Hope

What A Wonderful World; Louis Armstrong

“Erik, you’re going to California.” Huh? “The DOD is sending musical support from all of the military branches out to Los Angeles to honor the USO on the occasion of its sixtieth anniversary. The colonel has handed the job over to Pete, and Pete has asked for you.” So, I’m going to California? “You’re going to Los Angeles.” I’m going to Los Angeles? “You’re going to Hollywood.” Su-weeeeeeeeet!

Hello? “Erik, this is Pete.” Hey, Pete. “We’re going to California.” We’re going to Los Angeles. “We’re going to Hollywood.” Su-weeeeeeeeet. “I know. Listen, I have these mildly virtuosic variations on Yankee Doodle for violin and piano. They certainly would fill the bill for the job. What do you think?” Sounds good to me. Shall we run through them on Friday? “Sounds good.”

Hello? “Erik, this is Pete.” Hey, Pete. “I just heard that the DOD is also going to honor Bob Hope on the same gig.” We get to see Bob Hope? “Dude, we’re going to PLAY for Bob Hope!” Well, this just moves this whole thing up to another level, doesn’t it? “I agree.” We need more than Mr. Doodle and his wacky high jinks. “Do you have something in mind?” Maybe. Let’s meet on Friday.

Armed with a very powerful, an extremely potent arrangement of “What A Wonderful World”, a quiet extravaganza designed to dehydrate the tear ducts of the most dispassionate scoundrel, guaranteed to run the most industrial strength, asbestos-laced mascara the movie industry can concoct – we took the stage. And there – out there in the audience – giving us their complete star-eyed focus – sat Mickey Rooney, Buddy Ebsen, Michael Douglas, Steven Spielberg, that girl who played the Marine Lieutenant Colonel on JAG with a backless dress – oh, yeah, I remembered her – and countless others. But no Bob Hope. We had received word weeks before the event that the final decision concerning his attendance that evening might not happen until late afternoon; it all depended on how Mr. Hope felt.

Well, we didn’t hold back. Only the last few seconds of our outpourings gave direct acclaim to the great Bob Hope. Everything we played before it hailed the work and purpose of the USO. We got our standing ovation. And Pete and I were deeply gratified. All humility intact, it’s fun to hear movie stars applaud your music.

Until I left for graduate school, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t attend the mid-morning Memorial Day Services lead by the American Legion, Post 200, in Bruce, South Dakota. The pomp and solemnity with which these former soldiers brought tribute to their fallen brethren impacted my sisters and me. Each year at the end of May, we revisited that last degree to which a serviceman or servicewoman, an honest to God trooper, a real fighter, gave protection to the helpless, for national and human ideals, for freedom itself.

I saw an e-mail a few days ago that closed with the sentiment: Happy Memorial Day. And I thought, Now that’s inappropriate. I consider Memorial Day in the same vein as Good Friday. Good Friday isn’t supposed to be happy. Neither is Memorial Day. We’re supposed to be sad. All day. Yeah, well, that doesn’t happen, does it? Maybe I’m the only one with the frownies.

This afternoon, at the wedding reception that I played, I realized that we give the greatest honor to the brave, who gave that last ounce of defense, by celebrating those things that they fell to protect. Today, at the reception, we celebrated – by virtue of food, music, cake and champagne - a birthday, a marriage, family, friendship and love. Just a few of the profusion of things that make our world … wonderful.

Credits: To the USO, for standing with the branches of military service to bring hope … and Hope … to heroes. Thank you.

More Mozart Movie Music

Soundtrack from Amadeus Part II, Academy of St. Martin-In-The-Fields; Sir Neville Marriner, conducting

How often to you come across “movie soundtrack part II”? Allow me to answer that for you: It is rarely seen. The staggering amount of quality performances recorded for the motion picture “Amadeus” necessitated a second CD.

Noticeably absent from the first album, the Queen of the Night, with her four tumultuous high F’s, makes an angry appearance. As does the hauntingly beautiful D Minor Piano Concerto. And how did the first movement to “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” miss the first train?

I got scorched again today. And I’m soothing my singed wherewithal by drinking deep, tranquilizing draughts from the second movement of the Maestro’s Concerto for Flute, Harp and Orchestra in C Major, K. 299. Mmmmmmmmm…. I am now in a much cooler and lullier place.

Credits: To the unsung, and now sung, heroes of the Omni Shoreham, who brought cold, refreshing bottles of water to five parched musicians trapped in the grassy desert surrounding the gazebo.

Memory bank

He's The Greatest Dancer; Sister Sledge

Some of you out there – you know who you are! – have mistakenly put me in possession of a photographic memory. I assure you that I have no such thing. My memories don’t rely so much on facts and figures as they do on impressions, emotions and perceptions from my point of view as I experienced them. Allow me to be clear: I don’t remember everything.

When my sisters and I get together with Mom around the table and reminisce over days gone by, K., D. and Mom frequently recall things that I don’t. And I remember things that they don’t. I must believe that that is the way with us all.

Dad used to remember dates when a thunderstorm would come through. I don’t think he set out specifically to remember those dates, but when he needed to remember them, he had them. Why would he do this? Because the rain affected his crops. Just like a professional campaign manager can recite demographics on hundreds of issues along with percentages, statistics and probabilities, Dad’s focus remained on the weather and the way it impacted the corn, the wheat, the alfalfa, the beans … even the cows.

I have every confidence that you, dear reader, can match me, cache byte for cache byte, in recalling the memories of a lifetime. It does NOT require a photographic memory. If I had a photographic memory, I would remember why ON GOD’S GREEN, BLUE AND OILY EARTH I would have downloaded Sister Sledge’s “He’s The Greatest Dancer”.

Credits: To the weatherman, who brings the farmer information and peace of mind.

Ah, Paris!

The Paris Concert; Joe Pass, guitar; Niels-Henning Orsted Pederson, bass; Oscar Peterson, piano

I have visited Paris five times. Traditionally, Paris plays the part of the most romantic city in the world. I won’t deny that its citizens steep the aura of Paris with that certain “je ne sais quoi”. I suppose that qualifies as an element of romance. How many millions have tried to nail down a all-encompassing definition of romance? Or for love, for that matter? We all have our different criteria for a romantic setting.

