Thrill-seeking

Play; Chick Corea, piano; Bobby McFerrin, voice

I don’t think that anybody who knows me would allow me to classify myself as the ultimate thrill-seeker. When it comes to that physical, wild-at-heart, live-life-on-the-edge, do-it-or-die disposition, my psyche is clouded with far more common sense than the penultimate adventurer could stand to ignore. What do you do with someone who needs a barf bag on a carousel?

Still, I have done some things that go against the grain of my steady-as-she-goes, buckle-up-for-safety, for-God’s-sake-get-me-off-this-double-ferris-wheel-I’m-gonna-die-you-idiot temperament. In the summer of 1987, I went white-water rafting down the Colorado River. At one point, everybody in our raft jumped from a fifty-foot cliff, plunging into the deep waters below. A few weeks after that, a friend and I rode, round trip, the entire length of Trail Ridge Road in the Rocky Mountain National Park on a scooter. In 2002, I ran … well, finished … the Marine Corps Marathon.

I have a slight propensity for Devil-may-care antics. But I typically reserve that facet of my constitution for the performance of particularly ambitious piano repertoire. I tend to choose piano works a few doors down from where a lot of pianists hang out. The rush, the surge, the charge one gets from the execution of something pianistically daring and demanding defies any discourse I could espouse to describe it.

Some may call it grandstanding. It’s hard to argue with that. Let’s face it; part of the nature of one who performs is to show off. But the performer also yearns to share with you, the witness, the listener, the beauty otherwise ensnared within his or her soul. Music performance is part show-and-tell, part PRCA rodeo.

When Chick Corea and Bobby McFerrin hit the stage, don’t look for a net. I’m sure that before they emerge from backstage, they have talked over what they’re going to do … but that’s just talk. Now, we gotta walk.

We have no real precedent for what these two fellows do. Mr. McFerrin has, I believe, a six-octave voice range. That’s unbelievable. And he doesn’t use his voice from a traditional singer’s perspective. After he sings a song one time through, he turns into a saxophone, a trumpet, a trombone, a banjo, a violin, a guitar … even a double bass. As far as Mr. Corea is concerned, he’s working with an instrumentalist that can communicate with words.

Both of these master musicians are improvisors par awesomeness. I’m sure that each keeps the other on his toes; Chick not knowing which instrument Bobby is going to channel, Bobby not knowing which chord substitution with which Chick is going to astonish his compatriot. Yet, both have this trust in each other’s genius. A trust that each will be able to respond in kind to the brilliance that passes between them. The kind of trust you find in a couple of thrill-seekers.

Before we got into the raft to hid the rapids, our guide asked each of us if we had any experience white-water rafting. “How ’bout you, Apland? You gone rafting?” Do I get to count the times I went through “It's A Small World” at Disneyworld? “Did you go alone?” Yup. “And I thought I was a thrill-seeker.”

Credits: To Robin, my scooter buddy. Hey, that was a great trip over the mountains. And that was one dicey thunderstorm. I’ll never forget it. Thanks for asking.

Birthday Parties

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum; Music and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim; Original Broadway Cast

During the summer of 1985, I took on the duties of rehearsal accompanist for the Prairie Repertory Theatre’s fifteenth season on the campus of South Dakota State University. They had chosen “Guys and Dolls” and “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum” as their musical productions that summer.

I hadn’t seen either of these shows before. However, “Guys And Dolls” immediately struck me then, and still strikes me now, as classic, timeless, quintessential Broadway sophistication and refinement.

“Funny Thing”, however, was a Warner Brothers cartoon and a “Laugh-In” episode come to life. I never tired of hearing the clever vaudvillesque script.

Miles Gloriosus: Oh, her bridal bower becomes a burial bier of bitter bereavement.

Pseudolus: Very good. Can you say, “Titus the Taylor told ten tall tales to Titania the titmouse?

Miles Gloriosus: We must build a pyre.

Pseudolus: A pyre?

Miles Gloriosus: Yes, a pyre.

Pseudolus: What kind of pyre?

Miles Gloriosus: A pyre of fire.

Pseudolus: Oh, a fire pyre.

Hero: …and a cup of mare’s sweat.

Pseudolus: Mare’s sweat? Now where am I going to find mare’s sweat on a balmy day like this….

Pseudolus, two minutes later: Would you believe it? There was a mare sweating not two blocks from here.

The entire plot consists of an unstable tower of shenanigans, stacked one on top of the other as they are formulated by the Roman slave Pseudolus. It was very clever. I learned a thing or two about shenanigans.

In June of 2002, Mom called. Hello? “K. just called and announced that she’s coming here in August so that she can turn forty in South Dakota.” Well, that sounds like fun. “Erik, she’s practically begging for a surprise party.” Hmmm, so she is. We both got on the phone immediately to see if the relatives could come to South Dakota to celebrate K.’s birthday. We got a very good response and when K. pulled into the yard, we had a whole herd of us to sing “Happy Birthday”. The party was a triumph.

At Christmas time in 2004, at K.’s house in Missoula, Montana, K. called a meeting while Mom was stuck in a nap. “Mom turn’s seventy five next June. What should we do?” Well, we could have cake after church. “I thought of that. If she found out about it, she would tell us not to do it. So if we want to do something, we have to surprise her. How about if we have a surprise potluck dinner with all of her friends in the neighborhood, and the relatives who can come, some Saturday night in July when we can all be there? Agreed?” “Agreed.” Agreed.

On the day before the potluck, we ran around town gathering tables, chairs, ice, beer and soda (pop). Around five o’clock in the afternoon, the relatives started to arrive. I brought Mom out the front door to greet the relatives and K., D. and my niece M. came around from the back door, carrying a sign that said,

“Happy 75^th Birthday, Mom! Happy 40^th Birthday, Erik!”

Both Mom and I had been duped. Kudos to my sisters.

