Dinner and a show

West Side Story; Oscar Peterson Trio

In June of 1986, I took a trip to the twin cities to see the family. Mom suggested that I take cousins T. and W. out for an evening for their second wedding anniversary. So I went to the library to check out the Sunday edition of the Minneapolis Star-Tribune to check on concerts, shows and musicals.

The Chanhassen Dinner Theatre in Chanhassen, MN, had four theatres at the time that I looked at their available shows and two of them were featuring musicals. “I Do! I Do!” had been a staple at the Chanhassen for many years, but it didn’t really sound like me. Nor did it sound like T. Nor did it sound like W. So, I went with the other musical: “West Side Story”. I had never seen it before, although I had heard most of the songs. I enjoyed hearing how the context of the lyrics fit into the action of the show.

The Oscar Peterson Trio recorded seven songs from the famous musical on this thirty-five minute CD in 1962. Theologians say that, in the Hebrew of the Old Testament, the most important aspects of scripture sometimes lie in what the author doesn’t say rather than in what he does. I find it fascinating that Mr. Peterson and friends do NOT indulge in probably the rhythmically richest plumb of the entire show.

“America”, with its back and forth battle of barbs and badmouth, has a mixed meter, alternating the rhythmical foundation with each measure. I can’t understand how Mr. Peterson was able to resist the temptation to include this song in his “West Side Story” collection. Maybe the fact that Mr. Peterson comes from Canada reveals a disdain for this song.

Nevertheless, all of the songs selected for this album were selected under the careful scrutiny of Mr. Peterson and all of them get the regular “Oscar Peterson” treatment. That is to say that virtually none of these songs play in the style that they do in the productions.

“Tonight”, typically a faster paced rhumba, has never swung so hard. We see “Maria” through Ravel-colored glasses. “I Feel Pretty” plays so down and dirty that Pretty is hardly the way I would describe it. “Jet Song” is the hippest dog-walkin’ music I’ve ever heard. And “Reprise” makes me think that I should pick up my popcorn and soda and leave the room.

The only other time that I’ve seen this show is by way of the movie. This album appeared on the heels of the film version of this show, the film having been released in 1961. It seems that Mr. Peterson received inspiration for this show from the film rather than the musical.

Credits: To the American dinner theatre, for its tradition of the All-American dinner and a show.

Talent show

Unwell; Matchbox Twenty

In 2005, I assisted a local private school with their annual talent show. Students from grades five through eight submitted their acts to the music teacher and she programmed the entries into a well-thought out show. Whenever someone needed piano accompaniment, they had me at the ready.

One brave young eighth-grader came to the microphone with a solo. You don’t often find a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old male willing to throw down something phat in front of his homies unless some genuine talent lurked. This young fellow had brought a karaoke CD of a Matchbox Twenty song called “Unwell” to sing to and, man, he nailed it. He earned himself a most righteous minute-long standing O.

So, I downloaded the song from iTunes, featuring the impressive voice of Rob Thomas. I particularly liked the banjo intro and outro played by band member guitarist Kyle Cook. You would think that a rocker like Mr. Cook would deem banjo-playing beneath him. How refreshing to find someone who thinks outside the box, searching for something musically rich in an instrument largely foreign to the genre.

When I hooked up with the Delta Queen steamboat in 1997, the bane of my existence came from my duties at the calliope. I graduated from a major conservatory with a master’s degree to play THIS? For two weeks, I was annoyed and completely put out that I had allowed myself to take this job with this inane performing aspect. Then my Midwest work ethic woke up and put the whole thing into perspective in the following way: Look, someone has handed you a rubber band and asked you to strum a symphony on it. Now, can you do it or not?

So, I chose to embrace the destiny that this calliope beckoned and proceeded to find joy in the gauntlet that had been thrown down before me. Marches, state songs (like “California, Here I Come”), river songs (like “Swanee River”), women’s name songs (like “Mame” and “Margie”) and “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic” began to hoot from the calliope, entertaining listeners from seven miles away. I swear, Metallica has nothing on a steam-powered calliope when it comes to volume. You can hear me, yes, me, playing the calliope here.

The music video of “Unwell” reveals a little more about the meaning of the song. Mr. Thomas, in the video, claims that he is NOT crazy, but simply suffers from various occurrences that would, or could, compel “normal people” to label him as such.

A few weeks after the talent show, the school held eighth grade graduation followed by awards. This same young man who had serenaded the crowd at the talent show proceeded to garner award after award after award. We found that the panache that he exhibited at the talent show for throwing off inhibitions had a limit. The first teacher to proffer an award to him gave him a hug. He accepted it with a smile, but then whispered in her ear that he didn’t want any more.

Credits: To those who can’t stop the music, who find that they are not above using anything to keep the music flowing.

A lesson on chamber music

Piano And Wind; Reykjavik Wind Quintet; Vovka Ashkenazy, piano

The US Marine Band annually presents a chamber music series made up of eight chamber music recitals. Three of them typically occur during the month of October. They intersperse the remaining five recitals over the course of the winter and spring months from January to May.

What is chamber music? Chamber music has only one rule: The performing personnel must number more than one. Piano and violin, two clarinets, brass quartet, flute choir, string trio with trumpet, piccolo and percussion, harp-bassoon-accordion trio, any combination will do. I know of no magic maximum number, but the term “chamber” implies intimacy. A song performed by seventy-six trombones as chamber music because it has more than one trombone would be a hard sell.

During my time in “The President’s Own”, I compiled a list of pieces that I wanted to play during the chamber music series, you know, as long as I was surrounded by some of the world’s finest musicians. The first piece that I made happen came from the composing pen of W.A. Mozart. A piano quintet uses one piano and four other instruments, usually one piano, two violins, one viola and a cello. Herr Mozart, however, composed his Piano Quintet in E-Flat Major, K. 452, for piano, oboe, clarinet, horn (French horn) and bassoon.

I think that I previously explained to you that, in a concerto (solo instrument and large ensemble), an “us vs. her (or him)” perspective forms the basis of two components. The members of the large ensemble, usually an orchestra, may have an opportunity to play a solo for a few measures within the concerto, but “Star” status is usually reserved for the solo instrumentalist.

