreage was a magical forest. The lane north of the trees was a provincial road miles away from the 20^th century. From the top of the haystack out in the alfalfa field you could see the lights of towns 20 miles away and the stars burned at a much higher voltage than anywhere else. No cologne anywhere can compare with the potency of almost 300 yards of lilac bushes on a Memorial Day afternoon. And on the stillest day, when milkpod seeds hover in the air with no purpose of direction, when your skin yearns for the tiniest proof of the velocity at which the earth is hurling through space, … just when you are convinced that the world is experiencing some brobdingnagian episode of sleep apnea, the giant cottonwood tree by the road on the north quarter reaches out and grabs a breath of fresh air and jingles its leaves, if for no other reason than to make you think that there’s a breeze.

Bertha and R. Esther, with lifetimes of acquired wisdom and powers of observation, certainly recognized an almost duplication of their formative years in the childhoods of my sisters and me. They looked at us and saw the same path of potential laid before them. We looked at them with their peace of mind and spirit at the end of a path of a lifetime of service and saw the salt of the earth.

With her sister greeting her Lord a few years before, R. Esther knew true peace in 1986. A few months after her passing, my sisters and I received letters informing each of us that we were to receive an inheritance from R. Esther’s estate. She had honored different times, places and people of significance of her and Bertha’s lives through her will, not the least of which was a nod to the place where she and her sister grew up. I don’t recall how D. and K. celebrated the memory of these two grand ladies with their inheritance. I bought a stereo.

It was tall, black and gleaming and it came from Sears. There were so many lights on the face of it you felt like you were looking at San Francisco at night. I had no albums to speak of to play on my new stereo so I went to my professors at SDSU and asked if they had some to borrow.

“How much Oscar Peterson have you listened to?” Dr. H. asked me. Who? Dr. H.’s smile told me that I’d just handed him a token of honor. “Erik, I get to introduce you to one of the greatest jazz pianists ever! Take this home, listen to it 38 times and, when you can walk again, come back for more.”

When I listened to “The Good Life”, the reaction that Dr. H. predicted was like a disease that I had to allow to work through my system. After one track, there was really no purpose or need for me to approach the piano again. I had never heard piano playing like this before. It was a carnival. He didn’t have two things happening at once; he had twenty-two things happening at once. And you could hear all of them with crystal clear articulation and well-thought-out ideas … THAT HE WAS IMPROVISING ON THE SPOT!!! And he was full of fun. One of his stunts was to send the other members of his trio or quartet out first and then, on his way to the piano while the bass player was looking elsewhere, he would turn one of his tuning pegs, making him have to tune the string while keeping up with Oscar. I can’t wait to share more of Mr. Peterson with you!

My younger sister acquired the San Francisco stereo after I began working on cruise ships and had turned to a pursuit of CD's without looking back.

Our family would visit Bertha and R. Esther frequently at their apartment in Brookings, and we kids were entranced by what we perceived to be a cosmopolitan way of living. There was a folding rocking chair and a blue round-backed chair with what looked like needlepoint work on the cushions. There were prints of scenes in far-off cities in far-off lands on the walls. There was a table in the hallway with a telephone on it and a telephone on the stand next to the bed in the bedroom. There were photo albums of pictures from exotic trips. Lots of knitting, lots of crocheting, an unfinished letter started on the desk, a large wooden encased stereo ...

And always by the TV, the local listings with PBS’s “Live at the Met” circled in red pen. I think she would have approved of my stereo.

Credits: To Dr. H., the great ambassador of jazz. Thank you for your decades of excellent music-making and your commitment to students of music. To Esther S., Oletha M. and Eric M., who also lived childhoods very much like ours on the same farm in the same house. Our family honors you for esteeming the lives of your aunts.

Perfect biscuits

Best Loved Hymns; Choir of King's College, Cambridge; Stephen Cleobury, conducting

It's very difficult for children to truly appreciate the work involved in preparing their food. "My hot dog has too much ketchup." "My macaroni is gloppy." "The biscuits are burned." That last one must have touched a nerve with our mom when I once voiced my opinion that the biscuits could be less burned, and would then be perfect. After that whenever Mom would wake us up with, "I've made perfect biscuits," she was actually saying, "Call me out on my biscuits, will you, you ingrate!" But she was wrong. I WAS grateful. Perfect biscuits. MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmm.