But what about D.? She would turn forty in 2007. The surprise party gauntlet had been thrown down and she would be suspicious of any invitation to come to Bruce, South Dakota, that summer. So, I called K. I have an idea on how to catch D. off guard for her fortieth birthday. “What’s that?” Let’s do it a year early, like three weeks after her thirty-ninth birthday. “Ooooooooooo. You’re mean.” That’s what big brothers are for. So we decided to celebrate D.’s fortieth birthday and her husband D.’s forty-fifth birthday on their fifteenth wedding anniversary, forty-nine weeks before her real fortieth birthday. Forty, forty-five and fifteen; add ‘em up and it comes to one hundred. We told friends and family that we were celebrating their centennial.

At the end of the evening, my sister D. said, “Well, it’s nice to have that out of the way.” Excellent. Shall we all call a truce? No more surprise birthday parties? “You bet your sweet bippy.” Very good. Say, “Good night, Dick.” Good night, Dick.

Credits: To Mom, on her eightieth birthday. Can you believe that we got you to make potato salad for your own birthday party? We are cunning rascals, aren’t we? We love you.

Norwegian sweaters

Piano Sonata; Lyric Pieces, Opp. 43 and 54; Edvard Grieg, composer; Leif Ove Andsnes, piano

I boarded the Crown Odyssey in July of 1993 with empty pockets. I was a poor man. I had depleted my cash reserves over the course of the previous four weeks when I chaperoned and accompanied some high school age students in a band and choir through Europe.

Do you ever remember how you spend your money on an extended tour? So many things are pre-paid: buses, hotel rooms, museums, lunches, dinners, breakfasts, shows, etc. But, then, you get caught in the trap: Swiss chocolate, Italian pizza, French éclairs, German pastries and Austrian … Kaiserschmarren, Sachertorte, Tafelspitz, Eierschwammerl, Mannerschnitten, Mozartkugeln, Topfenstrudel und Karntner Kasknudeln mit das Krapfen. You go home with all the stuff that you brought, but with a lighter pocketbook. My Uncle D.H. used to say, "Pack twice as much money and half as much clothes."

I really had to be careful with my funds this time. At the end of the tour, in Frankfurt, I parted ways with the young folk to spend a three-day weekend in London on my own before making my rendezvous with the ship. I spent my last few pounds taking the train to Tilbury where the Crown Odyssey was moored.

It was nice to get back on board where I didn’t have to buy anything. Really, as a cruise musician, the ship acted like an oasis. She provided everything I needed: room, board and gourmet food. So, I could easily last until the end of the cruise when the band got paid.

And what an itinerary! Two fourteen day cruises out of London (Tilbury) through the fjords of Norway, all the way to the North Cape. I had anxiously awaited these two cruises for months. I was stoked.

When we pulled into Bergen, I asked one of the staff what there was to see. “Edvard Grieg’s house.” What else? “The warehouse.” What’s at the warehouse? “Sweaters.” Uh-oh.

Have you ever bonded with clothing? It’s a lackluster, uninspired, one-way sensation, I assure you. Yet, when I came upon these ornate, extravagant barbicans of “old country” couture that uniquely personify the heritage, my heritage, of Scandinavian folk art expression, I knew that I was looking at Christmas presents for my family.

So, I picked out five sweaters and asked the proprietor if she could hold them for fourteen days, and she promptly agreed. When I got back to the ship, I had to hit up two of my band brethren for a loan, to which THEY promptly agreed. Two weeks later, when I stopped in to pick up my merchandise, a stack of CDs featuring the piano music of Edvard Grieg, as played by Leif Ove Andsnes, sat on the counter next to the cash register. My conscience whispered into my ear, You bought all of these sweaters for everybody else in your family. Don’t you deserve something for yourself? To which I promptly agreed.

Mom had received a coupon for a family portrait in January of 1993. It had to be used by the end of the year. Two days after Christmas, we all donned blue jeans and our Norwegian sweaters and headed to the studio for our sitting. I must say that we made a very handsome photograph. But we look like we’re selling Norwegian sweaters.

Credits: To Dale of Norway, producers of fine functional and fashionable Norwegian wear, featuring Gore Windstopper – Windproof and Water repellent.

More chamber music

Piano Quintets; Antonin Dvorak, composer; Robert Schumann, composer; Alban Berg Quartett; Philippe Entremont, piano

Chamber music runs rampant in my soul; in particular, piano quintets. No, no, no. Not five pianos. One piano, two violins, a viola and a cello. Usually. Franz Schubert wrote the “Trout” quintet for one piano, one violin, one viola, one cello, one double bass. Both Mozart and Beethoven wrote piano quintets for piano and wind instruments. But, you can typically count on the first orchestration listed above.

Antonin Dvorak and Robert Schumann wrote excellent piano quintets. I have played the Dvorak. I have not played the Schumann. Some day.

Credits: To Herr Robert Schumann, for composing joyous, triumphant and jubilant music that belied his tortured soul. I love your Abegg Variations and your Symphonic Etudes. Bravo

Beautiful match

Arioso; J.S. Bach

Now, here is a mystery. I can give a likely account of why I chose to download J. S. Bach’s beautiful Arioso onto my iPod. One word: wedding. I’ve played this music so often that I don’t need the printed music anymore. Let me assure you, however, that it’s nice, good and convenient to have a recording on hand, just for a refresher before heading for the gig.

But, why I chose this version is beyond my capacity for reckoning. There are sooooo many versions of this brilliant little gem on iTunes. I could have chosen an orchestral version, a piano version, a string quartet version, a brass quintet version, a woodwind sextet version, a saxophone septet version, maybe even a Mormon Tabernacle Choir version.

Tonight, after a warm, outdoor, three-hour, under-a-tent, in-front-of-a-fan, one-hundred-and-two-percent-humidity, silent-auction, fund-raiser reception, it’s nice to unwind with a harp and flute version of Mr. Bach’s Arioso. Talk about a match made in heaven: flute and harp. They sound so good together that one could easily assume that God invented each for the other.

