Of the Bells Bells Bells

My most recent album of piano improvisation reverberates through some literary terrain.

Of the Bells Bells Bells has a somewhat different and more complex history than most of my albums. For most of my albums, I have used tracks that were recorded at roughly the same time.   Sometimes, they were recorded within a day or two. In the case of Night Drift, they were recorded all on the same night. But for Of the Bells Bells Bells, I took tracks that were recorded more than a year apart.

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Clicking on the album cover will take you to CD Baby where you can sample entire tracks.

One of the realities of improvisation is that once it’s played, it’s gone. If something I play is bad, luckily it’s gone; if something I play is good, well, it’s gone too. Good news, bad news. Dealing with this situation is one of the lessons of improvisation, and helps alleviate any stress that might surface about not knowing what you are going to play next. After a while, it becomes pretty easy to keep a low-key attitude, and that leaves me free to relax and play on the edge of my imagination.

However, this all changes when it is time to record. Recording can become quite stressful because I can easily allow a judgmental attitude to creep in and divert my attention from what I am doing. I can’t fool myself; I know it’s not gone. Several years ago, I realized that I couldn’t record something and then go back and listen to it, as it would haunt me when I returned to record again. Unlike a Classical recording, I couldn’t go back and re-record it to play it better. And it’s not really about my playing anyway, it’s about the music. But the temptation is always there.

So I have developed a number of habits that allow me to continue to play recording sessions over the course of a few days or weeks. One of my recording habits is to play when I am not working. I need to be able to devote my full attention to it. My work schedule naturally has holes that I can use for this, but many of them are filled with other activities. So I have found that the least stressful time for me to record is during the summer, as I have about three months off. If I have a week or two during the season sometimes I will go to my cabin where I can be in seclusion, which has also worked, but usually I record in the summer.

I will record for a few days, or even weeks, but only about once a year. Recording is quite exhausting, and after a while I feel “played out.” I don’t listen to my takes for about a year afterward. I don’t want to be able to remember playing them. I need to make a fresh assessment. This is one reason why my albums were recorded a few years before I released them. The process takes some time.

On a whim I googled “five bells” and found a poem of the same name by an Australian poet, Kenneth Slessor

So when I was done editing tracks done in the fall of 2009, I had three good tracks left. In the summer of 2010, instead of recording, I had to work on a commission for an orchestral piece. I usually use an improvisation as the basis for my written pieces, and since I had these three good improvisations left over, I chose one of them as a model the orchestra piece. As I was transcribing and editing the music for the commission, I noticed that two climax points featured five bell-like strokes. On a whim, I googled “Five Bells” and found a poem of the same name by an Australian poet, Kenneth Slessor. The poem discusses time and memory in reference to the death of the poet’s friend. I had already noticed that the end of the piece made a passing reference to Richard Strauss’s Death and Transfiguration, so I gave the piece a tentative title, Five Bells (that stuck) and finished the piece with that in mind.

I didn’t get back to improvisation until late that fall with, for reasons mentioned above, mixed results. When I edited the tracks a year or two later, I realized that there were only two tracks of the first few sessions that I thought were worth keeping. Since those two tracks did not have any other good tracks recorded in close proximity, I decided to combine them with the three tracks from 2009.

About the same time, I discovered another poem, “The Bells” by Edgar Allan Poe, and thought it made a good outline for an album. (I’m not the only composer to think this, Sergei Rachmaninov wrote a choral symphony on a Russian adaptation of the same poem.) Poe wrote the poem about the times in our lives that are punctuated by church bells, other than when the bells are calling the congregation to worship or just keeping time. Three of the four sections deal with moments in individual lives: birth, marriage, and death. The other section deals with the times when bells were used to call the community to action, such as a fire, or flood, or even warfare (as in the 1812 Overture for instance). Poe arranges the sections so that each event is darker than the last, placing the call for action between marriage and death. The bells jingle and tinkle for a birth, while they moan and groan for a death.  I preferred to arrange my album around just the individual life events, so I have transformed Poe’s call to action into something more akin to work or vocation. Also I did not wish to dwell on the darker aspects of aging. Poe wrote the poem near the end of his life and was already infirm. He was already thinking a lot about that last bell.

I wanted to use the improvisation I had used for Five Bells, and work the title and program into the album plan. Poe had given me four stages of life; to that I added “Coming of Age.” The resulting improvisations are: “One Bell” about birth, “Two Bells” about coming of age, “Three Bells” about marriage, “Four Bells” about vocation, and “Five Bells” about death. I tried to choose the improvisation that best represented the subject matter.  The three earlier improvisations from 2009, each roughly ten minutes long, are the first, third, and fifth tracks. The second and fourth tracks, which are shorter, are from 2010.

