Over the years, a fair number of these 2000+ blogposts have been written in series. For example:
The first real series, I think, was Monday Music, a/k/a “Monday Worship Music,” in which I discussed Christian songs and hymns. There were about 100 entries in that series.
There was a series on Thomas Campbell’s Declaration and Address, in its bicentennial year (toward the end of December 2009).
The Bits and Pieces series is something I’ll continue from time to time.
I often feel a compulsion to add to the Mini-Lessons in Context series, both for myself and for readers.
I’ve perpetuated the Tuesday Topics series for some time now, and those topics are important, but I’m as weary of them as I am deeply troubled by the subject matter. I suspect I’ll have ample material to continue it, but I might let it sputter.
Now, though, at a significant juncture in my life, I want to start a new series that involves reminiscences related to music. The title “Monday Music Memories” came to mind, but that’s too close to the prior one, and I want this to be distinct.
Introducing Music Morsels and Mountaintops
This will be a sporadically produced series in which I’ll share some significant things that have occurred in my musical life. Even now, as I type those words, I think of some things that might not initially sound significant to anyone else per se, but perhaps the telling will inspire.
Some things to whet your appetites (and mine):
Dallas Wind Symphony Brass
Salty snacks with Glad
Orchestra with Kansas
Wine with Sandy Patti
Orchestra with cannons
The Granddaddy Medley
Recording studio with Lights and UNC Wind Ensemble
Soloists at Newark, Houghton, Kingsville, and Atchison
Personals: thank-you notes and love songs
I think of this series as finite: there is a limit to the supply of memories and experiences that “qualify” to be broadcast. Essentially, I’ve gotten to do some cool things, and I’d like to share some of them for posterity.
As I write this, it is April 22—the morning after my final ensemble concert here as conductor. I will no longer be using these essential tools here.
Whatever “inspiration” is, I think it was in play most of the way toward this performance. In fact, the way some of the peripheral cookies crumbled, I would have quit a while back if I hadn’t felt regular inspiration in doing music with these good people. But the inspiration I felt actually began to fade even before the concert. To an extent, I was just going through the motions. I expected to be teary-eyed on multiple occasions, but I was not actually emotional. . . .
Not when I wrote a few emails to thank people for their extraordinary contributions.
Not during the final spot-check rehearsal.
Not when I gave the pre-concert pep talk.
Not during any of the beautiful music I got to conduct.
And not even when I spoke with people after the concert.
I did feel something later, while reading a couple of the notes I received, so it’s not a lack of emotive capacity in general. I would guess, rather, that I was experiencing a fading inspiration with this particular music-making enterprise.
Even a lack of such inspiration is difficult to describe immediately after. It’s a kind of emptiness, a lack of energy. It could very well be that I’m subconsciously distancing myself, protecting myself from more pain. I think I’m fearful of not having the opportunity to feel inspired over this kind of music-making again. (I later enjoyed a couple of other music activities, e.g., poring over horn part assignments and related details for an upcoming Pinnacle Winds cycle, and simply playing some piano at home, but I don’t think those were “inspired” in the same way. Maybe in a different way?)
Being “inspired” can carry more than one connotation, including these:
a vague, “encouraged” or emotionally energized feeling
a perceived deep or high quality in a work of art, e.g., a poem, a painting, or a piece of music
a sense of how the scriptures came to be (i.e., “God inspired the scriptures”)
whatever Paul meant with his single-use word theopneustos (God-breathed) in 2Tim 3
We might also probe by breaking the English word down: IN-SPIR-ation. An “in-ness” of the spirit? When secular speech employs this term, what spirit is referred to? And how is it “in” me? We probably shouldn’t project this Spirit-in line of thinking back onto the unique NT word theopneustos carelessly.
I recall that I have an “Inspiration” blog category. This post doesn’t neatly fit in that category, but I’ll check that box, anyway. I feel myself getting off track, and that’s what one sense of the word “inspiration” can do when the context is suggesting a different sense.
What’s next, after this concert, and after the death of this particular kind of inspiration, for now? I could seek to be enspirited differently. Perhaps some composition and arranging? I would like to be inspired, to feel inspired, to use inspiration, and to inspire others again soon.
I did not know the song “Drift Away” before the animal known as “show choir” was foisted on me in 2004 at a two-year college. I don’t remember whether it was the closer or opener, but it became, as far as I remember, the strongest tune that group performed. It’s catchy, and this song is, in a limited sense, a lasting “bit” from life.
I wasn’t sure why a show choir existed at a college; such groups are more about competition and show than music. (In interviewing prospective students during my time at Houghton College, from time to time, a student from more southerly climes would register disappointment that we didn’t have marching band competitions in college.) In fact, my predecessor with this show choir school had already moved away from having this “choir” singing any harmony at all, and she was reportedly going to have them merely lip-sync and dance the next year. Unbelievable, I know. I digress.
Anyway, anytime I hear the tune “Drift Away” in Walmart (it would not likely be on my radio), I am transported to that time in Missouri, now two decades ago, and a few “bits and pieces” come to mind:
In the show choir itself, I recall young lady named Jessica, who seemed almost obsessed with looking at herself in the mirror. Her goal was to be a performer in Branson. I had never seen a choir room with mirrors like that, and I’ve been averse to them ever since.
James, a young man with energy and a terrific attitude, married Audrey, and they seem to have a fine family now.
Sandy, the recently retired high school choral director who became the adjunct show choir lead, and I had a conversation on the phone in which I registered some concerns about dancing. She assured me she was “a Christian person” and would uphold family-friendly standards. I noted she had not said “a Christian.” Ever since, I have thought the distinction was important.
P.C. Thomas, a Christian colleague, and I were sponsors of a weekly Bible study. One of my music students attended. His name was Jeff, and he was a sincere, hard-working guy. He is a family man and a deacon in his church. His girlfriend at the time did not maintain her life of Christian morality. An older student in this Bible study group reacted quite negatively to my questioning his sense of what “anointing” meant then and how it has been co-opted today. I can see the ire today. He seemed to be upset to the point that he thought I was blaspheming God. P.C. and his wife Thankam has us into their home for a delicious Indian meal, and they took us to their church once — a conservative, nondenominational “Bible chapel.” I recalled the thoughtful hymns and atmosphere there and visited the same place a couple of years ago.