The Clinton White House so loved the sound of flute and harp, indeed, requested the combination so often that the US Marine Band had to acquire a second harpist to keep up with the load. W. A. Mozart loved the pairing enough that he wrote a whole concerto for flute, harp and orchestra. I love the integration of the two musical instruments, too, and I have them on my iPod.

Credits: To brides and grooms, everywhere, who chose this lovely work to open their marriage ceremony. It’s such a nice break from Canon in D by Pachelbel, and so much more appropriate than Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road”.

Marine Band audition

A Concord Jazz Christmas; various artists from the Concord Jazz label

The first of my two auditions with “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band occurred on December 6, 1990. Fourteen other pianists joined me in taking a whack at trying out for the nation’s oldest professional music organization. Over the course of the morning, they heard enough of all of us to narrow it down to three finalists: Bob, who eventually got the job, a fellow named Stef Scaggiari and me.

Many years later, after my second, and more successful, audition with the US Marine Band, members of the audition committee who remembered me from the first audition confided in me that I really didn’t have much of a chance that first time around. It seems that they felt that I didn’t have enough commercial music experience. Well, why did you choose me as a finalist. “You were the best classical player all day. You played so nice, we just wanted to hear some more.” Isn’t that sweet?

I bought “Concord Jazz Christmas” in November of 1995 in Aberdeen, South Dakota, when I took my quartets at Brookings High School to All-State Chorus. Concord Jazz started in 1972 as an offshoot of the Concord Jazz Festival in Concord, California. Festival founder Carl Jefferson, a used car salesman and jazz fan, sold his Lincoln Mercury dealership to found, as he says, “the jazz label I can never find in record stores.”

During its almost forty years in existence, giants in the jazz world have recorded for this music group. Rosemary Clooney, Mel Torme, George Shearing, Tito Puente, Barry Manilow, Marian McPartland, George Benson, Woody Herman, Dave Brubeck, Charlie Byrd, Paula Abdul and Tony Bennett are just a few of those who have brought musical excellence to the Concord label.

“Concord Jazz Christmas” was sort of a compilation CD, featuring one track by each of the featured musicians; a quondam version of today’s iPod playlist. I saw Rosemary Clooney’s name on there, and Gene Harris’, Dave McKenna’s, and Ken Peplowski’s. It was then that I decided that it would take a long time to find something better than this.

I listened to it on my ghetto blaster after I got home from Aberdeen. It was nice to hear the variety, every track featuring a different jazz style. When it got to track five, “Angels We Have Heard On High”, I thought, Well, now, who’s this? This has got a nice little groove. Lo, and behold, here was the Stef Scaggiari Trio, the pianist who had made it to the finals at the Marine Band audition with Bob and me.

In the summer of 2001, I played keyboard in a band that backed up a vocal jazz quartet at a weekend jazz festival in Chestertown, Maryland. After the performance, as I was putting my keyboard away, I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, here was one of the hands that belonged to Mr. Stef Scaggiari. “Hi, Erik. I don’t know if you remember me, but you and I met …” He didn’t really have to say much more than that. I was flattered that he remembered who I was at all.

Credits: To Carl Jefferson, for surrendering the security of a used car business in order to embrace the vision of a recording label, taking on the responsibility of an archivist, chronicling, for generations, the canon of the purveyors of America’s music.

Only six months before Christmas. Stores are open ‘til nine.

Bicycles

Piano Quartet in A Major, Op. 30; Quatuor Kandinsky

All three of us kids learned how to ride a bike on an old rust colored bicycle. I don’t know where it came from; I don’t remember when we never had it; and I don't know where it went. I would guess that K. used training wheels when she learned. D. and I did, for sure. When each of us learned how to ride a bike with only a front wheel and a back wheel, Mom and Dad awarded us with a new bicycle. I think that K.’s was purple with a basket in the front. Mine was gold. D.’s was yellow, I think, also with a basket in the front.

We used them mostly to ride up and down the driveway, maybe out to the intersection and back. When we had Bible School in the summer, we would often ride our bikes the mile and a quarter into town, armed with bibles, lunches and Shasta soda pop. Riding into town was easy. Coming back home was a burden. It hung over my head all day long. Two hills, the second one larger than the first, took up the first third of the mile of gravel road that led back to our farm.

Eventually, K. got a green ten-speed. A few years later, D. and I got Schwinn five-speed bikes. D. got a red one, I got a blue one. I used mine mostly to visit my friend S. who lived two miles away.

One time, a couple of punk neighbor kids stole our bikes, only a half hour after we last used them. As soon as we noticed that they were gone, Dad, Mom, D. and I jumped in the pickup and followed the trails that the bikes had made on the gravel road going east of our farm. We caught up to them within a mile or two. I don’t think those two boys regretted the punishment they received from their parents nearly as much as the tongue-lashing that D. gave them on the spot. She … she was mad. The poor, thievin’ scoundrels. God bless ‘em.

I took my five-speed to college and used it mostly to ride to “Pride of the Dakotas” marching band practice from my dorm. When I took a job as the organist at the Presbyterian church in town, I rode my bike to choir rehearsals and worship services, whenever weather situations warranted. Before packing up to go home, following graduation in 1988, I gave my bike to someone who needed one for the summer.

K. was the one who took to biking. She would take long bike rides on Sunday afternoons and summer evenings. When she played catcher on the Bank of Bruce women’s softball team, she always rode her bicycle into town for practice and to catch a ride to the games. Now and then, Mom and Dad would decide to drive up to Estelline to visit Grandma. K. frequently would ride her bike the eleven or so miles to Grandma’s, leaving about a half hour before we did. While in college, K., like D. and me, had an episode with a bicycle thief. Thankfully, like D. and me, she got her bike back.

