Marching Band is My Life

With regards to composing, I started relatively late.  I was not a child prodigy; as a matter of fact, when I was a young music student, it never occurred to me to even try to compose. I was always drawn to playing the piano, and somewhat devoted to playing the clarinet, but writing music was not even a glimmer of a thought.

And then, in 10th grade, I entered high school and became immediately immersed in the wonderful and robust music program at Harry A. Burke High School in Omaha, Nebraska. This story is a lesson on how deeply and profoundly a public school music teacher can affect his/her students. 

Dr. Steve Lawrence (aka "Doc") created an instrumental music program that consisted of an orchestra, a concert band, a smaller wind ensemble, a clarinet choir, theory classes, jazz band (which at times turned into a 50's band, Big Daddy and the Ducktails ), chamber music groups, an annual (and hilarious) variety show called Bits and Pieces, and an extremely festive and unconventional marching band (as well as its winter sport counterpart, the pep band). I believe that I played in every ensemble I had room for (and some I didn't- I was consistently late for my Algebra class because I had clarinet choir right before). To say I was bitten by the music bug is an understatement. I was making music of all kinds at all levels and felt as if I had found my spiritual home. I knew, without any doubt, that I was meant to be a musician. Dr. Lawrence had gone to the University of Iowa to get his doctorate in clarinet; consequently, I felt that getting a doctorate in music was the ultimate achievement.

One small problem with that plan: as Dr. Lawrence gently put it, there were thousands of excellent pianists out there in colleges and conservatories competing against each other. And there was never a question of whether I would major in clarinet performance; I loved (and still love) the clarinet, but was never cut out to play it professionally. Doc was NOT discouraging me; on the contrary, he was painting an accurate picture of what my life would be like should I choose to embark on the Piano Major path in college. He did something that changed my life, and pointed me in the direction I have never wavered from. He suggested I do some arranging for the marching band; I believe the first thing he asked me to do was to compose a flute obbligato. I discovered, much to my amazement, that I was good at writing music, and that I enjoyed doing it. I seem to remember other similar kinds of projects. Doc eventually told me that he felt that the combination of my talent at music theory and my creative nature might translate into an ability to compose. He set me up with Dr. Robert Beadell for monthly lessons at the University of Nebraska, and I felt as if I had found my true musical self. I started composing then- this was 1977- and I have never stopped.

Dr. Lawrence had some of us take harp lessons so he could have harpists in the orchestra; I feel that as a result I have a much better affinity for writing for harp than I might have had otherwise. Having too many clarinetists, he suggested that some of us learn string instruments. I played viola and took after school viola lessons- never really getting out of first position, but once again, developing a greater affinity for writing for string instruments than I might otherwise have had.

But, maybe the absolute MOST important thing Dr. Lawrence gave ALL of his students, regardless of talent or ability, was a love and appreciation for the community aspects of making music. Marching Band, potentially an onerous obligation for a public school music teacher, was treated as the ultimate group activity. Our halftime shows were entertaining, and the 7 a.m. practices to prepare for them instilled in us a family-like camaraderie. We were the band geeks, and we were proud. And many of us are still connected to each other, thanks to Facebook. The music itself wasn't always the highest art imaginable, but the act of playing the music together with the other students was deeply fulfilling.

I am the musician I am today in no small part because of my public music teachers- Dr. Lawrence, Jeffrey Sayre, Glenda Kalina, and of course my dad, who was never actually my teacher in school, but whose own Marching Band experiences in the Carson-Macedonia (Iowa) school system gave me my first exposure to the wonders of the Marching Band communal music making.

I am forever grateful to all of these people. I would not be who and where I am today without them

Eulogy

This week I lost someone with whom I had a relationship for 33 years that was more sibling-like than nearly any other friendship I have had. It turns out you don't have to be related to someone by blood to feel bonded to them. I met Rick the first day of graduate school at Boston University and we bonded instantly over the injustice of being forced by the department chair to take a class called Contemporary Techniques. I complied; Rick defiantly told the chair, "I teach Contemporary Techniques at Berklee, I'm not going to take that class!" We suffered through Intro to Grad Studies together- the course work, NOT the professor. The professor was our beloved Joel Sheveloff; we also, along with every other student who had ever been to Boston University, were united in our love of Dr. Sheveloff.

We also bonded over our love of another professor we had in common, John Daverio. Rick and I and several other graduate students were taking a class on the music of J.S. Bach, and we boldly invited John to have a drink with us after class. I felt that I had finally found my "people"; musicians who loved music so passionately that after being in a two hour class we needed to continue the conversation long into the night.