One of my favorite ensembles is the King’s College Choir from Cambridge, England. You, reader, will hear about them many times on our sojourn. The ensemble is notable for many reasons. But, today, on my iPod, they are singing simply grand arrangements of significant hymns of the Christian Church.

This is the way you would like to imagine singing hymns in church should be: knowing your part, knowing when to wait for the harp, knowing when the brass plays a fanfare. No need to think. It just happens. And we can be mindful of the words we’re singing. It’s perfect.

Credits: To church musicians everywhere: It’s honorable work to lay down a musical superstructure over which the masses can call to God with passionate song.

The state of the iPod

The Archies; Sugar, Sugar

“He Shall From Time to Time” is the 12^th episode from Season One of “The West Wing.” The title refers to the section in the Constitution that calls for the President of the United States to advise the Congress on the state of the Union. Preparations for that duty occur throughout the episode. Josh Lyman is asked to “pick a guy”, and that job is referenced several times within a short period until finally the golden question is asked, “What does that mean, ‘Pick a guy’?” Well, the President, the Vice-President, the Speaker of the House, Congress, the Justices of the Supreme Court, the Commanders of the Armed Forces and much of the cabinet are all in one place at one time. That’s a serious security issue. Somebody from the cabinet has to stay behind in the West Wing …. just in case …. you know ….

President Bartlet, right before leaving for the Capitol to deliver his speech, meets with his Secretary of Agriculture in the Oval Office. He’s the guy Josh picked to leave behind. After giving absolutely ludicrous and embarrassingly insufficient counsel on what to do … just in case … you know … the President looks to the Secretary and, when he knows Chief of Staff Leo McGarry is listening in the next room, he asks:

President Bartlet: Do you have a best friend?

Mr. Secretary: Yes, sir.

President Bartlet: Is he smarter than you?

Mr. Secretary: Ha, yes, sir!

President Bartlet: Would you trust him with your life?

Mr. Secretary: Yes, sir.

President Bartlet: That’s your Chief of Staff.

Virtually all of my friends are over-qualified to be my Chief of Staff. Not the least of which is the aforementioned James F. Usually when he talks, I just do whatever he says. This time, he suggests that every once in a while I can feature a simple track that I’ve purchased off of iTunes, instead of a complete album or CD. This is a good idea. I believe he had demonic ulterior motives when he recommended it, but a good idea is a good idea.

About a year ago, a contractor called me to see if I could put a combo together for the grand opening of an art gallery in Washington, DC. It’s always my pleasure to offer my friends work so I accepted the job readily. The contractor said that the client was keen on having music from the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. Well, the first three decades were well supplied; no problem there. But I hardly ever play anything from the 60’s.

I hired my trumpet player first, knowing that he lived through the 60’s and I alerted him to our 60’s music dilemma. He said he’d look through his books to see what he could find, but that we should be able to equip ourselves sufficiently. I hired the drummer next, but what do drummers know anything about choosing music anyway, so no help there.

Next, I hired James and told him of the music selection stipulation. We need about 10 tunes from the 60’s in our back pocket for this gig. What can you think of to play? “Oh, that’s simple. ‘Sugar, Sugar’ from the Archies.” I don’t specifically recall deciding to just stare at him without saying anything, but I lead a very dramatic life, and I trust my acting instincts to do the appropriate thing at the appropriate time. “Really, it’s one of my favorite songs.” Really? “Yeah. It’s sweet. Download it from iTunes, write out the chord changes and let’s play it.” You know, some day, someone’s going to see this on my iPod and, Lucy, there’s going to be an awful lot of ‘splainin’ to do. What would you recommend I say … just in case … you know … someone should see this “sweet” track festing on my iPod? “Oh, you know, just weasel your way out of it.”

So, I did.

Credits: To Aaron Sorkin, for creating and writing a TV show so well acted and so well produced that I never missed an episode, even though its White House goes against every political fiber in my being. To drummers everywhere, thank you for your contributions. I'll meet you with my tempo at the end of the tune or the end of all things, which ever comes first.

The 1980 South Dakota All-State Chorus

Brahms: Ein Deutsches Requiem; Berlin Philharmonic, Rundfunkchor; Simon Rattle, conducting

One day in September of 1980, late in the afternoon, after football practice, I happened to drift through the band/choral room to pick up my trumpet and noticed that nobody had auditioned for the tenor part in the vocal quartet that would be sent to South Dakota All-State Chorus. No one had auditioned for the bass part either. Mrs. B. had announced times earlier in the week where she would be available to hear auditions for the quartet. Being a freshman, I assumed that some of the more elder statesmen of our high school chorus would vie for this opportunity to musically represent our school at the big event in early November. But nobody had stepped up and it was the last day, nee, the last few minutes before she was closing it down.