In chamber music, each player usually gets to solo at some point in the piece, but no one instrument carries the title of “exclusive soloist”. Everybody solos, everybody accompanies. In Herr Mozart’s piano quintet, the pianist plays some achingly beautiful melodies in a solo capacity, but the most graceful writing occurs when the piano assists the other players in accompanying someone else’s solo within the piece. I thoroughly enjoyed our performance of this piece and look forward to another opportunity to play it soon.

Francis Poulenc’s Piano Sextet for piano, flute, oboe, clarinet, horn and bassoon never got programmed during my time in the US Marine Band. I had heard about it but never heard it until about five years ago when curiosity got the best of me. I found a recording of the Reykjavik Wind Quintet and pianist Vovka Ashkenazy playing piano and wind chamber music by M. Poulenc, Mr. Rimsky-Korsakov, M. Francaix, M. Saint-Saens and Vincent d’Indy.

French music circles in the 1920’s aligned M. Poulenc with a group of French composers called “Les Six”. This revolutionary group endeavored to compose in a contemporary style in reaction against the maudlin music of Richard Wagner and the Impressionistic composers. Though written in the 20^th century style, the Piano Sextet is accessible to the ears of the musical layman. Sometimes it sounds like the soundtrack for a Tom and Jerry cartoon, sometimes like a ride out in the French countryside.

I have placed Iceland on my list of places I would like to visit. I don’t know the best time to travel there, though; when their economy needs my help, or when their economy is back to where it was. I asked someone the other day: What’s the capital of Iceland. He said, “About $3.50”.

Credits: To the artistically-aware people of Reykjavik, for knowing the value and importance of the arts in the life of the average person.

A star in my truck

The Main Ingredient; Shirley Horn, piano and vocals

Frequently, since arriving on the scene in the Washington DC/Baltimore area, my friend A.D. has invited me to play piano in his band for receptions, parties, festivals and the like. A.D. plays magnificent jazz drums and maintains a sizable list of personnel who fill out his band.

Once, while preparing to leave for a job with A.D., he called just a few moments before going out the door. “I’ve had to make a saxophone change. The guy that I had slated to play tonight has the flu. So I’ve asked another guy named Buck Hill to fill in and he was kind enough at the very last minute to help me out. He’s getting ready for the gig right now. He’s kind of old and fuzzy, but I’m sure that we’re going to have a great time playing with him. He’s retired from the postal service and doesn’t like to drive at night. His apartment sits about two blocks off of your route to the gig. Could you pick him up and then take him home when we’re done tonight?” Sure. No prob.

Mr. Hill didn’t have an awful lot to say in the Durango on the way to the job but he was kind and enjoyed the CD’s that I played on the way to and from the gig. A.D. hit the nail on the head. Buck played magnificently and soulfully. More than likely the bride and groom, and their guests, engaged themselves in other aspects of the wedding reception, little noticing the quality of the saxophone playing. Little matter. The rest of us enjoyed Mr. Hill’s playing immensely.

On the way home, I put in a Shirley Horn CD. Buck asked me if I liked Shirley Horn. I gave a resounding “Yes!” And all the way back to his apartment, the inimitable Ms. Horn serenaded us with twenty-five mile per hour tunes with Debussy-esque chords that made the moon shine a little brighter, made the snow glint a little frostier, made the lamp-posts skitting through the leafless trees flicker a little more rhythmically.

Ms. Horn recorded “The Main Ingredient” in her northeast Washington home in 1995. While she let the recording engineers do whatever they needed to do for the sake of recording in her house (which, by the way, they did over the course of four days), she cooked her famous Beef-and-Beer stew, made with a full can of Heineken and a half pint of Wild Irish Rose wine. She included her recipe on the inside cover of the CD.

When I helped Buck out of my truck and handed him his saxophone, he smiled and said, “I’m glad you like Shirley Horn. She’s a nice lady.” The ice on the sidewalk held the more immediate side of my attention while I helped him remain steady as we shuffled up to the steps. As soon as I got back to the more familiar Route 50, I relaxed a little more and recalled what he said as he got out of my truck.

After I hefted my keyboard into my apartment, on a hunch, I pawed through my Shirley Horn CD’s. Sure enough, smack dab in the middle of the cover to “The Main Ingredient”, in the credits, right below the moniker of righteous saxophonist extraordinare Joe Henderson, Buck Hill’s name winked at me. He had helped himself to some Beef-and-beer stew.

Credits: To the honorable workers of the United States Postal Service, for accomplishing a daily hefty task, as “Neither rain, nor snow…..” Thank you.

Small towns

Symphony No. 3; Quiet City; Aaron Copland, composer; New York Philharmonic; Leonard Bernstein, conducting

Bruce, my little home town in South Dakota, has a population of roughly two hundred seventy-five citizens. It has a physical size of about a half-mile square. Our farm sat about a mile to the east of town. Only the highest portion of the grain elevator could be seen from our farm, however, since the plateau on which our farm rested dropped to Big Sioux River valley level right before going into town. In 2002, Mom moved one and a half miles from the farm into town. The FAR side of town.

The elementary school that my sisters and I attended occupied the northwest corner of town. It closed in the spring of 1975, ten years after the junior high and high school joined the Sioux Valley school district. A gravel driveway divided our little elementary school plot into two sections. The three teachers who taught in our little school wouldn’t allow first and second graders to cross the driveway into the “big kid” section of the school property. I never liked that rule – until I entered the third grade. Then I liked that rule a lot. My sister K. attended all six years of her elementary education at the school. I finished the third grade and D. finished the second grade before we made the move to a larger classroom at the end of a longer bus ride.

The “local” industry in town belongs to R. Adee. He owns Adee Honey Farms, the largest beekeeping business in the United States. It also functions as one of the nation’s largest honey producers. In that spirit, the last weekend in July has the town come to brilliant life when Honey Days draws the community together for a parade, an auto show, a honey recipe contest, picnics, softball tournaments, a tractor show, an outdoor non-denominational church service and many more events.

