So... where to begin? I guess we should start a few hours before the concert. Today the weather was glorious: 65F, light, fluffy clouds, warm sun... the perfect tonic after a winter that weighed down upon people like cold lead. We did some preliminary yard work, I took Bella for a nice long hike at her favorite preserve, and grilled dinner outside... with no parka, insulated gloves, gore-tex boots and thermal underwear! Blissful. I was very satisfied and content, as I headed upstairs to engage in my well-practiced pre-concert ritual.
I'm not a superstitious person, but I have learned to stick to a very rigid routine when prepping for concerts. I stick to a specific order of duties/events, and I try to NEVER waver from it. Why? several reasons:
1. It's efficient. A complex sequence of small but necessary duties is handled with a minimum of exertion or concentration. Items are where they are supposed to be. I can go about my cleansing/grooming/dressing routine virtually on auto-pilot, which allows me to begin focusing on the job I am about to do.
2. It's relaxing and reassuring. In a job when anything can happen at a moment's notice, the predictable nature of my routine gives me a sense of calm and control. Important, when the next big thing I do involves me only being in control of one thing- the way I play my cello.
3. It cuts down on unnecessary drama. Life throws enough of the Big D our way without warning or invitation (as you'll see later), so the last thing I need is to amp myself up scrambling around the bedroom for a lost set of studs/cufflinks, or trying to find a mislaid set of car keys. Order be a good thang on concert night, yo.
This evening, I decided to wear a super-fine tuxedo shirt that's fairly new to me. It was custom-made for someone who backed out after it was completed. The tailor at the shop thought it would fit me, and it did... as though he took MY measurements for it. Now look, guys- 'Zilla's not a huge clothes horse, but he knows a good bargain when it crosses his path, and he does like to look his best when in public... so you simply can't just walk away from a 200+ dollar tux shirt that will only cost you $50, do you? I thought not. Only one problem: the stud holes in this shirt are hand-stitched, and considerably smaller than the holes in the shirts I usually wear. After fumbling around with my favorite set of studs like a 3 year old who's just learn to dress himself last week, I decide to slap in another set of studs rather than grab another shirt. Routine: interrupted. The next set of studs get fumbled, and skitter across the floor, coming to rest beneath the bed. Now, I'm rattled. I fish them out from beneath the bed, and now my fingers have minds of their own. Feeding them through the shirt holes is akin to microsurgery while wearing welder's gloves. Bottom line- it took me 10 minutes longer to dress myself tonight... putting me behind schedule, and affecting my mood in a very unhealthy way.
Dogs may not be the smartest mammals on the planet, but they are intuitive and sensitive as hell... especially to their human care-givers. Tonight, Miss Bella decides that it's her sworn duty to velcro herself to Dad, and NOT LET HIM LEAVE until he reassures her that his entire life isn't falling apart. It was really kind of sweet- in an annoying, (s)motherly kind of way. More delay. I give her some strokes, speak to her in calm, soothing tones, and finally get her to move from the door. (It actually worked to help calm me a bit, so maybe My Girl is smarter than I've credited her...)
CONCERT NIGHT
'Twas a high-tension week. Demanding music. Uptight MD. Rehearsals packed-with-info/micromanagement/detailed corrections. All at the end of a long, seemingly endless slog of schlock concerts to far-away places in nasty late-winter weather. This would have been a great time to have that one extra rehearsal, know what I mean? The evening's menu: Dr Atomic Symphony, by John Adams. Folks have been struggling with this piece privately for the better part of a month, just learning the licks, patterns and non-patterns. The piece coalesced much more slowly than comfort would have liked, and at the end of dress rehearsal, we only felt generally secure about the performance(s). Sibelius 7... every bit as demanding as the Adams, but with an entirely different aesthetic. And to round out the evening, Dvorak Cello concerto, b minor. Alban Gerhardt, soloist.
The Adams went well... though not without a glitch or two. The brass soloists stepped up and shone like diamonds. We really do have some top-notch players in Our Little Band... and they rose to the occasion tonight. I expect a much tighter and forceful performance tomorrow night, now that we've allowed the piece to settle in a bit.
Sibelius... (remember my earlier reference to 'drama?') Cello section/Desk2 is a tight machine of simpatico, honed from 5 years of trench warfare together. We are good colleagues, good travel companions to run-out concerts, and even better friends. We have our own coded 'language' and private jokes.... and we're not a bit shy at one-upping each other where the humor is concerned. All this bonding has made us a solid stand in our section. We carry our weight and help to anchor those near us, who might not share such a tight bond with their standmates. In short- we think and act as one on the job.
(At this point, it's important to take a directorial 'flashback' to the first Sibelius rehearsal. Our MD's custom is to 'play down' a piece on the first reh, to get a feel for what work needs to be done. Movements will be played non-stop, with general comments at the ends. Sibelius 7 is played continuously, from start to finish. Big Tech (my nickname for him) and Clemzilla (his nickname for me) finish reading page 6, scan to the right side of the score... and see page 9 staring us in the face! (Oh, those f'horrible handwritten Sibelius scores....) 'Zilla dives to his folder on the floor, pulls out his photocopied 'practice part' (times are tough- a regional orch must economize where it can), and tosses pgs. 7&8 onto the stand. Crisis averted... this is how we survived the week.)
Sibelius is running smoothly- cello section is well-prepared for this work. TeK & Zil successfully navigathe the chromatic "rising/falling waves on the sea" section, and the shared tension and intensity begins to subside at the botto of page 6. Our eyes scan to the right- and see page 9 staring us in the face! O...M....G... ! Nooooooooo! 'Zilla does the only thing he can- he waits for the 2 measure rest, and calmly shortens the music stand to its lowest height. The next 2 -3 minutes of playing were a combination of relying on semi-memorization, anticipation/approximation of pitches seen from roughly 8 feet away, and a whoooolotta silent (and feverish) praying. It must have looked a bit funny to the audience- two usually poised cellists rubbernecking with an exaggaerated upright posture, swaying like a couple of meerkats in the Kalahari desert. I hope we pulled it off without attracting too mutch attention to ourselve... we DID try to do it with all the 'cool' we could muster. Good thing Sibelius was followed by intermission... I needed the full interval to slow my heart compose myself, and mop gallons of flopsweat.
