Changing Winds

Christmas verse for Mom

2011-12-24T20:31:00.000-08:00

As much as we would like to think

we're setting our own course,

unseen hands hold fast the bridle

of our trusting, unseen horse.

For that same hand that giveth us

the latest techno powers

taketh away what once absorbed

corresponding unclocked hours.

What, one may ask, did we once do;

how did we flex our mind?

What forest paths did we explore;

what wonders did we find?

And would we recognize the brains we used

before our first P.C.?

Were we blessed or were we cursed

with inefficiency?

Whichever the case, I must profess

what I do know to be true:

Of all the families I could have been in

I'm glad mine was with you.

Gloucester MA

Autumn 2011 Reflection

2011-11-25T22:26:00.000-08:00

Preamble

Summer, pt 1

New/Old Guitar

Summer, pt 2

Community

Summer, pt 3

aOccupy

Commute & Work

Goodbye, Pepe

Blessings Counted

Preamble

All Summer it was my hope to write a personal newsletter before the school year hit, but the opportunity did not present itself in time. Still rooted in the past — when we weren't in such a hurry and wrote long literary letters — I prefer to send out one substantive piece. In my hectic life, this requires perseverance. So I resolved to use my bus commute to tap it out with thumbs on my iPod; but I encountered setbacks.

A student (the largest of my 7th graders) knocked the iPod off a music stand and stepped on it in one impulsive and unconscious gesture. I suppose one could describe my music room — which reflects imaginative attempts to meet the needs of students at 11 levels— as a minefield of instruments, gear and cables; and I frequently do not spell out clear directions (such as seem to come more easily to my colleagues) that anticipate all possible scenarios. While I was able to replace the glass screen, the iPod could not regain its full vigor. It thereby came to pass that I could rationalize buying an iPad. Now I can type with my fingers — though the virtual keyboard poses a challenge for long right-hand nails. I was able to transfer the paragraphs I had hen-pecked on the ipod onto this new device. I had added another two weeks' worth of editing and adding to this epistle when I decided to update the iPad to the latest OS, allowing for automatic backup of files to "the cloud". The downside to having access to online resources such as this is that the online resources have access to you. I had to go through Monica's laptop to perform the update (as mine still has the same OS it came with five years ago) and so the first thing Apple does — because I'm logged in as Monica and not Jeffry — is to erase all the apps and data belonging to me! [Retrieving the apps was no problem, but the data was lost].

Another inhibiting factor in putting out another reflection is the questioning of my own motivation in doing so. Is it merely a narcissistic need to hear my own talk? In my second year as the music teacher at St Thomas More School (Lynnwood, WA), I've been trying, at least, to grow more humble and more aware of that which people do not need to hear. Yet, the appreciation some of you have expressed of my past reflections suggests they may have contributed something to your lives. Harvey Jackins once said that the most interesting thing to the human intelligence is another human intelligence. I hope that whatever I write below — intelligent or not — is at least interesting.

Summer, pt 1

So while I can still vaguely recall the scent, I'll begin with a review of our summer — which begins and ends on Orcas Is. In early June, we bore proud witness to Noah's graduation ceremony from the Oasis program at Orcas High School in Eastsound, where he has lived for the past year. (For an album of related photos, see facebook photo album). We stayed at the Beach Haven Resort, where he has been working, and enjoyed long sunsets over the Sound. Noah was to be taking off to Hawaii (inspired by the Orcas community, he has been moving in a "back to the land" direction), but has instead headed the other direction to join the Wall St protest.

Monica and I joined an RC (Re-evaluation Counseling) class, a form of peer counseling that we had each been involved with at various points in our lives. Although we had to miss three class meetings due to our vacation trip, it was both fun and growthful. We have continued with an expanded group now into the Fall.

Once I was done with school commitments, Monica and I (thanks to an early morning ride from Father Jim) flew to Boston and were met by my mother at Logan. Our hometown was put "on the map" by The Perfect Storm, much as our international airport was by 9/11. As the three of us emerged on the top of the parking garage, I was reminded that most of the country does not have an arid Puget Sound climate bestowed upon it. But soon we were swimming in Folly Cove, where we were blessed to have a reasonable water temperature over the two weeks of our stay.

We also made pilgrimage to a variety of personal shrines over that fortnight. Borrowing Mom's car, we went to Western Mass, where I lived in two periods of my life. I narrowed the possible goals down to taking a walk with Julia (my first spouse) and to swim in the Green River (which runs by her neighborhood). Julia and her husband Bob hosted us graciously for lunch and led us walking up a wooded road — which reminded us that the rest of the country is not bestowed with the mosquito-free summers we have around Puget Sound. We thoroughly enjoyed their easy-going company, then proceeded on our own to park near the covered bridge (which I hope survived Hurricane Irene) and negotiate the fast-running water below. I particularly savored the tall pines lining the road -- which, like the climate, seem to have a softer quality than their counterparts in the NW. As I drove, Monica read aloud excitedly (via her 3G iphone) from a proposed amendment to the constitution, posted by Spirituality and Practice, that seeks to end corporate take-over of our once-democratic society. We found ourselves supper at Green Fields Market -- staffed by young people who didn't recognize the name of the manager (Apple) with whom I sat on the Board back in the days when the Greenfield Food Coop moved into what had been J. C. Penny's and adopted its new name. We then decided to route ourselves through Framingham and visit with Sonia Maneri (widow of saxophonist Joe Maneri). Joe and Sonia, as the boys' godparents, had been a great support to Monica during her first marriage.

After a few more days in Folly Cove, we journeyed to Calumet with Monica's sister, Alex, and a young woman (a great traveling companion whose parents emigrated from Cuba) who works on staff in Alex's group home. Camp Calumet, which Monica introduced me to and where I subsequently worked, lies along the shore of Lake Ossipee in NH. It is an accessible and welcoming place -- a sort of Brigadoon -- that never fails to buoy Alex's (wheelchair-bound) spirits.

Our next event was the Family Reunion, involving all living relatives on my mother's side, that had been some months in planning. 25 of us convened in Folly Cove for a day and a half of hanging out, badminton, singing and so forth. I didn't have our camera, but on facebook I posted photos my mother shot along with a few taken by my phone. I'm blessed to have an extended family both fun and engaging to be around. It turned out not to be necessary to avoid political discussions. During this week we also had a lively time introducing old friends Anne (a Lutheran pastor) and Carla (newly ordained, non-denominational) — see facebook photo album.

Next we took public transport (train-subway-bus) down to Cape Cod to spend 3 days with Monica's sister Bea and her husband Jeffrey. He designed their new home -- a work of art in itself -- on land once belonging to Monica's parents. Having revived his interest in guitar playing during the past year, Jeffrey had purchased a couple of quality steel-strings that even a classical player could make music on. I much enjoyed my time with them and walks bordering the estuaries and marshes. Returning to Boston, we took the green line out to the MFA (Museum of Fine Arts), having read of free admission for the day. Crossing Huntington Ave we were caught in a downpour (a deluge unknown to northwesterners) that drenched us to the skin before we could reach the museum portal. We couldn't escape Tacoma icon Dale Chihuly as his glassworks were the featured exhibit. We then made our way to Chinatown, to hook up with Bea/Jeffrey's daughter (our niece, that is) Julie.

I believe this was the time when the subway door shut between us -- for I'd heard the train pulling in downstairs as we passed through the turnstile and momentarily forgot that my wife may not react with the same urban instinct. The subway stations remained sweltering long after the gale had cooled the streets; and it seemed like a long wait at the Boylston street one -- which retains the dilapidated state I recall from childhood -- before the next E-train rolled through with Monica on it. Julie and her boyfriend are renting the top floor of a warehouse —delightfully bohemian.

New/Old Guitar

All this while, anticipation was mounting to be reunited with my old Frank Hasselbacher guitar that Tom Knatt had been rebuilding on-and-off over the past two years. I had destroyed the top in 2007 at Chelsea High School; it's hard to imagine a more blatant divine comment on the suitability of that work situation for me. But it would take till now for me to understand how thoroughly this accident would be worked for the good. Tom succeeded in meeting a deadline (of two days before our departure from New England) and proved himself a wizard at refashioning what had been an ordinary instrument into an extraordinary one. For one, the original was never a proper fit for my hands -- having a 66 cm string length (the standard is 65, but I didn't know that when Frank sold it to me in 1981) and a neck that seemed a good shape at first, but proved fatiguing in the long run. Tom built a new top, bridge and fingerboard. By making the latter uncustomarily thick, he was able to re-shape the neck more ergonomically -- based on his measurement of my left hand. The sonority seems both brighter and deeper than in the guitar's earlier incarnation. But what makes this a life-changer is that my left arm has an entirely new experience in playing. Pieces I didn't have the stamina to get through -- and I mean on any guitar I've tried -- began to roll off my fingertips almost like the arm playing belonged to someone else. I used to settle for lower tension strings -- and a less-than-robust sound as a result -- to limit fatigue in my left forearm and soreness in the fingertips. But on this instrument, I can use high-tension strings with confidence.

You may well imagine that all I've wanted to do, since picking the guitar up from Tom's Groton lutherie, is sit under a tree and play it. And there's more: owing to its having been a 66 cm, the 12th fret ends up to the left of the bout -- as opposed to lining up with it. This makes it a bit easier to reach the higher frets; one can just about barre XII. Tom also put in a 20th fret -- that high C in Chopin's Em Prelude. Although I'd been doing all my amplified guitar work (church, school, the occasional gig) on the La Patrie cut-away classical I'd purchased in the wake of the Chelsea accident, I soon began to see that I would want a direct out for the Hasselbacher-Knatt. This is more to capitalize on its superior playability than its sound, as a pickup tends to make most guitars sound alike. I settled on a transducer by Schatten that I could install myself. It resembles a viola bridge and is mounted inside the guitar with double sided tape; a preamp is built into the endpin jack that is phantom powered just as condenser mics are: through the cable. I was particularly excited by this last innovation, obviating the need for batteries or a direct box.

Not only did the guitar want to play all the old repertoire; it demanded something new! A piece I once had on a Segovia record echoed hauntingly in my brain. I found the audio file on my MacBook, encoded from a cassette I had owned before divesture (of vinyl and acetate) and relocation (from MA) titled Castellana by Torroba. A search online credits no piece by that name to the Spanish composer, Segovia's contemporary. Torroba did write Suite Castellana; but this piece is not from there. Eventually I realized that it was an expanded version of the miniature originally known as Burgalesa — though Segovia was playing in E what Torroba published in F#. It appears that Segovia inserted his own cadenza for this, his final album (Reveries, 1977). I imagine that, after a career of performing it as his final encore, he became bothered by the piece's brevity and therefore decided to leave the world a more substantive version. Perhaps it was his way of not going "gentle into that good night". Naturally enough, the piece made me think of my college guitar teacher, Phil de Fremery —who made transcriptions of Segovia recordings that were eventually published by Berben. It was easy enough to find his email address and he was immediately back in touch. No, he didn't know about Castellana; and he offered a few suggestions on transcribing it that flashed me back to being 19 years old again in his Mt Holyoke teaching studio. When I sent him the result he replied: now when you perform people will ask "How did he get his hands on THAT?"

