Naturally

Fore!; Huey Lewis and The News

I don’t know when I first heard Huey Lewis and the News. But they caught my attention when my friend Mark, the RA across the hall in Matthew’s Hall on SDSU campus, pulled me into his room to listen to a track from the album “Fore!”. “Check this out …”

All the birds have been blue

They don’t know what to do

Ever since you said goodbye to me

And the flowers in their gloom

Have just refused to bloom

Cause we all want you back, you see

Mmmmmmm, naturally

OOooooooo. Me like. No guitars. No bass. No keyboards. And, best of all, no drums. Just thick, full, hip and soulful harmony sung by Mr. Lewis and his media brethren.

Very nice. “Hold on. Here they go …”

Bah dup. Bah dup. Bop, bop, bahdup.

Bah dup. Bah dup. Bop boo wahh.

Wow, this is cool! “Shhhh!” Sorry.

And old Mister Moon

Is left without a tune

And his shadow’s lost the harmony

So don’t waste any time

Come back and change your mind

Everything will work out

Naturally

I didn’t know that he sang this doo-wop stuff. “It’s cool, isn’t it? This is the only track on all of their albums where the group sings an acapella tune like this.”

The rest of the tunes on the CD sound like your typical Top Forty stuff, and it sounds real nice. I like ‘em. “WHAT?!?!?!”, you’re probably asking. Yup. This was probably the first time that I ever allowed myself to like something Rock ‘N Rollish, Top Fortyish, my generationish.

Right or wrong, I find that I subconsciously regard a song on the merits of whether I can reproduce an effective version of the song at the piano. This is somewhat of a self-serving procedure to gauge the caliber of a song, I will grant you. But I don’t think I can change it. It’s how I listen to popular music. And here’s the good news: The music of Huey Lewis and his News recreates well on the piano.

I bought my copy of “Fore!” at a used CD store in St. Louis, Missouri, while working on the Delta Queen. Believe it or not, the CD store was next to a newsstand.

Credits: To the boys in the Brookings High School Concert Choir, who sang “Naturally” just as fine as you would ever ask high school boys to sing. You were mahvellous.

Like Son, Like Father

Ninth International Van Cliburn Piano Competition 1993; Regard de l'Esprit de joie; Oliver Messiaen, composer; Christopher Taylor, piano; Valery Kuleshov, piano

About six times per quarter at CCM, all piano majors, grad and undergrad, had to attend Masterclass. They held them on Friday afternoons and each piano faculty member took a turn at leading the sessions. The faculty didn’t have fast and hard rules, but they did expect each of us to play for one of the masterclass sessions during the quarter with the idea that we would play for someone other than our own piano instructor.

On the second Friday after Thanksgiving in 1989, one of the undergrad students, MC, took a seat at the bench to perform one of the most dissonant, thrilling, cacophonous, spine-tingling, chord-clashing, hair-raising, grating and riveting musical trips to a steel mill that I had heard in a month. “MC,” the instructor asked, probably knowing the kind of answer he would receive, “when did you learn this?” “Oh, I got bored the day after Thanksgiving so I picked this up and worked on it for the rest of the weekend.”

Oh, for crying out loud, that narcissistic, flamboyant, diploma-less impresario. He did this just to prove that he could play it, the attention-loving, twelve-fingered, little monkey. Hmmph. Still … I kind of like the piece. Better write down the title and the composer. See how long it takes ME to learn the piece.

In February of 1996, I took the opportunity to play an alumni recital at SDSU. Having found the music for “Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant Jesus” by Olive Messiaen at a sheet music store in Nice, France, I began working on the piece that I had heard MC play at that masterclass all those seven years before. You know, I’ve worked on difficult pieces before, but, Jeeze’M Crow! I almost drowned in this thing! Thank the good Lord I had six months to learn it.

Let me say that this recital had me stoked. A lot of people had told me that they would come; teachers, church members, classmates, friends, family and music instructors from my student days. As I stepped out on the stage, the first thing I saw was my cousin Dale with his family in the front row, with his cowboy hat sitting in his lap and a grin underneath his handlebar mustache.