A city that is determined to exist despite the impossibility to construct streets catches my attention. No cars. I like that. I love Venice.

A city who’s Old Town still functions as it has for over a millennium forces me to consider how we bulldoze buildings that are less than twenty-five years old. Why do I love Salzburg? In just a ten-minute walk from the city centre, you can be out in the country.

A city who’s streets meander where the shores of the Chesapeake Bay SAY they will meander, who has a three-block long main street and a small-town feel despite its thirty-six thousand plus residents, beckoned me to stay for awhile. “Sailing Capital of the World”. I don’t sail. But I love that people here do. I love Annapolis.

The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, Sainte Chapelle, Versailles and the Champs-Elysees all vie for attention when I come to town. Magnificent structures all. Romantic? Well, yes, I reckon they are. But do they illicit the romantic response in me? I guess I don’t feel it.

The Arc de Triomphe, at the western end of the Champs-Elysees, wins the spoils with regard to my favorite places to visit in the City of Lights. They built it to honor all who have fought for France, particularly those who fought during the Napoleonic Wars. The Unknown Soldier lies in constant state in the Tomb underneath the Arc. My friend C. and I spent two hours up at the top of the Arc, watching the city change from day to night. My sister K. visited the Arc with me in 1993. She wanted to see it because the Tour de France concludes there.

A few blocks to the northeast of the Arc de Triomphe is the Salle Pleyel, a spectacular concert hall. One might say the French Carnegie Hall. On October 5, 1978, jazz pianist Oscar Peterson, with guitarist Joe Pass and bassist Niels-Henning Orsted Pedersen, absolutely besnockered the French with an outstanding concert. How lucky we are that the Pablo jazz label was there to archive this performance for all time with this CD. If we get to revisit certain instances on Earth up in Heaven, I want to come see this.

As you, dear reader, have seen, I don’t often say, “Buy this CD.” If you like jazz – buy this CD. Their rendition of Benny Goodman’s “Soft Winds” is worth the price of admission all by itself.

Don’t expect to find elements of romance in my hometown city of Bruce, South Dakota. It has streets. It doesn’t have a bay. With two-hundred and fifty people, it doesn’t have to portray a small-town feel. You CAN be out in the country in about a two-minute walk from main street. Because of, or despite, all these things, I love Bruce.

Credits: To Professor Peter Schickele, for his ability to relate to nearly anybody and everybody through his passion for all kinds of music. I like the way you ended your radio shows: It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that certain je ne sais quoi. Brilliant, man.

Out to the lake

Gershwin plays Gershwin: The Piano Rolls; George Gershwin, piano

About five miles to the west of our farm sits Oakwood Lakes State Park. Eight glacial lakes interconnect to form land and shore configurations ideal for picnics, swimming, camping, boating, skiing, fishing, hiking and horseback riding. I couldn’t even guess how many warm afternoons, when my sisters and I were little, found their conclusions out at the park for a dip in the lake.

We all know the drill. First you wade into the water; it’s so cold. Up to the knees first, then come back out. Then up to the waist, then come back out. Then all the way up to the neck; then still come back out. Activities around the dock came next. How far out to the end of the dock will you jump into the water? As the evening comes on, bravery sets in and common sense dims, and that point on the dock gets further and further from the shore. About the time that we have the courage – some may call it courage – to take that ultimate plunge…

“Kids! Let’s pack up. It’s time to go.”

Not home, though. No swimming evening was complete without a stop at the Wagon Wheel Resort, right by the swimming area. It was really little more than a burger place. But with its wrap-around bar, pinewood walls, its wagon wheel motif and local, wall-size maps of roads, trails, cabins and picnic shelters, the place sustained the wonder of a summer camp. While you ate your burger, gnawed on your French fries and sipped your pop – Yes. Pop! – you wondered where all the other campers were.

Mr. and Mrs. DeB. owned and operated the little resort and always kept the place neat, tidy and classy. Clientele seemed to know to conform its behavior to the family environment, otherwise the master of the house, or more likely the mistress, might remind them where the door is. Mr. and Mrs. DeB. always made it a point to come out and talk to the people who visited their little corner of the lake.

One evening at the Wagon Wheel, Mrs. DeB. said, “I’ve got a surprise for you when you’ve finished eating.” When the last French fry found its way home, she led us back behind one of the booths and there stood a piano. Was that there before? “No, I bought it about six weeks ago. It’s an old player piano. It was here a few weeks ago when you folks stopped in, but I didn’t want to tell you about it until I got it tuned. Go, ahead. Try it out.”

I played one chord on the piano and knew that I was in trouble. The C chord that I played didn’t sound like a C chord. It sounded like a B chord. “The tuner said that, if he tuned the strings all the way up to where they’re supposed to be, they might break.” I looked up at Mom, she looked back at me, and said, “It’s okay. I understand. Just do the best that you can.” I tried a couple of songs, the simplest ones I knew. But with each passing note, my fingers automatically went one note lower to try to play it in the key that it sounded. I was frustrated, embarrassed and crushed. And a little sad. Mrs. DeB. smiled and said, “That’s okay sweetheart. Maybe another time.” I could tell, though, that she was disappointed.

She had a couple of piano rolls and she put them in. I had seen a player piano only once before, at Shakey’s Pizza. But we weren’t aloud to touch. This time I got to watch the whole process. I was completely fascinated. This was an entirely different kind of tape recorder. It was a paper tape recorder.

George Gershwin played his own music, in the way that he conceived it, on a reproducing piano (a step beyond the standard player piano) in 1924. Why it took nearly seventy years to imprint them onto a CD confounds me. The highlight of this CD is the solo piano version of “An American In Paris”. Absolutely outstanding!

They say that Art Tatum, possibly the finest solo jazz pianist to date, learned to play the piano by listening to piano rolls. Being blind in one eye and half-blind in the other, he played back what he remembered hearing on the rolls. Quite often, though, piano rolls, back in the day, were pressed with two pianists at the keyboard. Nobody ever told Art Tatum that he was listening to two pianists at one keyboard. The things that you can accomplish when you’re not told what’s impossible. I’ve never felt so handicapped than when I listen to blind Art Tatum.

Credits: To the inventor of the player piano. Genius!

It's hot!