Second half: A Tale of Two Concerts. It was the worst of gigs, it was the best of gigs. From the moment he took the stage, Alban Gerhardt OWNED the venue. Our two rehearsals prepared us for the general architecture he'd planned, but kids... one must understand that true artistry is also subject to expression in the moment. Mt Gerhardt sucked us in with his very first utterance, and used that attention to guide us through a carefully-planned but amended script. Timing was microscopically different than in rehearsals; phrases were extended slightly or compressed slightly for added urgency.... this fine cellist told a spontaneous and heartfelt story to houseful of rapt story-lovers. The level of technical mastery he demonstrated made his playing seem effortless. Fortissimi were projected two blocks beyond the confines of the hall. Pianissimi drew the listener onto the stage with us, so that they might hear his intimate whispers. The Band turned itself into a single accompanist, that they might be better able to 'turn on a dime,' and give this man the level of support his exquisite music-making inspired. It was as knockout a performance of "The D" as I can remember witnessing in my life. I heard it afresh tonight... and I heard it without the excess and hystrionics we've all come to expect when Antonin's masterpiece is trotted out. A very special night indeed. Mr. Gerhardt's efforts weren't lost upon the masses, either. He was rewarded with a spontaneous standing ovation- the kind that looks as though every seat in the house was wired to 120 volts, and the switch just got thrown. 3 curtain call later, and we were all treated to a scintillating encore: The Prelude to Bach's 6th suite for solo cello.
At the end of the evening, I looked at TeK and said: "Folks came to a concert... tonight they got a clinic on how a cello is worked." TeK just looked at me and said: "word."
I'm exhausted. I think I'll go to sleep now.
(originally posted at ICS website 03/19/11 00:05:13)
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Essentials For Survival
Today, I had to face an uncomfortable truth about myself: I'm under-educated.
7 years of elementary school
3 years of junior high
3 years of high school
6 years of college
7 years of intensive training in Eugue-Ryu Karate
17 years of intensive training at my chosen art form
25+ years in the field, learning something new every day...
...and I still don't know the things I need to get on in this world.
During a surprisingly long period of professional inactivity, I luxuriated in an passtime that many 'normal' Americans take for granted: I watched a bunch of television. Some shows were very entertaining. Some were a waste of time. Some made me want to actually practice- which should indicate just how wretched they were. I saw detectives, criminal behaviorists, forensic investigators, doctors, spies, widows, professional men and women, and families on Hallmark Holiday Movies.
And after all that, be they good shows or bad, one theme emerged during this past week. It all came crashing down on me in one moment of crystalline clarity: I lack two very basic skills that seemingly EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRE CIVILIZED WORLD already possesses:
1. I can't pick a lock.
2. I can't hot-wire a car.
Folks- in less than 24 hours, I saw an Autralian medical diagnostic specialist break into a patient's apartment with 2 slim little pieces of metal and I saw a housewife hot-wire a car to save her abducted child from a murderous kidnapper!
Where was I when everyone else was acquiring these valuable skills? "Tomorrow's housewives" were sitting next to me in Mrs. Short's 7th grade English class, and "Future life-saving doctors" were in my Speech 101 didactic encounter group during my freshman year at the BeeGee. Did I just miss the memo that told me where the after-hours extracurricular lock-picking and hot-wiring seminars were being held? Why didn't Scot or Greg (my dorm mates)take me along?
People- many's the time that such skills would have come in handy:
*The time I took my dog for an 'emergency walk' just before rehearsal, and locked myself out of my apartment.
*The time when My Momz was laid up in the hospital, and I had to drive 1.5 hours to my hometown to pull her meds from the medicine cabinet for the doctors,... only to find that she'd changed the locks a month before.
*The time when I had to jet to a concert, and couldn't find my car keys. (I'd have gladly borne the risk of a break-in that eve, if only I could have hot-wired my Triumph Spitfire. Of course, if I actually possessed BOTH life-skills, I could have locked the damn apartment door anyway- knowing that I could always pick the lock upon my return. It's not like my stuff was actually safe- seeing that EVERYONE ELSE IN THE FREE WORLD HAD FREE ACCESS TO MY WORLDLY POSSESSIONS ANYWAY...)
[at this point, it should be noted that in each of the aforementioned cases, I'd be using my "universally-known" powers for Good- not Evil....]
If I'm to believe what I see on TV, it's only by the grace of God or the innate goodness of my fellow man that I haven't been ripped off, carjacked, violated, broken into, and generally just plain ol' "punk'd" by my fellow man on a daily basis. If I had even one of these skills, I could at least make an attempt to break even. As such, I've been lucky. I've only been violated a handful of times in over a half-century of living. Perhaps more of us really are good than bad.
Or perhaps, TV is just jacked-up... and is the "vast wasteland" that Newton N. Minow coined it to be- just 5 short years after I was conceived.
For my part, I'm choosing to believe that Mr. Minow was right. The alternative is just too surreal to digest.
I think I'll stay away until 11:00PM, and tune in to Charlie Rose tonight... or maybe crack open a good book. If I don't make a stand soon, I'll be ripe for the new season of:
The Real Housewives of Flint, MI.
7 years of elementary school
3 years of junior high
3 years of high school
6 years of college
7 years of intensive training in Eugue-Ryu Karate
17 years of intensive training at my chosen art form
25+ years in the field, learning something new every day...
...and I still don't know the things I need to get on in this world.
During a surprisingly long period of professional inactivity, I luxuriated in an passtime that many 'normal' Americans take for granted: I watched a bunch of television. Some shows were very entertaining. Some were a waste of time. Some made me want to actually practice- which should indicate just how wretched they were. I saw detectives, criminal behaviorists, forensic investigators, doctors, spies, widows, professional men and women, and families on Hallmark Holiday Movies.
And after all that, be they good shows or bad, one theme emerged during this past week. It all came crashing down on me in one moment of crystalline clarity: I lack two very basic skills that seemingly EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRE CIVILIZED WORLD already possesses:
1. I can't pick a lock.
2. I can't hot-wire a car.
Folks- in less than 24 hours, I saw an Autralian medical diagnostic specialist break into a patient's apartment with 2 slim little pieces of metal and I saw a housewife hot-wire a car to save her abducted child from a murderous kidnapper!