All the way through the Beethoven sonata, the Chopin sonata and Debussy’s “Clare de Lune”, I thought, How is my hayseed cousin going to react to this high-brow, ethereal yet athletic, serialistic essay on palindromic rhythms, parametrisation and the baby Jesus?

Well, after the applause, and one encore (“We’ll Meet Again” by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles, made famous in 1939 by Vera Lynn), I met “my public” in the reception lounge. Dale met me at the door with no perceivable control over his enthusiasm. “My God, I’ve never seen hands move so fast in my entire life! Kids, listen to your father when I tell you that if you just learn the choreography between the manual gears and the clutch on the John Deere 730, well, you may be on your way to playing the piano as fast as your cousin, Erik.”

My Uncle M. was there, too. “I don’t understand anything about that last piece that you played, but I’m absolutely floored.” My dad asked, “You liked it?” “It was the best thing on the program. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep till three AM.” Then Dad said,

I think he did it just to prove that he could play it.

Credits: To my long, lost friend MC, now a piano instructor at CCM. What a talent! Thank you for your wisdom at our bible studies.

Hamlet

Barcarolle from "The Tales Of Hoffman"; Jacques Offenbach, composer

At half past four, following Captain 11, we watched either “The Partridge Family”, “My Three Sons” or “Gilligan’s Island”. Usually they showed “Gilligan’s Island”. Over the course of, gosh, who knows how many times they ran through the whole series, I think that I have seen every episode.

One of my favorite episodes featured Phil Silvers. As famous producer Harold Hecuba, his plane crash-lands on the island during his around-the-world talent search. While waiting for his rescue plane to arrive, he manages to demean and insult every one of the castaways, particularly Ginger. As a Hollywood actress, she has hopes that Mr. Hecuba would cast her in one of his movies. But after showing him her acting abilities, he laughs at her and accuses her of over-acting. At this point, she refuses to leave the island with the rest of her friends when the rescue plane arrives.

Gilligan suggests that they put on a production for Mr. Hecuba in the hopes that he would reconsider his assessment of Ginger’s talent. So they mount a musical version of “Hamlet”, with Gilligan playing the part of Hamlet and Ginger playing the part of Ophelia. Parodying the “Get thee to a nunnery” scene, and using the music of the barcarolle from “The Tales of Hoffman” by Jacques Offenbach, Ginger sings,

Hamlet, dear, your problem is clear,

Avenging thy father’s death;

You seek to harm your uncle and marm,

But you’re scaring me to death.

While I die and sigh and cry,

That love is everything;

You’re content to try to touch

The conscience of a king.

Since the day

When your dad met his fate,

You just brood

And you don’t touch your food;

You hate your ma,

Mad at my pa,

You’ll kill the king

Or some silly thing.

So, Hamlet. Hamlet,

Do be a man, let

Rotten enough alone.

From Ophelia

No one can steal ya’,

You’ll always be my own.

Leave the gravedigger’s scene,

If you know what I mean.

Danish pastry for two,

For me, for you.

You’ve got to admit, that’s really good writing. Consider, also, the Skipper as Polonius when he gives advice to Laertes, played by Mary Ann. To the tune of “The Toreador Song” from Carmen by Georges Bizet, the Skipper sings,

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be,

Do not forget: Stay out of debt;

Think twice, and take this good advice from me:

Guard that old solvency.

There’s just one other thing

You ought to do.

To thine own self be true.

I suspect that somebody at one time asked me to play Offenbach’s Barcarolle for a wedding. So I more than likely downloaded it from iTunes in order to learn it. It is really quite a lovely tune. Anyway, that’s why I have it on my iPod.

Credits: To Phil Silvers, the King of Chutzpah. I can’t get enough of your comedic genius. I loved your character in “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.”

