Saturday night hymns

Hymnsinger, Cynthia Clawson

On August 17, 1990, fresh from graduate school, I joined a band on the Golden Odyssey, a sister ship to the aforementioned Royal Odyssey. The Golden Odyssey was docked in Venice, Italy, when I boarded her. Our first cruise took us to Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia, Corfu, Greece, Istanbul, Turkey, Odessa and Yalta, USSR, Kusadasi, Turkey, and Athens, Greece. You don’t get the cultural and landscape diversity of South Dakota, but the food was a nice change.

One of the fellows in the revue group was named David. We often would share CD’s with each other. Two of the CD’s that he shared with me were by a Christian artist named Cynthia Clawson. More widely known in the 70’s and 80’s as a gospel singer, she and her husband are currently co-pastors at a church in Austin, TX, called The Sanctuary.

Ms. Clawson has a very respectable discography; 22 CD’s from 1977 through 2008. In 1988, Ms. Clawson recorded a pair of albums in which she allowed herself to be a little more artistically indulgent than she probably would have been otherwise. They are called Hymnsinger and Carolsinger. I shall tell you about Carolsinger at another time. I will tell you now, though, that Hymnsinger remains a cornerstone in my development as a church musician.

With archetypal and ageless hymns including “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go”, “I Need Thee Every Hour”, “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence”, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”, and “When We All Get to Heaven”, Ms. Clawson brings us to a table of powerfully poetic representations of scripture and offers a measure of exotic flavor to savor with each portion. She paints a unique portrait of classic hymnody, where instead of dressing her subjects in their Sunday morning best, she escorts them around town in a limo dressed in their Saturday night snazziest. One is a Latin tune at a small bistro, another is an ardent torch song in a smoky club, yet one more is a chant in a cathedral where the echoes seem to reach back beyond epochs of church history to witness the very Sacrificial Lamb Himself and to offer a lament to soothe the pains of strife and grief.

Hymnsinger stretched my ears. It taught me how to observe a hymn tune at its basest and then trim it like a tree, sometimes sparingly, sometimes lavishly, giving it life, and allowing it to not only be different from each angle that we see it, but also to embellish or highlight a key phrase or verse. If the author of a hymn text has been true to scripture, then it can stand alone for all time. But musical styles are a bit more fleeting. The subjective nature of music allows us to adapt to appropriate styles of our times. And although the music of a hymn can be representational of the sentiments of a hymn, the music itself isn’t sacred. The Word of God is. All that’s required of music is that the Word of God is clothed in dignity.

Credits: Roger Hawk, for being patient with me when I needed to learn the basics of a new musical language. The people of Wallace Presbyterian Church, for purchasing a Steinway; and for scads of other things.

Cattle on the Ice

Alexander Nevsky; London Symphony Orchestra; Claudio Abbado, conductor

The coldest temperature I’ve ever experienced was at 4:30 AM on February 9, 1994. My dad and I were loading the car to take me to the airport. I was going to Aukland, New Zealand, to meet up with and play with a band on a cruise ship called the Royal Odyssey. It was 82 degrees in Aukland, according to USA Today. But on our front step, the thermometer said that it was 44 degrees below zero. It was a trademark of mine in those days to claim, "This is a day I'm happy I'm not a cow."

My flight plan took me from Sioux Falls, SD, to Denver, CO, to Los Angeles, CA, to Aukland, New Zealand. And we, of course, crossed the international dateline; at right around midnight, by the way. Which means that when we landed in Aukland, it wasn’t February 10 but February 11. I have contended for years that the best day of my life was probably February 10, 1994, and I never got to have it.

For that matter, when I went home, after sailing from New Zealand to the Mediterranean Sea, it was by way of Athens, Greece, to Chicago, IL, to Sioux Falls, SD. For the last 15 years, I’ve been a full 24 hours ahead of time. If you ever ask me what day it is and I say it’s Tuesday when it’s really Monday, that’s why.