All these are bits and pieces of life: students in a Bible study group, faculty colleagues with whom I can share faith, and a few students who have stayed with faith or grown in it.
There are some bits and pieces from which I would prefer my soul to be freed. Some positive bits are seemingly minor, yet they play a role in our spiritual consciousness.
A friend used to seem coy about things from time to time. Once, I asked why she hadn’t mentioned something before.
“You didn’t ask,” she smiled.
I met her brother once, and he gave me a similar “you didn’t ask” about a separate matter. This keeping-things-to-yourself-until-someone-asks thing was almost a family trait! Although it seemed a little unusual at the time, it is more appealing now, and it strikes me as often wise. Sometimes I wish I could say less to other people, just being content in my own thoughts. There are many other times, however, when simply having an information interchange beforehand would shed light, head off a problem, or generally make life easier. I would often rather the person ask, so that when a problem occurs, I don’t have to say, either under my breath or out loud, “You didn’t ask.”
For instance, it baffles me why someone would unilaterally change a schedule that impacted my work and space without even mentioning it, much less asking whether it would work out on my end. This was not collegial behavior, and it affected my state of mind and the ability to do my job, too. (Yes, I know I’m too feelings-aware.) Had I been asked later why I didn’t pipe up, I could say, “You didn’t ask,” I suppose. At the point at which the problem surfaced, there was actually nothing to be gained by discussing it: other, more far-reaching factors were in play. Still, the other side should have asked first.
“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt or what the impact would be?”
“You didn’t ask! (Also, it wouldn’t have changed anything if I had spoken up, and you and I both know it.)”
So many situations could be improved if at least one party would genuinely ask the other party what it is thinking, or why it did this or that. At least some dialogue could occur.
The responsibility can fall on either side, or both. On the one hand, a person making a change should consider ramifications. Administrators and managers should help to head off problems. On the other hand, when a change is in the works and one party is not asked, the ignored party could be so bold as to offer its side of things, even uninvited.
This is not me. But I surely do feel like that a lot.
In some situations, asking a question of someone can be a trap. If I am on the receiving end of a question that feels uncomfortable, I might avoid the question. If a questioner has a conclusion in mind already, he should take care to examine his own mind and heart before asking a question of someone else.
“Why did you ask if you already thought you knew?”
I suppose the difference lies in the nature of the scenario. If it’s a work relationship and the question is relatively surface-level, just ask me. (I’ll try to do the same.) I would rather you ask me than assume my preference, thoughts, feelings. Whether you ask or not, if you assume something, or act unilaterally, I’ll be left somehow muttering, “You didn’t (really) ask.”
~ ~ ~
There is another type of situation that pertains to asking and being asked. This concerns professional, collegial, relationships. Here, I think to myself,
“You didn’t even ask. Why haven’t you asked?”
Long ago, when in my first teaching job, four colleagues planned and produced a fun concert, with guitars and bass and drums and redneck humor. I was the new music teacher, had some connections with one of them, and was trying to develop friendships with the others. I was negotiating my new roles and felt excluded by these four. I went to one of them to express my sense of hurt, and he responded with some understanding, but also with a question along the lines of “Well, why would you assume we should have asked you to join in?” Again, I was making my way in this new school as a very young teacher, and I still wonder why they didn’t ask me at least to play a supporting role, maybe on piano or another guitar. It was my area, after all, and being included could have helped me secure an approachable reputation more quickly. But they did not owe me that, and they knew each other better than they knew me. They just didn’t ask, and they didn’t have to. It was my insecurities and youth that made that situation difficult for me.
Today, my local music friends are important to me. It’s not a huge group, but it’s fairly solid and a growing number, I’m glad for that. Naturally, I can share more with some of them than others, and I hope I’m the kind of person who invites their words, too. One in particular has asked for musical favors quite a few times, and I’ve almost always been able to oblige, and glad to do it. She makes it easy to participate and support, and she has been doing musical service for one of my groups, too. It’s a nice music-friend relationship. She asks, and I say, “Sure, can do.” I ask, and she says the same. After the first time or two, if she had not asked again, I would have thought something was up.
It’s not the same with another music friend. There seems to be an inexplicable distance. By all rights, we should be real friends. I have made overtures on two or three occasions, and those have not resulted in anything, really. I am left to presume why this person has not made occasions to spend time together, and why he has not asked for more from me. (Presuming is usually a bad idea, but my instincts tend to serve me well, so I allow myself to presume, unchecked, at times.) I am right here, and I have some expertise that would help. I am right here, and this person has yet to ask me for anything. I am right here, floundering, and this person could actually help me by asking for my help, and we would all be better off! If you would just ask! Or is there some reason you are not asking? (I shan’t speculate out loud.)
Now for a concluding, shamefully out-of-context reference to Romans 12:3, NET:
For by the grace given to me I say to every one of you not to think more highly of yourself than you ought to think, but to think with sober discernment, as God has distributed to each of you a measure of faith.
(I think I have a realistic estimation of my value and am not thinking of myself more highly than I ought, but I could be wrong.)
Big stuff is happening. After a major chamber winds concert that I played in last Sunday, two upcoming events have been large in my life. They have proven time- and thought-intensive. They have been, and will be, fulfilling. Big stuff for this little person! The first is an Atchison Jazz Express concert, and the second is a Benedictine College/Atchison Community Orchestra concert.
In both cases, I am pleased to have been solely responsible for the programming, the planning, and the rehearsing. I am the primary musical leader, but that doesn’t mean I worked in a vacuum. I collaborated with soloists and colleagues in certain respects, but at points I deemed some things better than others and made some decisions unilaterally.
I believe that ensemble programming is an art in itself, and I take the responsibility seriously. By “ensemble programming,” I mean not only the act of selecting certain pieces for rehearsal and performance, but also the work of pondering and sequencing the individual works, all the while considering the program as a whole, as an over-arching artistic expression. (This document, written some years ago, provides more of my thinking in this area.) I consider such factors as style, era of composition, difficulty level, perceived energy level, key/tonality, player stamina, texture (sometimes including chamber groups in a large-ensemble program), and overall “shape.”