Symphonie Espagnole; Edouard Lalo, composer; Montreal Symphony Orchestra; Charles Dutoit, conducting; Joshua Bell, violin

It has been a long warm day, and I got cooked at a job outside this evening with a ninety-two degree temperature. So now I’m at home listening to Joshua Bell play Edouard-Victoire-Antoine Lalo’s “Symphonie espagnole” for violin and orchestra. Officially, it’s a symphony. Technically, it’s a concerto.

Sorry. No story. It’s too hot. But thank you for checking in.

Credits: To you, for checking in.

Isolation

Jazz To The World; various artists

I remember seeing a documentary type news clip concerning federal lands that had received National Park, Monument, Forest, Grassland or other designation during the Clinton administration. During the clip, they showed President Clinton aboard Marine One touring these areas that had obtained these prestigious classifications. At one point, they cut away from the scenery to show President Clinton in an interview. He talked about Marine One protocol that required one Marine in full dress uniform to meet the helicopter on the ground whenever it landed.

They switched back to panoramic footage of the terrain where they would land. It was nothing but sand as far as you could see; except for one dark spot. As they got closer and closer to it, the spot took on the form of one … solitary … full dressed Marine, out in the middle of the desert, standing at attention, ready to salute his Commander In Chief after opening the hatch for him. The image was striking. Nobody around for seemingly hundreds of miles. And here was a Marine waiting for them. As far as anybody knew he’d been waiting there for three years.

I miss the isolation of our farm. I don’t, by the way, feel hemmed in by the neighbors. The expansive perimeter of lawn, trees, fences and gravel road outside the window near my desk reminds me of the vast sweep of breathing room we enjoyed out in the country. Believe me, from the time that I was very young, I could feel every inch of the half mile or so that separated us from the H.’s to the east of us, the half mile to the J.’s just west of us, the mile to the E.’s near the highway to the south of us and some other E.’s more than a mile to the north.

In the spring and summer, you could hear the tractors in every direction waking up the ground with the plow and cultivator. In the fall you could feel the milieu of the harvest in the surrounding farm environment with the rumble of the combines and the lonely drone of the grain dryers.

But with the arrival of winter on the prairie, that half mile span of space to the east may as well have been forty miles long. Not from the standpoint of trying to reach the neighbors. But our houses are closed up tight. Anything that can sustain a zero degree environs is shut out to the dark, the cold, the grit, the hard, the harsh, the snow and the ice. Our four walls and a roof become a refuge that encapsulates, until the return of spring, warmth, light and closeness. Life. A mere glance outside the window, into the world of frost and icicle, evokes a reminder of our seclusion, cloister and solitude.

“Jazz To The World” takes me to this place. The contemporary atmosphere of this holiday music gives a denser element of festivity to our Christmas decorations, an almost measurable sensation of joy to our annual celebration of giving. My family knows the reason for the season. It’s all right to have a little holiday ambience, as well.

Only seven months until Christmas!

Credits: To the H.’s to the east. What great neighbors!

Graduation present

Piano Quintets; Johannes Brahms, composer; Antonin Dvorak, composer; Guarneri Quartet; Artur Rubinstein, piano

I graduated from high school on a Monday. So did my sisters. I always considered it a stroke of genius that Sioux Valley Schools administrators regularly scheduled its annual graduation ceremonies on Monday evenings. So many other schools in the vicinity competed with one another by arranging their commencement exercises for Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening, Sunday afternoon or Sunday evening. We never heard of anyone else having Monday evening graduation. If there was any way in which SVHS graduation activities coincided with anyone else’s, it was when our school held baccalaureate services on the Sunday evening before, with the local churches conducting and sponsoring the worship event.

It was after the Sunday evening Baccalaureate service that Mom and Dad had a graduation party for me at our church. After the graduation ceremonies on Monday evening, all of the graduating seniors (plus two others) that had attended the elementary school in our little town had a combined reception in the gymnasium next to the old school.

My piano teacher, Dr. P., and his wife came to the Sunday evening party. He brought me a book: “The Great Pianists: From Mozart to the Present”, by New York Times music critic Harold C. Schonberg. It made great summer reading. I noticed that of all the pianists Mr. Schonberg chronicled, he wrote most lovingly of the pianism of Artur Rubinstein.

Mr. Rubinstein handed history his own account of his life with, not one, but two autobiographies: “My Young Years” in 1973 and “My Many Years” in 1980. According to the first book, he was a naturally talented child who didn’t really need to practice very much. His mother, however, insisted that he practice two to three hours a day. So, to appease her, he would sit at the piano and practice mindless piano passages while reading a book and eating chocolates.

A few years ago, my friend E.G. gave me the score to Brahms’ Piano Quintet in F Minor, Op. 34. I didn’t have a recording of this piece, so I “pawed” through the selection of CD’s available for download on iTunes and determined that Mr. Rubinstein and the Guarneri Quartet would provide me with the most satisfying read-through of the work.

The image of the consummate, tuxedo-clad master manifesting his craft before an audience clothed mostly in reverence, wonder and beholden esteem stood in stark contrast to the comedic, yet artful, weekly performance of his Hollywood son, John, in the show “Crazy Like A Fox” that ran from 1984 to 1986. Whenever I watched the younger Mr. Rubinstein undergo the antics of his co-star Jack Warden, I couldn’t help but contrast and compare the two types of performances that this father and son rendered. I would guess that anyone that knew my father and I around the time of my graduation would have thought something similar.

Credits: To Dr. P., for five years of unforgettable instruction at the piano. And for being yet one more “Great Pianist”.

The Psalms

The Chichester Psalms; Leonard Bernstein, composer

I love the Psalms. They provide me with an oasis. While much of the bible is instructive, life-sustaining and redemptive, the Psalmists have provided us with an opportunity for us to meet God where we are – right now. If I am angry, I can sit at the desk of the Psalmist as he or she writes in Psalm 109 …

Place a wicked person in command over him;

Let a persecutor stand at his right hand.

When he is tried, let him be convicted;

Let intercession for him fail.

When I am fearful, I can abate the terror and panic as I peer at Psalm 27 …

The LORD is my light and my salvation – whom shall I fear?

The LORD is the stronghold of my life – of whom shall I be afraid? …

Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear;

Though war break out against me, even then will I be confident.