The trombone player in the band was Mike N. and he and I were friends instantly. We first discovered that we had the Midwest in common. He was from Minnesota. Then we learned of each other’s Danish heritage; I’m a quarter and he’s a full Dane. And to top it all off, we figured out that he rented a room in Minneapolis from my cousin-in-law’s brother. Mike has an enormous sense of humor. His hero is Jerry Lewis. So, now I am a fan of Jerry Lewis. He voraciously reads jazz periodicals to keep up with what’s and who’s new in the industry. And he practices nearly 5 hours a day. But my favorite feature of him, and the one that has affected me the most, is his love of the movies.

For years, my only directive in watching a movie was to follow the plot. I was oblivious to virtually all of the other elements. Mike taught me how to watch and what to look for in a movie. He made me aware that a director’s fingerprints are all over the screen concerning color, lighting, angle, scope, volume of sound, what’s in focus and what’s not, and a host of other film components.

And we watched great movies. We watched “Citizen Kane”, the quintessential ground breaking movie, with its below the floor lighting, the constant focus of the cinematography, and always the play on perspective. We watched “Fitzgeraldo”, a film that uses no special effects; everything that you see really happens. And we watched Robert Altman’s “The Player” with its opening shot that lasts 7 minutes and 47 seconds without a single camera break. And we watched “Wuthering Heights”, “War and Peace”, “North by Northwest”, “Gigot”, “Brazil”, “Dr. Strangelove”….

And one afternoon while it rained in the Indian Ocean, we watched “Alexander Nevsky”. Directed by Sergei Eisenstein with music by Sergei Prokofiev, Nevsky is a magnificent 1938 black and white Russian movie that climaxes with the unforgettable Battle on the Ice on the surface of the frozen Lake Chudskoe. The only thing that prevented greatness from occurring in this movie was that it was also being directed by Stalin, if you know what I mean. We can’t allow someone as talented as Eisenstein free reign with Russian, now Soviet, history on the chance that the movie could be shown internationally. So, there are political messages incorporated in the movie that are not timeless, that are not important to movie goers in the 21^st century, and that are not relevant to the story.

Visually, the movie is stunning, using some of the most advanced special effects and cinematography techniques of the time. However, Stalin was in a hurry to approve the movie and was too impatient to wait for its completion. He confiscated it while the soundtrack was in the process of being edited. This is truly unfortunate because the relationship between Eisenstein and Prokofiev resulted in a union of picture and music that remains industry standard. It has been expressed by many in films that this score is the finest ever composed for the cinema.

Prokofiev later created a cantata out of the music from the film score and it is what is heard on this CD. Mr. Prokofiev typically composed in a sharp rhythmic manner that lent a hint of sarcasm to his sound. But in this score, though he is still rhythmic, he is also quite lyrical with long melodic lines that match and modify the visual of the contours and horizons of the bare, treeless landscape encompassing the frozen solid lake.

On Super Bowl Sunday of 1981, the cows broke through the electric fence that surrounded the pile of silage that my dad fed to the cows during the winter. The temperature was 35 degrees below zero. It was so cold that the cows couldn’t feel the electric current when they came in contact with the fence. My dad and I spent two and a half hours in the bitter cold rewiring and strengthening the fence. It took me three hours to get warm again. I’d done my Battle on the Ice. Plus, Raiders 27, Eagles 10. Boooooo.

Credits: Curtis C., who I met for the first time on February 11, 1994. I’ll see you in Heaven, my friend. Jerry Lewis, for The Typewriter and the boardroom scene in “The Errand Boy.” Hey, Lady!!!!!

A sad song in a major key

Mary Chapin Carpenter, Stones In The Road

When my Dad, his brothers, their Apland cousins, and their Apland uncles got together, it was a sight to see. They all had stories to tell, and as a matter of family honor, it just wouldn't do to be left in the dust with a lame-0 story. So, the batteries were taken out of the "Meter of Truth and Accuracy" and it was turned to face the wall, next to the "Cuckoo Clock of Reticence and Restraint". And the stories and laughter got louder and louder over the course of an afternoon and evening, all with the purpose of keeping each other enthralled with as much intensity as they could muster. In the fall of 1981, when my classmates and I were required to take speech class, taught by Mrs. K., I discovered that the Apland Gene of Extroversion had kicked in. I loved giving speeches. Even though I had to turn the Meter back on and modify the settings of the Cuckoo Clock.