Where was I when everyone else was acquiring these valuable skills? "Tomorrow's housewives" were sitting next to me in Mrs. Short's 7th grade English class, and "Future life-saving doctors" were in my Speech 101 didactic encounter group during my freshman year at the BeeGee. Did I just miss the memo that told me where the after-hours extracurricular lock-picking and hot-wiring seminars were being held? Why didn't Scot or Greg (my dorm mates)take me along?
People- many's the time that such skills would have come in handy:
*The time I took my dog for an 'emergency walk' just before rehearsal, and locked myself out of my apartment.
*The time when My Momz was laid up in the hospital, and I had to drive 1.5 hours to my hometown to pull her meds from the medicine cabinet for the doctors,... only to find that she'd changed the locks a month before.
*The time when I had to jet to a concert, and couldn't find my car keys. (I'd have gladly borne the risk of a break-in that eve, if only I could have hot-wired my Triumph Spitfire. Of course, if I actually possessed BOTH life-skills, I could have locked the damn apartment door anyway- knowing that I could always pick the lock upon my return. It's not like my stuff was actually safe- seeing that EVERYONE ELSE IN THE FREE WORLD HAD FREE ACCESS TO MY WORLDLY POSSESSIONS ANYWAY...)
[at this point, it should be noted that in each of the aforementioned cases, I'd be using my "universally-known" powers for Good- not Evil....]
If I'm to believe what I see on TV, it's only by the grace of God or the innate goodness of my fellow man that I haven't been ripped off, carjacked, violated, broken into, and generally just plain ol' "punk'd" by my fellow man on a daily basis. If I had even one of these skills, I could at least make an attempt to break even. As such, I've been lucky. I've only been violated a handful of times in over a half-century of living. Perhaps more of us really are good than bad.
Or perhaps, TV is just jacked-up... and is the "vast wasteland" that Newton N. Minow coined it to be- just 5 short years after I was conceived.
For my part, I'm choosing to believe that Mr. Minow was right. The alternative is just too surreal to digest.
I think I'll stay away until 11:00PM, and tune in to Charlie Rose tonight... or maybe crack open a good book. If I don't make a stand soon, I'll be ripe for the new season of:
The Real Housewives of Flint, MI.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Artistry of Motion
There can be poetry in the movements of the human body. Bio-engineered for an astonishing array of different tasks both large and small, it is a marvel of physics and engineering. The human body in motion is what unifies two seemingly disparate activities as ballet and playing defensive end on a football team... and why I can enjoy watching both in equal measure.
There is another practice which seeks to unify the artistry of dance with athleticism to create "physical poetry"- the art of conducting a symphony orchestra. In addition to the aforementioned attributes, a true conductor must also :
** possess a thorough working knowledge of every instrument in the ensemble
** possess a thorough working knowledge of the role of each of those instruments within each and every piece
** possess a thorough knowledge of the architecture of the work- its basic structural components, all the details of its idiosyncrasies, everything
** be intellectually and artistically engaging. Knowledge of the score in itself isn't enough. He must bring a unique, credible vision of the piece and be able to communicate that vision to a compliant ensemble. The conductor earns his accolades on Saturday night at Orchestra Hall... he earns the players' respect and cooperation in the Rehearsal Hall.
and.. on concert night, he must be able to communicate his entire catalog of wishes silently... using physical gesture as his only means of communicating.
So... the conductor must indicate to his players: tempo, volume, style, mood, balance of voices, style of attack, phrasing, the architecture and architectural details, pacing.... (pant,pant)... all at the same time. For the entire time.
Given that stringent set of demands (of which I've only tapped the surafce), it should be easy to see why there is a paucity of truly impressive conductors on the circuit. Some are beautiful to behold, yet inspire nothing in the way of artistry. Others are towering geniuses and artistic interpreters par excellence, yet move about the podium like drunken Kodiak bears. Some are human metronomes. Some are charlatans. Most are adequate traffic cops.
The rarest of conductors can combine it all, for a truly spellbinding experience- from the grandest of ideals to the smallest of details- and can do it without even a hint of ambiguity. That's a gift few are afforded... and why it's so important to expose the world to such rare gems whenever and wherever they are found.
It is in the spirit of sharing Great Art, ladies and gentlemen, that I proudly present to you, Charlie (5 years old)... conducting Igor Stravinsky's 'The Rite of Spring' -one of the most challenging and demanding works of the 20th century's Western Art Music repertoire:
Trust me... I've played under worse leadership.
There is another practice which seeks to unify the artistry of dance with athleticism to create "physical poetry"- the art of conducting a symphony orchestra. In addition to the aforementioned attributes, a true conductor must also :
** possess a thorough working knowledge of every instrument in the ensemble
** possess a thorough working knowledge of the role of each of those instruments within each and every piece
** possess a thorough knowledge of the architecture of the work- its basic structural components, all the details of its idiosyncrasies, everything
** be intellectually and artistically engaging. Knowledge of the score in itself isn't enough. He must bring a unique, credible vision of the piece and be able to communicate that vision to a compliant ensemble. The conductor earns his accolades on Saturday night at Orchestra Hall... he earns the players' respect and cooperation in the Rehearsal Hall.
and.. on concert night, he must be able to communicate his entire catalog of wishes silently... using physical gesture as his only means of communicating.
So... the conductor must indicate to his players: tempo, volume, style, mood, balance of voices, style of attack, phrasing, the architecture and architectural details, pacing.... (pant,pant)... all at the same time. For the entire time.
Given that stringent set of demands (of which I've only tapped the surafce), it should be easy to see why there is a paucity of truly impressive conductors on the circuit. Some are beautiful to behold, yet inspire nothing in the way of artistry. Others are towering geniuses and artistic interpreters par excellence, yet move about the podium like drunken Kodiak bears. Some are human metronomes. Some are charlatans. Most are adequate traffic cops.
The rarest of conductors can combine it all, for a truly spellbinding experience- from the grandest of ideals to the smallest of details- and can do it without even a hint of ambiguity. That's a gift few are afforded... and why it's so important to expose the world to such rare gems whenever and wherever they are found.
