A Little Story - And A Brand New Composition For You

Hi everyone,

Merry, Happy, Joyful, Blessed, Jolly and all other greetings of The Season to you all! This being the ending of the year, I thought I’d tell you about one of the musical highlights for me in 2012. As I have often reported, the life of a freelance musician is often a quirky and unpredictable one, filled with experiences that few people ever get to try. This last summer I had such an experience; I went to a summer camp. For choral composers.

This is an annual event, hosted by a renowned composer named Steven Sametz, and held at Lehigh University, where he is a member of the music faculty. Each year he invites another musical luminary to be his co-host, and then he brings 20 or so choral composers to come and spend a week together, focusing intensively (and exclusively) on the complex art of writing choral music. This year his co-host was Steven Stucky, a Pulitzer Prize winner and a delightful man who teaches at Cornell.

The participants were all professional composers and conservatory students from all parts of the US and Canada. I’d guess the median age was about 35 or so.

We Hit the Ground Running

We arrived at Lehigh, which is nestled among the mountains of eastern Pennsylvania, on a Saturday afternoon. Some people showed up at the last minute, exhausted from two long days of travel. Lehigh, though beautiful, is not exactly conveniently located. So we all gathered at dinner and introduced ourselves, giving a bit of our background and trying to learn each others’ names. The mood was eager and friendly, but also exhausted and somewhat discombobulated. Most of us were looking forward to finding our assigned dorm rooms and getting a good night of sleep to prepare for our busy week. Then our host Mr. Sametz stood to offer his own words of welcome, which concluded with his handing us each a piece of paper with a short poem on it, and breezily asking us to set the poem to music for a full choir and bring the finished product in to the 10 a.m. session the following morning, where we would sing through them all and discuss them.  And with that, the week exploded into overdrive, which never really let up until we said our weary farewells eight days later.

Twenty composers, who, minutes before, had been looking forward to one last night of schmoozing and cocooning before going into action, instead now fanned out frantically across the campus, looking for quiet spots where they could find a desk, a chair, a light, and plugs for their computers and keyboards. The genial fellowship of dinner had been replaced by lonely anxiety, knowing that in just over twelve hours we would each be presenting our work to each other, assuming we could even come up with something!

And that night set the tone for our week at Lehigh. Sure enough, at 10 a.m. the next morning, we all arrived with our compositions in hand. Copies were made and distributed to the group, and we then proceeded to sing each one. I think we were all very impressed with the caliber of the musicianship assembled there. Not only did everyone come up with a solid little composition, but each one was unique and distinctive. Some were extremely unusual and creative. But it was clear, both from the compositions themselves, as well as the skill with which we all read through them, that this was indeed a high-octane group, and it was going to take everything we had just to stay up with the others. The discussions of the pieces which followed were detailed, sophisticated, and best of all, very generous—spirited and supportive. It was an interesting experiment in human psychology. Here were 20 strangers, each thrown into a choral composers' version of “Survivor”. Over the course of the week, each one of us was pushed toward the breaking point at one time or another. But instead of descending into barbarism, we all spontaneously seemed to take the high road, and gave each other constant cheerful and respectful support. We all deeply appreciated it and became cherished friends. Yay composers!

An Apparent Stowaway!

After that, we were given three days to write a full length choral piece, including finding a text.  We returned to our various work stations and hardly ever left them. Each morning we had our group discussions to review our progress, and each afternoon, we each had a brief private session with one of the directors. Other than that, we were on our own, feverishly writing, rewriting, and writing some more.

I was supposed to be sharing a suite with two other composers, but only one of them showed up. My suite-mate and I talked frequently and were grateful for each other’s company. We speculated a couple of times about what could have become of our third roommate. On Wednesday night we had a little party in the common room for whoever wanted to drop in. Just about everybody showed up, grateful for a chance to blow off a little steam. I struck up a conversation with one of the other participants—a precocious young teenager whom I had enjoyed meeting at our morning assemblies. I asked him what suite he lived in and he said “Yours! I’m your roommate!”. The other guy and I were flabbergasted. We had never even heard him, let alone seen him. He had just stayed holed up in his bedroom 20 hours a day, cranking out music. As I said, it was an intense place.

We finished our pieces on Wednesday, at which point we handed them over to an excellent professional choir, the Princeton Singers, who learned them all and performed them at two concerts the following Friday and Saturday nights. It was a prodigious feat on their part, and a rare privilege for us composers, because it gave us the opportunity not only to hear our work professionally done, but also to be able to change and edit it and hear how the changes worked. In the real world, you usually only get once chance to hear a piece if a lot of people are involved in performing it. You have to get it right the first time or live with the consequences. Rewrites are very expensive.