The book of Psalms provides a resting place for nearly any spiritual ailment, whether it’s humiliation and betrayal or petition, thanks and praise. The Psalms allow us to come into the presence of God with our dirty clothes and our smudgy faces, our sin-stained hearts and our reckless emotions all splayed out like a peacock. In this place, God says, “I hear, I feel, I know, I understand, I share, I commend, I forgive. And I love.”

In Leonard Bernstein’s “Chichester Psalms”, the maestro places himself and the members of the performing ensemble before God in order to praise, to wail, to cry and to express gratitude. During the second of the three parts of this masterwork, Mr. Bernstein bisects the peace of the 23^rd Psalm with the painful lament of Psalm 2 …

Why do the nations rage, and the kings of the earth set themselves together

Against the Lord and against his anointed?

During a Congressional memorial service in the Capitol Rotunda a few days after the catastrophic September 11, 2001, Senate Chaplain Dr. Lloyd Ogilvie rose to the microphone with a countenance of peace and assurance and offered this …

God is our refuge and strength,

A very present help in trouble.

Therefore will we not fear, though the earth be removed,

And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea…

Be still and know that I am God.

That was the point where I started to feel better.

Credits: To the Psalmists. Thank you

Children's books

Fairy Tale in E Minor, Op. 34, No. 2; Nikolai Medtner, composer; Geoffrey Tozer, piano

We had a little library at the end of the hallway near the bedrooms of my sisters and me. I can’t stress the word little enough. Our books took up only two shelves and consisted mostly of Charlie Brown and Laura Ingalls Wilder books. At some point, Mom introduced each one of us to the magic of our local public library. The fantastic shenanigans enshrouded within the story called “Morris the Moose Goes to School” will retain for time immemorial the status of legend.

We did, however, have some books of our own that all three of us came back to at various periods of our childhoods. These were books that possibly established the scope of life, that might have laid the ground work for a sense of humor, an awareness of virtue, a discernment of whimsy or a detection of melancholy. Books that perhaps even defined the natures through which each of us would spend our time on this Earth.

I would pour over the book “Go, Dog, Go!” for hours. Who can forget all of the dogs on the bed sleeping in the dark of night – except for one little dog with eyes big as the moon? And then all of the dogs up at the break of dawn – except for the little dog who didn’t sleep all night … dead to the world by the pillow. How about the girl dog to the boy dog? “Do you like my hat?” “No, I do not.” “Good day.” “Good day.” But the highlight of the entire adventure – the two pages that defined the penultimate moment of literary childhood playfulness – was the birthday party up in the tree. There were cakes, hats, whistles, tents, swings, masks, balls, dolls, bikes, toys, presents; more life than any young person could possibly collect within the purview of childhood reality. That specific image represented the quintessential notion of fun. Any fun beyond what that portrait portrayed just isn’t necessary.

Deere & Company published “Johnny Tractor and His Pals” in 1958. The book was distributed to farm families throughout the country by John Deere farm equipment dealerships. Louise Price Bell wrote the story and Roy Bostrom, a retired Deer & Company staff artist, illustrated Johnny and his pals. Johnny bragged to the other implements on Farmer Fowler’s farm that he was more important than all of the other farm machines. The lesson here, of course, is that none of us is more important than any other. We all perform the job given to us in order to serve a bigger need, or maybe even, a master.

I remember when Mom bought “Richard Scarry’s Best Storybook Ever”. At the time, I couldn’t imagine that a book this big could possibly fulfill the literary wants and essentials of ones so small like my sisters and me. What did I get from this book? Warmth. Optimism. Buoyancy. Effervescence. Confidence in the overall general good humor of my fellow earth beings. Mr. Hedgehog gave Mrs. Hedgehog an apple for Christmas, who returned the gift to her family by baking an apple dumpling. Schtoompah balanced his tuba on his head while he bicycled to his orchestra gig. Brave Pierre Bear, who lived way up north, hunted moose to supply his winter wardrobe and his pantry with “moose pie, moose cakes and thirteen jars of minced moose meat.” Pip-pip went to London and ending driving his whole car into a fountain into which people threw coins for luck.

In August of 2009, I purchased a book that contained the sheet music of numerous Russian composers: Rachmaninoff, Scriabin, Glinka, Borodin, Balakirev and many others. A piece by composer Nikolai Medtner called Fairy Tale in E Minor, Op. 34, No. 2, caught my attention. It is quite beautiful. The more I played through it, the more I liked it. But the music didn’t indicate a tempo. I had no idea how fast or how slow to play it. So I downloaded a recording of Australian classical pianist Geoffrey Tozer, only to find that the maestro plays it VERY fast.

Mr. Medtner seems to have invented the Russian word “Skazki” which he attached to thirty-eight of his original compositions. The word translates best as “tales”, but the word “Fairy” has fastened itself to the front of the term and “Fairy Tales” forever they most likely will remain.

I don’t recall books in our little library that told the famous stories of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Ugly Duckling, Thumbellina and the like. We must have heard them somewhere along the line. Disney, I suppose. But I find it telling that Mom didn’t pad our library with this type of story. Instead the foundation of our worldviews stands on the shoulders of a cat who wore a hat, a fish who is fed too much fish food and an inquisitive monkey who rides a bike.

Credits: To the authors of children’s books everywhere and for all time, who shape and pave the road of humanity through the imagination and welfare of hopefulness of tomorrow’s mothers and fathers. Bravo to P.D. Eastman, Louise Price Bell and Richard Scarry. Thank you for keeping your childhood alive. It lives in me.

Cascades

Akoustic Band; Chick Corea

Mom bought the music to “Autumn Leaves” two or three times. Each time that she bought it, she had me play it on the piano at home. She was disappointed each time. I eventually discovered that she was expecting the version that Roger Williams played.

Roger Williams recorded “Autumn Leaves” in 1955 and brought the song to number one in the US, the only piano instrumental to achieve that status. It remained at number one for four weeks.

Jazz pianist Chick Corea recorded many albums during the 1980’s with his Electrik Band. He caught my attention in 1989 with the release of “Akoustic Band”. Of course, I loved it. I’m partial to any ensemble that doesn’t have a plug-in cord trailing along behind it.