It is in the spirit of sharing Great Art, ladies and gentlemen, that I proudly present to you, Charlie (5 years old)... conducting Igor Stravinsky's 'The Rite of Spring' -one of the most challenging and demanding works of the 20th century's Western Art Music repertoire:
Trust me... I've played under worse leadership.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Discipline (!!) (???)
I debated long and hard about posting this. After significant deliberation, I decide to throw caution to the wind, and hit the "New Topic" button.
What you're about to read is is bit of foolishness that can only come from:
1. a particularly trying week of private lessons.
2. a freakishly bizarre story being floated about on the newswires.
3. one too many shots of Knob Creek small-batch whiskey after an excruciating Pops concert of Andrew Lloyd-Weber Broadway hits.
This confluence of cosmic factors landed in my life last week- in the form of a big, steaming lump. (Oh, the glamorous life of a 'Classical Musician'....)
I received this little e-mail nugget about strange case in Colorado from a Symph colleague. Instead of simply shaking my head, and then dumping it... I decided to flex my (atrophied) improvisational muscles, and send him a reply.
Don't say I didn't warn you......
'Zilla
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Teacher allegedly whacks child with bow
March 8, 2007
BOULDER, Colo. --A substitute music teacher has been arrested after allegedly whacking a 10-year-old student on the head with a viola bow after telling the class they were "the worst players I've ever heard."
Newspaper and television reports said the trouble began when Carla Shinners, 63, a teacher for more than 30 years in the district, was interrupted by a call on her own cell phone. She allegedly began swearing Feb. 12 at the Creekside Elementary School, where she had earned the nickname "Mrs. Grumpy Lady."
Principal Karen Daly said parents and students complained.
The 10-year-old said Shinners also pulled her hair.
Shinners allegedly said the students complained because she was white and they are Hispanic. There was no phone number listed for her in Boulder. It wasn't clear if she had retained an attorney.
Briggs Gamblin, a spokesman for the school district, confirmed in a telephone interview Thursday night that she had been fired.
Shinners could face a charge of child abuse resulting in injury. She is free on $1,000 bond.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WTF?...
FIRED ???
Arrested ????
See- that's what's wrong with this country today. Kids are too damned soft. A little light discipline, and they run to their Mommies with some whinyass tale of woe. Then Mommie gets all pissy and worked up, just because her "precious little wonder" was actually required to "man up" and meet some freakkin' standards for a change. Kids heal fast, anyway.... it's not like that mark on her forehead won't fade or something. This ain't Romper Room- this is real life! Chances are, that kid would have forgotten all about it in 10-20 years or so... if Mommie hadn't made such a big freakkin' stink out of it. I'd be willing to bet that coward-ass parent got the cops to do her dirty work for her, too- instead of showing up to the school, and settling it the right way- out by the bike racks after last bell.
Hell, I used to take a good whack or two every week in my lessons. Helped to make me the man I am today, gat-dammit! Had this teacher in 4th grade, useta whack the snot outta some kids with that bow- you know what? they didn't give him no trouble... and every one of them played like Heifetz!!! Helluva teacher, he was.
Us music kids had some good reflexes, too! I just know my violin lessons with "Doc Savage" (that's what us kids called him behind his back... outside of class... when he was teaching at some other school... ) helped me to bob-and-weave my way out of more than a few playground ass-whoopin's. But does the teacher get credit? Nooooooooooooo... Of cooourse not!
Sometimes, a good swift whack gets 'em to "wake up" when nothing else will. Hey- it worked for Bob Knight, it can work for other disciplines, too. A mule won't start motivating if you just 'sweet-talk' it to death, and neither will a kid. You gotta first get their attention- then, and only then, might you be able to accomplish something.
Besides, the little sh*ts should have been using better intonation, attack, phrasing and ensemble, anyway. To be labelled as "the worst ever" is really some accomplishment.... after all, this teacher had been hearing 30 YEARS of this crap from other parents' 'precious little wonders.' Sounds like she should have done what I'd have done... handed out bulk-mailings of bow-whacks to every one of those those no-account slackers in the room. And if they cried, I'd really give 'em something to cry about!
A little hair-pulling also helps. It gets the message to the brain- right straight through the roots. "Eliminate the middle man," I always say.
If you ask me, there's waaaay too many pussies in The Arts these days. And it's all because of crap like this. If you want to see the artform survive another generation, you'd better start populating it with people who can hold their own. And it all starts in the Public School System.
Teachers like Carla Shinners and Doc Savage are the last line of defense against our cultural decay and eventual extinction. It's high time we started treating them like the heroes they are.
sincerely,
Maurice De Sade
Music Teacher (retired)
Conductor Emeritus, Mansfield Correctional Philharmonia
Current Director of Musical Rehabilitation, Toledo Youth Treatment Center
Needless to say, this response was totally tongue-in-cheek, and I'd never engage in such activities. But it was cathartic, after the week I had...
What you're about to read is is bit of foolishness that can only come from:
1. a particularly trying week of private lessons.
2. a freakishly bizarre story being floated about on the newswires.
3. one too many shots of Knob Creek small-batch whiskey after an excruciating Pops concert of Andrew Lloyd-Weber Broadway hits.
This confluence of cosmic factors landed in my life last week- in the form of a big, steaming lump. (Oh, the glamorous life of a 'Classical Musician'....)
I received this little e-mail nugget about strange case in Colorado from a Symph colleague. Instead of simply shaking my head, and then dumping it... I decided to flex my (atrophied) improvisational muscles, and send him a reply.
Don't say I didn't warn you......
'Zilla
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Teacher allegedly whacks child with bow
March 8, 2007
BOULDER, Colo. --A substitute music teacher has been arrested after allegedly whacking a 10-year-old student on the head with a viola bow after telling the class they were "the worst players I've ever heard."
Newspaper and television reports said the trouble began when Carla Shinners, 63, a teacher for more than 30 years in the district, was interrupted by a call on her own cell phone. She allegedly began swearing Feb. 12 at the Creekside Elementary School, where she had earned the nickname "Mrs. Grumpy Lady."
Principal Karen Daly said parents and students complained.
The 10-year-old said Shinners also pulled her hair.