The little town celebrated its one hundred twenty-fifth birthday during the summer of 2008 and made Honey Days its quasquicentennial celebration. They added two more days to their jamboree with a “Mr. Queen Bee” contest on Thursday evening and an all-school reunion on Friday. The streets practically burst with people, the likes of which the town hadn’t seen in twenty five years. The Longhorn Bar downtown held a ninety-six hour vigil in honor of the occasion.

On Sunday afternoon, Mom said, “You watch what happens this evening at nine o’clock.” At nine o’clock, the family gathered on Mom’s front porch. We heard no sounds. We saw no lights. The dogs were silent. The streets lay still. Our little town became a momentary Brigabruce.

Aaron Copland fused together parcels of incidental music that he composed for a play by Irwin Shaw called “Quiet City”. “Quiet City”, the resulting composition, features the trumpet, the English horn and a string orchestra. The trumpet represents the trumpet playing of the main character’s brother in the play. The play’s original run stopped, however, after only two performances in 1939. I don’t know if another production ever occurred. When I hear “Quiet City”, I can feel the tranquil, undisturbed, understated, maybe even undisclosing nature of a community of conscientious yet unobtrusive people.

Mom serves as the church secretary in the Grace Lutheran Church across the street from her house. Every month she publishes the newsletter and takes it to the post office for delivery. Six months after I moved to the DC area, my mom received good-natured interrogation from the post-mistress when she brought in the bunches of newsletters for delivery.

“Do you have a computer?” the post-mistress asked.

“Yes,” replied Mom.

“Do you get e-mail?”

“Yes.”

“Does your son e-mail you?”

“Why, yes, he does.”

“Well, that’s good, since he hasn’t sent you so much as a postcard since he left six months ago.”

Credits: To people who live in small towns, for mastering the art of living in a fish bowl.

The man in black

16 Biggest Hits; Johnny Cash

I like movies. I like watching movies. I like going to the movies. I make it a habit to keep myself informed concerning upcoming movies, their directors, stars and film composers. The Apple website keeps a fairly thorough bank of trailers, teasers and previews and I visit that site frequently.

In the last five years or so before he passed away, Dad and I went to two movies together: “Jurassic Park” and “Independence Day”. I think he got a big kick out of both of them. After “Independence Day”, Dad looked at me and with a visage and tone of uber-dubiousness said, “Oh, really?”

Dad would have liked to have seen the movie “Walk the Line”. Johnny Cash fell into a somewhat exclusive club as far as Dad was concerned. Johnny Cash, the Statler Brothers and the US Marine Band stand at the top of a very select list of performers of whom Dad would allow himself to take the initiative to see and hear in concert. At the expense of perhaps lending a facet of laziness to Dad's identity, let me say that Dad, when I knew him, entitled to himself a certain degree of passiveness. He accomplished great things with the tools he received in order to better, or at least maintain, mankind. But I think he preferred that the parade of life come to HIM. Now, he never had the opportunity to actually see Johnny Cash. But I heard him say one time, during any one of many combination cow-checking gopher-hunting safaris, that he would have liked to have gone to a Johnny Cash concert.

The connection between Dad and Mr. Cash? Stories. As I’ve mentioned before, Dad liked to listen to, but LOVED to TELL, stories. Mr. Cash didn’t have time to wax poetic about winning and losing in the game of love. He preferred to follow the way of Christ, spinning a parable that speaks much more about the subjects than actually speaking about the subjects: “The Legend of John Henry’s Hammer”, “The Ballad of Ira Hayes”, “Folsom Prison Blues”, “One Piece At A Time” and the great “Ghost Riders In The Sky”. I remember hearing Dad laugh the first time he heard “A Boy Named Sue”. The word “uproariously” had never meant anything to me before that day.

I haven’t listened to very much Johnny Cash. But I admire him a lot; his body of work, his musicianship, his heart and his ability to overcome difficulty in an industry that doesn’t handle difficulty very well. And when he passed away, I needed to download a musical memento of the Man in Black.

Mr. Cash received the Kennedy Center Honors in 1996 and the National Medal of Arts in 2001. The US Marine Band regularly provides music for the National Medal of Arts awards ceremony. The director generally tries to choose music that identifies the recipients of this award. That year, the director and the librarians struggled to find something appropriate in their repertoire for Mr. Cash. Since I had been tapped to play piano on the job, they asked me if I could play something that would musically honor Mr. Cash. The only song that I knew all the way through was “Ghost Riders In The Sky”. Thank God I didn’t have to sing it. I couldn’t even think of the words. I did, however, in the moments leading up to the point where I had to play “Ghost Riders”, realize that, if you wanted to, you could sing the closing credits to “The Beverly Hillbillies” to “Ghost Riders In The Sky”.

And now it’s time to say goodbye to Jed and all his kin.

And he would like to thank you folk for kindly droppin’ in.

You’re all invited back next week to this locality

To have a heapin’ helpin’ --- of their hospitality.

Yippee I Yaaayyyyy --- Yippee I Yooooooooo

Hillbillies in the sky.

I have fun telling the following story. When I heard that Reese Witherspoon had been cast in “Walk The Line”, I had serious doubts. Now, she’s a fine actress, deserving of every accolade she’s garnered. But I really couldn’t see how she could pull this off. But then I saw the trailer. And, by gum, if she didn’t look JUST LIKE Johnny Cash.

Credits: To storytellers everywhere, for bringing narrative to our feats and accomplishments, and for taking the long way around in order to articulate the aspects of love when merely saying the word “love” just doesn’t cut it. Thank you.

Henry and Henry

Henry V; Patrick Doyle, composer; City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra; Simon Rattle, conducting

The first time that I visited K. out in Montana, I took the train. I had to wait until three o’clock in the morning for the westbound departure of The Empire Builder from the Amtrak station in Fargo. I remember awakening in my chair some time around ten o’clock and enjoying the scenery in western North Dakota. The elderly woman across the aisle from me held my attention. She sat so relaxed in her seat, watching the prairie go by and knitting a beautiful sweater. At noon, a voice over the intercom announced the time and invited all interested parties to approach the dining car where the chefs had prepared Philly cheesesteaks. But the woman across the aisle laid down her knitting, pulled down the tray in front of her, reached for her carry-on bag and took out a homemade ham sandwich, a tiny carton of coleslaw and a little bag of apple slices, raisins and cashews. And a can of beer. I love it when a person can tell a silent punchline when the observers are unaware that they are in the presence of a joke.

