A few thoughts about composing:
It's always been a slow process for me, but has gradually become one I understand (as much as one really can grasp such ineffable things). When I first tried my hand, every note, every chord was a torture. I'd just go back and forth, playing two adjacent chords until finding just the right one, then going back farther to play through my stopping place, then all the way from the beginning, always more than once, before leaving well enough alone and moving on.
Over time, it's become a much more internal process of preparation; I get a text in mind and start working on the music in my head, sometimes for weeks or even months. And by the time I sit down to actually write, things come out pretty fully formed, and I just start connecting the dots, making changes, etc.
But I had an uncanny experience twice last month that may be a new paradigm for me. Lou Harrison is a great philosophical influence for me. In a cute book on composition, filled with his beautiful calligraphy, he talks about "making an appointment with the Muse each day. That way, when she does show up to inspire you, you can't say you weren't there, missing the moment". I once got similar advice from David Hurd as well.
Well, I've never gotten to that point, but suddenly felt for the first time what it's like, I think
At our Easter Vigil each year, the choir has sung the lovely Palestrina motet "Sicut cervus desiderat" ("Ps. 42:1--"As the deer longs for the waterbrooks") as the procession moves to the Font. But we never practice it in the dark, realizing too late that the dim candlelight isn't enough to read the too-small version we have in the library. So I was going to re-set it in big, dark, clear notes for the choir to read. But then I thought: screw that, I'll write something of my own.
In the space of about 90 minutes, I had 80% of a setting of 'Vidi aquam' ("I saw water", the traditional sprinkling rite text in Eastertide) sketched out. Put it in the computer that night, only to wake up at 3 am knowing how to finish it. Except for a couple of tiny tweaks over the next coupld of days, it was less than 24 hours from start to finish. I know there are people who often compose that way, but me, never, until now.
The next week, I had a similar experience, needing a Psalm 150 setting for the same service, and the choir had to be able to do it in just 1 rehearsal. So I began with plainsong, wrote some fauxbourdony-chantlike bits, and voila! This one in just under an hour.
Both were definitely examples of Hindemith's unwieldy term "Gebrauchsmusik", or "useful music". Utilitarian, but also lovely at the same time. And now: nothing. I have no occasion to write for, no text in mind, and there's nothing bubbling up. So it'll be interesting to see what's next down the pike. (Not that I don't have an idea or two, mind you!)
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Taize
I must be getting older. As a teenager, I thought of Taize (sorry, I can't get the accent marks to work) as pleasant, if rather naive music, a little going a long way. When I was in my mid-20s, I was less charitable. The handful of such services I went to bored me to tears. Granted, I felt the spirit of these little repetitive pieces called for being very free & open-ended in approach. When people ask me how many times we're going to sing a chant, my stock response is "until it's done." This isn't a flip answer, just an honest evaluation that in the dialogue between myself and the congregation, a given piece may go just a few (4-5) times, or quite a lot more (15-20). It just depends on the spirit of the moment.
Instead, the lead musician I worked in the early 90s with preferred a bit more control. "OK, we'll sing it once in unison, then 3 times in harmony, then men, you sing the melody, and ladies, you sing this descant, then we'll do it twice more in unison, then men sing this harmony while the women sing the descant, then we'll do it 3 more times in unison, and stop." It wasn't always so tightly reined in, but that was the general approach. I felt very strongly that something was wrong, but I didn't have an opportunity to work it out for myself.
A few years later, I did have an epiphany at a Good Friday service. One of the most famous chants from this tradition is "Jesus, remember me", the words of the "good thief" to Jesus on the cross. On Good Friday 2002, we were doing our first-ever Good Friday evening liturgy, concluding with this chant. We had a cross surrounded by candles in the Great Quire, a surprisingly-intimate space. "Jesus, remember me" was the final chant of this dimly-lit, very static service. And as we began singing, I was aware that people were moving past me and going for what I assumed was veneration of the Cross, spontaneously. This seemed to me a Good Thing.
So I supported the singing by playing a bit more loudly, then getting quiet to bring it to an end. Well, the people weren't ready for it to end, so rather than forcing the issue, I gave a little more support for another 6-8 or so times through the chant. Backing off again, I could tell it wasn't done yet, but I decided to let the people decide how long it needed to go on.