I stepped into her office, warbled my way through some vocal gymnastics exercise and got the part. Mrs. B. asked, “Who else is out in the hall? I’ve got to get a slate of names in the mail to the SD HS Activities Association tomorrow morning.” I peeked around the corner and saw my friend John C. grabbing his tuba. Hey, John, come audition for All-State Chorus. “Why?” You get out of school for two days. “Okay.”

We then began a six week series of 15 minute rehearsals; before school, after school, noon. And on Monday nights, a bunch of quartets from area schools would meet at the high school in B town to rehearse the All-State music. And the music … Whoa! This wasn’t the typical diet of “Highlights from ‘Grease’”, Lionel Richie tunes and various three-part happy, fun, God-is-in-the-sunshine-Let’s-go-pet-the-squirrels songs. We weren’t going to sing music to entertain our parents. Dr. Karl Erickson, conductor of the 1980 South Dakota All-State Chorus, had chosen us to deliver a message.

“I will great rejoice in the Lord. For my soul shall exalt in my God. For he has clothed me in the garments of salvation. He has covered me in the robes of righteousness,” sings Isaiah in his 61^st chapter, through the music of Knut Nystedt. But, “Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrow,” he weeps in his 53^rd chapter, through the masterful pen of Karl Heinrich Graun. And yet, “How lovely is Thy dwelling place, O Lord of hosts! For my soul, it longeth, yea, fainteth for the courts of the Lord. My soul and body crieth out, yea, for the living God! O blest are they that dwell within thy house: They praise Thy name evermore!” shouts the writer of the 84^th Psalm. For two days in the beginning of November in 1980, 996 vocally talented, young South Dakotans convened in the city of Huron to prepare the framework through which they would proclaim enormous messages; framework that was forged by masters. And the most notable master was Johannes Brahms.

“How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place”, or “Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen”, is the center piece of Mr. Brahms’ seven part “Ein deutsches Requiem”, Op. 45. As well as being the shortest section of the Requiem, it also is the most concentrated, note for word. Mr. Brahms doesn’t ramble here. This is a four-minute tour of the courts of the Lord. Musical ideas are powerful yet succinct and develop quickly, but give us the illusion that there isn’t any reason to finish early. And though the climax at the top of the mountain isn’t the highest peak in what Mr. Brahms once called “A Human Requiem”, it IS the one that has the most tremendous vistas, and perhaps the strongest assurance that “In my Father’s house there are many mansions.” If this is the muzak that the Lord chooses to pipe into the halls of his house, then the welfare of the eternal soul must be an immeasurable bastion of strength and integrity to be able to bear anything more powerful than these four minutes of brilliance.

Can you believe that they had a dance in the arena for the whole chorus after the evening rehearsal on the first day? From 8:30 to 10:00, 996 singers, complete and utter strangers, yet kindred spirits in music, packed the Huron Arena’s basketball floor to jam to The Village People, ABBA, and ELO. I remember seeing a conga line, some 200 to 250 altos and sopranos strong, and then laughing to see my quartet’s own Lenae vB. and Becky G. leading the whole thing as it snaked its way under the hoops to “YMCA”.

This week, I’ve been in preparation of a performance of Mr. Brahms’ “A German Requiem” and I can’t help but consider that, in light of my 44 years, Herr Brahms was 32 to 35 years old when he wrote this profoundly mature work. I don’t feel old, but when I yield to the memory of youth and vitality in the excitement of a 29 year old conga line, I find it ironic that, in the glow of music that has been fashioned to honor the dead and console the mourning, I haven’t felt so alive in a long, long time.

Credits: Dr. Karle Erickson, for bringing nutritional grown-up music to repertoire-starved high school voices. Your commitment to excellence reaches across a 29-year plain. To Lenae vB., Becky G. and John C., my fellow All-State quartet members. The honor to sing with you was a blessing from God.

Checkup: I lost 4 pounds.

Unplugged!