K. met me in Whitefish in her pickup, then drove us along the west side of Flathead Lake toward Missoula. Many events highlighted my five day visit: a hike, several bowls of white chili, another hike, a visit to the local CD store called Rockin’ Rudy’s, another hike, an article in “The Missoulian” about a man who built homemade coffins, - yes, coffins – a hike to the top of the “M”, a visit to “The Pickle Barrel”, and one more hike for good luck.

On Sunday morning, we went to the local Lutheran church where I met Pastor O. He had a beautiful singing voice and, during the offertory, he sang in the choir. While he pontificated, he rocked back and forth, left to right, during the entire width and breadth of his sermon. I must have started to subconsciously list to either side in time to his pitching and preaching because I got an elbow in the ribs on my starboard side from K.

When she dropped me off at the depot on Monday morning, there stood Pastor O. and his wife. Well, what a coincidence! Where are you two going? “We both have family around the Rochester area in Minnesota and we love to take the train. When we get to St. Paul, we will rent a car for a week.” We visited for a couple of hours while the eastbound Empire Builder wound its way through the south side of Glacier National Park. The foliage wore its fall colors like an elegant fashion accessory, flashing its Fiestaware colors in the cool, September morning sun. But as soon as we reached the plains, I had a mission. And, here I have to administer an apology.

Mrs. K., I would guess that the subject matter pushed me away from any measure of entertainment pertaining to our study of Mr. Shakespeare in Senior English. Even today, The Tragedy of Macbeth doesn’t hold my interest. I concluded my secondary education conjecturing that you had failed and that I would never care for the works of William Shakespeare. That made me sad. But, guess what! I LOVE Hamlet, all of the Henry’s, The Tempest and Much Ado About Nothing. That makes me glad. I don’t know what kind of apology to extend to you, but I think you deserve one. If only because you tried so hard. How ‘bout if I grant you both an apology and a “Thank You”? Then you can take each or either.

Throughout the remainder of “Big Sky” country, after Glacier National Park, and across the entire stretch of North Dakota, I poured over Henry IV, parts one and two, with a dictionary at my side, in an effort to grasp the background of Prince Hal, marveling at the transformation from rascal and rogue to monarch and military hero. I couldn’t imagine anyone having a more beautiful window to read by than what I had. Flatness to hill country. Hill country to riverbed. Riverbed to cornfield. Cornfield to wheatfield. Blue skies to wispy clouds. Tiny towns to dead barns. Transformations.

I eventually read Henry V. And I marveled at the journey. What a character, what a story, what handsome language. But it didn’t match the suffusion of overwhelming idealism in Henry IV. In and outside the book. In and outside the train. His royal majesty does indeed penetrate the character throughout both books. So when I listen to the marvelous work of composer Patrick Doyle in Kenneth Branagh’s “Henry V” from 1989, it extends, in my mind, to the character in Mr. Shakespeare’s Henry IV.

After the release of the soundtrack to M. Branagh’s film, the classical music host on South Dakota Public Radio would be compelled, for many months on their weekly request day, to bring Mr. Doyle’s “Non Nobis”, to his South Dakota classical music audience. Shakespeare used this short Latin hymn as a prayer of thanksgiving and an expression of humility, and with the Te Deum pervades the very air following the victory at Agincourt.

Psalm 115:1

Non nobis, non nobis, Domine

Sed nomini tuo da gloriam

Not to us, not to us, O Lord,

But to your name give glory.

Credits: To the owner and staff of Rockin’ Rudy’s, for making, not only available, but prominent, a vast swath of musical styles in their sweeping CD racks. It’s a long way, in any direction, to another CD store.

A trip to a monastery

Chant; The Benedictine Monks Of Santo Domingo De Silos

1997 was a rough year for the Aplands. My father passed away in the beginning of March. Then five months later his younger brother, my Uncle M., died of a heart attack. Within a very short period of time, much shorter than any of us imagined, my cousin Dale and I were sons without fathers. We spent many hours together, drinking root beer and talking through our pain and frustrations. What emerged in our frequent exchanges was an interesting parallel.

It became apparent early in my high school years that I embraced all that thumped of music, art and aural or visual poetry. I found solace in museums, listened to NPR and essentially walked the earth at a gentle lope, watching the clouds in the sky, hearing the birds and contemplating the vastness of the plains. I think it all kind of freaked Dad out. But Uncle M. was intrigued.

All the way through high school, Dale had a motorcycle. I’m sure that he did as well in school as he could, but his passions lay elsewhere. He went to trade school, hung out with the wild crowd, and basically galumphed along the path that was set before him, sowing some peaceably ferocious barley – if wild oats implies something that I don’t want to imply – partaking in some creative, unorthodox, yet harmless, excitement and constructed a mental image of the wife, family, house and farm that loomed a little ways beyond the horizon. I think it all kind of freaked Uncle M. out. But Dad was intrigued.

I was in the middle of a band rotation on the Delta Queen steamboat when I heard the news about Uncle M. We somehow arranged a five-day hiatus for me so that I could fly home from St. Louis, spend some time with the family then meet up with the boat in St. Paul.

On the day of the funeral, Aunt I., Uncle M.’s wife, told me that she needed a day to herself and asked if Mom and I could stop out at the farm the next day to pick up Uncle D. and Aunt L. for a day out. Uncle D. is Dad’s and Uncle M.’s oldest brother. He and Aunt L. live in Tuscon. Aunt L. has made her mark in the world as an artist. So, we took them to an art museum in Watertown. After concluding our visit at the museum, we drove thirty miles further to visit Blue Cloud Abbey, a monastery on the eastern plains of South Dakota. I had never visited a monastery before. When we arrived, the monk who greeted us informed us that Vespers would start in five minutes and that we should join them.