One of our speeches was an “informative” speech, and, having somewhat recently become acquainted with classical music, I opted to speak about Arthur Fiedler from the Boston Pops, he having passed away only two years previous. This type of speech required us to have a prop. I found in a store, and asked my mom to purchase, a Boston Pops greatest hits two-record LP to use for a prop. It had Mr. Fiedler’s head right on the cover. “Rhapsody in Blue” was on the album with Earl Wild as the pianist. “Jalousie”, “Wine, Women, and Song”, and “I Want To Hold Your Hand” were some of the others.

This was a big deal. I can count on one hand the number of LP’s that were purchased over the course of 15 years in our household. My mom wasn’t too happy about this purchase. But I made the case that it was for speech class and I wanted to hear the “Rhapsody in Blue”. I got an “A” on my speech. That made Mom smile a little. And she also heard me play the album over and over and over. She smiled a little more. I’m sure that I wore the thing out. It’s long since gone. I don’t know exactly when my parents and I discovered “Evening at Pops” on PBS, but it had been waiting for us for a long time.

In 1970, PBS contracted the Boston Pops to produce a series of concerts that would be lighter than the traditional fare that is typically served up by an orchestra. The idea was inspired and it caught on. And for 35 years this band of musicians met their TV public halfway, declaring, “Yeah, we’re stuffy, but not too stuffy. Let us play our music for you. Then, give us your Beatles, give us your R and B, give us your Presley, Buddy Holly, and The Big Bopper. Then watch out. 'Cause you ain't heard nothin' yet.” In 2005, however, they stopped. The Boston Pops was footing the bill for the productions and they were costing nearly a million dollars for each broadcast.

When we started watching, John Williams had the baton. It was broadcast on Wednesday nights on South Dakota Public Broadcasting at 8 PM. We came in early from the field so that we could watch. The guests were phenomenal. And they came from all genres: Opera, classical, jazz, country, folk, broadway.

The guest that I remember the most was Mary Chapin Carpenter. She doesn’t like to be labeled as a country singer, but that’s the way she sings. Her star was rising and she had just won a Grammy for Album of the Year. And she looked incredible. There must have been five or six songs that featured the Boston Pops, Ms. Chapin Carpenter and her guitar with each song better than the one before. And then she sang her solo number. No orchestra. Nobody else. Just her. And her guitar. It was called “Where Time Stands Still”. My heart must have been ripe to be torn because I was stunned. I was bereft of speech. I was transformed. I was transfixed. The sentiment of the song and the melody and harmony had a relationship that I had never before encountered. Have you ever heard a song for the first time and known what it was all about without listening to a single word? When Mom and Dad would start to doze about halfway through the program it usually annoyed me. But not this night. I was thankful that they were out because I sat in the rocking chair and sobbed. I had never had a response to music like this before. I needed this album; if only for that song.

There is not a weak track on this CD. I don’t usually buy into the general public’s assessment of what makes an album great. But Joe Q Public earned my respect this day. She sings a little bluegrass. She gets a little rock-a-billy. She scolds us a little bit. And she sings a curious song called “John Doe No. 24”. It was written by her and tells a story that she had read in the newspaper of a man who was found in Illinois, blind and deaf. No clue where he came from. The spin that she puts on the song is from his point of view. The song features Brandford Marsalis on soprano saxophone.

To couch a profoundly sad song within the confines of a major key is a rare gift. It’s kind of like eating kettle corn; it’s salty, it’s sweet, and it’s not supposed to work, but mmMMmmmmmm...

In 1996, my friend Chad H. and I went to Boston for a few days. He’s a baseball fan and I’m stuffy. He went with me to the Pops. I went with him to Fenway Park. They were both spectacular. But I think I liked the game better.