The art of the journey

Appalachian Journey; Yo-Yo Ma, cello; Edgar Meyer, string bass; Mark O'Connor, fiddle

I don’t take enough journeys. Way too frequently, when I hit the road headed to South Dakota, I wear my blinders. I get on the interstate, avoid the toll roads, and put myself into a nice comfortable rut. So many miles to Columbus, so many miles to Indianapolis, so many miles to Bettendorf. All I do all day long is check off miles. I’m always eager to get back to the state and people that I will forever love. But I yearn to transform the trip into an excursion, an expedition, a peregrination, a trek – a journey.

One day, when the Delta Queen pulled in Paducah, Kentucky, I stopped at the bookstore a few blocks away from the river. A new bestseller called “The Cloister Walk”, by author and poet Kathleen Norris, had arrived a few days earlier. I picked up one of the books to check her biography. Lo and behold, she came from South Dakota. So I bought it.

Her writings were a series of essays, in somewhat chronological order, concerning her time as an oblate at St. John’s monastery near St. Cloud, Minnesota. I was captivated by her writing and by her subject. She referred frequently to the Desert Fathers of the third, fourth and fifth centuries. And she liked to allude to the great 20^th century Trappist monk and Catholic writer Thomas Merton; often enough that I resolved to discover who this man was.

Within a few years, Merton’s autobiography “The Seven Storey Mountain” fell into my lap and I basked in the journey of a passionate young man seemingly destined to become a man of God in the Catholic Church. The autobiography only deals with those years leading up to his rap at the gate of the Abbey of Gethsemani, Kentucky. The rest of his life story can be found in volumes upon volumes of writings, letters and poetry that cover twenty-seven years.

About five years ago, I made myself take a more leisurely road trip home. I set out to see a friend of mine, H., in Hodgenville, Kentucky. With an atlas riding shotgun, I made up my trip along the way, heading ever so closer to Hodgenville, taking as many back roads as I could. I turned off of Martha Layne Collins Blue Grass Parkway to get onto Route 31E South. After only ten to twelve miles, I happened upon a sign pointing to the road that forked off to the left. It said “Abbey of Gethsemani – five miles”.

After literally stopping in the middle of the road, astonished that I had stumbled across the home of Father Louis – aka Thomas Merton – I checked my rearview mirror, closed my eyes to consider my options, then told myself that I had to get to Hodgenville and that my journey didn’t have time to visit this bastion of Christian spirituality in its humble, pastoral surroundings on a rise hemmed in by rustic meadows. I moved on. I have regretted that decision ever since. I failed in my undertakings as a journeyman. I must go back someday, and I will.

On “Appalachian Journey”, cellist Yo-Yo Ma, bassist Edgar Meyer, and fiddlist Mark O’Connor continue right where they left off in “Appalachia Waltz”. The jaunt they undertake allows them the time to stop along the way to smell flowers, dance, fish, read and slumber; all the things you read about in the proverbial journeyman’s handbook.

The monks at the Abbey of Gethsemani make and sell cheese, fruicakes and fudge in order to economically sustain their establishment. I found this out by logging onto their site on the world wide interweb. For the past two Christmases, I have purchased cheese and fudge from the monks online. Maybe this year, I should stop and pick some up on the journey home.

Credits: To Kathleen Norris, a fellow South Dakotan, for her precious insights and thoughts concerning the contemplative life, and how it impacts her as she airs out her sheets on the clothesline in the sweet, prairie breeze.

Crazy Days!

The Capitol Years; Frank Sinatra

On about the third Thursday in July, in Brookings, South Dakota, nearly all of the stores and businesses in town took part in the city-wide “Crazy Days”. Main Street closed off all access to cars so that bargains, deals and sales could pour out into the streets and sidewalks. I don’t remember the actual items up for grabs as much as I remember the business owners revealing their “craziness” by wearing wacky costumes, getting into the spirit of the day and having genuine fun with their customers.

I remember the time that Mom, K., D. and I stopped at the Dakota Music store. Mom found a music book called “The Legal Fake Book”. We all thought it was funny, it only cost two dollars on Crazy Days, so Mom bought it. Not knowing anything about copyright issues, the title of the book remained a mystery to all of us for many years. But that didn’t stop D. and me from laughing hysterically at senseless titles like “Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu” and “Hallelujah, I’m a Bum”.