I also made an arrangement of Bach's First Cello Suite. I'd long been playing the Prelude to it (merging a few arrangements I'd seen over the years), but had not been previously motivated to make the rest of this charming suite my own. An appropriate counterpoint suggested itself easily; perhaps I've just become more practical due to the time constraints now placed upon me. Of the venues I performed at during my first year here, my favorite was the Antique Sandwich Co, only a few blocks from our house. Whether it is vanity or being otherwise preoccupied, I waited for them to call me; and after a year and a half, the classical music coordinator there finally did. With only a couple days' notice, only St Leo's people knew. The other members — in what turned out to be another appreciative audience — either come there every Sunday afternoon or perhaps came to hear the performer I'd been called in to replace. We made it a benefit for the Ugandan refugees we are planning to host (see below) and thereby raised $475. They booked me again for 2/26. I get appreciated regularly for playing from my repertoire at St Leo’s. Even though I don’t have much practice time, I feel that this guitar has made me a better player than at any time before.

Summer, pt 2

Before our departure from Folly Cove, we enjoyed a day with Willie Sordillo, who I'd invited up from Framingham (as I was regretting not having managed a visit to him when we were down there the previous week). Another gorgeous day, swim and substantive conversation on the rocks with this dear old friend from Nicaragua days, my wife and my mother — summer at its best.

Next stop: Louisville, KY, for the National Pastoral Musicians Convention. The main focus was, understandably, implementation of the new translation of the roman missal. The place was crawling with vendors of new Mass settings. Singing with 3000 other music ministers under one roof was spine-tingling. All the well-known post-Vatican II hymn composers seemed to be there; the St Louis Jesuits had their own concert/sing-along. John Foley accompanying his faltering, yet sweet, voice at the piano in "Song of Hope" was one of my highlights. It will also be hard to forget the heat and humidity out on the street. One night we witnessed, from the bar of our historic hotel, a storm so intense I expected the cars to be flipped over and washed away. Next morning the puddles had evaporated and the weather was back to exactly as it had been. I found some relief in a swim at the Louisville Y.

At the airline's convenience, we returned via Dallas — the airport using a record amount of electricity to keep us from experiencing the record heat — where we found a meal and I practiced Bach on the new-old Knatt-Hasselbacher guitar.

Community

In August, the weather here was so sunny — no rain to speak of — that only hearty species remain green unless watered. I had to use a lot of it to keep the grass from turning brown. Kumar — an Indian who plays guitar with us at St Leo's and gives me weekly updates on his flower garden — suggested that if I had a close look at our Tacoma Utilities bill, I'd realize what we're paying for water and let the grass go. I can rationalize it, though, as being for the neighborhood children. We have watched them gathering across the street (from at least four families on the block) in a tiny yard that has not a blade of green on it. The most recent addition to this gang are two boys belonging to our closest abutters — who returned to their home here after living elsewhere — and the older one was outgoing enough to ask for permission to play in the yard. Being on a double lot, our yard is bigger than most. It has both a nice view of the sound, and is easily seen. Not only can we observe the children (sometimes up to 10 of them) from our picture window; their parents can glance out at them as well from their houses. After some trial and error, Monica made a rule of no 'swords' and no playing with our impulsive corgi. This last came in the wake of Toby swallowing one boy's sock. Where it went from there remained a mystery (not appearing on the vet's x-ray) until he vomited it up intact over a month later. While we have had friendly enough conversations with adult neighbors now and then, it is hosting the children that makes me feel part of a community.

Monica and I have our work communities as well, which — as we both work for the Archdiocese of Seattle — double as our worship communities. Through St Leo's (Monica's church, where I play one Mass per week) we have opportunities to connect with the world community through such missions as The Lesotho Connection and Hearts for Zambia. Recently, a Ugandan refugee (who has been granted political asylum) sought help from St Leo's bringing his family here from their hiding place in Uganda. Monica and I agreed to offer our house for his family to stay in until they can find employment and their own housing. There being nine of them in all, ideally we would divvy them up with another parishioner. St Leo's will find extra beds and help get them set up in our space. The family is now waiting for visas. In the meantime, Monica has posted their names and ages on the fridge for us to memorize. Nat is looking forward to sharing both his basement space and his local knowledge with the teenagers — though he has understandable concerns about hot water. We've bought a second washer/dryer and are considering a tankless water heater. I've met the father a few times. Like other Africans born in 1961 (one may expect), his first name is Kennedy. (A friend told me of subsequent Kennedy namings the year Ted visited Africa. JFK continues to be one of my heroes — and I pray for the day when open discussion can take place in this country about the untouchables in high places who had him, RFK and MLK assassinated). Our Kennedy seems both gentle and hopeful — not qualities one might ordinarily expect from someone who has been subject to torture. Monica recently drove him around (as though already a family member) to apply for housing with Habitat for Humanity and for jobs that might earn him enough to qualify for that program. She succeeded in getting work for him at the same grocery Nat works at.

Summer, pt 3

But I digress; back to recounting the summer. I got myself down to American Lake for my August swims. Even when the public beach access point was over-populated, I always found lap swimming meditative (for most everyone else just flopped around in the shallow water). We also visited St Leo's friends with water access: Teresa down in Graham on a lake thick with lily pads, and Coleen out on the Peninsula where Puget Sound water warms up enough for swimming (but also provides habitat for some kind of stinging algae). These were also fun social gatherings with great food.

Once back from the East, however, I began putting as many hours as I could handle on mapping out my lesson plans for the year. I auditioned songs and lessons from all viable sources in my possession and, factoring in state standards and what I could recall from last year, came up with what seemed the most logical sequence for each grade level. Once the reality of the classroom set in, however, I found I needed twice the class time than I had naively allotted. One idea that does seem to be working out is turning the eighth grade into a handbell choir. The school has a set of bells that has not been fully utilized in years. When one of the large ones turned out to have become cracked (perhaps on my watch), I learned that our bells are of Dutch design that is no longer made and that the English bells — which are available for purchase — are sonically incompatible. This led me to connect up with Marlow Corwin, 91, who has kept alive the art of bell casting repair out in Iowa. I found that he and his wife of 63 years also had been featured in a PBS documentary about long happy marriages.

We took a long weekend, just before I had to report for staff in-service week, and returned to Orcas Is. We were graciously hosted at Orcas Oasis, perched high over Orcas Village on the south end of the island. Owners Bob and Barb rent out two spaces in their dream villa (which includes a lap pool and hot-tub-with-a-view). The suite we occupied had originally been built for their daughters. Bob is a retired engineering professor who shows a passion for, among a variety a pursuits, restoring tube radios. When I needed some white noise for sleeping, I simply dialed in-between stations on the one in our bedroom. Monica had wanted to make it part of my birthday present that we sail a boat; it just so happened that Bob is on the board of the West Sound Sailing Club! He showed us how to purchase a membership and reserve a boat online (he being the webmaster) and then met us down at the dock for an orientation on sailing the 'Ernie'. Satisfied we could crew on our own, he left us to navigate West Sound. The further out we tacked, the windier it became. Not having knotted the ends of the jib sheets, they both slipped through the blocks at one point and performed a 'rioting fandango' (my favorite phrase from The Sea and the Jungle) on the foredeck until I could wrestle them into an untangled state. Yet, when we returned to the dock, it was burning sun and no breeze as we labored at stuffing the sails into the nonsensically shaped bags. The night of my actual birthday we were back in Tacoma, and celebrated by hosting two fellow school-music teachers, Donna and David — who abetted me in realizing my summer goal of reading some through recorder trios. People always know how to treat you on your birthday; I fondly recall past birthdays of mine celebrated with people I never saw before or since.

Occupy

Nat — my older step-son, the one that lives with us — also decided to join the protest on Wall St for a weekend. It's a long a trip for so short a time; but he wanted an adventure and couldn't take more time away from school (taking Math at Tacoma CC) and work (in the deli of a gourmet grocers). Noah, however, has been free to make Occupy Wall St his focus, spending over a month camped there as a self-appointed photojournalist. His photos are posted at noahsheppard.com, along with written reflections that may appear to resemble my own. I am reminded — as are many of you, I imagine — of protests I joined from my teens to my thirties: the Vietnam War, Seabrook, the Pledge of Resistance. I expect that most of us who joined brigades to Nicaragua hoped to learn as much about ourselves as we did about people down there. Through trial and error, we eventually find our own ways to promote the greater good. You hear talk about how this is the first generation — or the second, perhaps we are the first — not “better off” than the previous one. But I think this generation is better off emotionally and spritually [we brought them up, after all!] Just compare our protest movements with the present one. I’m beginning to feel hope that the tide of “self” will ebb, leaving tidal pools of “we”.

Commute & Work

This newsletter could well be titled "My Life on I-5", except that I have yet to include any observations of the sights and humans along this highway on which I write between Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings. Monday mornings and Friday afternoons I must drive it by car — a 56-mile trip that I once made in 1:05, though it has also taken me as long as 3:30. (Tuesday and Thursday nights I stay over). It doesn't cease to amaze me how many of us are out here commuting to some workplace or other, how many buses and cars, and how many more cars there would be if it weren't for all these buses — destined for communities whose names I know only from the route marquees.

The leg from Tacoma is traversed by buses in the 590 series — filing into Seattle like worker ants. From there I board a 511 to Lynnwood, a double bus of the end-to-end inchworm variety. British-style double-deckers have recently been added to the fleet, competing with highway billboards for total advertising surface. We commuters have developed our own code of conduct, it would appear, in which most retreat into the private world enabled by the microchip and imaginings of Steve Jobs. These devices give control and choice in how we occupy ourselves, making life more complacent and predictable. It amazes me still that I can have my entire collection of music — representing decades of profound experiences and growth — available inside my headphones as I ride the bus or on my car speakers [via the mp3 CD changer] as I drive. While I miss being more serendipitous, I do appreciate the break from the unpredictable interactions that comprise a day at school. Every now and then I break through and start a conversation, such as when — after seeing the same woman boarding my 511 bus in both directions for nearly a year — I finally said Good Morning and asked about the work she commutes to. She works for the travel TV personality Rick Steeves and leads tours in Italy. Turns out she also comes up from Tacoma; but she takes the train from there to Seattle. I was glad to learn of the option [it is a nice train] though it makes the total trip a bit longer. Most times, though – apart from the offer of an initial greeting — I keep to myself. Now and then come those oddly intimate moments when a seat mate loses consciousness and leans into you. Once — as I was heading for the exit — my seat mate smiled and handed me the beret I had bought mail order to replace the one I left on a bus last year. (I had to pay shipping three times before getting the size right).

My teaching job can be overwhelming, particularly when you factor in the distance with all the preps that I should, ideally, be doing. But I’m letting some of the perfection go — not that I could have ever attained it — to restore some balance to my life. The principal seems more confident in my ability to handle things, which eases my stress a good deal. I led a successful Thanksgiving Mass with the sixth grade as my choir. They were filled with spirit and Spirit — if I’m not simply projecting onto them what I felt in myself. In times such as these, the gratification clearly outweighs the aggravation. When I return, I’ll have to whip together the Immaculate Conception Mass [the first we do the new Missal for] followed one week later by the Christmas Concert. In Spring, a parent and I will co-direct Beauty and the Beast.

Goodbye, Pepe

A week ago today, we had Pepe put down. Diabetes had made the last five of his fifteen years an increasing struggle. He clearly liked moving to Washington as he became physically more active for a time, running up and down stairs even. But whenever I went away, he'd have a setback. As you may know, he'd been with me years before I met Monica; he didn't quite connect with other humans. While we were off having a great trip, he was home — even though his food and litterbox were being tended to — becoming more sedentary. It seems to be the conventional wisdom that when cats stop eating they're letting you know it's time to let go. He could still drag himself in and out the litter box. He would still purr when close by (though he hadn't been able to climb up into my lap for some time) and would extend his paw onto me, his characteristic gesture of connection. I finally got it — as Monica and I read through pet prayers and poems online — that he wanted to go while he still had that much dignity at least. I don't expect he understood what all my sobbing was about. He played an important role in my solitary period between marriages; and so his departure helps me leave those years behind.