Credits: To Mrs. K., for listening to me gush about the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto and taking home a recording I lent her and listening to as much as she could stand. To the Beatles, for giving the Boston Pops a reason to be wild. Well, a little wild.

Checkup: I lost 2 pounds.

The Story of Marge

When Icicles Hang, Fancies, The Cambridge Singers, John Rutter conducting

During the summer of 1981, the South Dakota Honors Choir performed in Brookings, SD. Mrs. B., my junior high and high school choir director at the time, had told me about this group. It was different than the All-State Chorus. All-State Chorus was massive; made up of at least one quartet (soprano, alto, tenor and bass) from each high school in the state.

The South Dakota Honors Choir is made up of 150 high school students who audition to be in the group. All of them are between either their sophomore and junior years or their junior and senior years. And they meet for a week in late July at a college campus to rehearse with a nationally or regionally renowned conductor. Naturally, the event culminates with a concert at the end of the week.

All of the music at the 1981 concert was wonderful. But I vividly recall three pieces. One was an all-male arrangement of “Down in the Valley” by George Mead. The other two were from a collection of songs by John Rutter called “When Icicles Hang”. The first was called “Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind,” a Shakespeare text from As You Like It. And the second was called “Good Ale” and is a loud raucous drinking song. "When Icicles Hang" is a collection of 5 songs with secular texts. Mr. Rutter, however, is more well-known for his sacred works.

John Rutter is a magnificent choral composer. He’s English, and keeps his residence near Cambridge, England. He has his own singing group called The Cambridge Singers. His Gloria is very popular and dozens of other shorter sacred works are staples in church choir repertoire all over the world. Mr. Rutter's talents extend into composition and arranging for orchestra and wind ensemble. He is in much demand internationally as a guest conductor.

Marge B. was a dear friend of our family and a neighbor when we lived on the farm. The first time we saw her and her family was when they Christmas caroled us one snowy evening in December of 1976. They were not unusual neighbors but I always found it odd that they would find their way to rural South Dakota from upstate New York (her) and Boston (him). They certainly had their own way of doing things, but instead of viewing them as peculiar, we were somehow compelled to see them as innovative and refreshing.

For many years we would be invited to their home for New Year’s Eve. No party; just a simple dinner complete with Boston baked beans followed by a game or just conversation. At midnight, Marge would hustle to the door and open it wide, “to let the old year out and the new one in.” Then she would have an argument with her cats. Barney, who was cross-eyed, Tom Tom, a sturdy pale yellow tomcat, and Knobby, who had had a tail accident some time in her life, all would want to go outside. And they were quite vocal about it. But she would match them “no” for “meow” until, finally, after one last passionate plea for outdoor-ness, they would turn on their heels and walk away. Marge would look at us with an expression mixed with humor and sadness and declare, “They’re swearing at me. I know they’re swearing at me.”

Marge had a lovely soprano voice and sang in the choir at the Presbyterian Church in Brookings. They have an outstanding pipe organ there and during my senior year in college, I was their organist and choir accompanist. Now and then they would sing a John Rutter anthem and Marge would be delighted. She adored his music. That’s why Marge was particularly troubled to one day find out that John Rutter is agnostic. She concluded, however, that it must not be true; the music was just too beautiful to be written by someone who questioned God’s existence. A 2003 feature on CBS’s “60 Minutes”, however, confirmed during the interview that he was “not particularly a religious man.”

Should an agnostic be allowed to write music for the church? I don’t know. Should a member of the Flat Earth Society be allowed to write stories for the Boston Globe?

Marge had a garden behind their house. She loved to gather its produce and then share it with her friends. In light of that, maybe the poetry of accepting the fruits of the labors of one in whom talent has been sown in order to be shared where nourishment is desired and required would not have been lost on her. I don’t harbor a sharp concern that my apple for lunch might have been grown by someone who is Hindu. You can only pick an apple with so much religious integrity.

This past spring, Marge met her Lord and Savior while being held by her daughter in affirmation that she was loved here on earth as she approached the throne of the Author of Love himself.

Down in the valley, valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,

Angels in Heaven know I love you,

Know I love you, dear, know I love you,

Angels in Heaven know I love you.