So we made ourselves part of their congregation on this weekday afternoon. From the beginning, peace emanated from every aspect of our worship experience. As a Lutheran, I had knowledge of and familiar acquaintance with the sung liturgy in higher church services. But Lutherans love their pipe organs. And monks love their simplicity.

The a cappella chanting of the brothers reverberated a million times in the cathedrals of our hearts that day. Just a single, simple line of melody, floating in the air, nothing holding it up, merely kissing the walls of the expanse, then wafting upward as if to deliver its harmonious message to the Everlasting. The peace that this music engenders stayed with me for many days.

I found this CD in a used CD shop in New Orleans two weeks after Uncle M.’s funeral. The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos recorded their chants in 1973 and released their product on LP. The Angel CD label re-released this recording as a CD in 1994 and established itself as the best selling album of chant of all time.

About three weeks after Uncle M. died, Princess Dianna and Mother Theresa made their simultaneous exits from this Earth. Each of these women’s deaths affected me in a different way. As you can imagine, I associated “Chant” with the life of Mother Theresa. It has initiated a fascination with monasteries. Can you imagine me entering a monastery and wearing a cowl? I instruct all of you not to answer that question. You might scare me.

Credits: To monks, for the wisdom, peace and serenity that issues from the tranquility that they acquire from the Almighty God.

Recycling.

Emmanuel Chabrier; Espana; Vienna Philharmonic; John Eliot Gardner, conducting

I would like you to imagine yourself sitting in a bar before a ballgame, drinking beers and singing drinking songs. I know, I know, drinking songs went out of style with breeches. But if you did indeed sing drinking songs, what would you think if the words to one of them went to this tune. It’s hard to know what to say, isn’t it? For our entire lives this song has represented the lengths to which we will go to attain and maintain the integrity of our liberties and freedoms as citizens of the United States of America. Not only do the words signify patriotism, but so does the tune. In fact, we only need to hear the tune to feel and honor the sentiments of the Francis Scott Key poem. In the later 1700’s and early 1800’s, Americans knew the tune quite well as “The Anacreontic Song”. John Stafford Smith, a teenage British citizen, had written the song for the Anacreontic Society, a men’s social club in London. It was a common song in our land even before we declared our independence from Great Britain. Can you imagine what Mr. Smith would think if he heard the way his tune gets played today? It’s happened before, it will happen again: You never know when a tune is going to go out the door and get itself another gig.

“Espana”, by Emmanuel Chabrier, came to the imagination of the composer as he and his wife toured Spain from July to December in 1882. He determined that, on his return to his home in Paris, he would compose an “extraordinary fantasia” in commemoration of their trip. It appeared first as a piano duet called “Jota”. Then M. Chabrier orchestrated it in October of 1883 and called it “Espana”. At its first performance, the audience immediately demanded an encore of the piece, which sealed M. Chabrier’s fame overnight. The great Gustav Mahler declared it “the start of modern music” to musicians of the New York Philharmonic. Igor Stravinsky alludes to “Espana” in his score of “Petrushka”. Chances are that you haven’t heard it the way M. Chabrier composed it. But have you heard this?

“OOoooooooohhhh hot diggity, dog ziggity, Boom, what you do to me

It’s so new to me, what you do to me,

Hot diggity, dog ziggity, Boom what you do to me,

When you’re holding me tight.”

Yup. More people know Chabrier’s famous “Espana” tune by virtue of Perry Como’s number one hit on the Billboard chart in 1956. Then even more people heard it when Oscar Mayer used the “Hot Diggity” song (with different words) in one of their commercials in the early 1980’s.

In a day where the buzz words “green” and “carbon footprint” occupy the public’s conscience, maybe it’s okay to recycle music. The cartoons have done it for years. “Merry Melodies”, “Looney Tunes” and even The Smurfs would have been culturally empty if it hadn’t been for Franz Liszt, Johann Strauss, Jr., Edvard Grieg, Gioachino Rossini and Richard Wagner. Four or five generations of young cartoon watchers know the music of Rossini’s “The Barber Of Seville” thanks to Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny. If the score to Warner Brothers’ “What’s Opera, Doc” hadn’t so brilliantly, reverently and irreverently, paid homage to “The Flying Dutchman”, well, then, the only Wagner any of us would unwittingly hear would be “Here Comes The Bride.”

I mention this all today because a tangible childhood connection for hundreds of thousands of young people from South Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa and even Nebraska, my age, older and younger, slipped peacefully away last night. Dave Dedrick daily donned a blue and gold jumper in the broadcast studios of KELO in Sioux Falls to become (Ta –da-da-daaaa) Captain 11. From four o’clock until four-thirty, every afternoon after school, moms all over the area could get thirty minutes of time to themselves because, rest assured, education weary eyes were glued to the TV screen to watch the illustrious Captain 11, featuring the animated comedy of Bugs Bunny, Huckleberry Hound, Snagglepuss, Quick Draw McGraw and Baba Luey, and Popeye. Mr. Dedrick did the Captain 11 show for forty-one years from 1955 until he retired in 1996. At the time of his retirement, his was the longest running children’s television show.

School got out at Sioux Valley Schools at half-past three. The bus ride home took between thirty-five and forty minutes. And after we walked up the driveway and into the house, we turned on the TV in time to see the last twenty minutes or more of one hundred or so kids who got to say their name on TV and then probably two cartoons. Then the Captain would tell all of the kids in the studio to stand up and then, “Now, wave one hand. Now both hands. Both hands and one foot. Now both hands and both feet.” And you had to pay attention because if he had a few extra seconds on the air he might say, “Freezeburg!” Don’t move!

Credits: To Dave Dedrick and other hosts of children’s programming like his, for providing a clean, fun, safe and kid-friendly TV environment for the entertainment-needy after school bunch. And now, in the voice of Leo Hartig …

One man in each century is given the power to control time.

The man chosen to receive this power is carefully selected.

He must be kind.

He must be fair.

He must be brave.

You have fulfilled these requirements.