John Daverio was one of a kind. There will never be another person like him. This eulogy is about my friend Rick, but it is also about John since my friendship with Rick was intertwined with my friendship with John. John Daverio was not only one of the most brilliant musical minds I had ever encountered, but he was also the most inspiring and engaging teacher any of us had ever had. When he agreed to come out with us that night after Bach class, I felt as if a celebrity had agreed to join us. John and I started playing chamber music together, and we gave four recitals of violin and piano music. Eventually he taught me how to make risotto. He taught me German (or tried to) and became one of my closest friends.

In March 2003, John disappeared. He didn't show up for a doctoral exam, something he undoubtedly had never done in his life. He was missing for a week. Then, when I heard on the news that a body had been found in the Charles River, I knew it was him. What happened remains a mystery to me. His death, because it feels so impossible, is unfathomable. I still grieve for him. But in a way, I always feel his presence. I frequently see his face on people I walk by on the street. And every time I enter a classroom to teach, I channel him- his perfect blend of knowledge, wisdom, and humor was how I learned to teach. I emulate him every day of my teaching life.

A year or so before John died, my ex-husband and I had a dinner party that John came to as well as Rick and his wife and a few other friends. You know it's a successful party when someone breaks out the Grove Dictionary of Music and starts doing dramatic readings. John wanted to have a late-night infomercial on TV for "Best Loved Antiphons". Rick thought we should have a festival celebrating Notker Balbulus. We were such geeks. It was wonderful.

This was part of the nature of my friendship with Rick. One of our favorite conversations was arguing about how to analyze various harmonies in certain Bach fugues. But we also had animated discussions about sports, religion, science, food. We were roommates for about 3 years, hosts of wild grad student parties featuring interpretive re-enactments of the original Rite of Spring choreography. When the Celtics won the championship in 1986, Rick encouraged me to smoke a cigar, which nearly made me throw up in the middle of a concert we went to afterwards.

We also had a brief falling out for a couple of years, which was absolutely precipitated by me being a jerk. I would do anything to go back in time to redo those two years. When I started teaching at Berklee I called him to patch things up, unsure of how that would be received. Rick, one of the kindest people I know, was happy to have me back. I am so grateful for that.

When I had gone through an especially horrible breakup, Rick and his wife Rosey made me come stay with them so they could help take care of my broken heart. They didn't have children, but they loved my child. Rick encouraged me to become involved with the Berklee Faculty Union; we experienced the wonder and boredom of contract negotiations together. Rick was my office mate and my confidante, and ultimately someone whom I was so close to, I took it for granted.

Four years ago, he was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer and given 12-24 months to live. Having an indomitable spirit, and brilliant doctors, he impressed everyone around him with his resilience and persistence. Whenever I felt terrified about the possibility of him dying, I would call him up. Hearing his voice, hearing him be himself always gave me great comfort. I had convinced myself that he would live to very old age, managing the cancer as a chronic disease.

That was a fantasy; a few weeks ago, his body had decided that it had had enough, and Rick spent the next 12 days dying. I have been thinking a great deal about the nature of grief and mourning. Rick was in terrible pain at the end, and his death was mercifully peaceful. Mourning, in that context feels terribly selfish. I am trying to convince myself that the end of his suffering is something to be grateful for. But I don't feel the gratitude yet. All I feel is a deep sense of loss and regret.

When I was 7, my 5-year old brother was killed when he ran in front of a  furniture truck. I remember vividly how I felt the morning after. Nothing looked the same. I felt, not like a ton of brick had fallen on me, but more like I was trapped under something unyielding. When I woke up yesterday morning- the day after Rick died- I felt exactly the same way. And I am trying to remember how I got out of it, when I started to feel better, when things started to look normal again. I know that time passing will ease the pain of all of us who loved him. But it's not possible to be aware of the potential of that time passing when you are at the beginning of the process.

Yesterday I sat down at the piano to play the Prelude from Bach's English Suite in F major, something I do every single day. All of a sudden, my Wonder Woman action figure (that's another story) flew off my piano and landed on the keys while I was playing. I realized why grieving people want so badly to believe in an afterlife. The thought that somehow Rick's spirit had sent Wonder Woman crashing down off the top of the piano gave me a great sense of relief. Of course, being a rational person, I know that when a person is gone, they are really gone. And Rick would have thought the idea that he could throw Wonder Woman at me from the great beyond completely preposterous. "Martini," he would have said, "that's just silly." And, that's precisely why I miss him so much.