Blessings Counted

I need to leave this narrative behind as well, to send it off in its less-than-perfect state for your perusal. Summer is by now a long time gone. We are already in the northwest winter: much rain, little light. I've booked my flight east for the week leading up to Christmas. (Monica cannot take the time off). There is one more story I’d like to relate. Yesterday, after Monica and I played the Thanksgiving Service at St Leo’s, I was approached by a tall African-American man, perhaps 30, in need of shelter. He asked if there was any volunteering he could do at the church in return for being in out of the cold and rain till the evening, when he hoped to sleep at a friend’s. Being Thanksgiving, he had no place to go, no library, etc. No one was going to keep the church open either. He seemed honest and considerate. Monica and I consulted breifly and then offered to bring him home with us until we could come up with a better option. R- told us he did have family in the area, but they would not help him. He’d moved here to live with a girlfriend, but they split up and got evicted at the same time. He’d lost his job in a warehouse. He kept shaking his head saying, “I can’t believe I got myself in this situation” and felt shame at having to ask strangers for help. I had to make a gluten-free pie before we went to W. Seattle to have Thanksgiving with my cousin’s family. We sat R- on the sofa. He declined offers of food [having gotten breakfast, at least, at St Leo’s]. He did still have a working cell phone. We took his number in case we got leads for a housing barter or employment. Monica came up with the idea of buying him movie tickets, so we could drop him off on our way to dinner. He picked a film online. And so, a couple hours later, we bid R- farewell at the Grand Cinema. He told us, “I wish there were more people like you in the world. Not many have done what you did for me today. God bless you!” And thank you, R-, for reminding us to pray for — and know — those less fortunate than us, to recognize the things we take for granted and to remember again that, in the end, we all are one.

Thanksgiving Break

2010-11-24T21:50:00.000-08:00

I. Winter in the NW
II. Getting to Work
III. The Job Itself
IV. Workshops
V. Withdrawing Spirit from Yesterday's Bank

Schools being closed again, today is a gift. So I've resolved to circumnavigate distractions and responsibilities just enough to generate a newsletter. We're heading to Orcas Is for Thanksgiving, where I'll be bartering for half off our accommodations by performing at Doe Bay Cafe. December 19-24 I'll be in Gloucester. All in all, much to be grateful for.

I. Winter in the NW

Being accustomed to winters out east, it's fascinating to Monica and I that, around here, people simply wait for snow and ice to melt by natural means; if the roads aren't safe, you just hole up and wait till they are -- which can take a while if the thermometer remains in the 20s. At least that's how it appears to be in many suburban school districts. Somehow Tacoma has managed to deal with this last storm -- which only brought a couple inches of snow, albeit with a layer of frozen rain underneath. We see the tracks of a phantom vehicle [a plow? a retrofitted street cleaner?] that leaves parallel groves about 10" apart. But up in Lynnwood -- where I teach -- life appears to be at a standstill. Driving back from there yesterday morning, I was amazed that I-5 [the main drag N/S] still had a treacherous covering of ice and slush. This in sunshine, hours after any precipitation! Us easterners could not imagine I-95 in that condition!

II. Getting to Work

The first thing people in Lynnwood say, when I tell them where I live, is "Tacoma?!!"; and the first thing people in Tacoma say, when I tell them where I work, is "Lynnwood!!?" It's a drive of more than an hour when traffic is moving along -- which is rare -- passing through Seattle. We have, however, worked out a routine that, for the moment, feels sane: I drive up Monday mornings, leave the car at the "Park and Ride" [free] after school and take two buses home [total of $3]. Monica picks me up in Tacoma at 6:15 PM and drops me off the next morning around 7. [Though it would be possible to await a third bus that stops a block from home]. I retrieve my car and drive to school. Tuesday nights, I swim at the Y up there and sleep at the home of the Eddys. She leads teen masses at the parish and he is a bus driver. They have lots of room in their empty-nested home and have made me very comfortable at no charge. I catch the buses home again on Wednesdays and stay with the Eddys again on Thursdays. It is not till Friday, then, that I bring the car back down I-5. Such a scenario is made workable by the efficient Puget Sound bus system and the gracious hospitality of this parish couple. The greatest inconvenience to me, apart from dodging slow traffic Monday morning and Friday afternoon, is waiting in Seattle for the connecting bus. Some weeks, though, I have to drive it more than once -- to accommodate appointments, school events, etc.

III. The Job Itself

It's interesting that I didn't actually apply for this job. Many of us aren't nearly at good finding work as in having work find us. I had an application registered at the Archdiocese of Seattle, but had used it to apply to parochial schools around Tacoma; I wasn't considering working so far north. It was only after getting turned down from a few public school jobs [the districts I had subbed in last year posted about one job each], that I got a call from the Principal at St Thomas More -- where they had not yet found someone they found suitable -- amd drove up to interview. While I was waiting to hear back from them, I got a call from the Fine Arts Director in Bethel SD saying he was recommending me to a principal in Clover Park [less than half hour away from home]. Then I did get offered the job at St Thomas More, but thought I was on the verge of getting the closer job. I also got a job offer from another Catholic school -- but it was half time rather than full. For a while it felt like it could be the tomb scene in Romeo & Juliet -- one of us taking poison before the other wakes up. But in the end, all the back and forth probably helped settle in our minds that we -- St Thomas More School (via the Principal) and I -- were meant for each other. I do think it is a better situation than I would have found in the public schools. Everyone on staff is a willing and warm collaborator.

I teach 8th grade down through preschool -- one class at each level of General Music meeting twice per week. Then there are student-led liturgies about once a month for which I prepare the grade assigned [who become the choir] and the Mass Band -- which currently comprises three guitar players [one of whom I have switched to bass and another of whom is the 7th grade teacher and who also assists me], three piano players [one of whom also plays flute and the other two of whom are best friends and divide up the keyboard between them] and one drummer [a real natural]. I do whatever I can to maximize their participation, even if it means sacrificing perfection. They meet Mondays after school. I also have three after-school choir rehearsals each week. The younger group, mostly 3-4 graders, sees me twice. This was implemented in past years to accommodate their attendance being made inconsistent by sports and other commitments. But I find that the girls miss few rehearsals, and are therefore getting a lot of attention and training from me to prepare them for more advanced work. The advanced choir [traditionally known as Bella Voce] has turned out to be 5-8 grade. Two girls [one 5th, one 6th] are in both groups, meaning they sing with me three hours a week in addition to General Music. They are both quite talented and a joy to teach. There are also two boys in Bella [voices still high]. It is my last event on Fridays, and always an uplifting way to end the week. The 7-8 gr girls emerge from the self-conscious state the General Music class puts them in and pick up on the energy and focus of the 5-6 graders.

There not being a strong tradition of older boys singing, I had them all meet with me one at a time, during my first week, to introduce myself and check their singing range. I then asked seven of them, whose voices had dropped down and who could match pitch, to meet with me twice a week for 15'; I dubbed them The Baritones. Their singing has been steadily improving in this context -- though some of them are still self-conscious about singing in class when the girls are present. One day, I asked the vice-principal if she could supervise the 8th gr girls for 15' [and later do the same for the 7th gr] to give the young men a chance to work with me alone. Later that day, three more 8th grade boys asked if their voices had changed enough to join the baritones. I wasn't even trying to recruit them; I imagine they saw how the other guys had been enjoying their rehearsals with me and looked to this as a rite of passage. They are not matching pitch all that well yet, but I have a sense that it will come with regular singing with their peers. We are memorizing "Christmas in the Trenches" for the Christmas concert -- which speaks to the heart of what it means to be a Christian man more than any other song I can think of. Perhaps you know this John McCutcheon song about British and German troops celebrating together on the battlefield in the midst of WWI. In an effort to get students playing recorders past gr 4, when it has been introduced here, I'm starting a "consort" to do "Good King Wenceslas" [recorders, xylophones, boomwhackers] on the Christmas concert. Someday a guitar program . . .

IV. Workshops

After getting my Orff Level I certification at the beginning of the Summer -- which required me to spend two weeks down at U of OR -- I was gung-ho to put this approach into practice. I find, however, that expectations accompanying this position limit what I can initiate -- with performances and masses scheduled far in advance. But my classroom is outfitted with [7] mallet instruments, boomwhackers, handbells and percussion; I work these in, along with movement, wherever it makes sense to do so. My principal suggests that after I've seen the year through, I'll be able to work my curricular goals in and around the events that parents and students have come to expect. But I've reserved the local Orff chapter's instruments for the month of Feb; and I hope to get something special together to showcase them. I attended the National Orff Conference earlier this month in Spokane [a happy coincidence that I didn't have to go out of state for my first one, though it's a big state to traverse]. My school covered my registration and substitute teacher. I bought teaching materials and instruments [including a plastic bass recorder for $115! Now I've got a tool rack on the classroom wall that holds bass through sopranino recorders]. I also got to know Paul Winter, who gave workshops and performed there. He's as mellow as his recordings would suggest. . . and such pathos in his sax playing! Then the Seattle Archdiocese sponsored a workshop with choral guru Alice Parker [which my principal mandated I attend!]. It was great meeting Alice, who's from Western MA, and reminiscing with her about Arnie and Ruth Black. Monica was able to come to that too.

V. Withdrawing Spirit from Yesterday's Bank

You may recall that a while back I put a lot of effort into updating my past listening library to today's technology. I am particularly grateful that I had the time to do that before moving west, because I need a lot of music to accompany me driving [or riding the bus] in my present life. I think back to my first quarter-century, when I was making an exciting series of discoveries (with the same eagerness many of my students show today): the British invasion, psychedelia, Beethoven, Josquin, Berlioz, Mahler, Berg, the jazz masters and, or course, classical guitar technique. Once reaching a saturation point for musical complexity, I sought a wider range of folk and international styles. Nowadays, it sometimes feels like there is nothing new in music. After all, in spite of what a wonderfully crafted song "Come Together" is, I've been hearing it regularly for 40 years now! I wouldn't want to figure out the total number of listenings. I do get excited, however, about new ways to excite my students about music -- whatever the style; and I sensed that excitement from the other Orff conference participants. We're being re-born into the simple while becoming newly fired up by its pedagogical possibilities. The Orff-Schulwerk offers ways to make good on my experience as composer and dancer -- I got to do a lot of creative movement at the conference -- which helps me feel more at peace with the circuitous path of my life.

I'm trying to put my finger on what this spirit is about. Remember when top 40 radio was playing "I am the Walrus" or "Strawberry Fields"? Didn't it feel like anything was possible? Or was that simply an illusion -- when the music industry was behind something creative because it happened to sell at that point. Likewise with the selling of Barack O. We hoped change could be generated from the top floor. I pray that now -- with the U.S. political scene having degenerated beyond the point of students gone wild on the substitute teacher, in the belief they won't be held accountable -- some real change might be generated from the street. In the meantime, wherever I get that spirit from -- the umpteenth time hearing Hendrix do "All Along the Watchtower" or the culmination of themes in the slow movement of Mahler's 6th -- it is incumbent on me to pass it on to my students. They're going to need it to take the country back.