~ ~ ~
I. Jazz Other than jazz ensembles at three two-year colleges, I have not been responsible for much jazz programming. At two of those institutions, I founded and led small combos, so there was no particular tradition or performance precedent to uphold. At the other school, there was a big band, and I think I programmed satisfactorily, if not perfectly.
For tomorrow’s AJE program, I had more talent at my disposal, and more leeway. I’m pleased to have been directing rehearsals for three months. A couple of programming decisions were made as late as a week ago. I’ve worked all along to enhance the variety and audience appeal of this concert, of course also considering the players’ interests. I’ve added auxiliary percussion, had a multi-talented player move from bass trombone to electric bass while our regular upright bassist sits out, and added guitar for four tunes. Having substitute players can also affect the constitution and shape of the program.
Certain other aspects have made this concert a bigger deal, at least for me, than one might expect—namely, the inclusion of a young vocalist, Daysia Reneau. She’s a freshman in college but has already had some significant experience. Using a vocalist in a jazz program means there are extra issues, at least in our world. We have only one chart that’s arranged for a vocalist, so some tunes we’re doing with Daysia have required significant adaptation. We had to (1) change the form and (2) keep the melodic instruments from playing the melody at times.
In addition to Daysia’s songs, we will also perform styles such as “up” swing, gentle swing, a Dixie-ish rock march, Latin-influenced jazz, jazz-rock, and pop. Our “home” style is medium swing in this ensemble, but I think we’re doing well with the other styles, too. Here’s the program:
With composers and arrangers such as Count Basie, the Gershwins, Henry Mancini, Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Sammy Nestico, and Johnny Carson, we probably can’t go wrong.
II. Orchestra Actually, wind band music, including chamber winds, constitutes my first choice of ensemble, repertoire, and sonic possibilities, but my largest responsibility as a professional musician lately has been orchestral leadership. (My secondary doctoral study area was orchestral conducting.) For a total of six seasons, I have been conductor of the Benedictine College/Atchison Community Orchestra, and the final spring concert is in a week. I cannot come close to communicating how significant an event this concert will be in my personal life. I am going big and then going home, basically, with this group. Here’s the program:
The 1.5-minute opener, my transcription, centers on fanfare elements, but it also requires complex rhythmic capacities and evokes deep contemplation in spots.
Today’s concertmaster, and violin soloist for the second piece, took lessons with the concertmaster I first worked with, back in 2003-5.
I’ve invited two musicians back who performed with us in 2005, and there are several other supplemental musicians, making it the largest-ever orchestra to fill the stage here.
The largest pieces are the Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, a true orchestral “tour de force,” three of the four Malcolm Arnold English Dances, and the finale. The James Bond music that ends the first half is also pretty “big” in spots. All great music!
~ ~ ~
I look forward to both these programs, for different but overlapping reasons. The variety of the repertoire is a particular joy to consider, program, and “make work” (a reference to necessary adaptations). The jazz repertoire comes from about a 50-year time period, and the orchestral selections were composed over about 125 years. All in all, there is some terrific music, and I intend to enjoy playing piano tomorrow, working with soloists, the final orchestral rehearsal on Thursday, pre-concert pep talks and spot checks, sharing some personal thoughts with the second audience—and of course conducting, which is my first musical love.
Someone recently asked me where God was in what I’d said. That was a reasonable question in that context, and the same question could be asked here, too . . . so let me just say this, here and now. Whether I express it or not, God is in all of it. Thank you, Lord God, for music.
Robert Kurka wrote the Good Soldier Schweik Suite in the 1950s. This suite is a tremendously imaginative musical work, inspired by a satiric play.
Robert was a man.
Robert lived a long time ago.
Robert was very creative.
See Robert write.
See Robert write music.
Robert had very little training.
Where are Robert's teachers?
Robert Kurka knew a lot about sound and orchestration, but not enough in the case of horns. He needed some teachers. You see, large swaths of the three horn parts in the Suite aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. They are just that bad. To be fair, the Horn 1 part is pretty well conceived (and also challenging). The other two parts should have been written for low brass, not middle brass! In some passages, it’s really silly to try to play the musical material you know he meant to sound different. It does not work for the horn. Robert only had a partial understanding of horn range and really hadn’t a clue what stopped horn was all about.
When I was working to assign parts for this piece and two others, I broached the stopped-horn issue with our gentleman conductor, and he was initially open to my recommendation (which was to eliminate the stopping in some sections), but he ultimately wanted us to try the parts as written. In real life, however, the horn players I was working with all registered their opinions, which agreed with my initial one. Gradually, during the two rehearsals, the stopped notes began to be played normally, i.e., without stopped technique.
See Robert turn over in his grave.
See Robert come to understand that he didn't know enough about stopped horn.
The nature and range of certain passages in the Horn 2 and Horn 3 parts show that these parts should have been for bass trombone, perhaps with cup mute.
I had learned about the Good Soldier Schweik Suite while a grad student and had found it intriguing. I had once planned to program it, but that was aborted. I have a copy of the score, which I studied in some detail during the last three weeks. Our conductor’s tempos and knowledge of the music were exemplary. The performance, I think, was entertaining and mostly well done. I enjoyed playing the performance, but I did not enjoy the two rehearsals. Why? Because it took so much out of our section, and out of my brain, to try to level out the issues with the horn parts. If I were ever to program this piece, I would rewrite the second and third horn parts for other instruments.
See Robert look quizzical. He doesn't have any say in the matter.
This is a horn part that should have been a bass trombone part:
The rest of the concert, by the way, was an absolute pleasure. I’m indebted to two of the other horn players for making it enjoyable and warm, to the music director who programmed the pieces, and more, to the God who created sound that could be musical. I’ve never had opportunity to play the Strauss op. 7 or the Dvorak Op. 44, but I’ve studied and conducted them both, so I knew them pretty well. Those pieces are glistening gems of chamber literature, and of music overall.
Edvard Grieg. On Jan. 27, I had the distinct pleasure of being in the audience for my students’ master-class performance of Grieg’s Sonata No. 3 in C Minor for Violin and Piano. I consider myself something of a Grieg fan, but I do not know the violin music and had not heard this piece before an advance listen and then the live performance. The work struck me as a bit thematically scattered, so I suspected it was an earlier work. Would my conjecture, if true, render Grieg a less gifted composer on my theoretical, tiered list? Not necessarily. Like Chopin and Schubert, one could be more skilled with some genres than others.