And we of the outer galaxies designate to you the wisdom of Solace and the strength of Atlas.

You are Captain 11!

More from Dotsero

Dotsero; Off The Beaten Path

On my very first blog entry, I claimed, “Maybe some days, just a few thoughts.” Did you, my faithful reader, ever think that day would arrive? Well, today we have concision because I have covered this ensemble before. The spirit that permeated “Jubilee”, my CD on November 17, finds its place on “Off The Beaten Path”.

I listen to this CD frequently while on the road. Stephen and David Watts have compiled here an excellent compendium of tunes with “Jeepers Creepers” setting the pace.

Credits: To the Watts brothers, for integrating music into their fraternal relationship.

Puppet music

Igor Stravinsky; Petrushka; The Rite Of Spring; The Cleveland Orchestra; Pierre Boulez, conducting

When we were as young as six and seven years old, my sister D. and I would find any excuse to write, produce and perform a puppet show for K., Mom and Dad. We didn’t have a particularly large personnel in our ensemble, though. Harry the dog had star status most of the time. Bugs Bunny couldn’t receive many speaking roles because neither D. nor I could pull off a credible impression of the famous rabbit. I think we also had a beaver made out of foam that came from Avon. We manufactured stages made out of upside down cardboard boxes and invented ways to install workable curtains that actually opened from the center. And we drew back drops on paper that hung from the ceiling of our “theatre” through the magic of Scotch tape. The whole contraption would sit on top of the back of one of the big reclining chairs in the living room; and D. and I would hide behind the chair and mount our recklessly prepared, yet lovingly performed, rigamarole.

Grandma E. had sewn together an extremely classy looking clown out of left over material that she had used to make some cushions for her living room. Mr. Clown had received minimal stuffing, making him remarkably limber. He provided our jump from puppets to marionettes. The builders of our house had installed a register in the ceiling directly above the oil stove in the living room so that heat could reach the upstairs. D. and I would drop strings from the register in the floor upstairs in Mom and Dad’s room to attach to Mr. Clown’s head (hat), hands and feet. Then we would have Mr. Clown do a ballet, usually to “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” from our Winnie the Pooh record.

In July of 1994, I accompanied the St. John Lutheran Church choir from Orlando, FL, on their tour of Germany and Austria. We concluded our adventures in Salzburg, home of Mozart, the von Trapp family and the famous Salzburg Marionette Theatre. We had a night to ourselves in this beautiful Austrian city, so a friend and I obtained tickets to that evening’s Marionette Theatre presentation and saw a full-length “miniature” production of “The Tales of Hoffman”, an opera by Jacques Offenbach.

The theatre in which the marionette company performs is endowed with a distinguishing feature that works to the advantage of their craft: forced perspective. When the audience members take their seats, the stage appears further away than it actually is. This makes the marionettes seem more lifelike, as if they had veritable human size. The surprise comes at the end when they lift the upper curtain above the stage just a little bit so that the audience can see, for just a few seconds, the dimension displacement between the marionettes and their operators.

Igor Stravinsky composed “Petrushka” between 1910 and 1911 for Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe. The ballet gets its title from the name of the marionette; the central character in this spectacle. The story bears a resemblance to “Pinocchio” and to Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”. You can read about it here. A Petrushka is a stock character of Russian folk puppetry that has been around since the 17^th century.

Mr. Stravinsky wrote an exceptionally fiendish piano part in the score for the orchestra. In 1921, the composer penned a piano arrangement of the work for the great pianist Arthur Rubinstein entitled “Trois mouvements de Petroushka”. To this day the solo adaptation is a crowd pleaser at recitals.

In “Star Trek III: The Search For Spock”, Captain Kirk reviews the theoretical data on the Genesis Device, an apparatus that produces the Genesis Effect on a dead celestial body, making it capable of sustaining lifeforms on the surface of it. During the review, Captain Kirk defines “Genesis as life from lifelessness.” When I brought that great Harry the Dog puppet to my little hand more than thirty-five years ago, did I have the innocent intention of pretending? Or did I have the subconsciously maniacal deliberation to play the part of God by bringing seven-year-old life to a golden furry head with floppy ears and a giant muzzle? “Dog complex”? Or “God complex”?

Credits: To the Salzburg Marionette Theatre, for taking the spectacle of opera one step further by bringing the childlike wonder and magic of puppetry to “grown up” classical music.

Aurora Borealis

The National Park Series; The Spirit Of Alaska; Randy Petersen, composer

In October of 1987, while settling down for the night in my dorm room, I received a telephone call from my friend R. claiming that she and her sister had heard on the radio that the northern lights were coming our way in just a few minutes. I had never seen the aurora borealis before. So, I grabbed my coat, jumped in the Fairlane and headed to R.’s house to pick her and others up. We had to get out of town to see this phenomenon. The lights of SDSU and Brookings would obscure the display. So we drove north on Highway 77 about three or four miles and pulled over on a little rise at the entrance to a cornfield. The moon had a date with Japan, so we had dark skies with nary a cloud. Fog covered the lower lying areas and we stood about two feet above it.

Six of us stood in the dark, staring up into space, wondering what we would see. After ten minutes without seeing anything, we almost got in the car to head back into town when a glow appeared in the north. And it got bigger. And bigger. And bigger still. And in just a few moments, Mother Nature had pulled a luminescent blanket over our heads to set the stage for her late night show. A green radiance imbued the northern half of the heavens with a clear circle in the center of the sky. Suddenly, from all directions, waves of green light let loose from the horizon, arching across the kaleidoscopic welkin toward that pellucid ring of stars at the center of the sky, then launched straight up, slipping the confines of the earth, crossing the threshold into the realm of outer space through an exit door in the firmament.

This experience and mental visual-print has loitered in my memory for many years. The unwonted yet spectacular display, I knew, occurred more often in Alaska and Canada. My sister K. had worked at a lodge in Glacier Bay in Alaska during the summers from 1982 until 1985. She told us many times about the different colors in the northern lights.