The first half of the album consists of jazz standards, including “Autumn Leaves”, “Sophisticated Lady” and “Someday My Prince Will Come”. Mr. Corea includes four of his own compositions at the end of the recording, probably to ratchet up the tension. His excellent tune, “Spain”, which I’ve referred to before, always pleases, whether it’s a solo, duet, as in this case, a trio, or a big band.

During my first year in college, Dr. P. had me learn Frederic Chopin’s Etude in A minor, Opus 25, No. 11. The first theme of the musical exercise features a tumultuous cascade of notes descending from the eighth highest note on the piano. The first time Mom heard me play that piece, she said, “I like that one. It sounds like ‘Autumn Leaves’.”

Credits: To Chick Corea, for teaching me how not to spell “electric” and “acoustic”. !!!

A duet album

Nothing Without You; Cleo Laine, vocals; Mel Torme, vocals

In 1992, during my year-long stay in Orlando, Florida, I took a two-week job as a substitute band pianist on the Costa Classica of the Costa Cruise Line. The ship was fairly new, having had its inaugural cruise only one year before. So, on a Saturday morning, I drove down to Ft. Lauderdale to meet the ship.

I had a lot of music to learn. I spent most of the time in rehearsals. But we had a lovely day in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where we declared a one-day boycott on rehearsals. The trumpet player in the band was at the gangway when I got there. Where are you going? “I have a favorite CD store that I like to visit in the Old Town. Wanna’ come along?” Yes, I do.

The selection was awesome, but money was tight. I told myself that I could only afford to get four CD’s. The other three CD’s escape my memory, but Mel Torme and Cleo Laine got lodged in there and they never left.

The first time I heard Cleo Laine, she had a role in the musical “The Mystery of Edwin Drood”, the murder mystery that Charles Dickens had not finished when he died. Ms. Laine sang the role of Miss Angela Prysock and the Princess Puffer. I had acquired the LP of that soundtrack in 1987 and thoroughly enjoyed the voice of Dame Cleo Laine.

The liner notes inside Mr. Torme’s and Ms. Laine’s CD mentioned her marriage to legendary and brilliant British composer, arranger and bandleader John Dankworth. In fact he arranged many of the selections on the CD. In 2006, Queen Elizabeth II made Mr. Dankworth a knight bachelor, creating one of those rare instances where both husband and wife in a marriage held titles in their own right.

Mr. Torme added the following lyrics during their rendition of the title tune on their CD, “Nothing Without You”:

How much is a Dankworth?

He always knows the score.

How much is Citibank worth?

A Dankworth is worth even more.

Another memorable moment has Mel and Cleo singing the song “Girl Talk” where the only two words that they actually sing are at the end: girl and talk. I suppose my favorite track is the “Two Tune Medley” where she sings one portion of a song while he sings a snippet of a completely different song.

I’ve always enjoyed this phenomenon when one tune has the same chord changes as another. Try singing “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone” along with “Five Foot Two, Eyes Of Blue” some time. You can also sing “It’s A Small Word” over John Williams’ “Raiders Of The Lost Ark” main title.

If you’ve got a spare moment, try singing the closing credit lyrics of “The Beverly Hillbillies” to the tune of “Ghost Riders In The Sky.”

Boy, this blog entry took a strange turn at the end, didn’t it?

Credits: To the people of Puerto Rico, who retain all of the privileges of American citizenship – except the one to vote in Presidential and Congressional elections. That’s not right. I’m just sayin’.

Jazz strings

Who Do We Think We Are?; Turtle Island String Quartet

Do you know why I don’t like Sunday School Christmas programs? I never got to be Joseph, a shepherd, a king, a sheep, a camel, a donkey, a coyote or anything. My classmates got to put on the dark plaid JC Penney bath robes every year. Can I be a king or a shepherd this year? “Sorry, no. You’ve got a good singing voice. We need you to help lead the singing.” Yeah, I know. I’m holding a thirty to thirty-five year old grudge.

When I got into high school band, there was a jazz band. Mr. D., can I play piano in the jazz band? “Sorry, Erik. I need you to play trumpet. I’m giving the piano spot to D. She doesn’t play trumpet, sax or trombone. This way works out better for the band.” Now I’m holding a twenty-five to thirty year old grudge.

When I got to college, I tried not to burden myself with too much. In addition to my classes, lessons and practice time, I participated in Concert Choir and marching band in the fall of my freshman year. At the end of the semester, I felt that I had a pretty good handle on my time. I could afford to join another ensemble, so I went to see Dr. J. about jazz band.

“I’m absolutely thrilled that you came to talk to me about this. We’re actually going to be minus one pianist in the rhythm section in the Monday-Wednesday Jazz Band during the second semester. The part is yours if you want it.” Well, yes, I’ll take it. Thank you, Dr. J. Is there anything I should do to prepare for this? “Yes. You should buy thirty-six jazz albums and listen to them for sixteen hours everyday for eight months. Then you should buy thirty-six more. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.” Dr. J. had a poker face. I couldn’t tell if he was bluffing. No matter. I didn’t have money to buy thirty-six albums, anyway.

The first chart I got to play in jazz band was “Seven Steps to Heaven”, a tune by Victor Feldman and Miles Davis. It was included on Davis’s album of the same name in 1963.

The Turtle Island String Quartet takes a stab at the bebop tune on its 1994 album “Who Do We Think We Are”. Every time I hear them play the tune, I almost laugh out of sheer joy; because I can’t believe I’m hearing string players swing and improvise so easily, so naturally, so musically, so jazzically. Typically, jazz and string players go together like maple syrup and lemonade. The adaptability aspect of Turtle Island’s collective musical genius, however, astounds and grants them quintessence as crossover artists. The notion of string players emulating Jimi Hendrix with his “Gypsy Eyes” would be comical if they weren’t so good at it.

I was always curious where “Seven Steps To Heaven” got its name. I suppose it must come from the first seven notes and first seven chords in the first phrase of the tune. In all the times that we rehearsed this tune in jazz band, I never thought to look for Heaven from there.

Credits: To the Turtle Island String Quartet. Who Do I Think You Are? Bloody geniuses, that’s who. You rock!

Expensive noise.