Shinners allegedly said the students complained because she was white and they are Hispanic. There was no phone number listed for her in Boulder. It wasn't clear if she had retained an attorney.
Briggs Gamblin, a spokesman for the school district, confirmed in a telephone interview Thursday night that she had been fired.
Shinners could face a charge of child abuse resulting in injury. She is free on $1,000 bond.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WTF?...
FIRED ???
Arrested ????
See- that's what's wrong with this country today. Kids are too damned soft. A little light discipline, and they run to their Mommies with some whinyass tale of woe. Then Mommie gets all pissy and worked up, just because her "precious little wonder" was actually required to "man up" and meet some freakkin' standards for a change. Kids heal fast, anyway.... it's not like that mark on her forehead won't fade or something. This ain't Romper Room- this is real life! Chances are, that kid would have forgotten all about it in 10-20 years or so... if Mommie hadn't made such a big freakkin' stink out of it. I'd be willing to bet that coward-ass parent got the cops to do her dirty work for her, too- instead of showing up to the school, and settling it the right way- out by the bike racks after last bell.
Hell, I used to take a good whack or two every week in my lessons. Helped to make me the man I am today, gat-dammit! Had this teacher in 4th grade, useta whack the snot outta some kids with that bow- you know what? they didn't give him no trouble... and every one of them played like Heifetz!!! Helluva teacher, he was.
Us music kids had some good reflexes, too! I just know my violin lessons with "Doc Savage" (that's what us kids called him behind his back... outside of class... when he was teaching at some other school... ) helped me to bob-and-weave my way out of more than a few playground ass-whoopin's. But does the teacher get credit? Nooooooooooooo... Of cooourse not!
Sometimes, a good swift whack gets 'em to "wake up" when nothing else will. Hey- it worked for Bob Knight, it can work for other disciplines, too. A mule won't start motivating if you just 'sweet-talk' it to death, and neither will a kid. You gotta first get their attention- then, and only then, might you be able to accomplish something.
Besides, the little sh*ts should have been using better intonation, attack, phrasing and ensemble, anyway. To be labelled as "the worst ever" is really some accomplishment.... after all, this teacher had been hearing 30 YEARS of this crap from other parents' 'precious little wonders.' Sounds like she should have done what I'd have done... handed out bulk-mailings of bow-whacks to every one of those those no-account slackers in the room. And if they cried, I'd really give 'em something to cry about!
A little hair-pulling also helps. It gets the message to the brain- right straight through the roots. "Eliminate the middle man," I always say.
If you ask me, there's waaaay too many pussies in The Arts these days. And it's all because of crap like this. If you want to see the artform survive another generation, you'd better start populating it with people who can hold their own. And it all starts in the Public School System.
Teachers like Carla Shinners and Doc Savage are the last line of defense against our cultural decay and eventual extinction. It's high time we started treating them like the heroes they are.
sincerely,
Maurice De Sade
Music Teacher (retired)
Conductor Emeritus, Mansfield Correctional Philharmonia
Current Director of Musical Rehabilitation, Toledo Youth Treatment Center
Needless to say, this response was totally tongue-in-cheek, and I'd never engage in such activities. But it was cathartic, after the week I had...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Things We Take For Granted
I recently completed a questionnaire in which I was asked: 'When was the last time you cried?' The answer to that question was "yesterday." I'd like to share the details behind that answer, because they shed some light on who we are, where we come from, and what we can lose along the way.
One of the facets of my job is to perform with the "Chamber Players"... a mini-orchestra which contains essentially one of each of the instruments found in the Big band. We primarily exist to do educational outreach in the public schools. Important work, to be sure... but it can wear a bit thin after 20-30 gigs in a 9-month span. The last Classics Concerts of the season was played about 2 weekends earlier, and signalled the unofficial end of the grind for most folks. But oh, no- not the Chamber Players. We had 16 more gigs to crank out over the next ten days, concluding with a couple on Thursday afternoon at Elmhurst Elementary. We were beat. 3 days ago, folks cranked through these gigs with the gray, expressionless faces of coal miners who still had another 15 years until retirement. Thursday, we were all giddy, irreverent and stoked, because there was finally light at the end of the mineshaft.
I finished the 1:00 gig, and was ready for my "outdoor break"... down some powerjuice, get some fresh air, and get back for my very last gig of the year. I was ready to peel out of my seat when a teacher approached me. "$#*ΘΆ!" I thought to myself. "Can't a brotha catch a break? I been at this diplomatic crap all year... I just wanna be DONE!" "Hi. I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your narration at the 4th graders concert last week. You have such a nice speaking voice... bladda, bladda, bladda, reenee reenee reenee..." "Well, thank you. It's a privilege..." as I was half-rising out of my seat to 'Usain Bolt' my ass outta there. But no. Not today.
"If you have a moment..." [sigh. Pleeeeeeeeeze- be gone, woman- DAMN!] "..my student Alex would like to see the cello up close. Would that be possible?"
As an ambassador of music and dutiful employee of a non-profit which needs all the good Karma it can muster, one never says no at times like these. It's an accepted occupational hazard that comes with the biz. PR is important, and you're never truly off-stage until you're in your car and driving… at least 2 blocks away. It's called professionalism.
"Sure. Where is he?" She motioned to her teacher's aid, who very gently turned Alex toward me, about 20 feet away. Alex began walking toward me, swinging his white cane in wide arcs before him. When his teacher said "stop," he halted, handed his cane to her, held out his hand for a shake and said, "Hi. I'm Alex. Thanks for letting me see your cello."
"I'm Bob. Its a privilege, Alex." This time, I really meant it.
He raised his hands in front of him, and began wiggling his fingers around as he extended his arms. I said, "Let's look at it from top to bottom, OK?"
"Okay."
I tipped the cello toward him so he could feel the scroll, that marvel of hand carving that still fascinates me to this day. His little fingers traced the spiral from the center button all the way out till the scroll gave way to the pegbox. "What are these?" he asked, when his fingers met the tuning pegs. I told him what they were, and how strings were attached to them. I guided his fingers into the pegbox, so he could feel the strings as they wound around the pegs. His hands glided down the back of the neck.