Peace, Jeffry

Changing Winds - Summer 2010

2010-07-21T16:45:00.005-07:00

I've just returned from a two-week visit back to Folly Cove (in Gloucester, MA, which is itself a part of Cape Ann), where my mother still lives. It was great seeing old friends & family (L to R, my sister, my niece and their dog, my mom and brother). . .

swimming in the ocean (the cove being just beyond the backyard). . .

relaxing, attending Rockport Chamber Music Festival concerts, playing music (I made a fresh transcription of Bach's Gm violin fugue). . .

and further activities to be described below. I was pleased at how many of my old friends still felt like current friends -- that moving away a year ago did not have to be an ending to, but rather a redefining of, these connections. When some of them remarked they had not gotten a newsletter from me for a while, I began writing this. Though I had been uploading multi-paragraph updates as facebook 'notes' until about 6 months ago, many of my facebook 'friends' (myself included) go long periods without logging on. This time around, I'll see to it that you all receive at least a link to this newsletter in your email inbox. Not having a chance to finish it in Gloucester, I've changed the dateline to Tacoma. After writing down all my random thoughts, I then looked for the pieces that lend themselves to semi-coherent prose -- like sorting laundry. Added to that are some personal news items.

WHERE IS HOME?

Those of us who have lived on both sides of the country are ever seeking to articulate what distinguishes one side from the other. Some things are clearly done differently. In the NE, having been settled earlier, there is more doing what's always been done. Easterners may not strive for efficiency, feeling somewhat powerless over outdated systems and infrastructure too embedded to be redesigned -- such as Boston's street plan of 'paved-over cowpaths'. A Tacoma neighbor recently commented that the NE more resembles Europe. Houses tend to be older and situated on, what Northwesterners would find to be, oddly shaped lots. They can be more difficult to maintain. Daily transactions seem less technologically based than out west, where Orwellian traffic cameras issue moving violations. It's much easier to get lost driving -- which I did once again in Boston (for old times' sake). But, now that I'm back, I do miss having the ocean to swim in, right there, no less. Puget Sound is never warm enough and the nearest lake is a 40-minute drive. I don't mind having left the heat and humidity back east, however.

Returning this time to my birth-town as a visitor, I mulled over a question that ran something like: Does the place ensoul its people, or is it the people who ensoul the place? My mother and I attended the opening reception for an exhibit featuring local artists of the 1930s, some of whom established themselves internationally -- part of a crowd my parents fell in with upon moving here in 1946. Those years -- perhaps up through the dissolution of the Folly Cove Designers in the late 60s -- are sometimes spoken of as Cape Ann's "Golden Age". There was a lot of smoking and drinking that went with the territory. (I recall as a small child sculptor George Demetrios kissing me with a cigar in his mouth). They've almost all passed away by now. But Cape Ann is no less vibrant: new people move in, new families are begun, and new community endeavors replace those that have faded away. An old friend took me to a round-robin song-sharing jam two coves over. Of the 15 or so people there, I knew four. There was a high level of skill: vocally, guitar-picking and songwriting -- along with an unspoken rule that no individual would dominate (or consume too much alcohol). No one smoked. I played some Bach for variety, and George T and I sang "Clear Away" (by the other Bok, Gordon) for the first time since we had performed it a dozen years ago in the dance-drama of the same name -- which also has the significance of being the last performance attended by my father before he died.

One might assume that our regional accent defines our primary home base; in my case that would be Michigan, where I spent my school years. But in the 30 years since my parents returned east from there, I have only made one visit -- when I drove across country last Summer. I walked the Cranbrook grounds with a classmate who now teaches there, bid her goodbye and started for Indiana. But then, along Lone Pine Rd, I saw the opportunity to pull over and walk alone into the quadrangle of the boys' school. My eyes were flooded with tears as all the years of growth, triumphs, discoveries and disappointments hit me like a Mahler tutti -- as though all those I interacted with, and each year's manifestation of myself, were existing simultaneously in that moment.

I'm trying to take stock of what I have in fact acquired with age. It seemed that when I was younger, my rate of assimilation was faster; but then, there was so much new to assimilate. It took only a year for my favorite album to go from being Led Zeppelin's debut to Josquin's Missa Pange Lingua. Areas of emotional and spiritual growth appear to have progressed less rapidly, but then most of us don't receive the methodic training available to students of music.

Right from day one, we are probably looking around and deciding who we want to be like. In 1968, the ones who struck me as happiest -- or at least most interesting -- took drugs; 20 years down the road, the most contented people I could name didn't even touch alcohol. One by one, I endeavored to become conscious of the activities and thought-forms that were keeping me stuck or isolated. Each summit in our climb offers a vantage point to simultaneously view where we've been as well as the way to the next summit. In our hometown it can be more challenging to continue this climb, to shed what does not serve us, surrounded as we are by the environment of our less mature years. We may need to reinvent ourselves, but cannot push outside of what we have been. And so while I share history with the granite shores and crusty character passed down through Gloucester's generations, I also identify with a risk-all pioneering spirit -- and willingness to change -- that I observe in many fellow Northwesterners.

With each passing year, we build our archive of experiences and relationships which, like compost, can break down to form a rich soil. I retain the nutrients from countless interactions -- like New Testament parables, though all the more memorable for having been witnessed firsthand. We may have to pass this life in one body -- our hardware, so to speak -- but are capable of unlimited software upgrades.

MUSIC TEACHING

I got to spend the last third of the school year at one long-term assignment, Woodland Elementary in Puyallup. I had a fun time, building connections with students and staff and honing my General Music chops. Long having been curious about the Orff-Schulwerk method of school music instruction, I finally got my Level I certification some weeks ago at the U of Oregon. The approach covers more territory than I had imagined, much of it not dependent on having recorders or mallet instruments on hand -- methodically addressing issues we music teachers often have with students that just don't seem to 'get it'. The campus was lush and the teachers very effective, organized and personable -- more than justifying the hassles of getting to and from (two weeks, Mo-Fr, I returned to Tacoma by bus in between) and being uprooted. In fact, it was kind of neat being a college student again, without all those longings that went with my undergraduate years on the Hampshire campus. I wrote this in my final reflection:

The Orff-Schulwerk process offers not only a wealth of children’s repertoire, but a set of insights that maximize each child’s success in learning it. While I’ve long incorporated elements of movement, drama, folklore, instruments, composing, social studies and literacy into music classes — typically with an emphasis on singing -- I now see that I was not sufficiently aware of how these elements can work together in sequential fashion to build students’ confidence and musicianship over the long term.

It is difficult to say how I will apply this approach in my teaching next year because I don’t know if I will have a position or be substitute teaching. But the experience offers valuable ideas either way: if I have a position I can take the time to build a foundation under each student; if I’m in a school only for a day, I have a bag of activities that can ‘break the ice’ as well as give some children a new or enhanced concept of themselves as makers of music.

Seeing the collaborative process so alive between my colleagues renewed my faith in what adults can accomplish together; we have much more in common that did first appear. It is exciting to imagine the thousands of children who will benefit from the vigor, caring and newly informed methods of these teachers — each of their successes bringing us closer to Peace on Earth.

A few of the specific insights I can apply next time I walk into any classroom:

• use of speech patterns to learn rhythms, rather than begin with notation on the board
• use of body percussion and step patterns, rather than resorting to number counts that some never assimilate (which could also lend itself to song writing)
• working on vocal and rhythmic independence through complementary ostinati
• leading activities where expression — movement, singing, playing — is an end in itself, rather than students having to learn a set melody, choreography, etc.

The experience also renewed my interest in the recorder and inspired me to deal with the two tenors and a bass I had left at my mom's (which had belonged to a local musician who passed away) whose hardware would need repair for the bottom notes to become accessible. When I dropped Monica off at a Boston wharf for a cruise with her sisters, I took the recorders to the Von Heune Workshop -- New England's recorder capital. At their suggestion, however, I donated them to a Waldorf school -- where having wooden recorders may be important enough to make repair worthwhile -- and purchased a Yamaha plastic tenor for myself.

One of the many books I rediscovered in my mother's house had blessed both her childhood and ours, The Poppy Seed Cakes by Margery Clark. With a mind to Orff treatments, as well as preserving the 80-year-old tome, I scanned the first half -- which I can now easily present on...

MY I-POD

My newsletters sometimes explore technical matters and the device of the year for me is my iPod Touch. Whether of not you have one of these -- or the iPhone, whose operating system it shares -- I hope you will find of interest how I have utilized it thus far. I bought a refurbished 8GB one from Apple for $150 after the hard drive failed on my used 'clickwheel' iPod. It can't hold all of my iTunes library; but hey, how many days of music do you need with you at any one time? It does the internet over wi-fi, making it ideal for reading the NY Times over breakfast. For $30 I bought a cable that allows me to project video on a TV or LCD projector -- though this only works via the Photo, Video and YouTube apps [short for 'applications'; better get used to it]. I was able to save song lyrics [at times adding images, notation] as iPhoto 'albums' [on my laptop] that are presented from the iPod as 'slideshows' -- very handy for a classroom music teacher. Audio can be played at the same time, but you have to return to the music app to cue it and can only synchronize manually. A song presentation can also be converted -- on your computer -- to a Quicktime movie (though it takes up more storage) should you want audio and lyrics/images to play themselves in sync while you tend to other matters. I can plug in a $6 mic and record my students -- in four tracks even (a $4 app). [Through another adapter I can also record with a battery-powered condenser mic, but the cheap mics do pretty well]. In my long-term sub assignments last year, I uploaded these recordings to my webspace for students to hear online. I can process live audio [guitar, voice] through multiple effect modules (99¢). I have simple FM and analog synthesizers that can be triggered by a pattern sequencer (a $5 splurge). I have downloaded free public domain books [Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dickenson, et al] that display clearly -- pages 'turning' at the touch of the screen. Hard copies of all the stuff on this diminutive device would fill the back of a pickup. Enough of that for now, lest you begin to suspect that I'm more interested in figuring out everything possible I can get my iPod to do as opposed to accomplishing anything of substance.

THE CURSE OF THE MIDDLE CLASS?

Back in Folly Cove I put many hours into cleaning the family homestead, trying to dust things like a broken cuckoo clock, fragile Chinese miniatures and programs from the 1948-9 season of Boston Civic Orchestra. I suppose even this iPod will one day share dust with these historic items. The house (which my parents bought when I was four) was already full of books, recordings, antiques and furniture when Monica and I added more last Summer, to prepare our Lanesville barn-home (a mile up the road) for rental. Earlier migrations had been my grandmother's belongings, the monastic furniture of her un-married sister, stuff we had in Michigan, and many travel souvenirs. My mother has shown a lot of tolerance at each influx. But what is a healthy balance between letting go and honoring what has been? How do we keep from putting more effort into maintaining objects than maintaining relationships? All I can say is that I am grateful for how I've been blessed with both, and hope that you have been as well.

Peace, Jeffry

JEFFRY HAMILTON STEELE
guitarist, composer, educator
http://jeffrysteele.com
http://youtube.com/jeffrysteele

Birthday poem for my wife

2010-03-04T11:03:00.001-08:00

No matter what we say or do,
The years since 1952
Continue to accumulate
With accelerated interest rate.
But this birthday's different from the rest:
The first one spent in the Northwest!
With new friends, new work, new terrain
And lots and lots and lots of rain.
However, we must not forget:
It's still God's Country when it's wet.
And where else can one so delight
At the appearance of direct sunlight?
But in all of this there's none so dear
As the woman who brought us here;
And no sun rays quite match the grace
Brought each of us in your smiling face.