I barely remember our music history and literature instructor at SDSU mentioning the name of Ernest Chausson, a French composer from the Romantic Era. We didn’t talk about him much since his output didn’t change the direction of music like Beethoven’s did. Yet, it’s beautiful music.

Mr. Chausson fulfilled his obligations to his father by going to law school and taking on a job as lawyer for the Court of Appeals. But, truth be told, he cared more for art and music, and started composing at the age of twenty-five. In 1886, his peers made him secretary of the Societe Nationale de Musique and he regularly received artsy visitors in his home, the likes of Gabriel Faure, Claude Debussy and the painter Claude Monet. He only published thirty-nine works during his lifetime. But all of them of consistently high quality. In June of 1899, he acquired distinction as, most likely, the world’s only major composer whose demise was brought about by virtue of a bicycle accident. He lost control of his two-wheeler as he rode on a downhill slope, slamming straight into a brick building and perishing immediately.

Sometime over the bicentennial weekend in 1976, some poor fellow on a bicycle failed to look both ways before entering an intersection in Rochester, Minnesota, and became a fatality. My sisters and I arrived in Rochester on Monday, the fifth of July, for a week’s vacation with our Uncle A. and Aunt J. We were given free reign with their bikes for the week. Uncle A. had, apparently, given the “bicycle lecture” to their son R. in light of the accident that weekend. For whenever D. and I suggested to our cousin that we take a quick ride around the block on the bikes, little five-year-old R. would put on this face of profound dolefulness and despondency, declaring, “I don’t know. I gotta think about that guy.” So, we’d let him think about him for about ten seconds or so, and then ask, Shall we go? “Okay.”

Credits: To Kermit the Frog, who barely escapes getting flattened by a steamroller by jumping off of the bike and onto the steamroller during the beginning moments of “The Muppet Movie”, only to proclaim, “That’s pretty dangerous building a road in the middle of the street. I mean, if frogs couldn’t hop, I would have gone with the Schwinn.”

John and Marsha

Capitol Collector's Series; Stan Freberg

“Did you know that we have a couple on board this cruise named John and Marsha?” Curtis asked Steve. “No! You’re kidding. That’s hilarious.” What’s hilarious? “John and Marsha.” What? I don’t get the reference. Steve said, “I’ve got a CD to share with you when we get back to the ship.”

Stand Freberg’s soap opera parody routine of “John and Marsha” was cute, quaint and brilliant. Somehow I was able to perceive that Mr. Freberg was doing both voices. But after listening to it a couple of times, I thought, Hang on … I’ve heard this voice before.

I decided to wade a few more tracks deeper into the CD. When I got to “St. George and the Dragonet”, a middle ages spoof on the radio show “Dragnet”, I heard familiar voices. Here was Elroy from “The Jetsons” posing as a knave:

St. George: Pardon me, sir. Could I talk to you for just a minute, sir?

Knave: Sure, I don’t mind.

SG: What do you do for a living?

K. I’m a knave.

SG: Didn’t I pick you up on a 903 last year for stealing tarts?

K. Yeah. So what? Do you wanna made a federal case out of it?

SG: No, sir. We heard there was a dragon operating in this neighborhood. We just want to know if you’ve seen him.

K. Sure, I seen him.

SG: Mmm-hmm. Could you describe him for me?

K: What’s to describe? You see one dragon, you seen ‘em all.

SG: Would you try to remember, sir? Just for the record. We just want to get the facts, sir.

K: Well, he was, you know, he had orange polka dots…

SG: Yes, sir.

K: …Purple feet, breathing fire and smoke…

SG: Mmm-hmm.

K: …And one big bloodshot eye right in the middle of his forehead, and, uh, like that.

SG: Notice anything unusual about him?

K: No he’s just your run-of-the-mill dragon, you know.

SG: Mmm-hmm. Yes, sir. You can go now.

K: Hey, by the way, how you gonna catch him?

SG: I thought you’d never ask. A Dragonet.

I moved on to “Little Blue Riding Hood” and found the voice of Rocket J. Squirrel, without his pal Bulwinkle. And in the same skit, here was the voice of Granny from Loony Tunes and Merry Melodies.

When I got to “Sh-boom”, I finally recognized Stan Freberg’s voice as the Abominable Snowman from Bugs Bunny. So happy to get a bunny rabbit: “I will hug him and pet him and I will call him George.”

The last track on the album “Wun’erful, Wun’erful”, (Side-uh one, and Side-uh two) of course, spoofed the legendary Lawrence Welk. Mr. Freberg’s impersonation of the champion of “champagne music” was outstanding. And then he said, “Turn off the bubble machine.” Hey! Dad used to say that all the time. But, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Well. Now that all made sense.

I’ve always been amused by character voices, voice-over actors and impersonators. The notion of finding a funny voice and making it say funny and outrageous things never becomes tiresome. This album brought back memories of Saturday mornings and animation’s golden age of comedy. It was nice to get reacquainted with some old friends.

I picked up this album after getting back to the US and shared it with Dad. He had a good laugh.

Credits: To Lawrence Welk, for literally inventing a style of music and remaining loyal to his listeners for over fifty years.

Good night, sleep tight, and pleasant dreams to you

Here's a wish and a prayer that every dream comes true

And, though, it's always sweet sorrow to part

You know you'll always remain in my heart

Good night, sleep tight, and pleasant dreams to you

Here's a wish and a prayer that every dream comes true

And now, till we meet again,

Adios, au revoir, auf wiedersehen ... Good night!

Bargain in Barcelona

Symphony No. 6 "Pathetique"; Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, composer; Pulcinella Suite (1949); Igor Stravinsky, composer; NDR Sinfonieorchester; Gunter Wand, conducting

On my way back to the ship after visiting the Museu Picasso in Barcelona, Spain, on a rainy autumn afternoon in 1990, I happened upon a CD store. They were just getting ready to close. I looked quickly. There, in the bargain bin, I found a recording of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 for the equivalency of four dollars. The proprietors seemed pleased to make one more sale before pulling down the shade. That evening, after the late night festivities, I had a little Tchaikovsky party on the Mediterranean Sea with my Sony discman, headphones and the lights from the Spanish coast.