Liszt Piano Works; Stephen Hough, piano

While I lived in Orlando, Florida, during 1992, I kept a keen eye on two specific things: concerts and my wallet. Only a couple of times did these two entities mutually agree to bestow a green light on an excursion. In late February of 1992, I saw that the Florida Symphony Orchestra would present a performance of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 featuring British pianist Stephen Hough.

I saw that I could afford a Friday morning concert. So I joined the Cotton Top Club for an outing to the symphony. In addition to Mr. Rachmaninoff, the orchestra performed Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade” and an overture by Gioacchino Rossini. I enjoyed the concert thoroughly, especially the pianist, Mr. Hough. His CD’s evaded my gaze for years until I happened upon one at the Tower Records store in Washington, DC.

The following year, in April, the Florida Symphony Orchestra closed up shop after many years of financial woes. Many others across the nation have shut down since then for similar reasons. When the great writer said that “Music is the most expensive of noises”, I don’t think he was talking about money. But he might as well have been.

Credits: To musical lay people, who fight tooth and nail to sustain a performing arts organization in their community, who can see the impact that a live performance has on the culturally deprived, who can experience a moment of personal, artistic significance, and encounter themselves upon reflection. Bravo, to you. Thank you.

Robin Hood

Piano Trio in D Major, Opus 1; Erich Wolfgang Korngold, composer; Escher Trio

Aunt J. got my Mom in so much trouble when they were little. J. liked to go to the movies on Saturday afternoon. Mom was younger and not allowed to go along. When it was time to go home, Grandpa E. sent Mom in to get Aunt J. “J., Daddy’s outside. It’s time to go.” “Yeah, yeah. In a minute. Watch this.” So they’d watch the movie for a couple of minutes. “J., Daddy’s outside. We really have to go.” “We will. But you have to see this.” Three more minutes went by. “J. We have to go home. Daddy’s outside waiting for us.” “I know. But watch what happens here.” And what happened here is that Grandpa came in and dragged his two truant daughters out to the car. Who do you think got yelled at? Mom got the lecture. And J. got the giggles.

It’s a wonder that Mom went into a movie theater again after that. But she did. And she did it smarter. When her kids went to the movies, she went in WITH them and when it was time to go, it was time to go.

One of the first movies that I remember seeing in the theater with Mom and Dad was Disney’s “Robin Hood”. It featured the voices of Phil Harris as Little John, Andy Devine as Friar Tuck, Terry-Thomas as Sir Hiss, Pat Buttram as the Sheriff of Nottingham and the ever-so-great Peter Ustinov as Prince John. The narrator of the movie, Alan-a-Dale, was played by Roger Miller. Mr. Miller provided the main song that pervaded the entire movie. He never sang any words; mostly nonsense syllables. And he whistled. Apparently, I loved the whistling. I spent days afterward trying to figure out how to whistle so that I could whistle the “Robin Hood” song. Suffice it to say that I can now whistle.

When Kevin Costner’s movie, “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves” came out in 1991, I went on a “Robin Hood” rampage and watched all of the movies that I could find about Robin Hood. My favorite was “The Adventures of Robin Hood” from 1938, featuring Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland. A fine film, full of fun, adventure and romance. I remember Mr. Flynn flying in on a vine, landing on a branch and hailing “Welcome to Sherwood!”.

Of the three Academy Awards that “The Adventures of Robin Hood” won, one went to composer Erich Wolfgang Korngold for “Best Music, Original Score”. The maestro had come to Hollywood in 1934 to adapt Felix Mendelssohn’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” to film director Max Reinhardt’s film version of the play. And over the next four years, Korngold became a pioneer in composing film scores. In 1938, Mr. Korngold was conducting opera in Austria when Warner Brothers invited him to come back to Hollywood to compose music for their Robin Hood movie. He reluctantly agreed and returned to the US by ship. Shortly after arriving in California, the Anschluss took place and the living conditions for the Jews changed drastically for the worse. Herr Korngold said many times that the film score of “The Adventures of Robin Hood” saved his life.

Erich Korngold was a true to life child prodigy. With a middle name like Wolfgang, how could he be anything but, right? At the age of eleven, he composed a ballet called “Der Schneemann”, or “The Snowman”, which wowed audiences at the Vienna Court Opera. Shortly after that, he composed a piano trio for piano, violin and cello. It is a monumental work, with virtuoso passage work for all instruments. I remember first hearing the work on the radio and then practically having to pull over when I heard that he was twelve years at the time that he wrote it. I was only whistling for four years when I turned twelve.

My difficulty in remaining attentive to a story may find its beginnings at the movies. We always arrived late. Dad claimed that, since we missed the first part of the movie, we could stay for the second showing up to the point where we came in the first time. True to his word, we always left the theater when the movie got to that point. We didn't have to wait for Grandpa to come in and drag us out of the theater by our ears.

Credits: To Roger Miller, the great American singer, songwriter, musician and actor. Thanks for helping me learn how to whistle. I loved “King of the Road”.

Music for the weather

The Four Seasons; Antonio Vivaldi, composer; Orpheus Chamber Orchestra; Gil Shaham; violin

In the early August of 1982, I came into the house late one hot afternoon thoroughly exhausted having spent the day out in the hayfield with Dad and Uncle M. After preparing a tall glass of lemonade, I made my way for the fan and the TV. CBS and NBC were showing reruns; nothing interesting there. I switched to PBS. There stood a tiny many playing the flute. And he was playing … what was he playing? I’d heard that before, but where? The radio? No, I had heard it much more frequently than on the radio. Probably on a commercial or something. A commercial! That’s where I’d heard it. “There will be no wine … before its time.” Orson Wells. Paul Masson. He was playing the Paul Masson wine commercial music.

“Live From Lincoln Center presents James Galway opening the Mostly Mozart Festival in New York City with Antonio Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’. Tonight on Live From Lincoln Center,” came the announcement. And the local announcer chimed right in after him, “Starting at eight o’clock on your South Dakota Public Broadcasting stations.”

All right! That’s two hours from now. I’ve got time for a shower and a nap. Mom, we’re watching Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” on TV tonight. What’s for supper? “What would you like?” Let’s have hotdogs!