Credits: Mrs. B, for challenging me to buck the norm and follow the much more difficult road of classical music. Dr. C, for bringing the Rutter Gloria to SDSU. What a thrill!

Sinatra didn't live in our house

Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim

And neither did any jazz, really, to speak of. All the music that I play now, when I’m with a drummer and a bass player, lived in another place far away from where I grew up. Budding musician notwithstanding, I was living in a working farm environment and musical growth occurred when there was time and from the music that was on hand.

When Bert G. was on the air at KBRK on the AM dial, the radio was most likely on in our farm house. It was on while my two sisters and I got ready for school from 7 o’clock until the bus came at 7:45. And it was on in the summer time until Bert signed off around noon or 1 o’clock. We heard the morning news, sports and the lunch menus at all the schools in the area. And we heard, “No school at Sioux Valley schools,” whenever we got socked in. And we heard our names on the radio when it was our birthdays and Mr. J. from J.’s Shoes and Bert G. sang “Happy Birthday” to all of the boys and girls who had successfully made it one more time around the sun.

Later in the morning, the music would start. It fit the profile of upper midwest farmers and small town 1970’s stay-at-home mothers. Some crossover from Top 40 would leak into the airplay like ABBA, Billy Joel, Gilbert O’Sullivan, Crystal Gayle and Olivia Newton-John. And this would mix in with Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass, the Statler Brothers, Glen Campbell, Herb Alpert, the Oak Ridge Boys, maybe a polka, and other nondescript artists who set the bar high by putting out albums designed to make anyone’s day not unpleasant.

Ignorance is truly bliss. This is the music that was in our house. And when you’re a young musician who doesn’t know to seek out other styles of music, then you avail yourself of the feast before you and dine like a king and savor every morsel. And I was completely content … until the day I discovered South Dakota Public Radio. They played classical music. And they played it ALL DAY! I thought that this was okay. As a matter of fact, I thought it was just fine. A new genre materialized on the iPod in my head and a path emerged before me.

My sisters and I struck gold with our parents. Though grounded, they seemed to view parenthood with a sense of adventure and proceeded to follow each of us wherever we would lead so that they could maybe guide and counsel, but mostly take part in the fun. When we would develop a love for anything, Mom and Dad would adopt a sympathetic, yet genuine, love for those things as well. Because they loved that we loved those things.

It's unlikely that my parents ever would have established a habit of attending concerts at SDSU on their own. But once I started getting them there, they thought that this was okay. As a matter of fact, they thought it was just fine. And continued to attend concerts for years after I graduated from college, maintaining friendships with my professors and becoming acquainted with other “regulars” in the SDSU musical ensemble fanbase. When our father passed away in 1997, there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers from the music faculty at SDSU.

But my parents didn’t like Sinatra. They must have come from a combination of place and time where the “bad boy” just isn’t tolerated, and if you’re going to act like that, well, I don’t need to listen to your music. Do Be Do Be Do? What does that mean? If you’re going to do more than hum, why are you going to waste your breath and my time with nonsense sounds?

I eventually heard Sinatra when I got away from home, and recognized his genius. I have indulged in his not-so-serious, hard swingin’, “so deep in the pocket you can taste the lint” hipness. Over the years, I’ve probably heard all of the finest tracks from his vast songbook. But I remember the day when a photographer from one of the ships I was working on asked, “You’re a Sinatra fan, right?” Yes. “Have you ever heard this?” No. “Then prepare to imbibe, my friend, the finest champagne. From the finest glass. This is Fred Astaire-elegance Sinatra.” And boy howdy was he right.

This is sleek, ultra-refined, Art Deco Sinatra. Francis Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim put out a sound that is devoid of accent and packed with subtlety. The waters run deep and there are no ripples at the top. Everything that Sinatra isn’t is on this album. I don’t think that the dynamic level goes beyond mezzo forte. There’s a quote from one of the trombone players at the recording session where he says, “If I play any softer, I’m gonna be sucking air out of the trombone.” “Change Partners” and “I Concentrate On You” will forever be trapped in a Latin setting. I cannot hear them otherwise.