"What's this?" "It's the part we call the neck. It connects the scroll to the body, and it's where our fingers usually go to make the notes." "It feels like silk." What's it made of?" "Wood. I feels silky because my hands have been sliding up and down on it for years."
"Can you feel where the right notes are?"
"Yes."
"Cool."
"Yes, it is."
By now, the lump in my throat is starting to interfere with my breathing.
"More, please."
"Sure."
I guided his hands to opposite sides of the neck, where the neck meets the instrument's body proper, and watched in wonder as this little guy caressed the shoulders of this big instrument. He followed its outline for the entire length of the body, taking note of every curve, angle and contour. Then he reached around from the back of the instrument, as if to hug it, and found the strings, the bridge, the tailpiece.
"It's huge!" "Yep, it is pretty big. But they make'em in smaller sizes for little guys like you, too. There's one out there that's just the right size for you. Let me show you the bow." I pulled the bow from the music stand, and guided his fingers along the shaft. I let him feel its length, the carving of the tip, and the smoothness of the tortoise shell frog, I allowed him to touch the hair... something I NEVER allow. "Wanna hear it play?"
"Oh, man... sure!"
"Hop up."
I sat back as far into my seat as I could, and placed Alex on the chair in front of me. He laid his head on the right shoulder of the cello, and embraced the sounding box, placing his hands on the face of the instrument. I reached around him, and awkwardly played "Mary Had a Little Lamb" with this little guy sandwiched between me and the instrument. I simply cannot describe the look of ecstasy that came over his face, as the sound absolutely filled up his immediate world. He hopped down, extended his hand and said,
"Thanks Bob. I've never really seen a cello before today."
I shook his hand and said, "Thank you, Alex. I never really have, either."
Never did get that fresh air. I spent the rest of the break caressing this wonderful piece of craftsmanship through misty eyes, awash in memories that reach back through 4/10 of a century. Best way to end a season that I can imagine... rediscovering the wonder that overwhelmed my heart when I was nine years old, and led me to all this. My... sometimes, the things we take for granted in our lives are the very things which make our lives so special. Tonight, I'm thankful for sounds, my (formerly tired) soul, a hollow box... ...and a sightless little boy who taught me how to see again.
One of the facets of my job is to perform with the "Chamber Players"... a mini-orchestra which contains essentially one of each of the instruments found in the Big band. We primarily exist to do educational outreach in the public schools. Important work, to be sure... but it can wear a bit thin after 20-30 gigs in a 9-month span. The last Classics Concerts of the season was played about 2 weekends earlier, and signalled the unofficial end of the grind for most folks. But oh, no- not the Chamber Players. We had 16 more gigs to crank out over the next ten days, concluding with a couple on Thursday afternoon at Elmhurst Elementary. We were beat. 3 days ago, folks cranked through these gigs with the gray, expressionless faces of coal miners who still had another 15 years until retirement. Thursday, we were all giddy, irreverent and stoked, because there was finally light at the end of the mineshaft.
I finished the 1:00 gig, and was ready for my "outdoor break"... down some powerjuice, get some fresh air, and get back for my very last gig of the year. I was ready to peel out of my seat when a teacher approached me. "$#*ΘΆ!" I thought to myself. "Can't a brotha catch a break? I been at this diplomatic crap all year... I just wanna be DONE!" "Hi. I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your narration at the 4th graders concert last week. You have such a nice speaking voice... bladda, bladda, bladda, reenee reenee reenee..." "Well, thank you. It's a privilege..." as I was half-rising out of my seat to 'Usain Bolt' my ass outta there. But no. Not today.
"If you have a moment..." [sigh. Pleeeeeeeeeze- be gone, woman- DAMN!] "..my student Alex would like to see the cello up close. Would that be possible?"
As an ambassador of music and dutiful employee of a non-profit which needs all the good Karma it can muster, one never says no at times like these. It's an accepted occupational hazard that comes with the biz. PR is important, and you're never truly off-stage until you're in your car and driving… at least 2 blocks away. It's called professionalism.
"Sure. Where is he?" She motioned to her teacher's aid, who very gently turned Alex toward me, about 20 feet away. Alex began walking toward me, swinging his white cane in wide arcs before him. When his teacher said "stop," he halted, handed his cane to her, held out his hand for a shake and said, "Hi. I'm Alex. Thanks for letting me see your cello."
"I'm Bob. Its a privilege, Alex." This time, I really meant it.
He raised his hands in front of him, and began wiggling his fingers around as he extended his arms. I said, "Let's look at it from top to bottom, OK?"
"Okay."
I tipped the cello toward him so he could feel the scroll, that marvel of hand carving that still fascinates me to this day. His little fingers traced the spiral from the center button all the way out till the scroll gave way to the pegbox. "What are these?" he asked, when his fingers met the tuning pegs. I told him what they were, and how strings were attached to them. I guided his fingers into the pegbox, so he could feel the strings as they wound around the pegs. His hands glided down the back of the neck.
"What's this?" "It's the part we call the neck. It connects the scroll to the body, and it's where our fingers usually go to make the notes." "It feels like silk." What's it made of?" "Wood. I feels silky because my hands have been sliding up and down on it for years."
"Can you feel where the right notes are?"
"Yes."
"Cool."
"Yes, it is."
By now, the lump in my throat is starting to interfere with my breathing.
"More, please."
"Sure."
I guided his hands to opposite sides of the neck, where the neck meets the instrument's body proper, and watched in wonder as this little guy caressed the shoulders of this big instrument. He followed its outline for the entire length of the body, taking note of every curve, angle and contour. Then he reached around from the back of the instrument, as if to hug it, and found the strings, the bridge, the tailpiece.
"It's huge!" "Yep, it is pretty big. But they make'em in smaller sizes for little guys like you, too. There's one out there that's just the right size for you. Let me show you the bow." I pulled the bow from the music stand, and guided his fingers along the shaft. I let him feel its length, the carving of the tip, and the smoothness of the tortoise shell frog, I allowed him to touch the hair... something I NEVER allow. "Wanna hear it play?"
"Oh, man... sure!"
"Hop up."