It took me a few years to realize the legality or “legalness” of our fake book. All of the songs included in the book came from the same publishing house: Warner Brothers.

Which leads me to reveal the underground world of illegal fake books. The most popular and usable one goes by the title “The Real Book”. Virtually all of the tunes included in the book have been written down in pen and photocopied, probably several hundred times. No copyright or publication dates are included.

Since the time I’ve touched a piano, I’ve reserved bragging rights on an ability to pick up a song off the radio, TV, CD, cassette tapes, even hearing songs and hymns in church. And over the years it has saved me from having to purchase loads of fake books.

On my second night on the job on the Golden Odyssey, the bandleader, R., called me over during the break and said, “Erik, you’re doing a fine job. I understand that you don’t have a large background in the type of music that we’re playing. I wanted to let you know that that doesn’t bother me. You’re catching on pretty fast, even better tonight over last night. However, I can’t wait for you to look in a fake book every time I call up a tune that you don’t know. So, here’s the deal. For thirty days, I’ll allow you the time to look up tunes in the books as I call them, but after that, I’m starting without you.” Well, let me tell you, R., that I learn tunes and commit them to memory faster by listening to them rather than by reading them off of a page. “That’s good to hear. Tell you what. I’m a big Sinatra fan and I like to call his tunes for the dance sets. I just bought a three CD collection of his music during his years on the Capitol label. Borrow the collection for a while if it will make things easier for you.”

The CD's were a huge help and I learned most of the tunes in the half of the time that R. had allowed. I eventually acquired my own “The Capitol Years” collection. But, here’s the sad part of the story. My box set took an involuntary ride with Nelson (my Durango) one day. Nelson came home; Sinatra did not. Someday, I’ll have to replace it. I wish iTunes had “Crazy Days”.

Credits: To R., for his patience. Thank you. You were a great bandleader.

Trombones

Symphony No. 8; Gustav Mahler, composer; City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra; Sir Simon Rattle, conducting

Only two days after hearing the fantastically named Eldar Nebolsin – that’s right, I’m going to say it again – Eldar Nebolsin play a recital at the Minnesota Orchestra’s Sommerfest, I heard the Minnesota Orchestra storm its way through Gustav Mahler’s Eighth Symphony. Conductor David Zinman had mustered the forces necessary for the performance of Herr Mahler’s amalgamation of cantata, symphony and opera, aptly nicknamed “The Symphony of a Thousand”.

I don’t know if they had gathered one thousand performers to ante up the extravagance; I doubt it. I don’t think the stage could have stood the weight. But some performances of the piece since the premiere of it on September 12, 1910, have, indeed, called upon the talents of one thousand musicians.

It reminds me of the time in 1995 when the Pride of the Dakotas Marching Band gave their end of the season concert in Frost Arena. They wanted to play Meredith Wilson’s “Seventy-Six Trombones” with seventy-six trombones lined up in front. The band itself didn’t have that many trombones, so the call was put to the community: If you’re coming to the Pride concert and you play the trombone, bring your ax. (By the way, “ax” is musicianese for musical instrument. I don’t know how it got started. While sufficiently funny, I guess, we all could have gotten much more bang for our buck if we would have said “chain saw”. As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to say from now on. Chain saw. Let the word be spread throughout the land, if you want to play in my band, bring your chain saw.) When I took Mom and Dad to the concert, I saw more than a bunch of people in the parking lot swagger out of their cars – trombone players swagger – open up their trunks, take out their chain s… trombone cases and head into the arena.

Trombone caregivers met them at the door. “What part do you think you can play; trombone one, two or three?” “Nope, no rehearsal. When it’s time to play, come on down. Hopefully the virtuosos outnumber the hacks.” “What? No, you don’t get paid. Trombone players never get paid. Get outta’ here.”