Tacoma at 6 months

2010-02-17T11:07:00.000-08:00

Decided not to wait till my next life to play piano; always loved Brahms' Op 118 Intermezzo in A; tried arranging it for guitar duet 30 years ago (David Leisner read through it with me then); but now I am actually playing it (still under tempo) on our grand! This instrument (on loan from St Leo's, Tacoma) is nowhere near as nice as the Estonia we left behind (on loan to St Paul's, Gloucester), so I look forward to a reunion with the latter someday. While there will always be music written for keyboard that finds a new life on guitar, I will henceforth explore the option of learning first to play on piano pieces I would be tempted to transcribe. Now I remember my German grandmother [Brahms being her favorite] trying to instruct me, when I was about 12; but it being her idea, and me not yet having developed a taste for classical music, I resisted. Apparently, doing it "my way" meant putting off piano till mid-life, with the added impetus of needing keyboard skills to vie for choral director jobs. Even my first guitar teacher, Jack, encouraged me to learn piano. I also had to overcome taking on something that my wife [both first and second] would always do better than I.

My last two recitals went well. When I attended a recital at the Antique Sandwich Co. before, only those of us seated near the stage were giving our full attention. But when I played there two weeks back, I was pleased to be the focus of a full house. The Wright Park Conservatory, last Sunday, only seats a few; but a lot of flowers heard me [see photos at my profile page]. The Mandolin Cafe (where I played 12/22) did not turn out to be a good place for classical guitar, but a couple who heard me there returned for the subsequent programs.

Have had some long-term substitute teaching jobs [8 days in Puyallup, 5 in University Place] that allowed me to build rapport with students [most classes met daily] and a relationship with their music teacher (even if just by phone). Although the work is unpredictable, I appreciate the freedom substitute work affords. I can show up, leave my mark, but not be responsible for the ongoing upkeep of each program. Two sisters (5 & 6) just showed me -- at the conclusion of an Ash Wednesday service -- the "To Stop the Train" round with all the moves, as learned from their older sister who learned it from me in school [kind of like the spread of a virus!] One day I'm a choral director, another day orchestra, band or general music for primary grades. I usually give all students a classical guitar demo at the end of class -- which may yield some private students, but I mostly do it to increase the audience for my instrument. I can't take it personally when I don't hear again from some music teachers, as they may simply have used up their sick days. And it's probably for the best I am not working full-time every week, so I have time to clean house, practice and write this.

All it feels like I've done for Haiti, so far, is to re-write the last verse of Harriet Tubman in the arrangement I taught to choirs at Stahl Jr High. I know the coming years will bring many opportunities to assist Haitians, though. One of a number of powerful stories I've heard since the earthquake concerned a former St Leo's parishioner (a recent college graduate) who successfully evacuated all the children from the orphanage where she worked, but did not make it out herself. The social justice coordinator at St Leo's is going to be selling my CDs as a fundraiser for church ministries and he's also arranged for me to play to guests at the soup kitchen.

I don't see how one can call it Winter here. We stayed at the National Parks Inn on Christmas Night for a White Christmas, but down here around Puget Sound the grass has remained green. The sun appears rarely enough that you can't help but smile when it does; and while that may not be as severe as the snow and freezing temps you have out East, I suppose the reappearance of the sun is what we most look forward to about Spring in the NW. We have a spectacular old-growth [500-year-old trees in many cases] forest in Point Defiance Park (a mile from our house), highlighted with luminescent lichens. As Toby and I were exploring a stream in a ravine there yesterday, I kept asking myself how could there possibly be no mosquitoes. What you don't see, however, is the lead and arsenic contamination of the soil, the legacy of the infamous smelter that locals speak of.

Had two rainy get-aways in the past month. Monica and I drove to Port Townsend, staying at a cozy B&B in this self-conscious National Register of Historic Places town -- the closest we've felt to Cape Ann in a while. Then I went to an RC Men's Workshop on Vashon Island (which we view from our home). It's great to be back in touch with the Re-evaluation Counseling community, even if none of the faces are familiar -- my first overnight workshop in over a decade.

Nat (who turns 21 this month) has been enjoying being a student at Tacoma Community College, which has lifted his spirits considerably. He has also been hitting the pavement to find a job. Noah (17) has still been missing much school due to illness; we haven't been so far able to figure why his immune system functions so poorly. Please keep them both in your prayers.

That's it for now. Thanks for sticking with me this long. With each passing month in the NW, I seek to make myself a more versatile musician (music educator) and a more loving person . . . with a good ways yet to go.

Peace be with you, Jeffry

Tacoma at 4 months

2009-12-14T11:08:00.001-08:00

The transition from one side of the country to the other brings with it a change in landscape, in people and also in ourselves. Out East, when certain things dried up, I had to move on; I couldn't go back to doing anything the way I'd done it before, even if I'd wanted to. God wants to keep our lives interesting, perhaps, shutting doors behind us that we may not be willing to close ourselves. I wouldn't have thought to work as a substitute music teacher back there, or to play pass-the-hat venues; it would have felt "beneath me" [such limiting notions]. But out here, where everything feels new -- I regain some of that try-anything energy I had in my 20s. Engaging in some of the same activities I did then will probably take me in a different direction anyway because I am wiser now, more skilled and contented; a new region -- my first urban one in 20 years -- along with this being a new period in history, will yield different results, too. And I don't get judgmental looks from anyone either ["Really, still doing this at your age?"]

I've filled in for enough teachers that I already getting a better sense of the music education scene in this area than I had on the North Shore. Judging from the quality of the junior high choirs I've gotten to work with thus far, I'd hazard an opinion that singing has been better supported in Northwestern schools (and perhaps families) than what I saw back East. The St Leo's community has been quite welcoming, offering us a lot while showing lots of appreciation for what we each have to offer. When my mother visited, she was quite moved by the liturgies here, with their level of inclusion and participation. The two Jesuit priests [who generally prefer to have us address them by their first names] are a twinkling mix of warmth and intellect. While I haven't been involved in any of the ministries apart from music [Monica has me playing there quite a bit -- which might seem like nepotism, except that it has been so well received], we take pride in the St Leo's Food Connection -- which provides meals and groceries to the needy. Most recently, I have been rehearsing the children who will be playing strings and singing for Christmas. (I've also been getting to lead string ensembles as a sub -- wonderful children to work with all 'round). Here is a photo taken by one of the choir members.

St Leo's, taken by Beatrice

Much of the area strikes this easterner as a moon colony: many square miles of characterless chain stores bordered by sublime mountain ranges. Streets and roads are numbered far more often than they are named for something. If they take a rare turn, their number has to change to fit the scheme. Another thing I never saw back East, when a street's course is interrupted (by an industrial park or whatever) you'll find it pick up again with the same number, even if a mile further on. It's as though the whole place was crafted by an architect in a week, rather than reflect centuries of haphazard humanity. Were it not for the general level of friendliness, the technological infrastructure would make living here something out of 1984[remember when that was the future?]: trash picked up by mechanical arms, traffic violations issued by cameras. This time of year, the sun sets shortly after lunchtime. Seems that many of the people we meet arrived during the last generation from another part of the country, which must make for less xenophobia. Whatever the weather does, people tell me, you'll end up grateful when it doesn't rain 30 days in a row.

Although I need to secure more income for us to swing it here, we're doing our best to enjoy the moment and the people sharing it with us. Saw an impressive community production of "Guys & Dolls" and had the choir over for a pot-luck afterwards. I got them to sing through my Missa Nova -- the first time I've heard it from start to finish; bless them. Let me add that I treasure every moment spent with my sweet wife. While there are certainly places and people I miss from back East, there is already much I would miss about the NW were I to suddenly return.

Tacoma at 2 months

2009-10-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

rosy-fingered dawns over the Sound... unblemished Gatsby-era house, authentically unwinterized... keep having to buy many things we didn't have room to bring... still have to handle most of the domestic stuff... most everything one needs within 15 minutes' drive... free parking, easily found... hours consumed in change of residency, irreversible USPS mistake which has my mother's mail getting sent here along with other paperwork bogs... western people devote more time to having friends [postulate], encouraging us to do the same; seeing if we can start a meal group based on my Newburyport "Eating Collective" days... great Django-era Gypsy Quintet at the Mandolin Cafe... auto mechanic a block away; his wife does hair... interviews but no offers... working my way onto sub lists for nearby school systems... lots of appreciation for my playing at St Leo's... a great worship experience there... played yesterday for retired Sisters of St Francis... to be playing a Spanish house concert Sunday... working up duets with another guitarist... practicing piano... glad to see Monica and Noah thriving... trying to help Nat get his footing in the world... Pepe (cat) happier; the x-country drive seems to have made him more assertive; vet here has him on new insulin at a third the cost of that required by vet back east... missing folks and places, though appreciating the fresh start... hope you're not starved for pronouns... wondering where it all will lead...

Birthday poem for my mother

2009-08-07T04:28:00.001-07:00

To Mom, 8/6/09 (in 12/8)

This birthday brings us to the extent

Of this home's capacity for things.

(Even if only but ten percent

Of that housed at the Von Rosenvinge's).

Generations of Eckerts, Hamiltons, Steeles,

All here well-represented,

In photographs, keepsakes, aluminum wheels,

Obsolete or as yet un-invented.

How then shall we trace back to its beginning

This ancestral accumulation?

Who first had the thought that, instead of trimming,

Old possessions just change their location?

Even J. S. Bach, cleaning out his drawers,

Sought not to store in the basement;

For he simply accepted that all his great scores

Would be thrown away by his replacement.

But we who are mortal must put off till later

The disposal of our earthly goods.

And you who were matriarch must now be curator

Till we get ourselves out of the woods.

Your patience and kindness we might have deserved;

Though we haven't made all the right choices.

But there is no other mother we would have preferred,

Or who'd have shown greater joy in our voices.

Summer 2009

2009-07-21T18:20:00.002-07:00

1. Going with the flow

2. From East to West

3. Musical activities

4. Reflection: Pilgrimage

Calumet Lutheran Ministries

Freedom, NH

1. Going with the flow

"Now you are my friends" -- John 15:15

As I did last Summer, I write you from the utopia of Calumet, in the hermitage of Staff Trailer D. This is most likely the last newsletter I am sending out as a "bulk" e-mail. The hassles associated with maintaining a large mailing list -- such as losing contacts when their addresses change and my server preventing me from sending to the whole list at once -- prompt me (with the suggestion of my step-son Noah) to look at blogs and social networks. At first I uploaded all my archived writing to the blog space http://jeffrysteele.blogspot.com. Check that out if you'd like to see my past newsletters, articles and even birthday light verse. But I don't post frequently enough for it to be a proper blog meriting the elicitation of regular "followers".

More recently, I responded to an "invitation" to be someone's facebook "friend". It didn't take long for me to end up with a lot of "friends", turned up through facebook's raid of my address book, associations automatically generated by my profile, "friends in common" along with those who find me through similar means. While I haven't given time to exploring its potential -- or to be in touch with more than a few of these past friends & students, relatives, etc. -- facebook does seem like it could be more efficient way to be in communication with a large group of people at once. There looks to be a greater variety of people (and generations) represented than I had expected. I don't think I'll become one to post what I had for breakfast, or my mood that day, but I would like to share epistles such as these from time to time and perhaps performance alerts. While my e-mail inbox fills up with ads from retailers, petitions to be signed, donation requests and spam, facebook features the personal expressions of individual humans. We hold a particular fascination for other humans; the more I get to know others, the better I understand my own reasons for existing. So if you want to continue receiving my bi-annual newsletter, you will have to become (if you are not already) my "friend". (This also provides a chance for those of you who don't read it to opt out without having to take further action). I also welcome suggestions from those of you with more social networking experience; for example, how do I best group my "friends" by interest or by location, so that particular posts may be targeted to them?