I turned out to be wrong. The 3rd sonata was written in what should be the prime of life, when the composer was 44. (Grieg’s first two sonatas for violin and piano were written about twenty years before.) There are some fine moments, and the performance by Kathleen and Elias was excellent, but I suppose the piece felt a little like what I know of Mahler and Bruckner: too many ideas struggling to be related to one another in a short period of time.
A “scattered” quality doesn’t require a negative judgment of the work, though. Musical content of even a scattered or bipolar work, such as with Mahler, can be so very inspiring. A composer might well possess craft and technology, but those who have sufficient artistry to fuel the craft are the great ones. From creative gifts come creative, compelling expressions, and musical expressions might meander a bit and still be compelling. A skilled, gifted composer does things that garden-variety composer-arranger-transcribers like me simply can’t. (This paragraph is an example of having some ideas that I didn’t have enough craft/skill to put together. Fail! I’ll leave it as is and hope readers understand both my intent and the meta-illustration of not being gifted.)
Sir Malcolm Arnold. In my rehearsal a couple weeks ago, I spotlighted the early work of another artistic composer: Sir Malcolm Arnold. His English Dances (two sets) were written when he was about 30, yet they strike my ear as the work of a mature, settled composer. While most ordinary humans are presumed still young and undeveloped at that age, some, such as Schubert and Mozart, barely lived past 30. Mozart wrote his first symphony when he was 9 or 10, and the most famous ones while in his late 20s and early 30s. Beethoven, for me a more imposing and daunting figure, wrote his first symphony when he was about 30. I suppose we shouldn’t try to pin down when a composer comes into his own artistically. Each one is an individual. Regardless of whether Arnold was mature or yet youthful when he wrote these English Dances, I love them, and am glad to be working with them with my own two ears and hands for the first (and probably only) time.
Antonin Dvořák. I also consider myself a fan of Dvořák, but I really only know a few pieces and styles, namely, symphonic and the dumka. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve really only listened ardently to the two most famous symphonies—the 8th and 9th. I have some tone poems, chamber music, and piano music on CD, too, but no other symphonies. I didn’t even know there was a No. 1, to tell the truth! Come to find out, it had been essentially lost for about 70 years. I was pleased to find that I had a complete vinyl set of Dvořák’s symphonies that I’d rescued from a college’s discard pile. I pulled out No. 1 and began to listen.
As expected, the music was immediately attractive. For me, Dvořák’s music is more broadly “sweet sunshine” than Mozart’s, although Dvořák had used that compliment for the earlier prodigy. While attending to this music’s beauty and expressive qualities, though, I couldn’t seem to grasp the form. I left it on my record player for about a week and returned to it from time to time, with basically the same results. Then I pulled up a score and followed along some. I had the same trouble. Then I read this.
Dvořák’s Symphony No. 1 is typical for its youthful flights of fancy and the rousing expression of the work as a whole, although the individual movements still demonstrate a tendency to ramble. Antonin-Dvorak.Cz
And I feel justified. The “tendency to ramble” can be attractive and annoying at the same time, and I had perceived just such a quality. The 2nd movement is also very attractive, with some moments bordering on the sublime, but it too seems to possess too much content, too many ideas.
Dvořák’s Symphony No. 1 was written when he was but 24. The tonal structure of the movements of this early symphonic effort would appear to be a sort of homage to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5
I in C minor
II in A flat major
III, a scherzo, in C minor
IV in C major
Since it was an early work, and Dvořák, a thoughtful person, it stands to reason that he would pay tribute to the master who had died 14 years before he was born.
I learned that the score for Symphony No. 1 had at one point been lost, and Dvořák had referred to it as having been “destroyed,” during what would be known as a “sharply self-critical period.”° The score actually turned up in a bookstore a few decades later, was purchased by a stranger, and was never given to the composer. He never heard it performed, and it wasn’t premiered until 1936. more than two decades after the composer had died. If I’m alive in 2036 and can still conduct, I’d love to give a centenary performance of this early work!
Speaking of early efforts—and in no sense do I feel these are gifted or artistic writings—I thought I’d link to some early blogposts. Here is the “earliest effort” on this blog:
The following refers to Gustav Holst and the composition of the eight-movement masterwork The Planets:
“Imogen Holst, the composer’s daughter, wrote that her father had difficulty with large-scale orchestral structures such as symphonies, and the idea of a suite with a separate character for each movement was an inspiration to him.” – Wikipedia
This mention makes me not feel as bad for my personal difficulty with large-scale writings and compositions. I mean, Holst is a recognized, serious composer, and he didn’t cater to the idea that one had to write symphonies and concertos in order to be somebody.¹
The larger something is, the more difficult it can be to make sense of its structure, and to draw out meaning. That’s one reason I’m only preparing the renowned “Jupiter” movement from The Planets this term. (Other reasons include budget, perceived audience preference, available rehearsal time, the need to avoid the equally famous “Mars, The Bringer of War” movement, and the lack of space for, and interest in, a wordless female choir.) When I think of dealing with biblical books, I tend to prefer Ruth or Jonah to Isaiah—and Philemon or Philippians to Romans. While I like most full symphonies for wind band, they tend to be shorter than the orchestral ones written after Haydn and Mozart. I shy away from orchestral compositions longer than a first movement or a tone poem. Although there are exceptions, I would rarely repeat the exposition of a well-known symphonic first movement. I often seek abbreviations or single movements that stand alone well. This preference has to do with my shortcomings, or at least my sense of attention span in myself and others.
That said, I want to spotlight repetition as a technique that aids memory, and therefore, comprehension. A truism within the craft of musical composition is both variety and repetition must play roles. In other words, a composition can’t be filled only with repetitious material, or it will fall flat, like most popular music. On the other hand, it can’t consist entirely of constantly evolving, new material, or its form, if it has one, will not likely make sense in the ears of listeners.