In 1994, the Star Odyssey spent the entire summer season traveling between Vancouver, BC, and Seward, AK. I enjoyed a beautiful five-month trek through the mountains and glaciers of Alaska. But the aurora borealis didn’t show up until September. The officers extended our stay in Seward, on our last pass through, long enough for the crew to have a late night bonfire, cookout and a stop at a picturesque cliff overlooking the ocean to the west with the – wait for it, - northern lights sparkling like fireworks to the north. The colors made all the difference; I was truly thrilled. But they didn’t make the impact that my earlier rendezvous with astronomical wonder had made.

The radio, a 20^th century invention, told us that the northern lights were coming for a visit. We’ve all learned a little bit about what makes the aurora borealis do its thing in science class. So we stood watching, in utter astonishment, one of nature’s greatest extravaganzas, feeling completely safe and secure that the physical effect on us and the ground on which we stood was completely benign. And yet, one hundred and fifty years before, the Native Americans must have experienced either glee or terror – virtually nothing in between. The gods don’t put on an array like this out of downright indifference.

I remember noting the silence on that October night in 1987. We had no wind, no rustling grass, no cornhusks whispering in the breeze, no explosion in the air to coincide with the pageantry above our expressions of stupefaction and gaping mouths. Only. Ab. So. Lute. S I L E N C E . . . .

Mr. Randy Petersen wisely provides soundtrack for the Northern Lights on this CD. It doesn’t recount the spectacle in the sky. With its cry of the loons and its lapping of the water on the stones, it celebrates the stillness, the tranquility in which we stand that makes the breath-taking awesome, makes the stunning imposing, makes the staggering sensational. Makes the glorious majestic.

Credits: To my Aunt J., who likes the aurora borealis as much as I do.

The musical zoo

Camille Saint-Saens; Carnaval des animaux; London Sinfonietta; Charles Dutoit, conducting

The French composers portray water in music better than anybody else. The subject matter of Ravel’s “Jeux d’eau” (Fountains) and “Ondine” from “Gaspard de la nuit” cannot be mistaken for anything but water. Debussy’s “Reflets dans l’eau” presents an almost tangible picture of ripples in the water. And the spectacle inside the glass stage of an aquarium comes to life under the creative pen of Camille Saint-Saens in his famous “Carnival of the Animals.”

“Camille Saint-Saens was wracked with pains, when people addressed him, as Saint-Saens”.

On a very special Fourth of July concert with Erich Kunzel and the Cincinnati Pops in 1989, Charles Kuralt read the Ogden Nash narration while the orchestra played “Carnival of the Animals”. During the music for almost each animal, a representative resident from the Cincinnati Zoo would lope across the stage; except the fish. Later in the program, Mr. Kuralt read the narration to Aaron Copeland’s “Lincoln Portrait”.

“I could not eat a kangaroo, But many fine Australians do, Those with cookbooks as well as boomerangs Prefer him in tasty kangaroomeringues."

M. Saint-Saens feared that “Carnival of the Animals” would harm his reputation as a serious composer. So, he never had it published. He had composed this musical menagerie while vacationing in Austria in 1886, scoring it for a fairly small chamber group, even though it includes two pianos (and two pianists). Only small private performances occurred for family and close friends. A provision in his will, however, allowed for publication of the suite after his death. Since then, various arrangers have expanded the score so that an entire orchestra can join in the fun.

“At midnight in the museum hall, The fossils gathered for a ball, Pterodactyls and brontosauruses Sang ghostly prehistoric choruses, Amid the mastodonic wassail I caught the eye of one small fossil, “Cheer up sad world,” he said and winked, “It’s kind of fun to be extinct.”

But I must say that the sparkling richness of the aquarium section haunts the musical hallways of my inner iPod. These days, a celeste makes the music shimmer and twinkle, but M. Saint-Saens originally called for the use of a glass harmonica. You can read about the glass harmonica here. A British music journalist claims that many years ago an orchestra made a recording of this movement featuring virtuoso harmonica player Tommy Reilly. Apparently, someone hired him by mistake instead of a player of the glass harmonica.

“Now we’ve reached the grand finale, On an animalie, carnivalie, In outdoing Barnum and Bailey, and Ringling, Saint-Saens has done a miraculous thingling.”

Credits: To Erich Kunzel, for bringing prominence, credibility and honor to the endeavors of pops orchestras, and for bringing musical wealth to the people in and around the city of Cincinnati. Rest in peace. And to my niece M. who on my birthday wanted to go to the zooooooooooo.

The Great Ambassador

Louis Armstrong's All Time Greatest Hits; Louis Armstrong, trumpet and vocals

Our family didn’t take many vacations. One hundred and fifty cows depended on Dad for daily food and water. Every now and then, we would decide to take a day off to visit Ft. Sisseton, Sica Hollow, Newton Hills or Palisades State Parks in South Dakota. Maybe we would meet the Minnesota relatives half way and have a picnic in Redwood Falls or New Ulm, Minnesota.

It was when the kids left the roost and took up residence in places further away than a day trip that Dad became “The Great Ambassador”. Before embarking on an adventure such as the time Mom and Dad came to one of my graduate recitals at CCM in Cincinnati, or when they flew to Philadelphia to see Mom’s sister, Dad would go around in the community to collect hats at the grain elevator, pens from the bank, lapel pins in the shape of South Dakota at the Bruce Market, bottles of honey from Adee’s Honey Farm, all kitchy things that he could give as souvenirs to family members and newly made friends who would probably never get around to coming to South Dakota.

After my recital at CCM, whenever I had a lesson at my teacher’s house, Mr. M. would show up at the door wearing the seed corn cap that Dad gave him. Mr. M., really, you don’t have to wear the cap whenever I come over. “Oh, yes, I do. Your father made me promise that I would.” Once, in Enon, OH, as Dad was lightening his suitcase of South Dakota souvenirs by dressing up the cousins in caps, Mom rhetorically asked, “Oh, Lord, what is he doing now?” To which my sister K. replied, “He’s ambassadating.”