2. From East to West

In a few weeks, I will be driving from Gloucester, MA to Tacoma, WA, towing a 10' cargo trailer, with Toby (dog) and Pepe (cat) as passengers. I hope not to repeat scenes from the movie "Wendy & Lucy" -- the independent film about a young woman and her dog attempting to drive West. "What prompts this move?" everyone asks (so I assume you would too). First off, Noah's dad moved to WA in recent years, and so Monica -- exploring ways to keep the two of them better connected -- responded to a job posting in Tacoma for Music & Liturgy Director at St Leo's Church (Jesuit). The latter replied enthusiastically (affirming my good taste in marriage partners), offering to fly her out and put her up in a hotel just to meet her (heck, all I had to do to meet her was show up at a local Memorial Day Picnic in 2000). So, in January, the three of us travelled there together. (My older step-son, Nat, in case you know him, was in the Air Force at the time -- a separate story I won't be going into). For this visit, we arranged for Noah to be interviewed at a (public) magnet school, the Tacoma School of the Arts. Not long after returning home, Monica was offered the job and some weeks later Noah was offered a slot at the school. Both situations look more workable than where they found themselves this past year.

As for me, I hope for that pioneering open-mindedness, ascribed to the West, to enhance my job prospects. Schools in New England, at least, seem to hold a fairly narrow definition of what constitutes a "music teacher"; someone such as myself may look risky to employers accustomed to resumes with fewer detours off the certificated music educator's path. I recall one principal stating frankly in an interview, "Hiring you would mean going outside the box for us." Though a teacher by birth, perhaps I am not meant to work in schools anymore; I did just get my WA music teacher certification, just in case. Maybe it's time to figure out where people need me most and start volunteering; the evening I passed in the Tacoma Public Library, for instance, I certainly saw a lot of need. I pray, therefore, for the gift of discernment.

I decided to buy this used cargo trailer off craigslist -- the size our Forester is rated to haul (though I worry I might have loaded it over the 2400 lb limit) -- after exploring the other moving options. It cost no more than what U-haul was charging to rent more-or-less the same trailer. One of the "Pods" cost twice as much, and you're still left with getting your car there. You have to ask yourself whether you're going to spend more getting something out there than you would to buy it in the new location. So I made the decision that whatever didn't fit in that trailer (apart from books to be mailed media rate) was not going -- intentionally forcing a purge of many years' accumulated stuff. We soon came to see why so many people, overwhelmed by this prospect, just pay to get everything moved. Even if we had wanted to, we didn't have time to organize the selling of anything apart from the LPs selected by my old friend Jack at Mystery Train. The nice family we found on craigslist to rent our Lanesville barn-home agreed to accommodate some of our furniture and, a pleasant surprise, our cat Cleo. But not having street frontage, and mostly rainy Spring days, limited what we could put out labeled "free". Most of the big pieces went to respondents to my craigslist Free Stuff listings. We watched gratefully as items we had purchased even a few years back went out the door -- never to be seen again -- each representing a link in the chain to our mooring. I must admit that we couldn't have done it without my mother helping us, feeding us and absorbing pieces into her home down the street. (OK, so we didn't manage a total purge!)

When it looked like many of our clothes were not going to fit -- and I didn't want to pay to mail them parcel post -- Monica suggested we also get a car-top carrier. So for $169 (delivered) from Amazon, I got us an extra 18 cubic feet. Assembly was required, however, and as I did not bring tools up here to NH, the Campground Manager loaned me some. As I started, one afternoon last week, a boy with nothing in particular to do appeared on his bike offering help (though he needed a fair amount of attention in return). "Well actually, I could use a wider screwdriver," I mused. He rides off and returns with one in hand -- 60-second turn-around time. Same thing when I needed an Allen wrench to adjust the roof rails (though this time he returned with a box containing about 100 Allen wrenches). I never got to meet his grandfather, the source of these tools, to thank him.

Monica arrived in Tacoma a few days ago, by air, starting her job and seeking housing. She's been so well looked after -- people from the church putting her up, showing her around, loaning her transportation -- she says she feels like Dorothy in Oz. We communicate mostly through Skype video conferencing (something else we learned from Noah). So far, she's loving it there.

In spite of the master plan, I didn't want to give up working at Calumet again, and Noah did not want to give up participating in the Leadership & Service program here. His dad, who flew out from WA, just picked him up in our Prius and they will share driving (Noah has his learner's permit) to Tacoma -- getting a car and a family member transported while providing them with an adventure together. I am living with Toby and Pepe here in the same trailer as last Summer; since I only had the cat here with me then, this arrangement gives them the practice hours co-existing in close quarters needed for the trip. On 8/1, we return to Gloucester from here to make final preparations and celebrate my mother's birthday. Setting out on 8/7, she will accompany us as far as Michigan. Most of my growing up took place there -- at Cranbrook School, where my father taught -- and I haven't seen it since he retired in 1980. From there, the animals and I continue onward, picking up I-90 and staying at KOA "kabins" mostly, spending nights in Middlebury, IN, Dell Boo, WI, Mitchell, SD, (Badlands Loop detour to) Philip, SD, Sheridan, WY, Deer Lodge, MT, and arriving in Tacoma the night of 8/15 -- barring the unforeseen. I imagine my mind will be on those pioneers for whom the trip westward was far more arduous; I honestly don't know how they managed without an iPod.

3. Musical activities

This past school year I regularly filled in for Monica at her two jobs, taking over the leading of student musicians for Sunday Worship at Merrimack College in the Spring, which was pretty fun. I did again have Fridays at Ford School in Lynn, MA (Metropolitan Opera Guild's Urban Voices Choral Initiative); and it was the best year ever. Both students and teachers were enthusiastic and grateful; I had good support from the principal; and I worked more purposefully on less material. Monica took photos when she came down to play piano accompaniments; and I assume, since I am not posting it for public access, that I might share one of me with most of Mrs Mitsiaris' third grade class. The front row did a "sailors dance" for our performance of the song "Dance Boatmen Dance"; the homeroom teacher is occluded to my right. I do hope my Lynn students also get the chance to go to a nice place over the Summer. [blogspot readers will not be able to view this image without becoming my facebook "friend"]

While Calumet does not come anywhere close to Ford School for diversity, the children are also a delight to work with. We on the Family Camp Program Staff offer a morning "Kids Fun Time" -- for which I do songs and Bible lesson -- along with other family worship and play activities throughout the day and evening. Three times a week I offer Music Time, in which I prepare various combinations of children and adults to perform informally. I collaborate with each pastor of the week for Morning Devotions and Thursday Night Vespers (on the beach). By the end of each week they feel like one of my siblings. In fact, the atmosphere is such that many of these guest families, seeing them as I do on a daily basis, become like my extended family members. The character of the Family Camp changes each week; this past week has produced the highest level of participation in worship and singing owing to it being when certain families chose to be here. I enjoy camaraderie with fellow staff, too. I also appreciate getting to collaborate with the Resident Camp (across the street) Music Leader, Judy, along with other accomplished musicians who float through. I gave a few recitals to maintain repertoire, and play for the whole-camp Sunday Worship -- which I understand is the largest Lutheran congregation in New England (in Summer, at least).

I actually began my first stint on the year at Calumet on Memorial Day Weekend, when I was Song Leader for a long weekend gathering on the theme "Love to Serve." Because the anthem I wrote for last Summer's Finale proved difficult for my choir that week, I wrote an easier one for this ["When Did We See You?"]. Looks like I've got folks to sing it here this week, too. Feel free to download it and try it with your choir; I would love any recording you happen to make of it.

Of interest to guitarists, I am having my Frank Hasselbacher guitar rebuilt by luthier Tom Knatt. I destroyed the top in a freak accident a couple of years ago (perhaps it's for the best Frank did not live to see that). Since we couldn't see moving with or storing this badly wounded instrument, we finally decided to invest in its recovery -- book it into the operating room, so to speak. Tom is making a top with a different bracing than I've had, to complement the other guitars in my collection (one of which he built some years ago), and making a new fingerboard scaled for the standard 65 cm string length (it took me nearly 20 years to realize that not only was the original 66 cm was too long for me, but that everyone else was playing a 65!).

Of interest to composers, I'm trying to get back to a piece I started last Fall for solo guitar (classical, electric pickup) with electronic effects. With the working title "The Thief of the Cross", it takes as its dramatic narrative ("program") the account in Luke leading up to the thief's request to be remembered in Jesus' Kingdom. The guitar's output goes via a firewire interface (usb would do) into a MacBook running Apple Logic. Eight signal processing "plug-ins" affect the guitar sound, though usually no more than two are active in any given moment. Standard notation scrolls by for the guitarist to play from in real time, while parameters for the signal processing are slaved to the same sequencer that is providing the notation. The plug-ins are either standard or freeware (my favorite being the Spectral DroneMaker), allowing the piece to migrate to other platforms. I hope that writing about it here will increase my commitment to complete it, even if what I end up calls for an alternative to the biblical program.

4. Reflection: Pilgrimage

I remember being 22, visiting New Quay in Wales because I wanted to see the place on which Dylan Thomas based Under Milkwood. Before coming across the cartoon in which a camera-laden tourist walks into a pub and one capped regular nudges two others, "Alright, whose turn is it to play I knew Dylan Thomas?", I myself walked into a pub and asked for Alistair McClean, who I had been told "comes into the Dolough every day at one o'clock" and who "knew Dylan Thomas." But rather than invite me for a pint, he dismissed me with, "Nothin' I could tell ya that ya couldn't read someplace." Had Thomas been sitting at the next table, I imagine he would have written this brief interaction into his script. Here I was bobbing for a souvenir of history, only to become a character in its ensuing course. For will not Dylan Thomas always be sitting at the next table of that seaside pub, outside of time, just as he was during WWII?

Making this move is like ascending a ridge from where I can survey the past and glimpse the future. In our push to empty the house, we'd each come across stuff we'd been saving for many years, through previous moves even, and ask, "Why?" It's often the small items you spend the most time deliberating over -- a birthday card that warmed my heart, a packet of letters from someone I corresponded with for a decade, photos that didn't make it into albums -- but what to do with them now seems the big question. It is the distinguishing between compost that enriches the soil and manure that mucks the soles -- between growing and burrowing. I was able to part with all my LPs because I took time to encode what I wanted to bring with me as digital files on my computer. But even then, aren't I "clinging to the past" by continuing to listen to them? . . .

"I need some lovin' like a body needs a soul.

I need some lovin' like a fastball needs control."

-- Iggy Pop

Not me, no! I came up with a professional rationalization by designing a course, referred to in my last newsletter, that uses mostly "boomer" music to teach theory and songwriting craft; the most positive development so far in my quest for work in WA is interest in that course by one community college.

Somewhat akin to the pull to go on pilgrimage to places great artists lived, is the pull to revisit places I lived in earlier decades. Just as I can walk around New Quay communing with Dylan Thomas, I can revisit walks I took at half my age and commune with the younger me. . . Walks I associate with times of closeness and isolation, wonder and disillusionment, inspiration and emptiness, confusion and epiphany -- what would I say in walking with him now? I sense that he's feeling that he let me down; so I need to be able to tell him he's doing just what he's supposed to be doing. I can be his angel, outside of time. I also appreciate the chance to measure my progress since these earlier times. Progress towards . . . towards . . . a realization of what progress actually means. If it isn't in music written, in professional reputation, in fees commanded, in achievements by biological children, in recording or publishing contracts, in audience size, or even in marriage stability . . . then it must be the slowly developing awareness of Divine perspective. You know, the reason certain things didn't work out the way you hoped while others snuck up from behind.