One of the special features of Poe’s poem is his use of the sounds of his words, including the word “bell” itself, to give the sense of their ringing

One of the special features of Poe’s poem is his use of the sounds of his words, including the word “bell” itself, to give the sense of their ringing. The improvisations include many types of bell sounds themselves, which are a sound that I like and a sound that is very characteristic of the piano.

Of the Bells Bells Bells was released on Jan. 20, 2017, and is my fourteenth album of piano improvisation. It was recorded partly in Phoenix, AZ, and partly in my cabin outside of Ash Fork, AZ.

Making Jazz “Legit”

Jazz has been taking its shots lately. In a recent post for the webzine New Music Box, titled “In Defense of Jazz,” Patrick Zimmerli documents a whole litany of recent popular insults to jazz from sources as diverse as The Simpsons and Stephen Colbert on one hand, to a parody piece in the New Yorker on the other. Jazz takes criticism for its “wrong notes” and “crazy sounds,” for its unpopularity, and for taking itself so seriously. Zimmerli suggests that Jazz began to lose its way during the 1960’s and 70’s with 1) the rise of the jazz avant-garde, 2) the entrenchment of Jazz in the educational system, and 3) the rise of rock and roll, Beatlemania, and pop culture in general.

jazz-bass-copyPersonally, many of the most inspiring and moving performances I’ve ever witnessed have been from Jazz performers, but Zimmerli has a point. Jazz peaked in popularity in the 1940’s and 50’s but took a real nosedive in the 1960’s. Rock and Roll’s ascendency in popularity marginalized not only jazz, but all music with a “swing” tempo. He talks about the rise of Fusion Jazz, which has now been homogenized into Smooth Jazz, and how the steady beat and electronics didn’t ever really work. But frankly, I loved this era of Jazz. I was weaned on the music of Miles Davis, Weather Report, Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, and Keith Jarrett. But he’s right, this music didn’t last, mostly because of Zimmerli’s second point: the institutionalization of Jazz. You can’t teach something that is happening now! Entrenching Jazz in the educational system guaranteed that students would be learning older styles and techniques. The rising stars weren’t playing Fusion, so it gradually became commercial.

Imbedding Jazz in education, however, did keep it alive, and it developed some outstanding players. The Phoenix Symphony was lucky last year to play with Wynton Marsalis and his Lincoln Center big band. I could not get over what incredible musicians these guys were, ALL of them. Marsalis turned out to be a real Jazz historian as well as phenomenal player (and composer). But really, a big band? It was a great experience and lots of fun, but I wouldn’t call it the cutting edge of pop culture.

As far as I can tell, Jazz has swapped being relevant for being an institution. For a couple of decades now, the forefront of pop culture has been a hazy multiplex anyway. “Fifteen minutes of fame” (Warhol) has been supplanted by “famous to fifteen people.” (Momus) I think Jazz can and is doing quite well in its own little corner of the universe, even if Madge Simpson does have to pay Lisa’s friends to go listen to Jazz with her!

For as long as I can remember, jazz players have been calling symphony players “legit,” as in “he’s a good soloist but he can play legit too!” I always feel that they must not realize how petrified Classical players are of improvising anything! It really is a mutual admiration society.

As for Jazz receiving criticism, I admit that a part of me wants to say, “If you don’t want to swim with the sharks, don’t get in the water!” In the case of the Jazz avant-garde, this is especially so. I remember well how, in the mid-1970’s, my roommate and I got hold of some records by Free Jazz disciples of John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman. After listening for a few minutes, my roommate said, “My God, that sounds like a zoo burning down!” It is an image I can’t shake.

But everything I’m hearing about jazz recently, I have also heard about Contemporary Classical Music. My colleagues in the Phoenix Symphony have always needled me about being a composer, and sometimes, concerning some of the pieces we’ve played, I have sided with them.

Even other composers have done their share of poking, and their needles can be sharp indeed. Several years ago, a composer named Kevin Hanlon was teaching at the University of Arizona (he’s now at SMU) while I was putting on concerts with the Arizona Composers Forum. He was a creative guy and had an impish sense of humor. He said he had several pieces that were “not serious.”

imposter-pict-2One in particular I remember was called “The Imposter.” In it, a piano quintet comes out on stage and begins a serious performance of an atonal, pointillist piece with intense concentration. After a couple of minutes, a man in a tux who is bound and gagged makes his way down the aisle, accompanied by muted shouts. The performance is halted and the first violinist jumps into the aisle, ungags the man, and converses for a few seconds. Then the violinist returns to the stage, walks over to the pianist and orders him to leave the stage. As the man who was gagged composes himself, the violinist explains that an imposter had assaulted the pianist, taken his place, and was just improvising. With the difficulty of the music and the amount of concentration involved, the rest of the ensemble had not noticed. All of this is funny enough, but the punch line comes when they restart the piece. The real piece was indistinguishable from the one with the imposter.