Most often, an entire symphonic exposition is intended to be repeated. The section is usually several minutes long, and I presume the repetition was specified, at least where intentional and not merely traditional, in order to capitalize on memory—more decidedly lodging the tones in the listeners’ ears. Other, related techniques can also play important mnemonic roles. A composer might repeat a pitch pattern starting on a different scale degree. Or he might re-use a chord progression, sometimes ad infinitum/nauseam. (Think 12-bar blues and “Canon in D.”) In prose, one might engage in alliteration to make the material more meaningful. Or to create comprehensibility in the crafted components. See what I did there?
So, Gustav didn’t like large forms, and I often don’t, either. I don’t know his reasons, but my own have to do with attention span and the difficulty involved in making sense of extended material as I experience it.
Let’s move to the scriptures now. I take as a given that there were human elements involved in the composition of sacred Hebrew and Christian texts. (God was certainly inextricably involved, although I’d say the method and nature of his involvement are up for discussion.) When an author wrote something down, and that something became part of what we now call “Mark” or “Philippians,” for example, there were techniques at work. I doubt all techniques were consciously employed, but some repetition appears intentional, and repetition does help. When a word or phrase is repeated, it can be similar to repeating pitch patterns in a tone poem.
I’ve long had a particularly keen interest in the chiastic technique² that surfaces in many biblical documents. Regardless, I often find chiasms helpful in ascertaining meaning in a piece of literature. The inherent repetition in a chiasm helps to define form, and therefore, authorial intent. I doubt any biblical author said to himself, “Hmm. This is really important. I think I’ll use a chiasm.” Still, when a chiasm does end up helping to define form and therefore clarifying an important point the writer wished to make, it helps us pay proper, focused attention. And this technique is not unlike a composer’s use of structural elements to help us make sense out of a musical composition.
Gustav, I’m with you. Full-length symphonies with lengthy, single movements are difficult to hang out with, and I will never write one, either. I do look forward to rehearsing and performing your “Jupiter” (a movement of seven or eight minutes from the hour-long The Planets).
Paul, I respect you. Romans is long and tough. (And so is Hebrews, whether you had anything to do with it or not.) I love shorter letters such as Galatians, though, and I look forward to experiencing Philemon with a small group soon. It’s twenty-five verses long, and structured chiastically, so I can wrap my feeble brain around it, draw out meaning, and help others to understand, too.
Now that I’m finalizing this, it strikes me that, although it is not a milestone numbered post, it appears on a milestone day in my life . . . and it deals with music, the scriptures, and communication, which continue to be very strong interests. Below are links to some previous posts on scriptural written structure and literary devices.
¹ In fact, Holst expended much of his effort at secondary schools, presumably not jockeying for big-shot limelight. He was Director of Music at St. Paul’s Girls’ School for almost thirty years, essentially from that school’s beginning. Simultaneously, he was also director of music at other institutions. At least three of his better-known works—St. Paul’s Suite, Brook Green Suite, and Hammersmith—all took their names from spots where he lived and worked.
² While it cannot rationally be argued that chiasms don’t play roles, their prevalence has been overestimated by some.
Eight days ago, my son and I left home and visited in another person’s home. Then we returned home. Later in the week, for separate reasons, thoughts came about the meaning of home.
My grandfather sang the song “Hills of Home”¹ when concertizing or singing at home with my grandmother or mother accompanying. Prompted by my mother, I included that song in a brass medley arranged for the grandparents’ 50th anniversary. I had no particular attachment to the song then and have not remembered any of the lyrics except the chorus. Now, though, as sentimentalness sets into my life and “home” seems ever more elusive, it comes to mind. If you’re into nostalgia and would appreciate an older recording, try this.
Other songs and singers come to mind. Roger Whittaker’s sense of his home in Kenya; John Denver’s association with Aspen, Colorado, and all the Rocky Mountain territory. I particularly love Fernando Ortega’s earthy songs of his homelands, and also a tender song about a girl whose mother prays for her safety and her eventual return home. Fernando, like many others, produced this entire album titled “Home,” and the title track includes the line “May it be a refuge.” Of course there is the American classic lyric, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” which famously surfaced musically at the culmination of Dorothy’s Wizard of Oz experience.
Although music often reflects² thoughts, human experience, and culture, music has no exclusive claim on the notion and experience of home. Stories and movies also speak often and loudly. Thanksgiving and Christmas and other holidays often carry with them rich memories of home. Not all of the memories are good. One of my most heartfelt musical works was an arrangement of the Stephen Foster song “Slumber, My Darling,” which is the vision of a mother bending over her baby at home. On the one hand, home and family can be so sweet, but there is another hand. Somehow, in most cases, no matter how problematic or annoying or painful the home experiences, most of us still find ourselves heading home at Thanksgiving and many other times.
Sentimental Christian songs of home (not hymns, but songs, properly speaking) have rarely if ever floated my boat. The category in one hymnal is “Eternal Home” and in another, “Heavenly Home.” I’m not sure this eternal-home imagery is helpful or accurate, but it’s there nonetheless, in songs such as “Home of the Soul” and “O Think of the Home Over There.” Some home songs seem to contain nothing but stupidity and sap, such as “Winging My Way Back Home,” made popular by the Gaither Vocal Band and sung by many. The notion of “home” is more subtle—and, for me, more God-oriented and therefore more palatable—in “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks” and “There Is a Habitation.”
I’m hard-pressed to name a single reference to a heaven-home in our scriptures. If you can call one to mind, please comment below. For now, I think I’ll think a little more on the saying of Jesus: “the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head” (Matt 8; Luke 9). Rich Mullins sang of that in one of his later songs, “You Did Not Have a Home.” Demo versionLive versionPosthumous studio version
Now that I think about it, the idea of not having a home jibes nicely with one of my principal life-themes: not being “at home” while existing as a pilgrim in a strange land.
² The reflective, backward-looking nature of art music is known by musicologists and others. It has been said that visual art and literature may be more predictive, on the leading edge of culture, while music tends to reflect.
Too much motion, specifically of the larger joints and hinges such as shoulders and elbows, inhibits clear, helpful conducting.
This truth is understood at the adage level in the conducting world, yet ignoring this truth proves to be a downfall of far too many. Or, as a colleague put it, echoing good conducting instruction, “less is more.” Don’t move too many things too much!
