composer's notebook
essays & criticism on musical matters
commentary
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Canadian Wisdom
For me, the highlight of last week's annual junket to Chicago was a beautiful dinner with The Boys (can't go anywhere without them in Chi-town, and that's kind of the whole idea), esteemed composer Mark Camphouse (many thanks for the kind words, Mark!), the great Gary Green of the University of Miami, and beloved composer of the world, Michael Colgrass. $50 bottles of wine (gee thanks, Gary!) bring out the best in dinner conversations, and this was no exception—my conversation with MC was one of those you remember. The subjects were composer-consortiums, out-of-the-box commissioning models, print and rental percentages, and other wonky composer topics. I loved every minute of it. Many thanks, gents, for that Dinner for the Ages...
On another topic, I am far too late (as usual) to talk about last week's Juilliard alumni ("Ten Years Later") article in the Times, but I'll give it a shot: Suffice it to say I felt it wasn't exactly informative, and actually kind of misleading. They kept insisting that over half the grads aren't musicians anymore, but when you look at their numbers, what they mean is that they aren't doing full-time performance anymore. About 75% are still musicians, they are just teachers, and freelancers, and therapists, and many other fields involved in music. Just slightly twisted to make a more shocking story. But President Polisi's interview helped keep matters clear, at least for me. The gist: The undergrads are 18 when they start. At 18 you're barely a fully formed human, let alone a thinking adult who knows what you want to do for the rest of your life. It's amazing that 75% are still involved in music at all methinks.
There are follow-up articles, apparently part of a whole "Juilliard" series (brace yourselves)—so after a deep inhale, I'll attempt to comment over this holiday week. Cheers and Happy Holidays to all!
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Sweet 88
Ladies and Gentlemen, we have Piano. I repeat, we have Piano. Years of desiring, months of calculating, weeks of planning, days of shopping, hours of tearing down a 10x12 studio space, and then . . . Delivery.
After my wife, and perhaps the Grand Canyon, it is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I've just finished playing through some Brahms Intermezzi I haven't looked at in 10 years, and I'm wondering why I didn't do this sooner...
And I don't care that the tuner was a no-show and now I have to wait another week listening to my new piano do a Nancarrow impression. I can pretend I'm playing Sonatas and Interludes, only without all those messy bolts and erasers...
Those wiley Japanese. Now THOSE guys know how to make a piano.
And the Chinese? Well they know how to get a 500lb studio upright up a narrow spiral staircase. I score it a tie.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
NBA article
Not the NBA that plays with bouncing balls and practices fisticuffs with their fans, the other one. Finally got around to uploading this article I wrote for the National Band Association's member journal last spring. You'll find it on the essays & articles page. I was reminded of it when someone mentioned to me today that they saw it published in this month's journal. It's mostly an overview of my experiences starting out writing for winds, with an emphasis on the one particular work of mine which was the happy recipient of the NBA's biannual Merrill Jones Composition Award.
Friday, December 03, 2004
MoMA 2: "The Reckoning"
Everyone said it was great, and Everyone is, um, sometimes wrong, but in this case They weren't and Holy Mackerel the world has once again aligned itself in unity and harmony as Everyone, including me this time which happens all too rarely, agrees: the return of The Modern to 53rd St. is pretty frickin' fantastic. It's like a visit with Old Friends, only they've gotten a hip new apartment and everyone looks thin and healthy. As promised, the building is breathtakingly beautiful and thoughtfully designed, and yet, despite it's granduer, we all know it's not really about the architecture. It's the Art, Stupid, and our Old Friends are tanned, rested, and ready.
And organized—And how. In a museum that's actually like dozens of museums—every room a completely different space, some wide and spare with hardwood floors and bright lighting, some low-ceilinged and enjoyably cramped with pieces—our Old Friends are categorized, classified, and codified like never before. With the notable exception of the opening space (that glorious first look into the new museum, with the deservedly-hyped juxtaposition of the Monet Water Lillies, against Barnett Newman's massive Broken Obelisk), the galleries are a new opportunity to see mini-retrospectives of artists and isms. Max Beckmann, next to Max Beckmann, next to Max Beckmann, next to his friend Otto Dix, next to his contemporary George Grosz ... or Duchamp's broken glass next to his Commode next to some Man Ray photos astride Dali's melting clocks and Magritte's floating eye ... if the new curation were music I'd call the structure trim and airtight, and the effect on one's museum experience is a surprising spin away from the usual. I never realized how in the old building everything was more spread out and tossed around. The new organization is at the very least quite helpful in taking in a less-than-familiar period, and at it's best, breathtakingly overwhelming from the sheer weight of one artist's genius. I mean, the effect of the Jackson Pollack "room", if one can call it that, is extreme. For your visual cortex to be slammed all at once with that kind of energy and overpowering beauty—it's a severe, almost violent effect, and I loved it. We're used to seeing the best pieces spread out throughout the galleries, a little bit here, a little taste there ... now the good stuff is all in your face, all at once, and it's dizzying. All of Matisse's head busts are lined up like ducks in a row, all seemingly melting from a common ailment, and all of Picasso's unlovely women disturbingly stare down at you all at once, as if you're the one who turned them into a square.
It's valuable to remind yourself from time to time that the world's treasures (revered, studied, copied, parodied) are actually just really good pieces of art. Warhol's Marilyn Monroe is not just an image burned into our popular culture psyches, it's also, simply, a gorgeous piece—it's just really beautiful. It's the same thing that often happens with me when I take in Hamlet again ("You know what?—this is a really good play..."), or after a great performance of Beethoven 9 or something ("Good piece."). There's a reason these are beloved, and we often lose sight of it.
Of course, each MoMA visit, you fall in love with someone new, even though you've probably passed their work a dozen times before. Who was it this time? Gerhard Richter. Go forth and visit him in his new luxury apartment.