They had seventy-eight trombones. The directors had intended to cut it off at seventy-six. But they only would have cut two players, and that would have been embarrassing for everybody. And besides, who’s going to count? Well, the answer to that is “everybody”. That’s okay. If you start with two fish and five loaves and end up with two extra trombone players, well, when they start dividing up the leftovers, somebody's going home with two trombone players.

Symphonies typically get divided up into three or four parts. Not here, though. Herr Mahler kept it to a simple two. The first part lasts about twenty-eight minutes. The second part lasts about forty-five minutes. Yeah, “woof” is right. The entire work expresses a single idea: redemption through the power of love. The first part does so using Biblical and liturgical text. The second part uses the secular text from the closing passages of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s dramatic poem of “Faust”.

I really wasn’t interested in the text very much. I just wanted to hear beautiful music, and THAT the performers on the stage had to offer in abundance. We even broke the cardinal rule of concert-going. We clapped between the two parts. And, you know what? They bowed.

Credits: To the Makita Company, maker of the Commercial Grade 20-inch 2-stroke Gas-Powered chain saw. You can get one used on Amazon for $481.99. Tell ‘em the piano_banger sent you and you get twenty percent off all sheet music.

CD's and Wings

The Gershwin Connection; Dave Grusin, piano

My friend, D., who originally played trumpet with the United States Naval Academy Band and now plays with the United States Marine Band, told me once that he took his entire first paycheck from the Navy and spent it all on CD’s. That amounted to over one thousand dollars spent on CD’s – all in one day. I have a certain amount of admiration for a fellow that can do that, yet at the same time I’m glad that it wasn't me. Though I’m Lutheran, I somehow inherited – or picked up – a guilt conscience of formidable Catholic robustness. And I know it works …

In January of 1993, I joined the Crown Odyssey in San Francisco where it embarked on a five day cruise down to Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlan, then docked in Long Beach for passenger disembarkation. I asked the trumpet player, I., what everyone does when we dock in Long Beach. “I’m going to the Del Amo Fashion Center for a bucket of wings. It’s a ten dollar cab fare. Want to come along?” Yes.

They had two reeeeeeeaaaallly nice CD stores at the DAFC. I went to the first one and ended up buying one hundred fifty dollars’ worth of CD’s. In fifteen minutes. I don’t know what kind of company I made around the wing bucket because I know I was stunned that I had allowed myself to spend that kind of money. My father was inside my head: “Not ten days out of the sensible state of South Dakota and you’re squandering, frittering away your hard earned money on some of that incomprehensible jass music that you’ve turned to. And eating just the wings of a chicken? What kind of common sense is that? That’s not very efficient, son.”

I. asked me at one point, “You’re thinking about how much money you spent on those CD’s aren’t you?” Yeah. “Well, I must say it was a sight to behold. But, you know, I’m supposing that you consider this purchase today somewhat frivolous.” Yup. “Well, you can’t. You regarded each one of those CD’s as important, otherwise you wouldn’t have bought them. These are investments. And I’m not really only talking about money. We’re musicians, and we need to hear other musicians to keep our furnace going. All the stuff you bought today is going to impact the way you play the piano, either tonight on the stand, or ten years from now.”

Well. That hit the spot. And I took it to heart. Because I went back to the DAFC the next day to go to the other CD store and I ended up purchasing another one hundred fifty dollars’ worth of CD’s. In fourteen minutes.

I acquired Dave Grusin’s “The Gershwin Connection” on the first rampage. This album made me realize the greatness and genius of Mr. George Gerswhin. You can take one of his melodies outside of its original environs, funk it up, add a little zest to the harmonies – and it still sounds like Gershwin.

In deference to the down-home prudence, levelheadedness and bodacious sagacity that our father … (ahem) lightly – apparently … instilled in us young’uns, I cut back drastically on the bulk during my spontaneous CD bargain hunts. Six has always seemed like a reasonable number to choose as a limit, but to date I have never bought any more than five at a time. It is my observation, however, that distribution of leg, breast, thigh and wing all comes out in the wash.

Credits: To D. and I., for your spontaneity and philosophy concerning the collecting of CD’s. And for your outstanding trumpet playing. Bravo.