Walking away from Morning Devotions the other day, someone asked if the elderly gentleman singing with us was my father. In fact, he was the father of someone else there; my father passed away 11 years ago this month. I replied something like, "Well actually, my father was there. You just couldn't see him." I'm just remembering another move, 1990: Julia (my first wife) and I from Jamaica Plain to Turners Falls. I drove a U-haul truck and my father drove one of our cars right behind me. After every turn I'd check the rearview mirror and he was still there. As we crossed the bridge over the falls, I got choked up with the thought that he always would be.

As much as I'd like to go on pilgrimage to old MA haunts like Turners Falls or Newburyport before moving West, I probably won't get the chance. The visit to Cranbrook will be memory-stirring enough. The days I am at my mother's house before embarking will be spent fixing little things, finding places to put stuff (her balcony and our furnace room each look like one of those garages no one can park in anymore), pack it or dispose of it. Both she and our tenants have shown great patience. Looming is the question of who she can call for help with this and that when I'm no longer up the street. It assuages guilt to remember that she didn't bring me up to stagnate in my hometown.

As our shadows continue to roam in places we've lived and in the hearts of those we've known, so must traces of those places and shadows of those people shimmer on inside of us. Staff Trailer D is my temporary home, my refuge, easily moved into and out of. Many have lived there and many more will: waking from dreaming, making do without plumbing, listening to loon and whippoorwill and perhaps adding another stain. For my part, I will take with me the solace of solitude when I go. The home my body provides me on earth at this period in time is also temporary, provided through God's grace. May my spirit shimmer on in NH, MI and MA when I am in WA; and may the spirit of those places, and those met there, accompany me for the final journey. And so I ask you to pray for all who are affected by this transition of ours, just as we all pray for those who lack the privilege or support that would enable them to make such a move.

To my wife on her birthday

2009-03-04T10:19:00.002-08:00

When first we met

You were a mere forty-seven,

Raising two boys

At eleven-eleven.

You thought you had reached

The end of your game;

Not predisposed

To meet your next flame.

Yet by the time

You reached forty-eight

We’d done “Gift of Vision”,

Set our wedding date,

Repaired the roof

(To keep out the pigeons)

And started a process

To change my religion.

At age forty-nine

Little time for renewel

Each day sending off

Three boys to school.

Come to age fifty

What happened then?

If I could remember

I’d be young again

But it isn’t our memories

Starting to fail

With more years to archive

Deluge of detail.

But here I must stop

For now we are late

Happy fifty-seventh

Heaven will wait.

2008 Year-end

2008-12-30T09:50:00.000-08:00

1] Put Me on Your iPod

2] Sing My Anthem
3] Take My Course
4] Year-End Reflection: From Narcissus to Jesus
5] New Year's Eve Program Notes: The Heart of Fugue

Though I may be overpacking this epistle, I remain committed to the policy (now a decade old) of sending to my entire mailing list only twice each year. I aim to have your first reaction, each time receiving this, be one of curiosity. The most time-dependent item here is my annual New Years Rockport Eve recital, which will be (same as last year's) 8:00-8:45 and 9:00-9:45 at the First Baptist Church, corner of Main & Broadway in Rockport, MA. Details on this year's program "The Heart of Fugue" are found below and information about the entire evening may be found at http://newyearsrockporteve.com.

Put Me on Your iPod

All six of my CDs are now available through my site as high quality MP3 downloads. They are encoded at 256 kbps VBR (variable bit rate), which is the same quality used for Amazon.com MP3 downloads. (While this makes for a larger file size than those sold at iTunes, the audio is noticeably superior). Each album sells for $7.50. Once you reach the page to download the files, however, all the albums are available — where you are welcome to download albums you didn't pay for, try them out, and then go back and pay for what you expect to continue enjoying. Start at http://jeffrysteele.com/cds-mp3s.html.

Sing my anthem

Toward the end of last Summer [which readers of my previous newsletter will recall I spent at Camp Calumet in NH] I wrote a SATB anthem for choir to a text from St. John's Gospel, "Children of the Light." Though our performance of it in the final liturgy there was under-rehearsed, it was well-received. I invite those of you who may direct or sing in choirs (or any singing ensemble) to consider programming it. Download the score for free at http://jeffrysteele.com/servicemusic.html, where you will also find my Missa Nova (previously done at Calumet). This was notated, by the way, in Apple Logic, rather than my usual Finale.

Take My Course. . .

. . . please! My experience last year teaching the "Rock'n'Roll and American Society (1945-1980)" course at MassBay Community College got me energized to develop a new course targeted to non-music majors. The result is "Learning from the Great Songwriters (1963-2007)", which I submitted to the Tufts Experimental College. I may as well have "brought coals to Newcastle", given that they already have a lot of music courses and were only accepting 16% of the courses submitted in all fields. Perhaps you know of another institution that would be interested in offering it. Click here for a description and a sample handout.

Year-End Reflection: From Narcissus to Jesus

Living in a retired trailer at Calumet all last Summer was a lesson insimplicity (How many things do we really need in our lives?), in collectivity (What do I need my own bathroom for?), in service (What are the actual needs of those around me, regardless of what I am professionally trained to offer them?) and in worship (What is the best use of people's time together? How should we respond to the natural beauty around us?), among other things. If this sounds monastic, that may relate to my just having read The Mountain of Silence (Markides) about Eastern Orthodoxy on Cyprus. In an effort to face today's and tomorrow's economic challenges, Monica and I have made several changes to cut back on expenses. We have a young woman living with us from Nigeria (finishing Seminary) who pitches in on housework and driving of Noah in exchange for room and board. We cleared out our finished basement for rental. This required resolving pet coexistence issues that had been holding us hostage. We do basically everything out of the kitchen now — meaning that whatever we've cluttered up the kitchen table with has to be cleared so we can sit down for a meal. I give lessons at my mother's house, which means I see more of her. Not a lot of work has come through this year for me — I still have Fridays with my wonderful Lynn choral students — but I'm not lacking things to do. Monica having two jobs in music ministry, she needs a lot of my logistic, as well as musical, support. These are among the adaptations we all must implement when there's less money to go around; the cats have to live with the dog; resources are shared; our material world contracts.

How little we can imagine as to what God has in store for us. If someone had come to me in my younger years to say that after a dozen years of guitar teaching I was going to want to move on to something more dynamic and challenging but that specific preparations would be necessary to secure that work, I would probably not have heeded the advice and felt that I knew better. Likewise, if someone had told me that I would by this time have attained a wonderful marriage that puts God first, I'd have shaken my head incredulously — what on earth does thatmean? Perhaps God prioritized that which I wanted most, and saw to my "schooling" like a Dickens benefactor. I'm still trying to understand what God wants me to do next with my gifts . . . perhaps there's something unique coming my way with the reconfiguration of our society. Now that my older step-son has joined the Air Force (this surprisingly positive development could be the topic of a whole other newsletter) and the younger one is considering a move to the West Coast with his father (it's yet to be seen what sort of development this is), we can start considering more options for ourselves. If you know of a position that might be suited to me, even far from Gloucester, we may be willing to make the move.

An opinion piece in the New York Times (Sonja Lyubomirsky, "Why We're Still Happy", 12/26) concludes that "We care more about social comparison, status and rank than about the absolute value of our bank accounts or reputations." If we see others going down around us, we're OK going down too. But when our lot, our career, whatever, pales next to someone else's we're discontent. This must be Narcissus, or logismoi(thought forms) the Eastern monks keep at bay through prayer (specifically, the Prayer of Jesus). Has the American Way — or its progeny, the Global Economy — given the dishonest practices that have long germinated in "enterprise", finally proved itself unsustainable? As ominous as it may appear, I am excited for the potential the Economic Downturn shows for addressing deep cultural dysfunctions — to bring us further down the path from ego fulfillment to the common good. In the meantime, "I feel like I owe it to someone" (D. Crosby, "Almost Cut My Hair") to maintain my guitar chops and present a challenging recital from time to time. . .

Program Notes: "The Heart of Fugue"

2008-12-30T06:42:00.000-08:00

Click each page to enlarge
p. 4, p. 1:

p.2, p. 3:

To My Wife (Making Cursillo)

2008-11-06T19:07:00.000-08:00

You are my home,
My heart’s desire.
You bring me new strength
To raise my arms higher.
You lead me to challenge
And fill me with fire
As no other woman could do.

Of all of the paths
God has led me down,
The one to your door,
So far out of town,
Reveals a bronze throne
And a pair of jeweled crowns,
Wrought by the fairies from dew.

Here now at St Basil’s
You have confirmation
Of inherited royalty
Or a well-earned vacation.
May you know yourself better,
Find new inspiration
And remember my vast love for you.

To my Mother-In-Law on her 90th Birthday

2008-10-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

Women like you are not bothered by trifles,
Raised as you were by aunties with rifles --
Deep in the woods of the forty-ninth state,
Which lately has fostered one brash running mate.
Drawn, as you were, to those with strong feelin',
You found yourself nursing one ornery Sicilian.
Settling together as post-war consumers,
Not knowing your kids would become known as 'boomers',
You bought a big house on a New England farm
And brought up four girls, who lived in the barn.
For holiday meals, you let them inside.
"For sure you will spoil them," the neighbors deride.
But when the girls staged their theatric ambitions
Their parents were charged a double admission.
And though he started with best of intentions,
Your husband was shortly consumed by inventions.
So to bring the family some stabilization
You got into nursing home administration.
Grand-parenting may have been more than you bargained;
As you were there for my step-sons before divine jargon
Would say that this daughter's intended life mate
Was to be spared diapers and be showing up late.
And for that favor I was in your debt,
that is, till we traveled abroad somewhat wet.
How blest we are now that you're here to this day
And for quite a few more, if God has his way.
To think that you date from the Great War's conclusion!
A life lived long and well need not be illusion.

To my Niece on her 10th Birthday

2008-08-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

Filling out forms now
May feel strange and new:
Where there was only one digit.
Now you put two!

Your life marches forward.
It won't be so far
Till you're behind the wheel
Of your first pre-owned car.

Paying insurance;
Paying for gas.
Perhaps be a lawyer;
If the Bar you can pass.

"But wait just a minute;
My ticket right here
Says I can return
If used in one year.

"'Satisfaction Guaranteed',
So reads the sign;
And I'm not quite through
Being just eight or nine.

"An easy life, please;
Nothing too hard.
Say, what age must I be
For my first credit card?"

Love, Uncle Jeffry

To my Mother on her Birthday

2008-08-11T06:30:00.000-07:00

Time's running short
Before I leave to see ya;
So you may not get
As many lines as Lucia.

How's the weather been there?
My stoop is a dock.
I'm glad life with you
Has been more than small talk.

They say the twenties
Roared without strife,
Some prodigy remaining
Twenty-something for life.

The age of the present
I know not what to call;
But that you're here in it
Brings joy to us all.

2008 Summer

2008-08-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

Prologue

Traditionally, this bi-annual epistle has gone out in late Spring to advertise my Summer recitals and reflect on the year thus far. This Summer, however, my performing has all been for 'private' functions, the majority being gatherings of the Camp Calumet community. Since mid-June I have been housed in a trailer at this New Hampshire Lutheran utopia, collaborating in the organizing of Family Camp programs (a separate operation from the Resident Camp). While I wrote a first draft of this newsletter during my first week here, I decided to hold off sending anything out until lessons more worth your time emerged from the experience.