Picasso and Tchaikovsky - within just a few hours of each other. Now, THAT’s a good day.

Credits: To Pablo Picasso, for seeing the world a little differently than the rest of us, and for recreating that different view with a brush.

Vegas, Baby!

Wild, Cool & Swingin'; Louis Prima, Keely Smith and Sam Butera and The Witnesses

Mom has often talked about one of our neighbor’s kids, D. H., who, after college, got hooked up with a job that offered him many opportunities to travel. In fact, the job took him to all fifty states. Mom said that each time D. visited a state for the first time, he would send himself a postcard. There must have been enormous satisfaction when he tacked that last postcard on the bulletin board.

I loved my apartment in San Antonio, Texas. It was on the top floor of the Casino Club Building, right across the Riverwalk from the Hyatt Place, home of Jim Cullum’s Landing. The apartment was, essentially, a single room, with a twenty-foot high ceiling and a loft. It had three floor to ceiling windows that looked to the west, affording me a view to many a Texas sunset. From November of 2002 until April of 2003, I lived like a poor king in my hip digs in the sky.

Throughout those six months, I had plenty of work, but no regular job. I had the freedom to move wherever and whenever I wanted, but the right set of circumstances didn’t present themselves. Then, when the last week in April came, that top floor apartment started to heat up. I knew that there was no way I’d survive that place in the summer.

On the first of May, my friend A. D. called me and said, “The piano player position opened up in Sam Butera’s band. I can’t help but think that you would be perfect for the job.” Who do I talk to? “I’ll give you the number.” Okay. … By the way, who’s Sam Butera? I immediately received a crash course in Butera-lore.

Sam served as arranger, saxophonist and bandleader for Louis Prima and Keely Smith starting in 1956 and staying with Prima clear up into the 1970’s. Mr. Prima had formed a big band in 1940 and, little by little, had developed its own distinctive sound by instilling a recognizable shuffle beat in the rhythm. When Louis gave up the big band in the early 1950’s and started working in Las Vegas, he hired Sam to pick up some musicians and join him at The Sahara. Bringing the shuffle rhythm along from the big band, Louis Prima, Keely Smith and Sam Butera and the Witnesses rocked the room at the casino and almost single handedly invented the Las Vegas lounge act.

As Paul Schaffer to Prima’s David Letterman, Sam would wisecrack with Louis, play outrageous saxophone during the instrumental breaks in the songs and sing a few songs on his own like “Next Time” and “Chantilly Lace”. But the best thing Sam did for Louisa Prima was to write those awesome, hard-swinging arrangements of “Just A Gigolo”, “That Old Black Magic”, “When You’re Smiling” and the great “Jump, Jive and Wail”. It’s almost a certain guarantee that nobody will play “Gigolo” and “Wail” any differently than the way that Sam penned them for Prima.

Sam still lived in Las Vegas in 2003. We made arrangements for me to rent a room in the Vegas home of the guy who played drums for Sam. I parted ways with my princely pad in the Casino Club Building in San Antonio and hit the road bound for Vegas, baby, Vegas.

I really didn’t know what to think. In all of my dreams of traveling all over the world, not once did I ever feel the lure to visit Las Vegas, let alone move there. The very essence of the city is diametrically opposed to my nature. I count as flawed the reasoning of one who sets out to tangle with a vice … with the intention of losing.

Well, I decided to put a more positive spin on the ordeal by doing the following: First, I filled up with gas on the Arizona side of the Hoover Dam. Next, I drove up the strip, scoffing at the excess, deriding its purpose and mocking the casino owners … who, by the way, would never, never, never glean one single dime from my Dockers. Finally, I drove to the drummer's house, and by virtue of opening the door of my Durango, placing the sole of my Merrell’s on the one-hundred ten degree tarmac, extending my hand and saying, Hi, I’m Erik Apland. I’m your new piano player, – I stepped into my fiftieth state.

Credits: To Jim Cullum, for keeping an era of jazz alive. I love your band, old friend.

Guess who's listening?

My Favorite Instrument; Oscar Peterson, piano

I’ve always liked the tune “Someone To Watch Over Me”. It’s one of those great old torch songs where the fair and beautiful maiden knows that her golden, handsome prince awaits her just around the corner; if he could only hurry to be at her side. George and Ira Gershwin adorn this place setting of overt sentimentalism with the following outstanding verse:

There’s a saying old, says that love is blind

Still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find

So, I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had – in mind.

Searching everywhere, haven’t found him yet

He’s the big affair I cannot forget

Only guy I’ll ever think of with regret

I’d like to add my initial to his monogram

Tell me, where is the shepherd for this – lost – lamb?

Once, while furnishing a proper musical backdrop at a function at the White House with my comrades in the nebulously titled “String Ensemble With Piano” from “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, I chose to take a stroll among the elegant twists and melodic turns of this lovely chestnut. Just as the tones were dissipating from the White House Steinway, none other than master documentary film director Ken Burns poked his head around the corner and proclaimed, “THAT is my favorite song. I’m sorry, but I only heard the last twenty measures or so. Can you play it again, please?” Well, absolutely, Mr. Burns. So, I stumbled through it again while he kept watch. When I finished, he smiled at all of us and said, “Thank you.”

Mr. Peterson doesn’t have time for the verse on this opening track to an all solo piano recording. But it doesn’t mean that our fair and beautiful maiden takes on the look of a plain Jane. In fact, with all the pyrotechnics in his musical arsenal at his disposal, our young lass is lit up like a Christmas tree. No chance that our hero is going to gloss over her.