Was your love for your parents ever such that you wished that they approved of everything you liked? I have imagined myself telling my dad that I’m sorry that I like Sinatra and that I would like his forgiveness. I like to think that he would reply with something like, “Oh, that’s okay, son. As a matter of fact, that’ll be just fine.”

Credits: Hope D., for hooking me up with “L.A. Is My Lady”. “Mack the Knife” swings hard, baby. Mr. J., for many “Happy Birthday”s and several pairs of Hush Puppies. They’re dumb, y’know.

I played the trumpet.

Dvorak: Slavonic Dances, Opp. 46 & 72, Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, Rafael Kubelik, cond.

A piano player's life can be a lonely one. The Desert Fathers of the second and third centuries provide the model existence for one who chooses to spend hours and hours and hours in a practice room laboring over passages from almost any one composition from the single largest solo instrument repertoire in all of music. I've seen it in other piano players. "Do you want to join us for pizza?" "Come have coffee with us." "Do you have time to catch a movie?" Nope. Sorry. My instrument's repertoire is bigger than yours. I'm very busy. But let me know if you need an accompanist.

I had an ace in the hole, though. I played the trumpet. My parents bought it for me. Dad told me many times. "As long as we paid for it, you might as well play it."

In late August of 1984, the Pride of the Dakotas had me in its trumpet ranks at South Dakota State University. Let's be clear: I was an awful trumpet player. I didn't practice. There was no interest in getting any better. And as far as I was concerned, the trumpet served only as a doorway to my musical social life.

One day after marching band practice, Dr. W. called over all of those who had been in the SDSU Symphonic Band the previous spring. I heard later that Dr. W. had announced arrangements for the Symphonic Band to take a tour of Mexico the following spring. Elation and profound angst flooded my psyche. How could I win a place in this ensemble? I had played the trumpet for eight years and had no way of proving it.

The previous spring, while a senior at Sioux Valley High School, somehow I won a place in the South Dakota All-State Band. It was one of my father's prouder moments. I had the best seat in the band, too: second to last chair in the trumpet section. I only had to be better than one guy, and to him ... I WAS GOD!!! I figured that this would be the height of my trumpet career.

But this. Mexico!! Wow. My travels up to that point had taken me to Rochester, MN, Minneapolis, MN and Colorado Springs, CO, by way of Nebraska. I always imagined I would get to visit great places in the world but I didn't think it would happen this soon. I needed more practice time.

Well, I went in and splat and spluttered my way through an audition and suffered through two torturous evenings while the final decisions were made. The trumpet gods threw me a bone and placed me in the 1985 SDSU Symphonic Band. Where? Second to last chair in the trumpet section.

All veterans of SDSU Symphonic Bands have war stories of the year's first concert. It's always the Saturday night concert of the South Dakota Bandmaster's Convention during the first week in February. There more than likely has been only five weeks to rehearse. The conductor has chosen a program that is probably just one quarter inch beyond what is possible. And all of the state's band directors will be there. Recipe for disaster. Let me tell you, however, that Dr. W. picked AWESOME music that evening, all in anticipation of our upcoming trip to Mexico.

And the trip to Mexico came and went. We saw a mariachi band, stayed in an Olympic village, petted iguanas (yech), visited the silver mines of Taxco, and watched the cliff divers in Acapulco. There was a major snowstorm in the midwest while we were playing on the beach, and a rogue wave stole away my watch and my glasses. The concert venues were for the common people and they treated us like superstars.

But my finest memory is of the beautiful music that we had the privilege to play together on that cold night in February, with my parents out in the audience sitting with some of the finest musicians in the state. And we played H. Owen Reed's haunting La Fiesta Mexicana, Ron Nelson's rousing Rocky Point Holiday, and John Williams' stirring Olympic Fanfare. And for a transcription, and, by the way, for a rare treat, Dr. W. selected a collection of the Slavonic Dances of Antonin Dvorak.