The Way It Is; Bruce Hornsby and

the Range

Maynard Ferguson came to the campus of SDSU in February of 1986. The concert was sponsored by the Student Association. The budget was tight and they couldn’t afford a full 2-hour concert, so he was hired to play half of a concert. The SDSU Monday – Wednesday Jazz Band, led by Dr. J., was invited to open the festive evening, filling the first half of the concert.

Of course, all of the things stipulated in Mr. Ferguson’s contract had to be honored: a couch, champagne, his own green room, etc. It also called for a grand piano on the stage. Well, at first I was excited. We don’t have a grand piano in Donor Auditorium; they would have to rent one. But a few days before the concert, the news came that we wouldn’t share the stage with Mr. Ferguson. We would have to set up our equipment and play in front of the stage. And the piano? It would be set up for Mr. Ferguson’s piano player and not be available for anyone else.

When we showed up for the concert and set up the equipment, we had one of those old Wurlitzer electric pianos from 1969. 64 keys. And … doesn’t … sound like a piano. I saw the grand piano up on the stage gleaming. Glowing. Virtually broadcasting its acousticity, remaining chaste, steering clear from that dirty, filthy, squalid, sordid, polluted, maybe some would even say feculent, grimy electricity. I looked at the poor old Wurlitzer in front of me and felt like a $1.50. As I recall, we played a chart on "Scarborough Fair" and there was a piano solo, excuse me, a Wurlitzer solo in the middle. You know, there are some portions in any given story that are just better edited out and left for the therapists. Let's jump to.....

We played well. The audience was enthusiastic. But we were all anxious to hear “High Voltage”, Mr. Ferguson’s septet. And we were not disappointed. What a sound! What a player! What a band! What an awesome evening!

But you KNOW I was watching the piano player. And guess what.

HE NEVER EVEN PLAYED THE PIANO!!!

He used it to put his keyboard on. He besmirched the wood, finish, purpose and integrity of one of God’s, nature’s and music’s grandest collaborations so that he could have his keyboard at the right height. I don’t know what else to say. I was embarrassed for this fellow’s piano teacher.

As you will no doubt be prompted to infer from my entries over the coming months, I champion acoustic sounds, acoustic instruments and acoustic bands. It’s the way I’m “wired”. I don’t dislike electronically produced music; I think it has its place, if not for me, then for others. The subjectivity of music is what makes it special and personal for each listener. But I prefer real pianos, not keyboards; real drums, not electronic pads; real plants, not artificial flowers; real Oreos, not Hydrox.

The music of Bruce Hornsby and The Range came out of the dorm room of my friend Mark W. in 1986 and I went crazy for it immediately. With exceptions of Billy Joel and Elton John, out of a long era where the piano sound was considered too obsolete for the contemporary pop sound came all the excitement of late 80’s pop music with acoustic piano at its heart. Mr. Hornsby is first and foremost a piano player and his music comes from that place. I marvel at his ability to discourse with his pop, jazz and rock music contemporaries by entering the musical worlds of The Grateful Dead, Ricky Skaggs, Jack DeJohnette, and Christian McBride from his piano bench.

Modest Mussorgsky (yup, his name was Modest) wrote “Pictures At An Exhibition” for the piano in 1874. It was, when he wrote it, and is to this day one of the most popular pieces in the solo piano repertoire. Along the way it has been transcribed for various ensembles several times. One of the most melancholy stories I ever heard concerning pianists in an ensemble situation was from my friend Bob B. who played at Carnegie Hall, the concert stage of the world, the place where you “practice, practice, practice” to get to. “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band was in concert playing “Pictures At An Exhibition” and they needed Bob, a master pianist, to play a ten measure harp part on a Yamaha DX7 keyboard.

Credits: To Dr. J., for his commitment not only to musical excellence but to students of musical excellence. Mr. Mussorgsky, for taking an afternoon off to see the paintings of his friend and then writing about it.

Also Sprach Erik Apland

Richard Strauss, Also Sprach Zarathustra; Berlin Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, conducting

Okay, here’s how the formula works: If the classical piece that you want to use in your movie is well known, the movie benefits from the composition. If the classical piece is from the fourth floor of Macy’s, in the back, the composition benefits from the movie. Case in point: Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 film “2001: A Space Odyssey” and Johan Strauss, Jr.’s “On The Beautiful Blue Danube” and Richard Strauss’ “Also Sprach Zarathustra”.