I, too, had an alter ego. I once received a letter addressed to “Gleem Dysloop.” Since it was addressed to my parent’s house, my mother saved it for me. She said it sent her into a laughing fit because it included, in two words, nearly every common typing error. It had two e’s instead of two n’s, an m instead of an n, d-y-s is s-t-a with your left hand moved to the right one key, misreading an o for a c, and typing only one l instead of two. So naturally the name stuck. In my twenties, I would use Dysloop as the reason to come up with all kinds of goofy ideas. For instance, one of Dysloop’s major works was The Isometric Ballet. For this the dancers would just flex their muscles according to the choreography, while the musicians would only think their parts. If you couldn’t hear or see anything, you just weren’t on the right wavelength.

Another of Dysloop’s signature works, the How Dry I Am Variations, featured what I found out later was one of P. D. Q. Bach’s favorite development techniques, endless repetition. I was lucky enough to play with Peter Schickele on a few of his passes through Phoenix, and I asked him why he didn’t harpoon contemporary music. “That’s too easy of a mark!” he said.

So, though Zimmerli’s article is worth reading, I don’t really believe Jazz needs defending. It is music; some is good, some is bad. Whether Jazz, Contemporary Classical Music, or any other genre, good music leaves a lasting impression and is worth doing and listening to.

Points of “Arrival”

Two or three weeks ago, now, I went to see the Science Fiction movie, Arrival. It’s definitely a movie worth seeing – insightful, intelligent, and surprisingly emotional. Without giving away too much of the movie, I can say that a sub-plot of the movie revolves around a rather obscure theory of linguistics, of all things, that says, “The languages we learn tend to shape the way we think.” I had run into this theory before in reference to translations of Chinese texts, especially older ones. The pictograms of Chinese are much more versatile than words in Western languages, and can be used as nearly any part of speech. This tends to lead to more verbs than nouns and more verbs as nouns. It tends to give the language more sense of process than a noun-rich language such as English, which emphasizes things.
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What struck me most about this theory was how similar it was to one of the axioms of the philosophy of Marshall McLuhan, that the tools with which we learn shape how we learn and think. (Or as he so famously stated, “The medium is the message.”) Language is, of course, a major tool but it’s only one of many.

McLuhan’s main interest was how the print-based society ushered in by Gutenberg was being supplanted by the electronic age emerging in the twentieth century. He claimed that a print-based culture was very linear and logical because written language, as printed, was very logically organized. He claimed the electronic age, where we learn from electronic media, presented many ideas and sensual data at once and therefore promoted a more intuitive but emotionally connected mode of thinking. His first book of many on the subject, Understanding Media, was published in the 1950’s and made a splash on the pop culture of the 1960’s. It had a very real effect on me and made me acutely aware of how I was thinking as much or more than what I was thinking.

McLuhan was a favorite philosopher of mine in my early twenties, as he seemed to help explain the social and especially artistic turmoil that was taking place at the time. Though he was not a reason for my interest in improvisation, I was quite aware that improvisation, as a methodology, was more associated with the electronic age and that written composition was more associated with the past.

In 1999, I wrote an orchestral work around one of McLuhan’s notions, that at the intersection of these two distinct cultures would be a seminal generation or two of thinkers who would be influenced by both cultures. As an example of this supercharged cultural hybrid, he pointed to people like Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Galileo, and Monteverdi who were able to combine the newly unleashed logicality of the Renaissance with the old intuitive sensibilities of the Middle Ages. The piece, Millennial Opening, simulates gates at the opening and closing of the era. The piece itself was a compositionally written work that was based on an improvisation, both in its musical material and its structure. It was truly a hybrid of the two creative modes of thought, stimulated by this intersection between cultures.

I had started to combine composition and improvisation in this way in 1993, and felt that I was onto something. I wrote several works during this period, but what I didn’t anticipate was that my own hybrid opening would also close. As I was writing compositions on my improvisations, I was also becoming more comfortable with improvisation. As my improvisations affected my writing, so my resulting compositions also affected my improvisation. The way I manipulated the improvised material worked its way into the improvisations to the point where I found myself as a composer trying to manipulate the manipulations

.Around 2003, these two trends met head-on. I wrote a couple of pieces that were not manipulations but variations on improvisations, and then I wrote a couple more pieces that were not much more than adapted transcriptions. I had reached a point where what I wanted to do compositionally and what I was improvising were similar enough that I no longer saw the point of filtering them through any sort of compositional process. I didn’t see the point of writing them down. Technically, aesthetically, and musically, they were basically the same.brush-portrait3-fb-banner-copy

Of course, I improvise on the piano, not string quartet or symphony orchestra. However, I could always base a work for another medium on an improvised piano transcription, and I have continued to do so. Certainly adapting and modifying improvised transcriptions is less trouble than composing from scratch, if less engaging, but the creative spirit will always find a way to affect just about anything it’s allowed to touch.