I sat back as far into my seat as I could, and placed Alex on the chair in front of me. He laid his head on the right shoulder of the cello, and embraced the sounding box, placing his hands on the face of the instrument. I reached around him, and awkwardly played "Mary Had a Little Lamb" with this little guy sandwiched between me and the instrument. I simply cannot describe the look of ecstasy that came over his face, as the sound absolutely filled up his immediate world. He hopped down, extended his hand and said,
"Thanks Bob. I've never really seen a cello before today."
I shook his hand and said, "Thank you, Alex. I never really have, either."
Never did get that fresh air. I spent the rest of the break caressing this wonderful piece of craftsmanship through misty eyes, awash in memories that reach back through 4/10 of a century. Best way to end a season that I can imagine... rediscovering the wonder that overwhelmed my heart when I was nine years old, and led me to all this. My... sometimes, the things we take for granted in our lives are the very things which make our lives so special. Tonight, I'm thankful for sounds, my (formerly tired) soul, a hollow box... ...and a sightless little boy who taught me how to see again.
A Veteran of "Wedding Wars"
I'm a veteran of weddings. In my life, I've probably attended at least 750 of them. Nope- I'm not a freak or hopeless romantic... I actually get paid to go. I'm one of those anonymous people whom neither party knows... and who provides sonic atmosphere to help enhance the mood of that all-important day.
We musicians are legion, and thanks to the internet, connected. So, when I went to one of my favorite music boards and saw a thread entitled, "Brides are Stupid," I just had to drop in. Follows: the poster's thread-starter and my response. It might give a little insight into the world of the freelance musician...
_______________
I just played a wedding ceremony.
Outside.
Yes, on December 29. And though I do live in the desert, and the wedding was just outside Zion National Park, it was FREAKING COLD!!! Luckily I have a quintus cello, but that didn't help my fingers any! It was probably in the 30's.
Why are brides so stupid?
Also, why was I so stupid?
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
Quote: Why are brides so stupid?
In most cases, I believe it's because they are 22, 24 years old... and singularly dedicated to carrying out plans that started as a fantasy when they were 10 or 12.
12-year-olds are not known for pragmatism or common sense. As Cruel Fate would have it, neither attribute is actually a prerequisite for a good fantasy. (Fate seems to enjoy a particularly vicious sense of irony, I've learned.)
So- you have a completely harebrained scheme, hatched by a person who's mind is only one-third formed... now being executed by a driven young adult- with a mission, a pair of blinders, manic enthusiasm, and the boundless reserves of energy that can only be found in those in their 20's. Oh- and did I mention the 10+ years of practiced, and now well-honed emotional manipulation techniques? That little 12-year old now has teeth... and she ain't afraid to use'em on anyone who is seen as an impediment to The Objective.
And all the while, the Mother of the Bride [music cue: "Doom chords"] co-ordinates the activities- sometimes in the background by Machiavellian means, sometimes by employing the "Bull meets China Shop" stratagem.
By the time the hapless, defenseless musician is engaged, both Bride and MOB are in full assault mode. Obtaining The Objective is the only goal- nothing else matters. "Damn the caterers- full speed ahead!" Sweet 40-something ladies become Sergeant Jonas Blane from The Unit, and The Bride is riding point. This well-tuned Special Ops Unit will achieve its objective at all costs- leaving chaos, attrition, and the bodies of failed wedding planners in their wakes. Noone is safe.
I've also learned that the more financially well-off the parents, the more extravagant, wasteful and foolish the scene... because they have the resources to provide EVERY LITTLE DETAIL of their little princess' prepubescent fantasy. Fathers of the Bride (FOB) are the culprits here... throwing the equivalent of many 3rd-World Nations' entire treasuries at making a Disney Fairytale become flesh. (shudder)
"I don't care how much it costs... you find a way to bring six 'My Little Ponies' to life, RIGHT NOW... and they'd better be hitched to that gilded carriage by 1:00 PM Saturday!!! The gilders did their jobs. The coachmen are ready. Are you going to be the one who makes me angry? You wouldn't like me when I'm angry... Ponies. 3 pink and 3 blue. With glitter. GET IT DONE!!!"
***********************
Face it, [poster's name]... you got rolled over by a force that is immune the laws of physics, nature or Man. It's not your fault. You came into contact with Strike Force One, backed up by Big Momma, and bankrolled by the shadowy figure known as Daddy Deep Pockets. You were a goner when the phone rang.
Oh- and you're not stupid, either. Charitable, yes. Naive- maybe. Smarter next time? Oh, girl- most definitely.
Get it all down in writing. Have a temperature/weather/act of God clause in the contract. MAKE THEM SIGN THE CONTRACT. MAKE THEM HONOR THE CONTRACT.
Ancient wisdom from the book of ZenZilla: The source of their greatest strength is also the source of their greatest weakness- they want The Objective to be obtained- at any cost. When you get their names in ink, you have helped to set that cost... preferably at a price point that is beneficial for you. Remember- it's their Little Princess' day that is at stake- not yours. If they don't like your conditions, they are free to roll over someone else. Someone with a looser contract.
Trust me, Tracie- they'll do what you want. I mean, how can Their Little Princess glide down the aisle without hearing:
D....A....B....F#....G...D....G....A....?
.02,
Zilla
We musicians are legion, and thanks to the internet, connected. So, when I went to one of my favorite music boards and saw a thread entitled, "Brides are Stupid," I just had to drop in. Follows: the poster's thread-starter and my response. It might give a little insight into the world of the freelance musician...
_______________
I just played a wedding ceremony.
Outside.
Yes, on December 29. And though I do live in the desert, and the wedding was just outside Zion National Park, it was FREAKING COLD!!! Luckily I have a quintus cello, but that didn't help my fingers any! It was probably in the 30's.
Why are brides so stupid?
Also, why was I so stupid?
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
Quote: Why are brides so stupid?
In most cases, I believe it's because they are 22, 24 years old... and singularly dedicated to carrying out plans that started as a fantasy when they were 10 or 12.
12-year-olds are not known for pragmatism or common sense. As Cruel Fate would have it, neither attribute is actually a prerequisite for a good fantasy. (Fate seems to enjoy a particularly vicious sense of irony, I've learned.)