I got quieter and quieter, finally just holding pedal notes on the softest flutes of the organ, almost inaudibly, and then stopped playing entirely. I hit the 'off' switch and swung myself off the bench to a really wondrous sight of people surrounding the cross, touching it, kneeling at it, and otherwise engaged in prayer while continuing to sing. For all I knew, it was another 5, maybe 10 minutes of this--I couldn't bring myself to look at my watch, knowing only that we had reached a really luminous place that simply could not have been planned.
Only rarely have such moments happened since, though I've come to incorporate a lot more music from the Taize and Iona community traditions. Mostly, I still feel like I'm leading the congregation, picking them up and letting them down again, slowly. But every so often, something else breaks through, and (as with so much of life) it's those all-too-rare rewards that make the mundane stuff worth doing, both in memory of such times, and in hope of others yet to come.
Instead, the lead musician I worked in the early 90s with preferred a bit more control. "OK, we'll sing it once in unison, then 3 times in harmony, then men, you sing the melody, and ladies, you sing this descant, then we'll do it twice more in unison, then men sing this harmony while the women sing the descant, then we'll do it 3 more times in unison, and stop." It wasn't always so tightly reined in, but that was the general approach. I felt very strongly that something was wrong, but I didn't have an opportunity to work it out for myself.
A few years later, I did have an epiphany at a Good Friday service. One of the most famous chants from this tradition is "Jesus, remember me", the words of the "good thief" to Jesus on the cross. On Good Friday 2002, we were doing our first-ever Good Friday evening liturgy, concluding with this chant. We had a cross surrounded by candles in the Great Quire, a surprisingly-intimate space. "Jesus, remember me" was the final chant of this dimly-lit, very static service. And as we began singing, I was aware that people were moving past me and going for what I assumed was veneration of the Cross, spontaneously. This seemed to me a Good Thing.
So I supported the singing by playing a bit more loudly, then getting quiet to bring it to an end. Well, the people weren't ready for it to end, so rather than forcing the issue, I gave a little more support for another 6-8 or so times through the chant. Backing off again, I could tell it wasn't done yet, but I decided to let the people decide how long it needed to go on.
I got quieter and quieter, finally just holding pedal notes on the softest flutes of the organ, almost inaudibly, and then stopped playing entirely. I hit the 'off' switch and swung myself off the bench to a really wondrous sight of people surrounding the cross, touching it, kneeling at it, and otherwise engaged in prayer while continuing to sing. For all I knew, it was another 5, maybe 10 minutes of this--I couldn't bring myself to look at my watch, knowing only that we had reached a really luminous place that simply could not have been planned.
Only rarely have such moments happened since, though I've come to incorporate a lot more music from the Taize and Iona community traditions. Mostly, I still feel like I'm leading the congregation, picking them up and letting them down again, slowly. But every so often, something else breaks through, and (as with so much of life) it's those all-too-rare rewards that make the mundane stuff worth doing, both in memory of such times, and in hope of others yet to come.
A tribute, part 2
(Continued from here)
So far, so good. Got the choir, got the church.
And got the time wrong. We met at 9.30 for a 10 am service. Plenty of time, as we got settled into the unusual, typically-protestant situation of choir seats on chairs in rows at the front of a dead building. (As a friend of mine put it about another church, it was the kind of place where you could play full organ, and let off the last chord, and have the bellows collapse and suck the sound right back into the pipes.)
So we figured out the logistics by singing in the space just a bit, and were ready to go. Strangely, at 9.55, the church was still empty. We went out to investigate when we heard the door open with what turned out to be the church secretary. My surprise that no one was there yet was matched by her surprise that we were there *so* early. Say what? Service at 11 rather than 10, perhaps?
If only.
Somehow, I had gotten my wires crossed--the service was to begin at 2. Bloody hell. My first guess was that we were screwed, and that no one would be able to make it back for the actual service, having already given up their mornings as it stood. (I decided not to call Paul and worry him, though it turned out later he had heard.) So everyone went their separate ways, no doubt cursing my name, and considering not returning--and who could blame them? This wasn't even a paying gig! (Me, I found <
But it had its compensations, enough that despite scattering all over the place (including two of the guys going all the way back to San Francisco), at 2 I had the message that the last two were on their way, so I just kept stretching the prelude a bit more, as our first piece to sing was right at the beginning. Finally, at about 5 past the hour, I decided that I had done my bit, and would cover somehow if it came down to that.