“On The Beautiful Blue Danube” is a masterpiece and has been popular since it was first heard in 1867. It stands by itself as a major staple in the orchestral repertoire. That it was featured in Kubrick’s film is incidental. When you hear it, as the space station is revolving, you probably think, “Hey, there’s that piece.” And think no more of it.

“Also Sprach Zarathustra”, on the other hand, was written in 1896 and had it’s place in orchestral repertoire, but wasn’t uber-popular. Kubrick used the first section of the piece to represent evolution in his film, and it made such an impact that, all of a sudden, in 1968, we got ourselves a brand new Strauss hit on the classical Billboard. Although movie fans at the symphony are usually embarrassed when they give a standing O for the part that they know and then find out that there’s 25 more minutes of music.

But let’s be frank, shall we? The opening to “Zarathustra” was written to be used in the movies, wasn’t it? First you get the African desert, with a nice red dawn, bring in a big tall black marble counter top balanced on its end, add the alignment of the sun and the moon, with the monkeys dancing all around, embellish it all with one of classical music’s most dramatic crescendos, and, BOOM, we got ourselves a film clip for the ages. This music will forever represent this moment in cinema.

“Also Sprach Zarathurstra”, Op. 30, or Thus Spoke Zarathustra, is a tone poem inspired by Friedrich Nietzsche’s treatise of the same name. Nietzsche’s book is a dense and abstract discourse on philosophy and morality, presenting ideas which primarily take issue with Christian and Jewish moral values through a style which, oddly enough, imitates the Bible. And the music in Strauss’ tone poem embodies these things. Can you imagine that you can hear the oeuvre of Nietzsche through the music of Strauss? I can’t. I just hear lovely music.

In college, I didn’t take a philosophy class. I had practicing to do. I couldn’t afford the out-of-class study time to plumb the depths of various ideologies, tenets and reasonings. I didn’t take a literature class or a religion class. I wanted the bulk of my matriculation to occur in the classroom, leaving ample time to practice the world’s largest single instrument’s solo repertoire, rehearse with various ensembles, and sleep and eat. Essentially, my academic base was designed to make me seem intelligent, relieving me of the responsibility of actually being intelligent.

Sometimes it’s enough to know that Beethoven’s sixth symphony is about nature. Though it’s usually fun to know the musings of the composer, the background of its conception and its first performances, meaning in music is eclipsed by our desire to recognize, honor and cherish the beauty of a musical moment, attach it to our being, and keep it with us so that it can be recognized, honored and cherished again when we need it.

Hardcore Elvis fans probably remember the music of “Zarathustra” as the introduction to every show that he did from 1969 until his death. I personally remember the music from a series of animated vignettes from “Sesame Street” that parodied the monolith scene from “Space Odyssey”. The big monolith would crack and crumble during the music to reveal a word, then a big voice from the sky would pronounce the word.

Credits: To L van Beethoven, for his Sixth Symphony. Three things I love in one spot: Music, Nature and Inclement Weather. And to Sesame Street, for the Muppets.

A different kind of Horn player

You're My Thrill, Shirley Horn, pianist and vocalist

In January of 1994, PBS broadcast another installment of their always fascinating, long-term series called “In Performance At The White House”, this time celebrating cabaret music. The performing guests were a mixture of the familiar along with the obscure; but the structural integrity of the talent stood strong. Dixie Carter was a performing host who introduced Bobby Short, Blossom Dearie, and Len Cariou, who brought tears to the eyes of President Clinton with his rendition of “Soliloquy” from Carousel.

My boy Bill … might be a champ of the heavyweights

Or a feller that sells you glue,

Or President of the United States,

That’d be all right, too.

But the woman I tuned in to see was Shirley Horn. Ms Horn, with her smoky voice and her unique, but spot-on phrasing makes you forget that she’s accompanying herself on the piano. I, for the life of me, can’t remember what she sang. All I can recall is that my family and I were captivated by her performance.

A female mechanic is a rare find. Yet a wonderful find. I think that most women would agree that it is atypical of their nature to want to disassemble an engine and then reassemble the engine for the purpose of seeing how it works. They would be able to do it just fine, as well as or better than any man. But, if they’re like most people, me included, they’re content to be assured that the engine functions just fine, just “show me the buttons to push to make it go”.