The Culmination

Our final concert took place in Washington, DC, where the Library of Congress was hosting a weekend workshop on American choral music. Our pieces constituted an entire concert program, which was billed as “the latest” in American choral music. And we certainly lived up to that claim. After all, the choir was singing from music on which the ink wasn’t completely dry!

My own particular offering was a piece called The Galaxy, after the Longfellow poem of that name, which I set to music.

Here are the lovely words:

The Galaxy

Torrent of light and river of air,

Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen

Like gold and silver sands in some ravine

Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

..........

The white drift of worlds o'er chasms of sable,

The star-dust that is whirled aloft and flies

From the invisible chariot-wheels of God.

And herewith, below, is a recording of the piece that was made that night. I recommend listening with earphones. I hope you like it!

Your friend in music,

Paul

On the Horizon

I just wanted to tell you about some of the musical things I’m looking forward to this year.

First, I’m planning a new solo piano CD, tentatively titled “My New England”. It’s been a long time since I recorded a solo CD, based on nature scenes and sounds. I have lived here in New England for most of my life, and I’m looking forward to writing songs full of New England flavor--the mountains of Vermont, the forests of New Hampshire, the pounding surf of Rhode Island--all of it. It’s a endless source of inspiration, and I am eager to try to capture some of the spirit with my piano.

Another project I’m excited about is the creation of a major theatrical production with Alison Chase Performance, one of the most exciting new dance companies in the US. We’re working on a full length piece which will be debuted this year. It’s astonishing to see it on a stage. Truly breathtaking. Stay tuned for further details.

And speaking of details, I’ll be keeping in touch with you, my friends and supporters, through regular blogs like this on my website, as well as on Facebook. I’ll keep you posted on what I’m up to. As many of you know, the life of a musician is often quite unconventional and surprising, and frequently just plain hilarious. My life is no exception. so check in regularly to get a peek into what’s happening.

What I like best about writing a little blog like this is that it is an invitation for you to respond and become part of the conversation, and part of my career. I cordially invite you to write with opinions, suggestions, critiques (just be kind!), and anything else you might want to share with me and/or other listeners. Who knows where it could lead to? Let’s try it and see. You can write to me here on the blog, or by private email if you’d prefer. My email address is Paul@rivermusic.com.

Off we go into a New Year--may it bring us all some joy, some new life, some relief from our burdens, and the pleasure of wonderment!

Who's there?

Strange things can happen under the dark night skies of Maine, and just such a thing happened to me this week. I was sound asleep at 3:30 AM when my wife jostled me awake. I opened my eyes to find our bedroom bathed in a bright light, coming in the front windows. The nights here are always deep black. There are no street lights for miles, and our house is surrounded on all sides by woods and fields. No other houses or lights are visible. At 3:30 in the morning, there is no one and nothing. But not this morning.

The light in the room was alarming and strange.It was as though a flying saucer had landed on our front lawn. I ran to the window and looked out. No flying saucer, no G-men with spotlights. Nothing but our van, which was parked out in front of the house where it often is. It was still parked there, but the lights were on. Headlights, taillights and reverse lights. all blaring brightly. Our first thought was that someone was stealing the car. But we didn’t hear a sound. There was no motion, No car door opening or closing. The engine was off. There was nothing but the car, sitting there with its lights all ablaze.

I put my bathrobe and slippers on, grabbed a flashlight and headed downstairs. From inside the front window of the house I shone my light on the car. I figured that whoever was in it would be alarmed to see a light shining in on them, and so might show themselves, or do something. My flashlight beam played on the various windows of the car, but it revealed nothing. I would have to go closer.

I slowly opened the front door and stepped out into the night. The air was sharp and damp. No sound but an owl calling half a mile away. The van sat there, gushing out light in complete stillness. I was nervous about confronting whomever or WHAT ever was responsible for this. I approached the van from behind and thrust my beam into the back window, expecting movement of some kind inside. But the only movement was the searching flashlight beam itself. The seats, the seat belts, the boxes and junk in the back-- everything was normal, familiar. Just the way we left it. The way it would be at a familiar time, like 9 in the morning, or going to the supermarket at 4 in the afternoon. I came up the driver’s side like a wary state trooper. I wanted to smash the driver in the face with the full blinding beam of my flashlight, to catch him off guard and startle him. I pushed the flashlight right up against the driver’s window. But no one was there. Just the empty seat, the blind headrest and the empty, shadowy coffee cup holder. I looked at the instrument panel and the headlight switch was in the off position. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed. No explanation, no clues. Just this quiet night and this strange troubled van, hemorrhaging light.