Beyond all else, a creative act is always a learning experience. You always remember the stuff you make up yourself. If how you learn is how you think, then how you create is an even more convincing inculcation. My improvisation has, in a sense, assimilated my compositional hybrid experience and become a hybrid of its own. When the linguistics professor in Arrival found herself being able to catch glimpses of her own future, it did not change how she experienced time, only how she thought about it. Improvisation has not changed my experience of music, but it has changed how I think about it, how I think about its creation, and how I see it’s role in my future.

 

Discursive beginning

I was amused to read last week that the State of Arizona has decided to reintroduce the teaching of cursive writing into its Common Core education curriculum standards. It has not been taught here for at least thirty years, and both of my children missed it. My wife and I were alarmed at the time, and passed on what we knew to our kids, who seemed quite eager to learn it. Their teachers would hand out practice sheets to the children (and parents) who requested them, and that seems to have continued to this day. My wife became an elementary teacher in 2007, and was doing the same for her students, but only upon request. For the most part, however, it has remained untaught. I now realize this has been the case for most of the country.  journal-writer

My daughter took to cursive and, being a strong reader and interested in literature, she was filling up spiral notebooks with fantasy novels by the time she was in high school. Her script was so small, my aging eyes could barely make it out, and I think the fact she was writing in cursive made it seem more rune-like and secretive. Her brother learned it, but wasn’t that interested, and they were both typing by the time they were in middle school.

Nowadays, my daughter has been working the past few years for a Senior Center in Ohio. She keeps their books, repairs and keeps their computers up to date, writes their newsletter, delivers meals, and whatever else they need her to do. She says that often the seniors will leave notes for staff members, and many of the notes are in cursive. She says that the younger staff members will bring the notes to her because they can’t read them! I have to admit that it never crossed my mind that not learning to write cursive would cause someone to not be able to read it, but, of course, this is the case. My wife told me that when she started her student teaching in a fifth grade class, she wrote an instruction in cursive on the chalkboard and turned around to a room full of blank stares. Finally, a child raised her hand and said, “We can’t read that.”

In a sense, I can relate to them. My mother had to be part of the last generation to learn Gregg Shorthand. Before computers, and voicemail, and dictaphones, and electric typewriters, there had to be a way to take notes at the speed of conversation. Gregg Shorthand was a system of swoops, lines, and dots that stood for sounds. I thought it looked like Arabic. My mother would take phone messages, write to-do lists and grocery lists all in shorthand. I had no clue. Going through her effects after she had passed away, we found countless cryptic, indecipherable notes. She could have been smuggling arms for all we knew!

Learning that hardly anybody under the age of forty could read cursive was particularly disturbing for me because I have been keeping a hand-written journal for most of my adult life. I say on this blog’s About page that I have a stack of spiral notebooks that is “knee-high”. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, though I suppose it depends on the length of one’s legs, but it is easily a couple dozen or more. Realizing that there may be very few people in the future who could read them, I was stunned by the fact that I might have to transcribe them to the computer. The thought made me feel a whole lot older!dandelion-seeds-cover

My daughter kept a blog for a while. She mostly did it to highlight her artwork, which was in sort of the Imaginative Anime genre. She is very good at it and drew some of my early album covers. I talked to her about doing a blog in which my posts were hand written and posted as JPEGs. Her reaction was, “Hmmm . . . That would certainly be . . . novel.” I guess it is a good thing I decided not to do it that way.

cricket-cages-1400x1400Sometimes, I admit, I also miss the act of meticulously writing out my music by hand. Music calligraphy was very satisfying, though it took what now seems like forever. Every once in a while, I do some of it, if only to get the notion of longing out of my head. All I have to do is make a mistake with pen and ink to realize what a tremendous advantage the computer really is. My son was a pretty good violinist growing up, and after a youth symphony rehearsal one day, he came home in a huff. After complaining about how bad some contemporary piece was, he said as if it were the last straw, “And dad, it wasn’t even written on the computer! It was, like, scrawled out by hand!” I had to dig up some of my earlier scores to show him what life was like in the Dark Ages.