Do you remember that Presidential portrait of President Kennedy where he stands with his arms folded while looking down at the floor? Frequently that painting hung on the wall behind me while I played at the White House. It looked like he was peering over my shoulder to see which notes I was playing. Usually I charge for that.

Credits: To Ken Burns, for masterful brushstrokes as an American history archivist. All of your documentaries are great, sir, but I truly enjoyed “Lewis and Clark”.

Research

Rondo for Violin and Orchestra in C, K.373; W. A. Mozart, composer; Arthur Gramiaux, violin

While doing my research for the tango tune “Por Una Cabeza”, I came across a claim that one part of the song sounds suspiciously like one part of Mozart’s Rondo for Violin and Orchestra in C, K. 373. Well, you can’t just let something hang in the air like that, can you? No, you have to download the track onto your iTunes. Verdict? For those of you who don’t believe that you can tango to Mozart: I have discovered a snag in your theory…

Credits: To Herr Mozart, for writing sonatas, concertos, rondos, symphonies, operas, octets, quintets, quartets, trios, theme and variations and fantasias. Can you write something that we can hip-hop to?

Mooses

Jean Sibelius: Symphonies No. 4 and 6; City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra; Sir Simon Rattle, conducting

So far, in my short life, I have seen a moose, outside of a zoo, three times. In the spring of 1997, while investigating a rogue geyser that sprouted a ways far off from Old Faithful, I noticed some human heads poking around some trees ahead of me on the path. The heads turned their eyes at me, then indicated that I should look to my right. I looked to my right. There in the leftover fall foliage, about ten yards away, sat a mother moose, looking at me with eyes as big as saucers. I slowly stepped toward the heads behind the trees. Once I got out of her personal space, I could see the cutest little baby moose – what do you call a baby moose? – about ten feet behind the mother. There was no time to be scared. For either of us. I’m just glad that mother moose didn’t feel threatened.

Two days later, I saw another moose, this time from my car as I was going around a hairpin turn east of Jackson, Wyoming. It was drizzling. This moose had his head toward the skies, a smile on his face and was saying, “Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, raaaaaaaaaaaaiiinnnnnnnn.” It’s nice to see a happy moose.

The third time I saw a moose was just a few miles outside the city of Pori in Finland. It must have been about five o’clock in the morning when I looked at the reflection of the early morning sky in a crystal clear lake completely devoid of disturbance. Interfering with our overall enjoyment of the sky-lake scenery was the silhouette of a giant moose. So far, mooses (!) have made for nice surprises.

I wonder if Mr. Sibelius ever got surprised by a moose?

Credits: To the American moose and the Finnish moose. Do you have language barriers?

Mansions

Apollon Musagete; Concerto in D; Dumbarton Oaks; Danses concertantes; Igor Stravinsky, composer; Sinfonietta De Montreal; Charles Dutoit, conducting

After I moved to the Washington, DC – Annapolis – Baltimore area, it didn’t take me very long to find myself on contractor rosters for jobs outside the US Marine Band. Soon enough, I had work at hotels, museums, embassies, private homes, clubs, churches and mansions. Through the years, I have particularly enjoyed playing in the mansions. The courtly aura, august tone and emanation of charm that dignify these larger-than-life lodgings testify to a grander age of elegance, refinement and gentility.

A particular favorite has been a stately home called Evermay. With garden-clad grounds in the heart of Georgetown, the interior of the two hundred and sixteen year old home exudes warmth, geniality and, perhaps, a fonder, more charitable and benevolent side of the cool Federalist classification she receives. To play music on her century-old Steinway in her hospitable wood-paneled parlor is to conjure up a day that has long gone by, one bedecked with a little more chivalry, with people of poise and shy sophistication. Was there ever such a day? It’s hard to say, isn’t it?

Up the road from the Evermay sits the Dumbarton Oaks Park and mansion. Built in 1800, its grounds, like Evermay’s, are rigged out with beautiful gardens, but on a much larger scale. In 1920, long-time Foreign Service member Robert Woods Bliss purchased the mansion and its lovely acreage. Mr. Bliss and his wife collected interesting artifacts and books over the course of their lives and, in 1940, they donated them, along with the estate, to Harvard University to create Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. I’ve always wanted to play at this mansion, but it hasn’t happened.

Upon the occasion of Mr. and Mrs. Bliss’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, Mr. Bliss commissioned composer Igor Stravinsky to compose a chamber concerto. With more than just a casual nod to J.S. Bach, Mr. Stravinsky offered a work for flute, clarinet, bassoon, two French horns, three violins, three violas, two cellos and two double basses in the style of the Baroque master’s Brandenburg Concertos. Mr. Stravinsky gave his Concerto in E-Flat the additional name of “Dumbarton Oaks”.

Igor Stravinsky once said, “The Church knew what the Psalmist knew: Music praises God. Music is well or better able to praise him than the building of the church and all its decoration; it is the Church’s greatest ornament.” Isn’t that beautiful? He also said, “Why is it that whenever I hear a piece of music I don’t like, it’s always by Villa-Lobos?” Ooooooooooooooooooooo, mean!

Credits: To J.S. Bach, for a lifetime of applying a nose to a grindstone. Despite all I say, I love your Brandenburg Concertos. I also like that you were a Lutheran.

TV specials

Wicked; Stephen Schwartz, composer and lyricist; Original Broadway cast

Mom was a blur around our house. If she wasn’t cooking, she was baking. If she wasn’t washing clothes, she was sewing clothes. If she wasn’t gardening, she was helping Dad in the field. An endless stream of dishes to wash, the never ceasing parade of newspapers to read, the occasional sick kid to nurse, birds to feed, letters to write, concerts to attend, and on and on it goes. Then there was her work as the secretary at the church, and various other jobs in the community that she took on. When Mom sat down, her eyes were closed. “Wake me up in ten minutes.” Mom, it’s been ten minutes. “Okay.” A few more minutes of blissful rest would ensue.