As the pastor stood to begin the service, who appeared in the side doorway but this phalanx of 5 guys, music in hand, all ready to go. On they came to sing and take their seats, and the service continued, without any further hitches.
It was a very nice, low-key service. Jim had only been going to this little church for a few months, since moving out here not long before. He had already made quite an impression with his gregarioius style, and his loss was quite genuinely mourned by his new friends as well as by his family.
At the nice (I do mean "nice", i.e. non-Anglican) reception afterwards, I found out that Paul had heard about our adventure in the morning, and like me, had just about given up on the choir gents. So it ended up being a nice surprise in the end on many levels, a fitting tribute to a lovely man, and real token of affection for a friend and colleague. All the things that such events ought to be, but all too rarely are, it seems.
So far, so good. Got the choir, got the church.
And got the time wrong. We met at 9.30 for a 10 am service. Plenty of time, as we got settled into the unusual, typically-protestant situation of choir seats on chairs in rows at the front of a dead building. (As a friend of mine put it about another church, it was the kind of place where you could play full organ, and let off the last chord, and have the bellows collapse and suck the sound right back into the pipes.)
So we figured out the logistics by singing in the space just a bit, and were ready to go. Strangely, at 9.55, the church was still empty. We went out to investigate when we heard the door open with what turned out to be the church secretary. My surprise that no one was there yet was matched by her surprise that we were there *so* early. Say what? Service at 11 rather than 10, perhaps?
If only.
Somehow, I had gotten my wires crossed--the service was to begin at 2. Bloody hell. My first guess was that we were screwed, and that no one would be able to make it back for the actual service, having already given up their mornings as it stood. (I decided not to call Paul and worry him, though it turned out later he had heard.) So everyone went their separate ways, no doubt cursing my name, and considering not returning--and who could blame them? This wasn't even a paying gig! (Me, I found <
But it had its compensations, enough that despite scattering all over the place (including two of the guys going all the way back to San Francisco), at 2 I had the message that the last two were on their way, so I just kept stretching the prelude a bit more, as our first piece to sing was right at the beginning. Finally, at about 5 past the hour, I decided that I had done my bit, and would cover somehow if it came down to that.
As the pastor stood to begin the service, who appeared in the side doorway but this phalanx of 5 guys, music in hand, all ready to go. On they came to sing and take their seats, and the service continued, without any further hitches.
It was a very nice, low-key service. Jim had only been going to this little church for a few months, since moving out here not long before. He had already made quite an impression with his gregarioius style, and his loss was quite genuinely mourned by his new friends as well as by his family.
At the nice (I do mean "nice", i.e. non-Anglican) reception afterwards, I found out that Paul had heard about our adventure in the morning, and like me, had just about given up on the choir gents. So it ended up being a nice surprise in the end on many levels, a fitting tribute to a lovely man, and real token of affection for a friend and colleague. All the things that such events ought to be, but all too rarely are, it seems.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
The Joshua Generation
In one afternoon, Genx and GenY are united into one generation This is the generation that came after Moses and Aaron had shown them the way and the Israelites were about to move into the Promisted Land.
Senators Clinton (Bill in tow) and Obama both spoke in Selma the other day (never coming in sight of one another, mind you).
See for yourself
First, Sen. Clinton:
Next, Sen. Obama:
If I weren't sold before, I would be now! I like the idea of being parrt of a Joshua Generation; you can see it throughout society--there is a new spirit brewing.
Full text here, at the Obama '08 website.
And for good measure, the speech itself is split in two, thus: (get a current YouTube list here.
GObama!
Senators Clinton (Bill in tow) and Obama both spoke in Selma the other day (never coming in sight of one another, mind you).
See for yourself
First, Sen. Clinton:
Next, Sen. Obama:
If I weren't sold before, I would be now! I like the idea of being parrt of a Joshua Generation; you can see it throughout society--there is a new spirit brewing.
Full text here, at the Obama '08 website.
And for good measure, the speech itself is split in two, thus: (get a current YouTube list here.