A good day’s work, a shower, a short nap, hotdogs and potato salad – and a masterwork from the Baroque Era. It just doesn’t get any better than this. Dad brought his plate of food into the living room. “Okay. What are we watching?” Well, best that I can see, there’s a faun on stage playing the flute. “Well, looky there. It’s James Galway.” Who’s he? “You’re looking at him.” How do you know him? “Johnny Carson has had him as a guest on the ‘Tonight Show’ four or five times. He’s a little, Irish, flute-playing leprechaun.”

It wasn’t until later that evening when I looked Vivaldi up in the encyclopedia that I found out that Mr. Vivaldi had written “The Four Seasons” for violin, not the flute. Oh, great. The first time I hear a masterpiece by a Baroque composer and it’s a mutant version.

“The Four Seasons” is arguably the finest example of “programme music” from the Baroque Era. In “programme music”, the music itself presents and describes a scene, person or event without the use of text or narration. Most Baroque Period music doesn’t represent anything but the artistry of the composer. But Vivaldi has opted in this set of violin concertos to paint not one picture, but four striking portraits of … the weather.

With a recording of this spectacular work, the great violinist, Gil Shaham, made an impact on weather enthusiasts everywhere by advertising his CD on the Weather Channel; and by featuring a short video of him playing the winter portion of the piece mixed with MTVesque scenes with ice and snow.

I bought this CD on the same day that my sister K. bought a computer on a cold day in December of 1995. Deutsche Grammophon had included the video of Mr. Shaham as a bonus on the CD, but you could only see it on a computer. So, we hurried home from Sioux Falls with a computer and a CD in the ice, snow and cold so that we could see a video of Gil Shaham playing “Winter” from “The Four Seasons” in the ice, snow and cold.

Credits: To James Galway, for bringing fun and humor to classical music. Thank you.

99 days and then I start my top 45 count down! Stay tuned!

Pickin' out a tune by ear

Stray Cat Strut; The Stray Cats

One day during my freshman year in high school, while all of the other band members were warming up on their instruments, I zeroed in on one of the senior trombone players. He was playing, but he wasn’t looking at his stand. It sounded like he was trying to figure out a melody that he’d heard, and juuuuuust couldn’t get it right. He happened to look over in my direction and saw me making an appraisal of his efforts.

“Hey, Applehead,” he called over the cacophony of band noise, “you pick up songs off the radio, don’t you? How does this part of the song go?” What are you trying to play? “Stray Cat Strut.” I don’t know the song. He rolled his eyes and resumed his attempt to figure out how to play the song by ear.

After band, while I was putting my horn away, he came over. “If I bring you a tape of the song over noon, can you help me figure how to play it?” I can try.

It didn’t take us long to figure it out for him. “Thanks, Applehead.” He didn’t need it for anything. He just wanted to play it. He tapped me a few more times during the year to help him figure out the melody on some Top Forty tune.

At the time, I was immune to the charms of the Stray Cats. The music of my generation didn’t resonate with me. I closed my mind to it. And, unfortunately, some tunes, some bands, some albums, some writers – some music got by … that shouldn’t have got by.

Thank heaven I’ve loosened up – a little. When The Brian Setzer Orchestra released their first album, somebody actually had to tell me that Mr. Setzer played in The Stray Cats. And then I remembered helping my trombone friend with “Stray Cat Strut”. So I had to download it. And now, it’s on my iPod.

I don't bother chasin' mice around

I slink down the alley, lookin' for a fight

Howlin' to the moonlight on a summer night

Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry

Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy

I wish I could be as carefree and wild

But I got cat class and I got cat style

What a great song! I wish my sister's cat had this kind of attitude.

Credits: To all young musicians who poke and prod their trumpets, clarinets, trombones, saxophones and everything else that can carry a tune, with a venture to learn a song without the written notes in front of them. Good for you. Never stop trying. Who cares if you don’t get it perfect? Music is coming out of your soul!

A night in London

Carmina Burana; Carl Orff, composer; Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus; Atlanta Boy Choir; Judith Blegen, soprano; Hakan Hagegard, baritone; William Brown, tenor; Robert Shaw, conducting

I remember seeing the trailer, at the movie theater, for the 1981 motion picture “Excalibur”, John Boorman’s magical account of the legend of King Arthur. It featured Nigel Terry as King Arthur, Helen Mirren as Morgana, the great Nicol Williamson as Merlin, and a very young Liam Neeson and an even younger Patrick Stewart as Gawain and Leondegrance. It also featured the always stirring, yet always menacing, “O Fortuna” from Carl Orff’s “Carmina Burana”.

In 1935 and 1936, Herr Orff composed music to portions of a manuscript of some two-hundred fifty-four poems and dramatic texts from the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries called “Songs from Beuern”, in English, or, in Medieval Latin, “Carmina Burana”. The manuscript was found in a Benedictine monastery in Benediktbeuern, Bavaria in 1803. Golliards, traveling students and clergy contributed songs of morals and mockery, love songs, drinking and gaming songs for this collection.

Carl Orff’s “Carmina Burana” takes the form of cantata and calls on the talents and capabilities of an ensemble of enormous proportions. A massive percussion section, a very large orchestra, two pianos, a large chorus, a children’s chorus, and soprano, tenor and baritone soloists typically fill to overflowing a concert stage of performers who take on this behemoth. Now and then you encounter performances the ensemble has staged the work with ballet and costumes.

In 1991, I went to Europe as a choir accompanist and chaperone for young people, mostly from South Dakota, who had formed a band and chorus to take a summer tour of London, Paris, Switzerland, Austria and Germany. Most of the ensemble members were still in high school. A small number of them were in college. I was to chaperone the college age kids.

When we got to London, I saw that, on our first night in town, there was a concert at Royal Albert Hall. The second half of the concert consisted of the entirety of “Carmina Burana”. I gathered my wards and informed them of this option and to my joy and relief, they all wanted to go to the concert. This was the first time that I ever heard the work and I was blown away.

A few years later, at a band concert, somebody behind me started telling musician jokes during intermission and many others chimed in. I heard the same tired stories that had made the amateur comedy circles for years. But then I heard a choral conductor jump in. “Hey, fellas, listen to this…”

You say Carmina, and I say Carmana.

You say Burina, and I say Burana.

Carmina, Carmana.

Burina, Burana.

Let’s

Carl the whole thing Orff.

