I Thought I'd Forgotten How to Enjoy It!

It has been so long since I sat down at the piano just to play. Not to compose, not to practice the Hanon Scales, not to struggle and sweat over new pieces. Today, I actually sat down, opened up a sonata book and played some Beethoven and Mozart just for the hell of it. I was surprised, really — I played as badly as I ever have. Hey, at least I wasn’t any worse! I ended up playing through some of my own music, not listening to the clangers or the lack of strict rhythm. I didn’t critique myself even once. I just played, liking the way the keys felt beneath my fingers and marveling at how the hands seem to be able to think for themselves and possess a sense of memory, even when they haven’t played certain pieces for more than a decade. I can’t wait to play again tomorrow morning. And the morning after that.

Working professionally in music for so many years — especially in classical music — had nearly destroyed my ability to just enjoy the process of playing an instrument. During my six-year stint with the Ventura County Symphony I became tremendously self-critical and although my love of music never waned, my confidence certainly did, and that eventually helped to keep me from playing at all. Of course (and I know it’s not their fault), having a wife who’s a professional opera singer, a best friend who’s a professional accompanist and another friend who happens to be the professor of music history at our local university hasn’t helped. But the real problem is my own lack of musical self-esteem. Let’s face it. I write with the confidence and clarity that I wish I did for music. Why, after pursuing a musical career for over thirty years, did it take me until the age of 43 to realize writing was my true gift? Or at least the better of my two true gifts?

Being an autodidact certainly has its down side. When asked, “Where did you study?” I would answer, “I’m self-taught” and then watch the inevitable air of superiority wash over the face of the other person. What was bad about this tendency of mine to diminish myself was that instead of a completed college career (I did finish three years, however) and obtaining a degree, I was actually taught privately by the conductor of the symphony for six years. I’ve actually had what was considered, until the mid-20th century, the most desirable of educations. None of the great composers of the Baroque and Classical eras — and very few from the Romantic era — had formal educations in music. Mozart? He was taught at home by his father and privately by J.C. Bach. He did spend two weeks studying counterpoint at a school in Italy, however, but two weeks? Pfft!

Lately, I’m being confronted by issues from thirteen years ago when I left California, my musical mentor, my friends and my music career to move to Denver to take care of my father, who was dying of cancer. I moved from a three-bedroom house with a glorious garden I’d created from nothing and which I tended between long, fruitful hours of composition, into a basement apartment (in November no less) in a house that smelled of illness and death. I changed colostomy bags, sponge-bathed my dad, swept up the dead skin from chemotherapy. I tried to compose with a baby monitor on my piano so that I could know if my dad needed me for anything. I heard every moan, every sigh, every cry of pain. This went on for a year and then he died, along with my music. Besides the gloom my life had become, I also acquired SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), which wasn’t helped by my bouts of wine over-consumption at night when my mother kept an eye on my dad. I then fell into a destructive relationship that lasted about four years, but that only caused more problems, so the issues surrounding my previous situation were sublimated by my need just to survive. I’ve been over the relationship for a long time now, but the earlier problems are now demanding some attention.

I didn’t even intend to play today. I really don’t know why I sat down at the piano in the first place. I walk past it a hundred times a day and never see it — unless it needs to be dusted — I don’t know why today was different. But now, I feel that delving again into music is the medicine I need in order to get that love affair with the Muse back.

It feels damned good, too. I’m going to go sit on the front porch with a glass of wine and watch the rain.

To the Difficult People in My Life

You know who you are.

OSU Homecoming

Living in a university town, one quickly grows acclimated to the rhythm of the seasons. I’m not speaking of the earth’s seasons, but of the academic seasons. This is Homecoming Weekend here in Stillwater and tonight was OSU’s “Walk-Around,” an evening once a year when the townspeople walk around (thus the name) Fraternity Row and view the monstrosities the frat boys have built on their front lawns. Some of them are really quite good. It must be gratifying for Mom and Dad to know their money is going toward millions of wadded up tissues, scaffolding and electronic moving parts that make a front lawn J.F.K. wave at drunken passersby and frighten the swans and ducks at Theta Pond. But it is fun. The night air has just this week turned crisp with autumn and the skies are clear. And the Strip, just a block away from the event, is home to a number of popular bars and clubs.

Tomorrow is the Homecoming Parade, followed by the football game. Everything in town is orange. The university’s colors being orange and black, I wore black when we went out this afternoon. But then, I almost always wear black. Anyway, tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. is the parade. This is something I’ve been successful at avoiding since I moved here in 2000, but this year Lauren is marching with Stillwater High School. I remember when I was in marching band. Despite the fact that it’s now nearly 2 a.m. and Nettl will be waking me at 7:30, I’m looking forward to it. Our Main Street looks an awful lot like the one in the movie, Animal House, and that was a lot of fun. My son and I drove by Fraternity Row a couple of days after Homecoming in 2000 and one house actually looked like the Delta House, with an overturned Herculon sofa on the front lawn, surrounded by a virtual landfill of beer cans, papers, Taco Bell wrappers and God know what else. I delighted in that. The university is the greatest reason I like living here.

Afterward, Nettl and I are going over to Tulsa for our monthly jaunt to Sam’s Club (I call it “The $200 Club”). I can get lunch there; the free samples of Bagel Bites and Cheese Whiz on crackers are around every turn.

Speaking of junk food, I just have to brag, although it’ll make me sound a little vain. Last Spring I was wearing 36×30 Levis. When I bought a new pair today, I eased comfortably into some 31×30’s. I haven’t had Levis this size since 1989. I feel great.

And I’m just busting with some more good news, although I won’t tell you very much. In the early part of November, a guy from Rhombus Media is coming to meet and talk with me about a feature-length documentary they’re making about Mozart. And that’s all I’ll say about that at this time. I probably shouldn’t even say that much, but I’m on my third glass of wine and I’m waxing loose-tongued. Come to think of it, Papageno had a padlock put on his mouth. Good lesson.

Welcome to the Beat Cafe

I just had a nice online chat with our friend, George, who has recently relocated to Charleston, NC. I’m suddenly reminded that I neglected to tell you about the CD I received in the mail from him and Noelle last Friday. It was a birthday gift. Do my friends know me, or what? The CD is Donovan’s latest, Beat Cafe.

I’ve loved Donovan’s music, poetry, mind and spirit since I first heard him in 1965 on my transistor radio. I’ve seen him in concert three or four times and I’ve met him twice, and although my esteem for him has never lessened, I admit I kind of lost a connection with his work after about 1978. I think the last recording I really liked was his Open Road LP (1970). I liked his Lady of the Stars (1984), but it didn’t excite me enough to buy any of his subsequent recordings. Then I moved into Classical music and explored that exclusively for a few years.

I’m happy to say, Beat Cafe is wonderful. Donovan has touched his Beat roots in this latest collection of jazz/folk/poetry inspired songs, and he has returned to minimal backup that includes acoustic bass, drums and keyboard. The musical style is what one would expect to hear in a Greenwich Village cafe in the late 50’s, or a cafe in San Francisco in the 60’s. It’s a blend of styles that results in what I might call, “Cool Mysticism”. Personally, I’d give my left arm to find a cafe like this ANYwhere close to where I live. Until then, I have this excellent CD. This is a CD I’ll play this winter when friends are over sharing red wine before the fireplace. I’ll light some candles, fire up some incense and enjoy.

Thanks George and Noelle for the great gift, and for remembering my birthday!