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.