The finest musical ambassador to the world that ever ventured from our shores was none other than the great Satchmo, Louis Armstrong. There was no heart warmer, no good will more genuine, no music richer than what embodied the human spirit – yes, all encompassed in one soul – inside this emissary of jubilation and benevolence. The degree to which Mr. Armstrong contributed to jazz, American music and music universal will forever remain incalculable. Many, rightly so, have declared him the most important musician of the 20^th century. I wouldn’t argue with anyone who made these points. But Mr. Armstrong’s greatness came further down the road than his musical accomplishments.

Music served only as a podium for Pops. The gravelly voice and the innovative trumpet sound only provided a means for something bigger. The music furnished a conduit through which he could express the natural exuberance and magnanimity of his charitable persona. When it comes right down to it, the songs and trumpet solos were immaterial; remove all else about the man and we’re left with pure and absolute joy.

Louis Armstrong has been gone for almost thirty-nine years and, to this day, he still “ambassadates”. My sister D. picked up one of his CD’s to play in their SUV when they go on long trips. When he was seven or eight years old, my nephew N. took a particularly bright shine to the song “It Takes Two To Tango”. Every time that tune came up on the playlist, they had to play it twice because N. grooved on it in a big way. For that reason, I made sure that I had my own copy of that same CD so that I could listen to ol’ Satch, sing a catchy little tune, think about my nephew, and know profound bliss.

Credits: To Mr. Louis Armstrong, for rising above race to share the best part of who he was with anyone who wanted to have it.

Guilty pleasures

Watermark; Enya

In episode fourteen of the fourth season of “The West Wing”, called “Inauguration, Part 1”, Josh tells the President that …

“I did just get off the phone with Jeffrey Tomlinson and Bob Bibbet…”

The President says, “The language (in his inaugural address) is being polished.”

“That’s what I told them. They just asked me to remind you that their version reflects existing treaties some of which …”

“Some of which have my name on them. So tell Jeff Tomlinson and Bibby Bob to take a deep knee bend, would you? I’m just as big a cotton candy ass as they are.”

Josh smiles and says, “Yes, sir.”

The President immediately looks up from the papers on his desk and asks, “You just gonna let that hang in the air?”

“Course not, sir, you’re a much bigger cotton candy ass than they are.”

“Damn right.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Have you ever experienced the guilty pleasures of listening to a CD that you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to be enjoying? I will stand right here on this page and declare that I enjoy the music of Enya. There was a time when I never would have allowed myself to do that. Not until one of my many social visits to the house of D. and G. One time, when I walked in, they had an Enya CD playing on their stereo.

My first silent snide comment went like this: “Look at these two wishy-washy yo-yo’s listening to the shallowness of Enya.”

The second silent snide comment went like this: “Hold it there, haystack boy. Don’t you have two of her CD’s? And don’t you play them frequently?”

Okay. You got me. Yup. And yup. Ms. Enya frequents my stereo speakers on a regularly recurring basis. Oh, boy. Here I thought I was just as wishy-washy as those yo-yo’s D. and G. But it turns out I was a much wishier and washier yo-yo than they were.

That was a waking moment. It wasn’t okay for me to profess, or confess, my appreciation for the quality and atmospheric bloviations of the artist who calls herself by a single name until I knew that my friends were listening to her, too? What kind of namby-pamby game of musical chicken was that?

I haven’t figured out why I like Enya yet, but I’m no longer concerned about wrecking some imagined type of snobbish, effete and feckless musical integrity by hiding behind a tree wearing a fake nose and moustache at an Enya festival. Nope. I have manned up. No more guilty pleasures. All musical enjoyments have legitimacy. If I like Britney Spears, I’m going to shout from the rafters, “I LIKE BRITNEY SPEARS!!”

Okay, I don’t like how that last paragraph ended. I really don’t like Britney Spears. Okay, maybe the video to “Oops! I Did It Again”. But then only for that orange jump suit she was wearing. She has a nice smile, y’know. And her big eyes? But if you tell ANYBODY…..

Credits: To Uncle M., for helping Dad put up haystacks for more than thirty years.

Tango at the movies

Por Una Cabeza; Scent Of A Woman

The discriminatory nature of the motion picture camera chooses not only her own criteria for what will dazzle visually up on the silver screen, but also the touchstone that determines which song, and the style it imbues, will carry a scene off from the screen, down the aisle and up to the Oscar. When you’ve got IT, get ready to work some overtime because Hollywood has some deep pockets and you’ve got to help them fill them.

I remember the tango scene from one of the Addams Family movies with the music by Marc Shaiman. I felt absolutely filthy after listening to it. I loved it. Another friend showed me scenes from the movie called “Tango”, a film directed by Spanish director Carlos Saura that takes place in Argentina. Lalo Schifrin wrote the music for this flick, and he even has some film time with some of the other musicians.

But the tango piece with the finest reputation of all comes from the pens of Carlos Gardel, composer, and Alfredo Le Pera, lyricist in 1935. “Por Una Cabeza”, “for just one head (of a horse)”, tells of a compulsive horse-track gambler who compares his addiction for the horses with his attraction to women. Mr. Gardel holds a place in history as probably the most prominent figure in all of the world of tango. He spent virtually his whole life in Argentina and died the same year that he wrote this famous song.

“True Lies”, directed by James Cameron, “Scent Of A Woman”, featuring a tango scene expertly danced by Oscar-winning Al Pacino, and “Schindler’s List”, the masterpiece of Steven Spielberg, all have used this song, in almost identical arrangements, for their respective noteworthy and celebrated tango scenes. In the movie “Frida”, none other than the composer himself can be heard singing “Por Una Cabeza” on the radio in the background.

I play with an ensemble that provides music for society dances, and the woman who manages the booking and the dance-book has included an arrangement of this song. As you read the music, you come to a part where it says to “play this section like the pianist does in the movie.” So, in order to do as the arranger requests, I had to download this piece onto my iPod. And I’m so very glad that I did. It’s marvelous.

Credits: To the artistry of Al Pacino, for his convincing efforts to portray a blind man who not only tangos, but leads. And to my friend Pete Wilson, who annually arranges music for his group to play for “Music In Our Schools Month”, and arranged this tango in 2002. Bravo.