If you want precision and clarity, use mostly wrist and fingertips. On the other hand, if you want to indulge yourself in afterbeats, showing that you have no gestural control, use more elbow and shoulder. Worse yet, use your hips and ankles and knees repetitiously.
It bears emphasis yet again: when the music needs rhythmic precision and stability, don’t flail your elbows and move your shoulders a lot, constantly showing the division of beat and generally indulging yourself. That is unhelpful and visually “noisy.” On the other hand (pun intended), rather than risking such visual distractions, consider using only your right hand when the ensemble needs beat clarity, and confine the motion to your wrist. Some of the best and worst conductors, unaware, demonstrate that they need these reminders. (I wish I could find or make good demonstration visuals.)
Does this really matter? Yes! The proof is in the music-making, and proof there is. Things start to tear apart rhythmically, and at least one cause exists. When a well-trained ensemble is having trouble with rhythmic precision, the issue is generally traceable to too much conductor motion in the elbow and shoulder, or to the lack of ability for musicians to hear across the group, or both.
I have sat under five different conductors during the past two months and have watched others. Two have shown that they understand these ideas. One shows that he hasn’t paid attention to it for a while, likely not having seen recent video of himself. Another used generous motion but was not in a need-to-be-precise situation. Yet another is perhaps the worst offender I’ve seen in a decade. There are many offenders, believe you me, so that is no light statement. (I haven’t watched video of myself from November yet, so I might just be embarrassed!)
Further on visual and motion concerns in conducting:
All gestural noise should be kept to a minimum. Actually, the ideal would be absolutely no “noise,” that is to say, no non-meaningful, superfluous gesture. Only gestures that actually indicate something about the music should be used. But the ideal is not attainable, so I offer two specific sub-goals as examples:
One: eradicate superfluous motion. In common time (4/4), it is all too common for the conductor to add an extra sweep or swirling gesture between beats three and four, constituting visual noise. The goal should be to have no beat stand out above other in a pattern—i.e., beat two should have the same emphasis and shape that beat three has, etc.—so that expressive gestures at specific points in the music may actually be noticeable. The downbeat naturally enjoys some emphasis, but in most artistic styles, even that might at times be minimized for the sake of the mature flowing of lines and phrases. Certain spots in music do, of course, call for emphasis, and judicious use of nonstandard gestures can be very expressive. The idea here is that a normal beat pattern should be balanced, without any asymmetrical incursions.
Two: limit extraneous prep beats. Generally, one preparatory beat is sufficient to start a piece. However, most conductors fall into the pattern (again, pun intended) of giving multiple preparatory beats. I often give an extra beat myself, and sometimes intentionally. If the tempo is unusually fast, or if the entrance occurs on a fractional beat, an additional prep beat might be called for. The principle on which I stand, however, is that even young musicians typically do not need more than one or two beats in order to start effectively, in tempo. They might think they do, and even some adult musicians will often ask for a full measure of “counting off,” but people actually do just fine without this, and less visual (or sonic) noise translates to more focus on the music itself. The idea that music needs counting off or a prep is unsupported by reality and is usually traceable to needless insecurity on the part of the conductor, the players, or both.
Yes, the above is true even for elementary-age players. A director¹ might be afraid that Janey drummer or Johnny trombone player won’t get the instrument ready, or someone might drop a mouthpiece, or the whole band will lose focus or wave at Mom, so the director puts both hands up, looks around, says things like “are you ready?” and “here we go” and “one . . . two … one, two, three, four”) in advance of the start. This practice trains young musicians not to pay attention to the conductor’s hands, and it also wastes valuable instructional time.
Sight lines are important. All musicians should be able to see the conductor’s hands and face. While even non-musicians could get that question correct on a test, musicians themselves ought to attend always to the basic idea of the line of sight. If someone or something is blocking it, do something to change it! Often it’s just a matter of moving one or two musicians six inches one direction or the other. The music stand should also be positioned so it is directly between the player’s head and the conductor. Looking sideways to see the music will involve peripheral vision more than necessary.
Moreover, the conductor should take care not to let his/her hands repeatedly drop below a natural horizontal plane near the waist. In a pit orchestra, where the conductor is typically seated, the horizontal plane should be kept higher so that players beyond the front row may actually see beats. There is some divergence of opinion as to the ideal horizontal plane. Some wind conducting icons advocate for a plane as low as the waist, feeling that this encourages deep, relaxed, full breathing. Others advocate for a higher plane, capitalizing on proximity to the conductor’s eyes. If the central point of my gesture is closer to my face, other nonverbal communication may be enhanced. Over the years, I have gravitated to a higher horizontal plane, thinking more of sight lines than air flow, but I am not at all sure that’s best.
I learned some of these conducting principles first at sympsosia in the 2000s with Allan McMurray, then at CU-Boulder. They have been born out time and time again in real-life experience, both as a conductor and as a player. The main thing here is that those who are liberal or excessive with motion are doomed to repeat rhythmically imprecise history.
Afterword
Now, I wonder whether anything about gestural noise and sight lines might be transferred to other areas. Of course! Public speakers such as preachers, all classroom teachers, and pretty much anyone communicating to anyone should pay attention to sight lines. Preachers may not be bad with visual noise, but they’re re often particularly bad with speech crutches and other sonic noise. The goal is to reduce the distracting or unhelpful stuff that doesn’t matter, toward the end that the real stuff may be attended to all the more. Conductors are doing important work with other musicians, and it only makes sense that what they do is worthy of attention. Now, if preachers are doing important work, too (and not all of them are), they should also work to reduce the periphery. This will shorten the sermon time, too!
¹ Here, I have used the term “‘director,” because in this case, the music teacher is functioning as a program director and as an administrator of children who have instruments s/he doesn’t trust them to handle, not as a gesturally sensitive conductor of music.
This is not a great blogpost. If you choose just one not to read this week, or this month, this one might be it. I’m not using reverse psychology. I really don’t like it all that much. It’s long-winded, annoyed, and annoying. On the other hand, in a couple days, you might look for an unprecedented outpouring of four “Tuesday Topics” posts, published several hours apart, concluding with a “prayer for the world.”