So- you have a completely harebrained scheme, hatched by a person who's mind is only one-third formed... now being executed by a driven young adult- with a mission, a pair of blinders, manic enthusiasm, and the boundless reserves of energy that can only be found in those in their 20's. Oh- and did I mention the 10+ years of practiced, and now well-honed emotional manipulation techniques? That little 12-year old now has teeth... and she ain't afraid to use'em on anyone who is seen as an impediment to The Objective.
And all the while, the Mother of the Bride [music cue: "Doom chords"] co-ordinates the activities- sometimes in the background by Machiavellian means, sometimes by employing the "Bull meets China Shop" stratagem.
By the time the hapless, defenseless musician is engaged, both Bride and MOB are in full assault mode. Obtaining The Objective is the only goal- nothing else matters. "Damn the caterers- full speed ahead!" Sweet 40-something ladies become Sergeant Jonas Blane from The Unit, and The Bride is riding point. This well-tuned Special Ops Unit will achieve its objective at all costs- leaving chaos, attrition, and the bodies of failed wedding planners in their wakes. Noone is safe.
I've also learned that the more financially well-off the parents, the more extravagant, wasteful and foolish the scene... because they have the resources to provide EVERY LITTLE DETAIL of their little princess' prepubescent fantasy. Fathers of the Bride (FOB) are the culprits here... throwing the equivalent of many 3rd-World Nations' entire treasuries at making a Disney Fairytale become flesh. (shudder)
"I don't care how much it costs... you find a way to bring six 'My Little Ponies' to life, RIGHT NOW... and they'd better be hitched to that gilded carriage by 1:00 PM Saturday!!! The gilders did their jobs. The coachmen are ready. Are you going to be the one who makes me angry? You wouldn't like me when I'm angry... Ponies. 3 pink and 3 blue. With glitter. GET IT DONE!!!"
***********************
Face it, [poster's name]... you got rolled over by a force that is immune the laws of physics, nature or Man. It's not your fault. You came into contact with Strike Force One, backed up by Big Momma, and bankrolled by the shadowy figure known as Daddy Deep Pockets. You were a goner when the phone rang.
Oh- and you're not stupid, either. Charitable, yes. Naive- maybe. Smarter next time? Oh, girl- most definitely.
Get it all down in writing. Have a temperature/weather/act of God clause in the contract. MAKE THEM SIGN THE CONTRACT. MAKE THEM HONOR THE CONTRACT.
Ancient wisdom from the book of ZenZilla: The source of their greatest strength is also the source of their greatest weakness- they want The Objective to be obtained- at any cost. When you get their names in ink, you have helped to set that cost... preferably at a price point that is beneficial for you. Remember- it's their Little Princess' day that is at stake- not yours. If they don't like your conditions, they are free to roll over someone else. Someone with a looser contract.
Trust me, Tracie- they'll do what you want. I mean, how can Their Little Princess glide down the aisle without hearing:
D....A....B....F#....G...D....G....A....?
.02,
Zilla
Monday, June 1, 2009
Well... I'm here. Now what?
Hi, Cyberists. Welcome to Zilla's World.
After much deliberation and some gentle prodding from a couple of fairly persistent Good Eggs I know, I've finally chosen to start a blog... yes- that modern-day electronic tip'o'the hat to all things narcissistic. I'm not so vain as to believe that this online journal will open eyes, the skies, or make me seem wise. It exists primarily for me to take in what the world bounces my way, and bounce it back to you all... with my own personal 'spin', of course. Feel free to hit me back with your impressions... I'm a fairly open vessel for some back&forth.
_____________________________________________________
I'm a student of day-to-day life, mainly because it:
1. requires no tuition fee, syllabus, or room & board.
2. is not graded. (by anyone other than me, My Special One and perhaps The Big Guy)
3. can be studied for, but the tests are always 'pop quizzes.' Crib notes, however cleverly constructed and artfully concealed, simply don't work. It's always "seat of the pants" time... 24/7, 365.
4. allows every student to be every other student's teacher... and today's lesson might come from the very back of the class
5. can only be taken pass/fail... with the eventual grade to be determined ONLY after one passes from this classroom.
Therefore, my studies carry with them a particular sense of import... for Time is always of the essence, and none may know the hour that will be his last. I hope to post here a "compendium of immediacy"... a distillation of the daily events and thoughts that make me want to share with you all.
My offerings here will come from a variety of sources: my job (musician), my hobbies (you'll find out by reading), my friends (who'll no doubt disavow all knowledge of me), my favorite message boards/websites/news&sports outlets, and the events and people that effect my life. In short- a little of everything. What you'll get will depend upon what Life deals me on any particular day. Here's hoping you'll get something of value from spending a little of your time here.
Are you with me?
I guess we'll find out...
After much deliberation and some gentle prodding from a couple of fairly persistent Good Eggs I know, I've finally chosen to start a blog... yes- that modern-day electronic tip'o'the hat to all things narcissistic. I'm not so vain as to believe that this online journal will open eyes, the skies, or make me seem wise. It exists primarily for me to take in what the world bounces my way, and bounce it back to you all... with my own personal 'spin', of course. Feel free to hit me back with your impressions... I'm a fairly open vessel for some back&forth.
_____________________________________________________
I'm a student of day-to-day life, mainly because it:
1. requires no tuition fee, syllabus, or room & board.
2. is not graded. (by anyone other than me, My Special One and perhaps The Big Guy)
3. can be studied for, but the tests are always 'pop quizzes.' Crib notes, however cleverly constructed and artfully concealed, simply don't work. It's always "seat of the pants" time... 24/7, 365.
4. allows every student to be every other student's teacher... and today's lesson might come from the very back of the class
5. can only be taken pass/fail... with the eventual grade to be determined ONLY after one passes from this classroom.
Therefore, my studies carry with them a particular sense of import... for Time is always of the essence, and none may know the hour that will be his last. I hope to post here a "compendium of immediacy"... a distillation of the daily events and thoughts that make me want to share with you all.
My offerings here will come from a variety of sources: my job (musician), my hobbies (you'll find out by reading), my friends (who'll no doubt disavow all knowledge of me), my favorite message boards/websites/news&sports outlets, and the events and people that effect my life. In short- a little of everything. What you'll get will depend upon what Life deals me on any particular day. Here's hoping you'll get something of value from spending a little of your time here.
Are you with me?
I guess we'll find out...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)