Jean Sibelius

I used to hate the music of Jean Sibelius. This was based on two things- a very unfortunate arrangement of Finlandia we played in high school band, and an even more unfortunate performance of the Symphony no. 2 I heard when I was a student. I had no idea what the big deal was. The melodies were trite, the structure was muddled, nothing made sense to me.

When I was in college at the University of Colorado, I had gone to a piano faculty member's All Chopin recital to try to learn what it was I hated about Chopin (yes, I know, it seems crazy now that I would dislike those two composers so much!). In that process, thanks to the programming of the Op. 27 no. 1 c# minor Nocturne as the first piece on the program, I fell immediately in love with Chopin's music. The illumination of the music revealed by a great performance completely changed my mind, and I was now able to see and hear how imaginative and creative Chopin was.

I was a student at the Tanglewood Music Center for the first of two times in 1986. Being at Tanglewood changed my life in many ways (and more on that in a future post). One of those life-changing experiences was meeting Leonard Bernstein. When I found out that he would be conducting the Sibelius Symphony no. 2 with the TMC (Tanglewood Music Center) orchestra, I decided to attend as many rehearsals as possible in the hopes that I would have a similar experience like the Chopin revelation I had in college. If anyone could convince me of the worth of Sibelius' music, it was Bernstein.

I remember what happened as if it were yesterday. I remember where I was sitting in the old theater at Tanglewood, I remember what I was wearing. Bernstein was rehearsing the first movement and had gotten to the climax. The students weren't giving him exactly what he wanted- they weren't going SLOWLY enough. Finally, he got them to stretch the tempo so drastically that the shape of the climax suddenly became clear. And, I know this sounds silly, but I felt as if the roof had opened up, revealing the truth to me- the truth that Sibelius was not the worst composer ever, but possibly the greatest. That one little moment caused me to listen to his music with brand new ears; it was as if a switch came on, and I became the Sibelius fanatic most people know me to be.

Because of that experience, I came to realize that Sibelius' music has a certain endless expanse, a certain timelessness that I aspire to achieve in my own music. It is very much a product of his internal and external landscape. It is strange in all the great ways; it is a vast vista of ice and sun that is more beautiful every time I listen to it.

There was a concert in 1987 at Symphony Hall in Boston of Sibelius Symphonies 5, 6, and 7 performed by Simon Rattle and the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. The hall was only half full so the sound was even more lush and enveloping than usual. I will never forget that concert. I saw my former composition teacher, Charles Fussell, in the audience. He and I had not really gotten along well; I felt that he didn't understand my music, and he felt that I didn't listen to him. But when he saw me there- it was almost like a secret society of people who had just discovered each other- he said, "Oh, NOW I understand you."

hockey mom/composer mom

I spent the first 39 years and 364 days of my life absolutely certain I would never have a child. I liked kids, but more as a peer than as a prospective parent. I was not only sure I would be a terrible mom - at once overprotective and neglectful- but I also could not imagine how I could manage my schedule as a composer, pianist and teacher with caring for a tiny little human being. The decision to not have children felt completely comfortable and right.

Then, on my 40th birthday, I witnessed some adorably precocious behavior from a cousin's 2 year old daughter, and my mind changed with the immediacy of the flick of a light switch. I could not believe I had decided not to have a child- and having just turned 40, I was sure it was too late. My boyfriend and I decided that we should get married and try- and I felt a great sense of both relief and urgency. Sometimes I think that urgency was because my son needed to be born, and we were the ones responsible for making that happen.

I have been a mom now for almost 13 years, and I think a lot about how being a mom influences my music, and how being a composer affects my being a mom. There are logistic, time-management issues. Sometimes one must sacrifice a musical obligation for a parental one and vice versa. There are issues of identity. Sometimes I hear that being a mom must enrich my music because it makes me who I am. I don't accept that- I believe that an artist's work transcends who they are as people; I MUST believe that in order to keep some of my compositional heroes, some of whom were heinous people in their personal lives (but that's another blog post!).

The various hats I wear- mom, composer, pianist, teacher, too-frequent-Facebook-poster- all exist in tandem with each other. I believe that they co-exist inside me, together make up who I am as a person. But I am just not sure how much they influence each other.

But, here's what I do know. Last night I had dinner with 8 other mom's of kids from my son's hockey team. We defy the stereotype of a Sarah Palin-esque hockey mom. We are lawyers, brilliant business people, assistants to college presidents, law librarians, jewelry makers, doctors, and musicians. And we are loving, caring, compassionate, devoted moms. We are teaching our children that it is possible to be a mom in tandem with many other things. We are showing our children by example that women can have rich and complex lives, that women can be anything they want- in addition to being moms- without negative impact on their motherhood. And maybe this concept will expand and become more and more normal for each subsequent generation so that one day there will be no gender stereotypes with regards to who and what one decides to be.