I stood and thought about it for a while, but the cold night air made me shiver and I wanted to be back in my warm safe bed. As I turned to go, the lights went out, plunging me back into blackness. It was as though whatever spirit had visited the van had suddenly flown away again, leaving me there alone with my creepy feeling and the owl in the woods. I made a quick retreat to my bed.

As I started to relax there, I tried to explain what had happened, but I couldn’t. I remembered a conversation I had once had with my brother Mack, who is a scientist. I had remarked on how wonderful it was that the whole universe follows the natural laws so completely, thoroughly and constantly. Every grain of sand responds appropriately to gravity and wind and water pressure, and every leaf, no matter how hidden and deep in the forest, responds faithfully to the breath of the wind, trembling at the right time and the right speed. Everything seems to do exactly what it should be doing at all times. But my brother asked “but do they REALLY? How do we know? Maybe somewhere, something is stepping out of conformity. Breaking the law. Or making up a new one. I like to think that there might be the occasional lawbreaker. Who can say?”

I lay in the bed, just about asleep, but waiting to make sure that nothing else weird was going to happen. I was waiting for the van radio to go on at full blast, playing some thunderous Bach organ music until I went back down again to shut it off. Or maybe the horn would start honking, or the whole thing would start rolling silently down the road. Or I would find it in the living room the next morning. I was afraid we might be in the opening episode of a revival of that old TV chestnut, “My Mother The Car.” Anything was possible. Luckily, nothing else happened.

Or did it?

The van in question, looking completely nonchalant the next morning, as though nothing in the world had happened.

Feast of St. Francis at St. John the Divine

I recently returned home from an exciting weekend in New York City. I was there to play with Paul Winter in a performance of his “Missa Gaia”, for the Feast of St. Francis. Every October, at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine (The world’s largest Gothic cathedral—two football-fields long!)
they have an enormous church service in honor of St. Francis of Assisi. He is a very popular saint, since he is associated with love of nature and animals, self-sacrifice, and tender kindness for human suffering. Thousands of people come to celebrate and pray at this event on his Feast Day in early October, and the result is absolutely spine-tingling.

The Cathedral holds several thousand people, and it is crammed full for the occasion. There is a specially convened choir of a hundred or more high school and college kids from all over the eastern US as well as a some international singers. And in addition, there is large group of instrumental musicians from all over the world; African drummers , Brazilian percussionists, and dancers everywhere. And beneath it all is the mighty, (and I mean MIGHTY) pipe organ of the cathedral, which, without any amplification whatsoever, can completely command the entire space when necessary.

The enormous church is alive with the huge throng of people, many of whom have waited hours to get in. The Bishop of New York, along with dozens of other luminaries, processes through the aisles while the organ literally shakes the building and clouds of incense fill the air. Grandiose “High Church” at it’s most extravagant.

But now, try to imagine the one factor which sets this apart from any church service you have ever attended: all of the thousands of worshipers are invited to bring an animal with them to church, and many, if not most of them, do. So now, in addition to African drumming and whirling dancers with tall fluttering banners rippling through the air, there is also a constant chorus of barks, squeaks and yaps from thousands of pets scattered throughout the congregation. Throw in some solemn Anglican Chant and the incredibly boisterous and propulsive music of Paul Winter’s Missa Gaia, and you have yourself a REAL “Joyful noise!”

But the best is yet to come. At the end of the service, when the last thunderous notes have finally evaporated into the air, the Bishop asks everyone to please be silent, and calls for the great bronze door of the cathedral to be opened--a rare and ceremonious event. A brilliant shaft of sunlight falls upon the center aisle, and there, silhouetted at first as they enter the quiet shadows of the cathedral, comes a procession of animals up the center aisle. Led by white-robed acolytes, they walk slowly toward the altar, while the crowd looks on in rapt silence. Camels, horses, sheep, eagles, llamas and cows, snakes and rabbits and many more, all walk with animal dignity down the aisle. A child pulls a little wagon, on which rides a tortoise who looks like he must be 300 years old. Behind him, a man in a wheelchair is escorted by his dog, who is clearly an indispensable partner in helping him to live his daily life. In the year 2001, St. Francis’ Day took place only a few weeks after the World Trade Center bombing, and the procession was led that year by the rescue dogs who had just been brought up from Ground Zero minutes before. Thousands of people burst into tears at the sight of them.

As you can see, it’s not a joke. It’s a very powerful and solemn event. It is startling to see these animals walk into this massive, gilded cathedral as honored and revered guests. It makes you look at them in a very different way. It’s holy, crazy, bold, iconoclastic and funny all at the same time--and we all leave there transformed.