A jazz artist of any instrument must possess a working knowledge of music theory; as much as or more than any composer. What chord can follow another chord? What notes make up that chord? What scale can I use over this chord? What chord can I use instead of this chord? Does this scale degree work better over a strong beat or a weak beat? And so forth. Jazz musicians have instant answers to these questions. It doesn’t work for them to be shown which buttons to push to make it go. They have popped the hood and gotten their hands dirty, tearing up and ripping apart the engine of music in an effort to understand how melody and harmony and regularly measured time work together in order to improvise musical ideas. A woman’s nature, from my own point of view, isn’t typically wired to do this.

But when it is … it’s magic!!!! Case in point: Ms. Shirley Horn.

Her ability to accompany herself at the piano with complete independence from the thick yet light musical line she’s laying down with her voice has compelled Johnny Mandel to joke that, “It’s like she has two heads.” As a woman, she brings to the table a delivery and perspective with which a man can identify, but would probably not think to consider, much less imagine. Jazz is a much richer and classier genre of music for her contributions.

My battle of the sexes endeth.

Ms. Horn left us on October 20, 2005 after suffering some years with cancer. In tribute to her, as one of my two favorite female jazz singers, it will only bring me joy to share more CD’s of her with you during our year-long sojourn through my iPod.

Credits: To PBS, for programming showcases like “In Performance At The White House”. To Darrell R., for keeping my Chevy in working order.

Anything you can write I can write harder

Ravel: Gaspard de la Nuit; Ivo Pogorelich, piano

What is it with we men and our predisposition for one-up-manship? This Y-chromosome amplification of pride, one of the original gifts handed down from Adam after his apple lunch, that makes us broil better steaks than you on a grill bigger than yours, has been the downfall of so many men, usually because a gauntlet has been thrown down. This is my assessment of the situation, anyway. I doubt that you can come up with anything better. Okay, there was the gauntlet, right there. I am not immune. Men will be men.

The heavyweight championship of piano compositions was handed to Russian composer Mily Balakirev in 1869 for his “Islamey”, an “Oriental Fantasy”. The title remained his for 40 years with “Islamey” remaining high atop the mountain, taunting anyone to be more difficult. But, men are men, and many tried, and many went mad. Or just got mad. Russian composer Alexander Scriabin permanently damaged his right hand in an attempt to write the penultimate virtuosic work. Men are men; and it’s not a matter of if, but a matter of when.

1909, to be exact. Maurice Ravel, the man to blame for Bolero, deliberately set out to write a piece specifically more difficult than Islamey and succeeded with a three-movement work called “Gaspard de la Nuit”, or Gaspard of the Night. The three parts are entitled “Ondine”, “Le Gibet” and “Scarbo”. It is “Scarbo” that sets the men apart from the other men who have tried to outdo the other men.

“Ondine” is one of the most creative works I have ever heard. A water sprite tries to seduce a mortal lover and is unsuccessful. The imagery of water throughout this piano ballet is fantastic. “Le Gibet” presents the eerie scene of a bell tolling at the walls of a city and the carcass of a hanged man reddened by the setting sun. And “Scarbo”, a goblin or ghost, is the very thing you’re scared of when you’re six years old and you know you’ve heard a noise in the middle of the night. Scarbo mischievously pirouettes, stamps, stomps and disappears, over and over, terrifying the bejeezus out of anyone who’s not asleep.

Ivo Pogorelich became famous when he didn’t win the 1980 International Chopin Piano Competition; talk about your one-up-manship. World-renowned piano virtuoso and competition juror Marta Argerich protested his third round elimination by the jury, resigned from the group and left the competition. Now THAT’S good television!

Mr. Pogorelich’s take on Monsieur Gaspard takes my breath away. Mr. Ravel has made it difficult for any one performer’s rendering to be unique. He has signposts everywhere in the printed music that dictate how the pianist should execute even the tiniest rhythm. As a matter of fact, Mr. Ravel has been quoted: “Don’t interpret my music. Play it!” The mark of a truly gifted artist, however, is one where singularity trumps all observed signposts. Mr. Pogorelich’s spirit is able to break through all barriers in this extraordinary performance.

When I auditioned for “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, I played “Ondine”, “Islamey”, and Messiaen’s “Regard de l’Esprit de joie” (Gaze of the Joyful Spirit) which is a fiendishly difficult monster to pull off. I had told myself that when I left that audition, I wanted there to be no question of who had some technique, baby. Yeah, I know. Men will be men.

Credits: To "The President's Own", thanks for taking me.