GObama!
Monday, March 5, 2007
A tribute
Today was one of THE most amazing and fulfilling days in my entire life as a church musician.
Last Tuesday, a very dear friend called with a sense of foreboding: he hadn't heard from his father in 2 days. Paul's dad never went two days without calling even when they lived 3,000 miles apart, as they had for some years until the past few months, when Jim had moved to the Bay Area from northern Georgia.
72 years old, Jim was, as just as you'd expect if you knew Paul, a gregarious Southerner, every inch the successful salesman he had been. My longest encounter with him had been at a brunch in the spring of 2000, just before Caroline and I married. As far as Jim was concerned, that was an invitation to charm her away from me, making time with the ladies, just as he did until his final Sunday in church.
That Sunday came last week. Sometime between returning home from lunch after church that day and Tuesday afternoon, Jim had died. It was sudden, and a shock to Caroline and me, to say nothing of the shock which it was to their entire family.
As a dear friend and former choirman, I took charge of the music, offering to play (if, of course, Paul would pay the incumbent)), and to raise a choir of our former colleagues as choirmen at Graceland.
Attending a brilliant performance of the Rachmaninov All-Night Vigil by the Pacific Boychoir, I spotted a number of friends singing in the men's section, so decided to jump in and solicit their participation. I got 6 guys who were willing, and 4 who could actually come along.
Great, so far. I negotiated with the pastor to sing our favorite Psalm 23 (the one that all of us seem to want sung at our own funerals, to a chant by John Fenstermaker). And sorry, Coverdale-fetishists (you know who you are!), we all prefer the '79 version. Also a lovely Charles Wesley motet, 'Si iniquitates observaveris,' which we had actually recorded in '96.
...to be continued, here...
Last Tuesday, a very dear friend called with a sense of foreboding: he hadn't heard from his father in 2 days. Paul's dad never went two days without calling even when they lived 3,000 miles apart, as they had for some years until the past few months, when Jim had moved to the Bay Area from northern Georgia.
72 years old, Jim was, as just as you'd expect if you knew Paul, a gregarious Southerner, every inch the successful salesman he had been. My longest encounter with him had been at a brunch in the spring of 2000, just before Caroline and I married. As far as Jim was concerned, that was an invitation to charm her away from me, making time with the ladies, just as he did until his final Sunday in church.
That Sunday came last week. Sometime between returning home from lunch after church that day and Tuesday afternoon, Jim had died. It was sudden, and a shock to Caroline and me, to say nothing of the shock which it was to their entire family.
As a dear friend and former choirman, I took charge of the music, offering to play (if, of course, Paul would pay the incumbent)), and to raise a choir of our former colleagues as choirmen at Graceland.
Attending a brilliant performance of the Rachmaninov All-Night Vigil by the Pacific Boychoir, I spotted a number of friends singing in the men's section, so decided to jump in and solicit their participation. I got 6 guys who were willing, and 4 who could actually come along.
Great, so far. I negotiated with the pastor to sing our favorite Psalm 23 (the one that all of us seem to want sung at our own funerals, to a chant by John Fenstermaker). And sorry, Coverdale-fetishists (you know who you are!), we all prefer the '79 version. Also a lovely Charles Wesley motet, 'Si iniquitates observaveris,' which we had actually recorded in '96.
...to be continued, here...
Monday, February 26, 2007
Die, heretic!
A couple of years ago, Ship of Fools readers voted this Emo Phillips joke as the funniest religious joke ever. I'm inclined to agree.
You can see him do it here (starting at 2:13):
You can see him do it here (starting at 2:13):
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Someone to watch
Y'all gotta hear this young lady, Nellie McKay. I think her musical mind is remarkable, as are her performance chops. She marries a huge number of styles, just within this one song. It's from a live performance on late-night teevee:
An actual, "commercial", video of hers is for the political song "David":
She may be not to your liking, but she's certainly an original and sophsticated voice in American popular music right now. And as that first video shows, she's got piano chops too! She's the real deal...
An actual, "commercial", video of hers is for the political song "David":
She may be not to your liking, but she's certainly an original and sophsticated voice in American popular music right now. And as that first video shows, she's got piano chops too! She's the real deal...
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