About the only television that Mom watched was “The Carol Burnett Show” and anything musical on PBS. Otherwise, she didn’t have time. If she had time to watch TV, then she had time to do something else. TV didn’t occupy her world.

And, yet, she always knew when something special was on. “Kids, hurry up and finish your dinner. ‘Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang’ is on tonight.” “Erik, help your Dad with the chores now so that you’re done when Charlie Brown comes on.” “All of you, get your homework done. You don’t want to miss ‘Rudolph’ and ‘Frosty’.” How did she know this stuff? She didn’t watch TV. “Channel Eleven is playing ‘The Wizard of Oz’ at eight o’clock.”

Harold Arlen’s words and music was half the fun of “The Wizard of Oz”.

Ding, Dong, the witch is dead

Which old witch?

The wicked witch

Ding, Dong, the wicked witch is dead

And,

We’re off to see the wizard,

The wonderful wizard of Oz

We hear he is a whiz of a wiz

If ever a wiz there was

If ever, oh, ever a wiz there was

The Wizard of Oz is one because,

Because, because, because, because, becaaaaaaause –

Because of the wonderful things he does.

I’ve always liked these lyrics that didn't make it into the movie:

Gosh, it would be pleasin’

To reason out the reason

To things I can’t explain

And perhaps I’ll deserve you

And be even worthy erve you

If I only had a brain

“Wicked”, the Broadway musical based on a novel by Gregory Maguire, opened in 2003 and tells a sort of back-story of how the witches of Oz met. Stephen Schwartz wrote the words and music and lends Arlenesque creativity to the playfulness of the show. Galinda sings to the wicked witch:

With an assist from me,

To be who you’ll be,

Instead of dreary who you were .. or, are.

There’s nothing that can stop you,

From becoming populer .. lar ..

Even when really young, I always enjoyed the poetry of the wing-ed – two syllables – wing-ed monkeys. I have to say this quietly, though. Mom and I have a standing argument concerning the word “striped”. I pronounce it with one syllable. She pronounces it with two. And I have friends here in the south that pronounce it with three.

Credits: To the great Ian Fleming, for writing “Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang”, “our fine four fendered friend.”

Denmark

Symphonies 1 and 6; Carl Nielsen, composer; The San Francisco Symphony; Herbert Blomstedt, conducting

When I listen to Carl Nielsen’s symphonies, I celebrate my Danish heritage. I don’t know how my Danish great-grandfather found his way to South Dakota, but my great-grandmother came to the United States from Denmark aboard a ship with three of her children. Dad always used to make quite a story out of it.

Once, Mom, Dad and I went to Tyler, Minnesota, to enjoy a Sunday afternoon at Aebleskiver Days. In addition to celebrating the spherical Danish pancake, they paid tribute to everything Danish, from music and literature to language and art.

Mr. Nielsen was the first Danish composer to achieve international recognition. He wrote six symphonies, a few concertos, two operas, some cantatas, the Helios Overture and various chamber works.

Mr. Nielsen’s face adorns Danish hundred-kroner note. Please, everybody, if they should ask, after I’ve been called Upstairs, I don’t want my face on money. It’s bad enough that you have to look at my visage on the iPod to the right. Yeach!

Credits: To Tyler, Minnesota, for keeping watch over the culture and heritage of Denmark in America. Tak.

Verses

After Hours; John Pizzarelli, guitar and vocal

I love it when a great old song has a verse. The composers of the songs in the Great American Songbook quite often liked to set the stage for the sentiment expressed in the main portion of the song by putting a little musical welcome mat at the door. A lot of these great tunes came from Broadway shows, and the verses served as a transition from dialogue to full-voiced air. In these verses, the lyricist afforded themselves the opportunity to wax a little more playfully, as in “The Girl Next Door” by Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin.

The moment I saw her smile

I knew she was just my style

My only regret is we’ve never met

For I dream of her all the while

But she doesn’t know I exist

No matter how much I persist

So it’s clear to see there’s no hope for me

Though I live at fifty-one, thirty-five Kensington Avenue

And she lives at fifty-one, thirty-three …

How can I ignore the girl next door …

“It Had To Be You”, “S’Wonderful”, “Stardust”, “Night and Day”, “Always”, “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down And Write Myself A Letter”, “Fly Me To The Moon” and “Honeysuckle Rose” each have an excellent verse with which to introduce the forthcoming song. Have you heard this verse?

The loveliness of Paris seems somehow sadly gay

The glory that was Rome is of another day

I’ve been terribly alone and forgotten in Manhattan

I’m going home to my city by the bay …

I left my heart in San Francisco …

One of my favorite Gershwin songs is “But Not For Me”. It was featured in the show “Girl Crazy” which opened on Broadway in 1930, making stars of Ginger Rogers and Ethel Merman. The pit orchestra included Glen Miller, Gene Krupa, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman and Jack Teagarden. Can you imagine? Wow. The score also included “My Sweet Embraceable You” and “I’ve Got Rhythm”.

The Gershwins introduce this melancholy song with this defensive, fist-in-the-air verse:

Old man Sunshine, listen, you,

Never tell me dreams come true

Just try it, and I’ll start a riot.

Beatrice Fairfax, don’t you dare

Ever tell me he will care

I’m certain it’s the final curtain.

I never want to hear from any

Cheerful Polyannas

Who tell you fate supplies a mate

It’s all bananas.

From here, the singer laments that...

They’re writing songs of love, but not for me.

A lucky star’s above, but not for me…

When every happy plot ends with a marriage knot

And there’s no knot for me.

Very sad little grieve; one of the greatest torch songs ever. Here, though, is the part I don’t understand: the tune is typically played in an up-beat fashion. The great jazz pianist Teddy Wilson played it that way. The great trumpet and vocal artist Chet Baker performed it that way. John Pizzarelli slows it down quite a bit, but stills keeps a beat going.