To my son, it is completely normal to have a mom who's a composer. Normal is good. 

“If it is art, it is not for all, and if it is for all, it is not art”

This is a quote from Arnold Schoenberg, one of my compositional heroes. I think about this idea of his a great deal. As a composer of "post-classical 21st century avant-garde art" music, I am always trying to find the path between composing the music that is the truest expression of who I am as a composer and composing music that will engage and speak to listeners, musicians and lay people alike. On one hand, I am not interested in creating art "for the people", but on the other hand, I would like to widen my listener circle a bit.

To me, art is any creative endeavor that has originality and is richly multilayered. I don't believe that art can happen when one is creating for The Audience. The Audience is made up of a multitude of individuals with countless different tastes and preferences. Trying to create art that this multitude will "like" results in lowest common denominator banality, and I believe that this is what Schoenberg is talking about. Better is to strive towards creating work that has depth, originality and richness. Writer and entrepreneur Seth Godin says "Giving the people what they want isn't nearly as powerful as teaching them what they need."

The question is not how do we create art that people will like, but rather how do we get people to like the art we create? First, I would propose replacing the word "like" with the word "value". Second, I would replace the word "get" with the word "invite". How do we invite people to value art? That's the question. Liking or not liking something is almost immaterial. Some of my most treasured artistic experiences have been when I wasn't sure what my emotional response to something was, I only knew that I was having a profound experience that was deeply valuable to me. This is not a production issue, this is an issue of marketing and education. How can the Boston Symphony Orchestra, for example, educate their audience members about valuing the experience of hearing something new and unfamiliar?

Olivia Zorn, a high school senior at Boston Latin, did research on this topic as it relates to visual art for her Capstone Project. (you can watch her TEDTalk here: http://ozcapstonebls.weebly.com/tedx-talk.html). She went to the MFA and timed how long museum visitors looked at representational art versus abstract art. Amongst other things, she discovered that people tended to linger longer at the things with which they were most familiar. Olivia suggests that the first step towards engaging observers is to encourage them to spend time looking at the unfamiliar; not just seeing, but involved looking and observing. Second, she would encourage people to describe the basic building blocks used in a work of art, and to describe how those building blocks are used similarly or differently in something that is unfamiliar. Third, she suggests that the observer be encouraged to react, to take part in the experience, to try to define what exactly it is he/she is feeling or thinking when approaching something new.

Because music travels through time, listeners don't have the luxury of taking time to observe. But one can certainly try to pay careful attention to what one is hearing- to really listen rather than to hear. My wish is that people would love the experience of not understanding what they are hearing at first. Why are some people so afraid of this?

I don't have answers. I do know that when I have been asked to give talks on my music prior to performances, the audience is much more predisposed to listening carefully to my music, to valuing the experience of hearing something new. But the marketing and education needs to happen before people decide to go or not to go to a concert. Somehow, the experience of hearing (or seeing, or reading, etc.) something new and unfamiliar needs to be given a context of excitement and worth- the act of original creativity is, after all, one of the things that makes us human, that makes life thrilling.

baseball, mushrooms, and the music of morton feldman

I used to find baseball deathly boring. I had absolutely no comprehension of the game, and could not bear to spend even 5 minutes watching it. I didn't get it. Then, in 1996, when I was dating my ex-husband, he taught me to keep score, which completely changed my perception of the game. Keeping score illuminated even the tiniest aspects of the game for me, and it sprang to life. Suddenly, instead of nothing appearing to happen, everything appeared to happen. The more I looked and noticed, the more I saw was there. The intricate relationship between the pitcher and the hitter now seemed so multi-layered. The symbiotic connection between the pitcher and the catcher- the almost psychic relationship the good ones have with each other- became thrilling for me. Watching the fielders- especially someone like Nomar Garciaparra when he first started to play for the Red Sox- showed me the complexities of reactions to what was going on at the plate. My favorite games became the intense low-scoring "pitchers' duels" that often went into extra innings. I learned to be rewarded by paying attention.

I was reminded of this several years ago when I attended a conference in Asheville, North Carolina on John Cage and his influence on visual artists. One of the sessions was a mushroom walk on the grounds of the former Black Mountain College, where Cage was in residence in the 1950's. Cage, as many people know, was an amateur- but brilliant- mycologist. As we walked through the grounds, searching for mushrooms, guided by a local mushroom expert, I saw nothing. Just trees and grass, maybe a few flowers here and there. Meanwhile, the visual artists amongst us were noticing mushrooms both tiny and huge that many of the rest of us did not see until we got close. I realized that the visual artists were attuned to visual observation; they were better at looking and seeing than I was. As I tried to pay better attention, I started noticing many mushrooms that I hadn't seen before.