The Slavonic Dances are of Mr. Dvorak's most popular and most memorable works and are in two sets: Opus 46 and Opus 72. These are the pieces that won Mr. Dvorak his fame and fortune. Though they are originally written in the style of Johannes Brahms' Hungarian Dances, that is to say for piano, 4 hands, I know of them in the orchestral versions. This passionate music reveals Mr. Dvorak's Czech upbringing and, though original in all of its melodic ideas, is unapologetically nationalistic.

My mother received this album from me as a stocking stuffer at Christmas time a few years ago. As I recall I got it on sale in Minneapolis. Mom is probably the only woman in her tiny town with cable internet, a MacBook, an iPod, and Bose speakers. I heard this in her living room a few days after Christmas and savored sweet, sweet nostalgia.

The vigor and fire of the Slavonic Dances roamed around in my head for months after the trip to Mexico. This happens to me with more frequency as I get older. This past July, I played Mr. Dvorak's Piano Quintet in A Major, Op. 81, and my ear wouldn't let me listen to anything else for a long time. You know that an impact has occurred when the music of a certain project attaches itself to the iPod inside and won't let go.

Credits: Dr. W. for being my audition judge in the 1984 South Dakota All-State Band. Thank you. And to G. and A. Apland for purchasing a trumpet. You're awesome.

iPodobiography

iPodobiography

One of my favorite “Star Trek: The Next Generation” episodes is called “Time’s Arrow.” In the classic cliff-hanger fashion that was common in the 80’s and 90’s, “Time’s Arrow” concluded season 5 and opened season 6 in 1992.

It begins with the discovery of Lieutenant Commander Data’s head in a cave near San Francisco and draws to a close with the great Samuel Clemens appearing on the Enterprise (through a time portal, of course). After a quick tour of the flagship of the Federation of Planets, Mr. Clemens returns to 19th century Earth where he rendezvous with Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Before Captain Picard heads back through the time portal to the Enterprise, the following exchange occurs:

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: "I wish .... I wish TIME would have allowed me to know you better."

Samuel Clemens: "HA! You'll just have to read my books. What I am is pretty much there."

Short of what is destined by God, we are all architects of our own biographies. Each day, we pick up a few more trinkets, nuggets, or chochkies of life and attach them to our being. These additions differ widely in their impacts and integrate their ways into our lives with varying degrees of tensile strength, rendering each of us a “work in progress.”

We are expressive beings. The flair in our clothing, the way we decorate our homes, the neatness of our desks, the style and color of our cars, the pedigree of our pets, the preferred flavor of our Jell-O, even the gait of our walk all reveal even the slightest essence of the unique spirit inside our skin and bones.

Mr. Clemens, in our Star Trek quote, confirms that a person’s life story can be brought to bare in a myriad of ways.

I contend that much of who I am can be revealed through the music stored on my iPod.

Tomorrow at 7:47 PM (8:47 Eastern Time), I shall turn 44. And starting tomorrow, and on each day during the year leading up to my 45^th birthday, I will highlight one from 1,000 or so CD’s that I have stored on my iPod and regale you, perhaps, with the significance that it has on my “work in progress”.

My friend James F. made the excellent suggestion that I climax my year-long iPod vigil with a top “45” countdown leading up to Birthday 2010. Saving the best for last presents the challenge of keeping this autobi-blog-raphy interesting for the first 320 days. So, the question must be posed: “Am I fascinating every day or not?” Answer: You bet your sweet bippy I am.

I don't know if you, my friend, will read every day or not. But I will try to be a good steward of your time and not make you read much more than a few minutes. Maybe some days, just a few thoughts. And on other days, well, maybe my fascinating-ness just can't stop.

The real Mr. Clemens has quipped, “Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man. The biography of the man himself cannot be written.” Yes, Mr. Twain, you’re correct, of course. But the content of the biography to which you refer is fodder for therapy sessions and psychology classes. The clothes and buttons are all the stuff anybody's interested in anyway.

Credits: Katherine H. for coining the word iPodobiography. Genius! Karen S., a friend from my cruise ship days for using the word chochkies and never telling me how to spell it.