Introduction
A certain unspeakable person said, with a haughty indifference, “I haven’t been to church in more than ten years.” But I heard a far more humble, possibly “searching” person say it completely differently: “I haven’t been to church in about three years.” What did the former person do about it? Nothing but continue to tear things down and be a jerk. The latter person, however, made it a point over a period of weeks, to express openness and interest. And then she took the step of attending with us. I don’t know whether it will ultimately make a difference in her life or not, but at least she sounded humble at that point. I wish she’d chosen a different first-time-back place, for more than one reason, but perhaps it will be helpful and bridge-building to have crossed a Presbyterian threshold first.
Transition
Speaking of bridges: I don’t imagine many CofC folks these days know this, and I hardly interact with any of them, but there are distinct, significant bridges from Presbyterianism to the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement. The Campbells were from Scottish Presbyterian roots, and Barton Stone was also an affiliated Presbyterian for a time. Cane Ridge was a Presbyterian meeting house. Then there was one of the famed documents of the RM: “The Last Will and Testament of the Springfield Presbytery. So the Presbyterian connections with the Stone-Campbell Restoration movement are important. (And this paragraph is also sort of a bridge in this blogpost.)
Exposition
What do you think of candles? I used to think they were girly things. I kind of liked them, but I wouldn’t have bought one, because my wife handled that (while I did the ironing). These days, I light candles frequently at home, but I remain averse to their ceremonial use in liturgy.
Not all Presbyterians are alike—as with Methodists or Catholics or CofCers, there is variety—but the Presbyterian church where I count two as friends, and where I enjoy seeing several more congenial acquaintances, uses candle-lighting ceremonially every Sunday. This practice establishes a formal pageantry each Sunday that detracts (for me) from the content and meaning of both vertical and horizontal relationships. I doubt I will ever be able to shake this feeling. It’s not just candles. It’s all the pageantry and formality. All this goes back a long way.
The first time I remember feeling such a strong aversion to ornate buildings was in a Presbyterian building in Buffalo. Our college’s traveling Christmas extravaganza was not particularly long on pageantry, but many reveled in that building, whereas I recoiled from it. Stained glass suggests the glorification of a structure, in service of denominational and liturgical history. I might love beautiful colors, but I’m not interested in serving sectarianism or lusting after liturgy. I would not want to discourage the creation of visual beauty, and part of this aversion to stained glass and other visuals in an ornate church hall is “just me.”
In the current Presbyterian building, there are stained-glass windows, massive organ pipes, robes and stoles, and a chancel. I have no idea where that word came from, but I think a “chancel choir” comprises the first-stringers, whereas the sacristy singers, if such a group existed, would be more like the congregants who only sing in the shower. There is a “baptismal font” (which I’ve never even seen employed for a faux-baptism), and this group recently held a bazaar (which of course brings on jokes about the bizarre-ness of churches at times). So much periphery.
The Presbyterian building has beautiful, nicely maintained wood. Not just the pews, but also the ceiling and the walls. It’s impressive to the eye, but it causes me to sigh that so much effort goes into the building. It’s something they are proud of, and therein lies the problem. If this were the headquarters of a rich, secular corporation, I could understand it differently. But this is a building where a few of the people of God purport to meet, and there is simply too much stuff to maintain. It’s a matter of taste, but also of the wallet.
The pastor, a woman who is one of the aforementioned congenial acquaintances, was recently appointed to a position in the larger organization. As a friend to this group, I played in an ensemble for the ceremony. I should have known what was coming, and I wasn’t terribly surprised, but I was still bummed by the proceedings. And proceedings they were! Goodness! The very idea of Robert’s Rules of Order in the context of a church gathering gives me heartburn. Motions and amendments can work for some organizations, but (a) those organizations tend not to be the ones I’m invested in, and (b) no church group should be an institution in that sense!
The so-called “worship service” has become an institution of its own in 99% of established churches. I have written relatively extensively about that misleading term and will not belabor it here except to say that it is an unhelpful concatenation at best. Moreover, the idea of mixing Robert’s motions with preludes, objections with prayer, delegate consensus with worship of the Almighty . . . oh, the impulse to recoil. It’s visceral as well as intellectual.
But this is not really about Presybterians and Presybterianism, although in my experience this particular denomination tends to take special pride in the old-style-class look and feel of its edifices. This is really about most mainline churches. I like comfort and cleanliness probably more than than the next guy, but when so much attention is given to looks of the place, it seems too important. When there is pageantry at church on a regular basis, I think of Jesus’ “pharisee and the publican” story.
I also think of the pageantry of marching bands. Like my parents before me, I have loved good marching shows. I have had tears brought to my eyes by the grandeur of the general effect of a top-flight DCI display. The pageantry of a fine marching band can be simply beautiful! But it can also take over everything in its path. Like a boa constrictor around the neck of a band program, marching can choke the instrumental music program of a high school, the lives of scores of people, and budgets, too.
In its place, marching band is a wonder, and lots of people love it. In its place, the marching machine fills participants and spectators alike with a sense of grand pageantry and impressive music. In its place, visual beauty is a gift of God. Pageantry and physical setting can also serve a role in Christian assemblies. My personal preference is that it not be very often (like maybe once a year, say, at Passover time or for some other meaningful purpose). Mainline churches tend to move far more often in the realm of liturgical pageantry, and that puts me off more than low-church liturgy.
Coda
For my part, both music programs and churches should leave the pageantry aside for a while. End the marching season before the football playoffs could even take you away. Marching down the center aisle to light candles during a prelude? Nah. I’ll be far more attracted if the churches are characterized less by bling, and more by genuineness and organic conversation and adoration of God and open study of scriptural texts.
It could very well be the case that the famous and ballyhooed personalities in any field deserve the most critique. For instance, Tom Hanks is a great actor, but that doesn’t mean he’s perfect. Kevin Costner is not at Hanks’s level, in my book, yet he’s infinitely famous, and that combination might just be the reason people should analyze his performance. Max Lucado and Tim Keller and all the rest of the big-name Christian author-speakers aren’t always on target. Sometimes, they’re just not that good. Not everything they say or write should be accepted simply because of the source. The bigger the name, the more important it can be to be discriminating.