Experiencing a piece by Morton Feldman, especially the longer ones, can be like a baseball game or a mushroom walk. Instead of just hearing the piece, one must listen with full attention and aural observation. When one approaches Feldman's music in this way, one discovers that, while on the surface it may seem as if not much is happening, in fact (in the words of pianist Andy Costello) Feldman's music is "action-packed". Noticing each tiny variation and expression of the musical materials, observing with full attention what happens to the materials in a piece can be thrilling and deeply  satisfying and moving. One's perception of time completely changes. Three hours can seem like 20 minutes. One realizes that a profound experience has been had, that close observation and attention can be richly rewarded.

in praise of handwriting

The first day of class fall semester, a student showed up 40 minutes late, sat down, and promptly opened up his computer. Because he was 40 minutes late, he missed the one unbreakable rule for my classroom: No Electronic Devices of any kind. The class was a music history class focusing on concert music written after WWII; a class that relies on the students' concentrated listening and class discussion. I asked him to close his computer, explaining to him that I don't allow computers to be open in the classroom. He argued with me, telling me that he could only take notes on the computer. I told him he either needed to take notes by hand, or not even take notes at all, but rather listen intently and comment appropriately on the music being discussed. He left and dropped the class.

The reason for my one unbreakable rule is clear to those who already agree with me, but makes no sense to those who don't. Let me try to explain: I believe that the simple act of writing things down, using pen and paper (pencil works too) creates indelible connections in the brain. I am not a psychologist, nor am I knowledgeable of any science regarding the brain. This is simply what I have experienced for myself as a notetaker, and what I have seen be effective in my students.

In fact, there has been some compelling research done on this topic. A recent piece in the Boston Globe Ideas section talks about this: http://www.bostonglobe.com/ideas/2014/05/24/taking-notes-bring-pen-skip-computer/e3kGp47M7znyaNKOamUwrO/story.html And, an article in Psychology Today talks about "desirable difficulties": https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/all-about-addiction/201105/desirable-difficulties-in-the-classroom

The other aspect is that I believe, through observation over the years, that staring at a screen can shut down creative thought processes. And, there is the obvious problem of whether students are actually taking notes or are looking at Facebook (I have seen many of my colleagues' students looking at Facebook while they have their computers open, ostensibly taking notes). I want to discourage distraction in my classes; there's plenty to be distracted by without having an open computer.

Please don't misunderstand. I am not anti-computer, or anti-technology. I love Facebook as much (probably more) as the next person. I rely on computers to organize my classroom materials, to send my music to interested parties, to watch Berlin Philharmonic performances, etc. etc. I just believe that learning happens more deeply and permanently when computers are closed and phones are off.

Anyone who knows me knows that I also believe that computers can be a detriment to the creative compositional process. I have seen, time and time again, students become stymied and stunted creatively when they rely on the inflexibility of the computer. Finale and Sibelius (the program, not the composer) can be useful notation programs, but as compositional tools, they can encourage defaults (conscious and not). When I ask students to compose by hand they tell me "how will I be able to hear my music?" My response to that is to explain to them that no composer in history before 1990 had a computer to spit out a barely adequate soundfile, giving them a poor aural representation of what the piece sounds like. Rather, composers have always, since the dawn of written notation, strived to hear their music in their heads and make that struggle, that "desirably difficult" path towards writing down what they hear in their minds. This is where creativity is born- in the imagining of the sound, in the quest to discover the best and clearest and most communicative notation. The vital next piece, especially for a student, is to then hear the piece performed. Assess what did and didn't work, and move on to the next piece. One must imagine one's music.

My hero, Toru Takemitsu, learned this lesson when he apprenticed for the film composer, Fumio Hayasaka. In the words of Takemitsu's wife, Asaka Takemitsu: "Young composers have few opportunities to have their music performed, especially if they write an orchestral work. But film scores get turned into sound almost immediately. He wasn't the one who was composing the actual music, but by helping to write out the score and parts, he was able to see that, 'If the notes are layered this way' then, 'Aha, it will sound like this when it is performed.' This from one of the greatest orchestral composers of all time. There is no shortcut towards this end; one must study scores and experiment with sound and instrumental color. And use the computer for notation only (unless of course you still notate by hand!).