In “When Harry Met Sally”, Harry Connick, Jr., does a very slow take on this song to great effect toward the end of the flick. In a moment of inspired genius, Carol Burnett sang the song on the Muppet Show in 1980. The overall story on that episode has Gonzo leading a dance marathon during the whole show. While the muppets are dancing to a very ambitious swing number on the stage, Ms. Burnett sings a slow version of “But Not For Me” super-imposed over the swing number while she’s back stage in her cleaning lady get-up.

I picked up this CD because I didn’t recognize very many of the songs. Mr. Pizzarelli’s musical tastes tend to match mine and if he knew these songs while I didn’t … well, I had to mend that.

Credits: To Teddy Wilson, one of the swingin’est pianists of ‘em all.

Naples!

O Sole Mio; Luciano Pavarotti

I’ve often commented to my friends upon the poetry herein: Approximately halfway between Minneapolis and Annapolis is Indianapolis. The only folk who would ever notice this phenomenon – it’s a little bit of a phenomenon, isn’t it? – come from stock, like my father, who don’t believe in toll roads. The logical route from Annapolis to Minneapolis follows Interstate 90 where, after circumventing Cleveland, one slingshots around Chicago to the right. But Interstate 90 is expensive with toll roads. So I take Interstate 70 through Columbus, to the north of Dayton, and around Indianapolis.

I don’t know what the citizens of Minneapolis and Indianapolis collectively call themselves. Citizens of Annapolis call themselves Annapolitans. Isn’t that pretty? In that same vein, citizens of Naples, Italy, or Napoli, as the locals call it, for centuries have dubbed themselves Neapolitans.

When I first picked up “O Sole Mio”, featuring Luciano Pavarotti, at the Brookings Public Library when I was still in high school, I made no distinction between the two terms Neapolitan and Italian. I didn’t know what Neapolitan meant. I figured that Italians call their folk songs Neapolitan songs. “No, no, no, no, no,” my authority on all things Neapolitan told me. “It is not the music that makes a song Neapolitan or Italian. Neapolitan song composers infuse their art with texts that reflect the Neapolitan dialect.” Then, with his Neapolinose in the air, he added, “Someone who grew up in a different region of Italy wouldn’t sing the words of a Neapolitan song with the proper stress, timbre or inflection.” Well, la-de-Sole-Mio-da-di-pasta-poopi-dio. So, I should throw out my Pavarotti album of Neapolitan songs? “I suppose there are some who can – get by – with their Modenaich accent.” Oh, that’s it. No Toblerone for you. I’m giving you M&M’s for Christmas.

I heard someone say that Mr. Pavarotti had the sun in his voice. I like that. The comment has stuck with me for a long time. It made me recall this album. With the beautiful blue sky in the background on the cover, I’m taken back to the beautiful landscapes that surround the city of Naples and the imposing vistas of the sea.

The Neapolitans may burst with not just a little hubris concerning their dialect. It’s similar to those “Beverely Hills, 90210” kids, who think that their zip code is better than anybody else’s. So be it. But there are no toll roads anywhere near the city of Naples.

Credits: To Toblerones. Oh, yeah!

Mississippi Queen

The Monkey Song; Hoagy Carmichael, vocal

In the fall of 1996, one of my irons in the fire snapped and crackled. The entertainment director of the Delta Queen Steamboat Company called to see if I could cover for the piano player in the house band aboard the Mississippi Queen for one cruise. Well, how do you say “no” to that?

Mom and Dad drove me to the twin cities where we met up with the Mississippi Queen and my Uncle D., who had practically foamed at the mouth for years in an effort to harness the opportunity to board one of the paddlewheelers of the DQ Steamboat Company. After bringing my gear aboard and stuffing it into my quarters, we took a quick tour of the boat. Dad and Uncle D. enjoyed seeing the steam engine room. Mom liked the showroom. I liked the paddlewheel bar.

The drummer in the band was my roommate. Although he wasn’t the bandleader, he prepped me for most of the rehearsals and performances. He also shared with me some of the “theme” cruises that had transpired during his time aboard. “Big Band” cruises, “Civil War” cruises, “Southern Mansions” cruises, “Mark Twain” cruises and, of course, “The Great Steamboat Race” cruises.

He told me about one cruise sponsored by the Smithsonian Institute. One of their music specialists, an authority on the Great American Songwriters like Irving Berlin, the Gershwin brothers, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein, Jerome Kern and the like, had held my drummer buddy spellbound during a lecture about Hoagy Carmichael. At the end of the lecture, the speaker announced that he had brought recordings of Mr. Carmichael’s music and were for sale. Mr. drummer picked up a copy right away.

The boon of this recording lay in the format of the instrumentation. It was just piano. The bonus was the piano player and singer. It was Hoagy Carmichael. This is an American Song lover’s dream – to hear a song the way the composer conceived it and preferred to hear it performed.

Far and above the other songs, my friend’s favorite track was Mr. Carmichael’s version of “The Monkey Song”. I don’t know how to describe this song. It tells a story, for sure, about a musical monkey who can play the drums. The scenario involves a king, a missionary, a donkey and a hippo with various references to Bix Beiderbecke, Frank Buck and Sir Fred Hoyle. The song goes by at a fairly brisk clip. There’s no thinking ahead at what the words might be. You know them or you don’t. This is a song that you sing from muscle memory. It’s the only way.

I have found various performances of this song through the years. One of my favorites comes by way of Stan Freberg when he sang it during one episode of “The Stan Freberg Show” in 1957. That’s about the fastest I’ve ever heard it sung. Other versions that I’ve heard take the cautious and careful road, missing the madcap nature of the song. I DO have a version of Hoagy Carmichael singing about the monkey, but he’s accompanied by a band. I liked his piano version better. But I can’t find it.

In 2009, the Mississippi Queen was gutted and sold for scrap. R.I.P. Miss Mississippi Queen.

Credits: To my friend G. R., who likes monkeys.