I once used a well-renowned, well-respected conductor as a negative example in minor terms. I mildly called out a sort-of speech crutch in his method, but someone—apparently one of his former students—took offense. In the present case, I will give a more detailed critique and will not use the name. This one is equally renowned as a band personality, but more as a composer than as a teacher or conductor. To start: the whole experience under this conductor was disappointing, and at many points, quite disconcerting.
To begin, let’s conjure some imaginary scenarios. . . .
Imagine, if you will, walking into a concert hall, opening the door to the middle level, and having an escalator appear at your back . . . then seeing people inexplicably crossing in front of you in a horizontal, Plexiglas elevator. Then, in a split second, those people are beamed to a position under your feet, where the floor has just been transformed from hardwood to oatmeal. And yet you continue to stand. On what? And what just happened?!! It’s all so disconcerting! Is this a dream? What is reality, and what is not?
Or, alternately, imagine waking up on your back, raising your head and shoulders off the pillow, and finding yourself suddenly flipped onto your stomach, with one foot in horse manure, the other feeling weightless; one nostril inhaling Jell-o, and one eye expelling nitrous oxide.
That is how disconcerting it was for me to play under this conductor.
You see, he is left-handed.
[Pause for effect.]
If you experienced no inner gasp, then you need a bit more information. For those who are not active ensemblists, and if all they know of conductors comes from TV and marching bands at football games, the “disconcerting” facet will not immediately sink in. Unlike 99.5% of other left-handed people who are conductors, this one decided at some point to continue with the baton in his left hand, rather than learning the standard way. The result of that decision? His leadership on the podium was so disorienting as to be impossible to comprehend at points, especially when sitting on the conductor’s left.
Now, in case you feel my introductory metaphors were exaggerated (and of course they were), add to the mix the fact that the conductor does not have particularly strong technique and ignores basic rules:
He persistently divided and subdivided beats in quicker tempos—even in difficult sections in which the ensemble had trouble rhythmically aligning things. This is an egregious technique issue, and it simply cannot go without critique.
He also used unpredictably shifted his conducting planes around and was not always clearly visible because of physical and spatial issues.
Also, his beat pattern was not refined or symmetrical. His antipenultimate beat, i.e., the second beat in a 4/4 pattern, went far across his chest, making it extremely difficult to find that and the next beat, because the whole thing, again, was asymmetrical.
Did I mention that his technique was not very good? Also, he tends to be a bit gruff, especially for a guest who is meeting and working with a group of musicians for the first time. (He was a guest conductor, slated for approximately half the programmed music.) This never stopped over the course of four pieces and two rehearsals.
All he conducted was his own music. I found his two original pieces to be beneath an adult ensemble in terms of musical content, whereas the arranged or transcribed pieces were well done and pleasing. Since his conducting technique wasn’t very good, you could desire with all your heart to play well for him, so all his music would sound good even though you didn’t like it very much, but it would be too difficult because of the left-handedness . . . and also, well, his because technique wasn’t very good. (I imagine this conductor was self-trained, possibly because his ego wouldn’t allow him to study with someone else. That was a needless dig.) Also, he was difficult to follow. Because his technique was lacking. Are you getting the picture?
Aside: another self-trained conductor, the famed composer Eric Whitacre, was far easier to follow when I observed him in 2006. Despite being unconventional at times, he looked like the music; as long as all of us were engaged in what was going on, it was a communal, energizing experience. That’s quite a contrast with the present scenario, which required way too much energy simply to try to figure out what was going on.
Back to the subject. Beyond the left hand (to which which one would get accustomed over a period of months, but only if he was working with a left-handed conductor exclusively) and beyond the bad technique (to which one gets acclimated but never satisfactorily), this man apparently never looked at his music’s horn parts, or he would have known that it’s very difficult to read when the 1st and 3rd parts are on the same staff and large swaths are only a step apart. If he had just done the normal thing and printed 1st and 2nd together instead of 1st and 3rd, it would have been far easier. One over-bright stage light in my face made it even more difficult to find notes on the page. Also, I didn’t like his original music very much, and also, his conducting technique wasn’t very good (have I mentioned that?), which made everything more difficult.
All in all: better conducting technique and better-formatted parts and a better demeanor and higher-quality music would have made it a better experience, but the left-handed conducting would still have made the experience disorienting. It was really difficult to figure out what this guy was doing at times—and admittedly more so because I am a trained conductor.
Postlude
I once surveyed the CBDNA membership on the left-handed conducting issue. I received a surprising number of affirming/accepting replies (perhaps 15% or so), indicating that using the left hand for the baton and beat patterns was a possible solution—at least in conducting courses. Regardless of that view, which I consider ill-advised, the simple fact is that the left-handed conductor is a species that is not really extinct, because it never really evolved into species status in the first place. The left-handed conductor is so rare as to be ineffective at best, and downright impossible to follow for some of us who live and breathe conducting and ensemble music-making . . . always, always with right-handed conductors.
The principal conductor in this same ensemble—interestingly, also a left-handed person, but one who made the right choice years ago to put the baton in his right hand!—also manifest a few technique issues when he led other pieces on this program. Both men shared a certain lack of “beat inevitability,” which added to the insecurities felt (perhaps unconsciously), especially by those of us who conduct, personally connecting gesture to sound. The humility, character, and far better rehearsal technique of this gentleman helps to cover anything lacking. (And I aspire to that.)
I’ve only observed one other left-handed conductor (who wasn’t even that good), and I don’t think I’ve played under one in my entire ensemble-music-making life of more than four decades. Long live the right hand. I think it’s no accident that the ascended Jesus is said to be at the Father’s right hand! It’s the correct side to be on.
Now, though, at a significant juncture in my life, I want to start a new series that involves reminiscences related to music. The title “Monday Music Memories” came to mind, but that’s too close to the prior one, and I want this to be distinct.
directing rehearsals for three months. A couple of programming decisions were made as late as a week ago. I’ve worked all along to enhance the variety and audience appeal of this concert, of course also considering the players’ interests. I’ve added auxiliary percussion, had a multi-talented player move from bass trombone to electric bass while our regular upright bassist sits out, and added guitar for four tunes. Having substitute players can also affect the constitution and shape of the program.
Earnestly Speaking 