Everybody OK?

Credits: To John Boorman, for his gripping story telling of the Arthurian legend. Thank you for using “O Fortuna”.

Brian at the bar.

The Brian Setzer Orchestra; Brian Setzer, guitar and vocals

My cousin T. has worked in downtown Minneapolis for almost his entire career. During this time he has developed around him a sense of community. He knows the man who works in this shop, he knows the guy who works in that office building, he knows the fellow who owns “such and such” a business one block over and he knows some of the workers who have offices in different firms on different floors in his building. T. has also made himself a “now and then” regular at a bar in a hotel nearby; some place where he can take a client or where he can unwind for a few minutes before facing rush hour.

“Hey, T.,” the bartender said one late afternoon. “Come over here. I’d like you to meet someone. T., this is Brian Setzer and his wife. Mr. Setzer, this is my friend T.” T. was absolutely touched. We live in an age where fame and celebrity carry impossibly high status, by far surpassing the actual accomplishments, good deeds or talents of any given “superstar”. Yet, in light of this, the bartender hadn’t set up a full parade of autograph chasers to fawn over the guitar player’s world-wide fame. In a gesture of sheer class, the bartender had singled my cousin out, by virtue of his knowledge of his clients: Mr. Setzer had a son in college, and T. had a son in college.

I picked up this album at the Tower Records in upper Manhattan one beautiful autumn day. They had one of those machines that let you listen to a portion of a song or two through a set of headphones. What had caught my eye was the inclusion of “A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square” and “Route 66”. But I stayed for the guitar-playing.

This was new to me. Glenn Miller put the trombone up in front of the band. Harry James but the trumpet up in front. Woody Herman and Bennie Goodman put the clarinet up front. Buddy Rich put the drums up front, for crying out loud. And Harry Connick, Jr., put the band behind a nine-foot Steinway. The guitar’s time had come, and it had come in the guise of Brian Setzer, the Strayin'est Cat you ever saw.

In a shameful way, I’m a little envious of T.’s brush with greatness. I meet famous people a little more frequently than most everybody else. And it happens most frequently on the fly. But it happens because I am hired to play the piano in a place where celebrities orbit. Mind you, I don’t have stars in my eyes. Celebrities are people. I’m a people. You, dear reader, are a people, too. Music can certainly function as a conversation starter with me. But, I am gratified when common ground is found in a completely different field on the farm.

Credits: To my cousin T., and many others, who draw me out of my music world and let me be just a people.

Out of this world!

The Planets; Gustav Holst, composer; Berliner Philharmoniker; Sir Simon Rattle, conducting

In the autumn of 1976, my fifth grade class took a field trip to Marshall, Minnesota. Southwest State University had a planetarium. Mr. S. had been teaching a unit on astronomy and I liked it, which was a change for me. Usually, I didn’t go for the science classes. I suppose the beauty of the stars, points of light against an imponderable backdrop of blackness, captured the attention of one who lives so much of his life on the right side of his brain that he’s practically handicapped.

Mr. S. had talked to us about the planetarium in anticipation of our field trip, but who could make any sense out of what he was talking about; at least until we could see it. And, indeed, for me, the trip was pretty ho-hum; just another place to eat lunch. But, then …

We entered the planetarium. We sat in the comfy seats. We listened to the nice man talk about what we would see. Then he turned down the lights. And all of a sudden the stars were over our heads. We were OUTSIDE … INSIDE. There was no way that I ever could have imagined the impact of this perception that the far-away was confined within a domed darkened room. I was completely transformed. I wanted to come to this school every day from now on so that I could sit under the stars … INSIDE.

The nice man wanted to show us Orion, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the north star, Canis Major, Sirius, the Southern Cross, Andromeda, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Cassiopeia and Alpha Centauri. Meanwhile, it took everything inside of me not to burst and say, Please, nice man, do you have to talk so much? Can you just be quiet for a little while and let us look at the stars, here, inside? I mean, my God, aren’t they beautiful, sir, don’t you think they’re beautiful?

I don’t remember much about the ride back to the school. I was too stunned to allow the landscape that was whooshing by my window to register inside my head. It was too full of images of the moon, stars, planets, galaxies, the heavens … Creation.

Where I got the idea, I don’t know, but that evening, back home, I took an empty cylindrical oatmeal box and cut off both ends. On one end piece, I poked holes in approximately the places where stars would form the Big Dipper. Then I put it back on the oatmeal box. Then I cut a circle out of the center of the other end piece about the same diameter as the inner tube of a roll of toilet tissue. After slipping the tube through the cut-out circle, I placed that end back onto the oatmeal box, as well. With this, I could pretend that I was looking through a telescope – or sitting inside my very own planetarium; quietly; inside.

I haven’t lost my sense of romance and fascination with planetariums. I’ve gone to them in New York City, Copenhagen, Washington, DC, and at the Terry Redlin Art Museum in Watertown, South Dakota. All of them did a magic number on me. But not like the first one.

The first time I heard the music of Gustav Holst was at my sister K.’s band concert shortly before they went on a band trip to St. Louis, Missouri. They played the “Second Suite in F for Military Band”. Even at that young age, I recognized the English provincial and folkish nature of his music.

In “The Planets – Suite For Large Orchestra”, the composer sounds a little more mainland European, but now and again his British-ness breaks through. Take heed that the thematic character of the piece is decidedly astrological, not astronomical. That’s why there is no “Earth” movement. The order of the planets in the suite corresponds to the increasing distance of each planet from the Earth. Interestingly enough, Pluto was proclaimed a planet just four years before Mr. Holst’s death. He showed no enthusiasm, however, in writing a representational movement for his planetarial collection. Little matter, though, as Pluto was “demoted” in 2006 and Mr. Holst’s work remains a complete representation of our Solar System.

Since our fifth grade unit on astronomy, I have seen several meteor showers and two comets. I’ve seen two planets and the moon occupy the same tiny piece of sky. I’ve seen both solar and lunar eclipses. You can keep your Broadway and West End theatres. The best stage of all is straight up … OUTSIDE.

Credits: To Mr. S., our fifth grade and sixth science and creative writing instructor. Thank you for the planetarium trip. Sorry about my F in Oceanography. But it’s your fault. You didn’t take us to an Aquarium.