Learning to Play iPod

First, an aside that should interest other 'boomers'. While teaching the class described in my last newsletter ('Rock & Roll and American Society, 1945-1980), I found myself needing to encode mp3s of songs from my vinyl record collection for easy access on my laptop during lecture presentations. Later I thought, wouldn't it be great to have every track I enjoy listening to (or teaching about) so accessibly categorized? Oh, but what an overwhelming task! Nonetheless, I made a point of putting on records to record whenever doing kitchen and house work -- though it did mean sitting down later to separate and label individual tracks -- and within a few months I had made it A-Z through all my jazz/pop/folk along with some of the classical. The LPs (300+) then went to a used record store and the Lutheran church yard sale.

Revolution through Intonation

I have written before about why I believe every human being benefits from singing. In early Spring I took a rigorous online course through Boston University in Music Education Research. (I am debating whether to continue pursuing this second Masters degree or switch to the Doctorate in Sacred Music program through the Graduate Theological Foundation). My eyes were opened to the importance of empirical research in all areas we work in or even talk about. From reading the news media we get a random sampling of pieces making up the jigsaw puzzle for any given issue; research allows us start fitting contiguous pieces together. My previous impression of research came from the dry tables and charts seen in quantitative research. But equally legitimate, I learned, are the stories and experiences shared in qualitative research. (It can be hard for the eyes to note that the 'nt' in the first word becomes 'l' in the second). I read about how making music has been credited with benefitting for our immune systems, our emotional well-being, our math skills (though we don't want to slave our music programs to MCAS results) and our effectiveness working as a group. One example of the latter that comes to mind, featured in at least two documentary films, is the Balkan 'Singing Revolution' that bloodlessly ended Soviet rule in that region.

In the Urban Voices Choral Initiative -- which has made up most of my teaching in recent years -- we strive to bring the choral singing experience to students whose exposure to it, mostly due to economic reasons, has been limited. We also build musical skills in classroom teachers whose musical experience has also, in most cases, been limited. The object is reach as many students as we reasonably can. We don't work in school systems that have the stability and budget allowing elementary to 'feed' into middle, which in turn 'feeds' into prestigious high school choral programs.

There are similarities between this and what I've been doing this Summer at Calumet. To whoever 'walks through the door' or, in this case, meanders over from their campsite, I offer a musical experience: worship music, songs for Kids' Fun Time, an afternoon music hour for all ages (where instruments may be brought), spontaneous sing-alongs, and my own guitar recital every Sunday afternoon. I organize impromptu performances where adults and children alike test their mettle in front of a supportive audience. For last Saturday night, I put together a concert of four professional level musicians: a Portuguese classical pianist who works in the Dining Room, a jazz guitarist who has camped here each Summer for decades, a Taiwanese pianist and singer of soulful Christian songs (her parents are both Lutheran pastors back in Taiwan) who works in the Day Camp, and myself.

Some visitors may be here a week or two, some only a couple of days. We are the keepers of their 'Brigadoon': the timeless, harmonious place they return to year after year -- some for generations. Last week the place was crawling with adults who enjoyed singing at every opportunity (it was rumored that members of a church choir had arrived together), while very few children came to 'Fun Time'. Some weeks the reverse can be true.

The voice is the most personal of musical instruments, produced entirely within the human body -- capable of re-creating feeling-states in listeners with each familiarly human nuance in timbre, elocution and facial expression. “It’s not what Dylan sings,” said John Lennon, “it’s the way he sings it.” As with most camp situations, there is a long tradition of singing loudly with only the vaguest sense of pitch. But however transient the participants and however informal the setting, I strive here at Calumet to get every voice on pitch -- sneaking in the kind of vocalizing I use for Urban Voices. For not only is it more satisfying for me to hear the right notes, it is more satisfying for participants to be singing them. There is no experience that quite matches feeling your own voice become an integral component in a choral sound. I have come to believe that developing confidence in singing is a step in the self-actualization process that makes us happier and more pro-active on behalf of other humans. Hence, the heading above.

Looking Ahead to God-Knows-What

Breathing the sweet rural NH air, swimming in the lake, bicycling, rarely driving, never cooking; this life is more like being on retreat than working a job. I'm located by the chicken coop, maintained by Alice, along with all the flower gardens. I brought my cat of 12 years here to insure he gets his insulin injections. My sole complaint concerns having no water hookup, particularly when it comes to his litter box. The fact that a spider bite made me seriously ill the first week is water under the bridge. Monica makes visits when she's able. I'm not completely out of touch with the world, though, as I talk to a variety people of all ages about their lives. The teenage junior counselors who assist us give me optimism for their generation. I get to work with families where altruism can be seen down through the youngest child. This is 'Faithful Friends' Week, when mentally challenged adults -- most of whom attended Resident Camp as children -- are staying in the barn and adding life to our programming. By the end of the Summer -- whose last week finds me directing the one official choir -- I will have collaborated with nine Lutheran pastors (one week each). In my free time, I've been learning the ins and outs of Logic Express 8, Apple music creation software I purchased recently. I've recorded some guitar/synthesizer improvisations, begun an analysis of Bach's Prelude, Fugue & Allegro (which I've been playing on recitals here for the first time in over 30 years) and read a few books. I will close by quoting from one:

At a certain point, life becomes less about who you're becoming and more about who you've become. . . Wherever you've been, and whatever you've done so far, your entire life was building up to this moment. Now is the time to burst forth into your greatness -- a greatness you could never have achieved without going through exactly the things you've gone through. Everything you've experienced was grist for the mill by which you have become who you are.

Williamson, Marianne (2008) The age of miracles: embracing the new midlife. New York: Hay House.

Even though I did not send out the first version of this newsletter, I'm glad to have written it. For in reading it over I see the musings of someone struggling to make peace with internally and externally imposed 'career' expectations -- a litany of more than you needed to hear. While that struggle may not be over, I anticipate returning home with new contentment.

Peace, Jeffry

To my Mother on Mother's Day

2008-05-11T06:27:00.000-07:00

This Mother’s Day just bursts with Spring
For even this clan has been planting
Yet perplexed as to why I have not come
To inherit one tenth of your green thumb

Still may we find more gratitude
For family, home and latitude
For all the times that we have passed
All the gifts that shall us outlast

2007 Year-end

2007-12-30T17:40:00.000-08:00

1) New Year's Eve concerts
2) Teaching update
3) Year-end Reflection

1) My New Year's Eve concert this year is "Great Melodies from Movies" with compositions by Bonfa, Tarrega, Rota, Albeniz, Myers, Debussy, Couperin, Chopin, Bach and myself. While some pieces represent the main theme from a movie (such The Deer Hunter or Romeo & Juliet) others are pre-existent works chosen by great (and perhaps not-so-great) film-makers. Thanks to the internet I know that the Prelude to Bach's First Cello Suite as well as Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude figure into at least eight films each. This recital theme unites some of my favorite, but otherwise unrelated, pieces -- and will undoubtably have a nostalgic appeal for some listeners. The performance takes place at the Baptist Church in Rockport -- part of "New Year's Rockport Eve" -- which is at the corner of Broadway and Mt. Pleasant (which most of us would call Main St). The first show will be 8:00-8:45 PM with a repeat at 9:00-9:45.

2) "Changing Winds" never ceases to be the appropriate title for my newsletters; as change has been a constant in my musical life. I returned to the Metropolitan Opera Guild's Urban Voices program this past Fall, where I have enthusiastic choral students at two welcoming schools. Akin to a residency, Urban Voices is designed to reach new students every year, and therefore one cannot do the kind of program-building that results from working with the same students for consecutive years. In Peabody, I am at a Catholic school, where I work with the music teacher and (mostly white) students who come from relatively stable homes. In Lynn, I work with six classroom teachers and a more at-risk, ethnically diverse population. While I did teach a similar demographic last year at Chelsea High School -- and even though students met with me daily rather than weekly -- I feel more effective in Lynn both because students are younger and I am better supported by administrators and teachers. I also appreciate the professional development and supervision offered by the MOG.

I also taught, at MassBay Community College, a course titled "Rock & Roll and American Society, 1945-1980." This opportunity came up suddenly when teacher there had to abandon the class after three meetings and the Assistant Provost found my resume at higheredjobs.com. It just so happened I had for some months been planning a class like this without any idea where I would teach it. I stuck with the readings that were already assigned in two textbooks -- and the writing assignments -- but otherwise personalized the curriculum significantly. The hardest part was deciding what to leave out in this survey of 35 years' worth of popular music and its times -- sifting through hundreds of songs that (I believe) played a role in the remarkable evolution of musical style. I was excited by the challenge of lecturing and leading discussion on much of my own life's soundtrack. It gave me an excuse to supplement my collection of recordings and to articulate ideas I had stored away for decades. Youtube and Wikipedia both proved invaluable resources. Students were engaged by my personal recollections -- particularly of attending Woodstock -- and patient with my forays into music theory. I had a guitar on hand to demonstrate concepts and occasionally lead singing. If I had it to do over, I would have worked in more assignments aimed at improving students' expository writing; and if I were planning the course from the ground up, I would allot two semesters.

3) As mentioned, preparing these classes gave me cause to research and archive the music of my youth. This professional excuse launched a personal quest, akin to an adoptee's search for his/her biological parents. But now that the course is over, I've continued collecting period songs for the next as-yet-unknown opportunity to teach on this material. Wherein lies this pull to resurrect and enhance my understanding of the past? Is it a mid-life pursuit of lost youth or bona fide scholarship?

Paul Krugman (born the year before I), in the opening to his new book The Conscience of a Liberal, writes "It's only in retrospect that the political and economic environment of my youth stands revealed as a paradise lost, an exceptional episode in our nation's history." Although he is referring to socioeconomic matters -- a time before the undoing of the New Deal, when the Common Good had support within both parties -- I carry a similar feeling about the music. The young people I've taught connect with this 60s and 70s music in ways I never connected with music of my parents' generation, and there clearly are aesthetic reasons for this. But I don't think this particular music would continue to have this hold on me if it did not date from my own youth.

For it just so happens that the time of greatest idealism within the society and its music was also the time of greatest idealism within myself. Many of us "boomers" grew up certain we would be changing the world for the better, but only a small percentage outwardly appear to have kept that fire burning. Others of us have settled for seeking to better our immediate world, such as family, school, neighborhood, twelve-step community, etc. I wonder if the large market for boomer memorabilia has as much to do with lost youth as with lost idealism . . .

I have heard talk of disappointment in today's 20-somethings for their lack of activism. Reasons may include: 1) Without a draft, there are not enough of us affected by the Iraq/Afghan war to generate a significant movement. 2) Though millions may perish from the effects of global warming, the water is not yet lapping at our doorsteps. 3) The foreclosure crisis brought on by unregulated financiers is too much of a moving target to strike at. 4) The suffering of so many abroad or in our poorer neighborhoods does not translate into suffering most of us experience firsthand. 5) Technology, in spite of the many communication options it provides us, removes us from community. 6) Or perhaps, as the case with most adults, we're busy just staying afloat.

As a younger person I was naive and ill-equipped to foster the changes I wanted to bring about, but I believed I could. This level of belief -- a faith that anything is possible -- is reflected in much of the music I listened to. Young people today are probably less naive and better equipped, but probably don't feel they can change things. One of the things I owe them is to share what I have come to understand about the music and times of my youth so that they may bring the best of it with them into the future.

Peace, Jeffry

2007 Summer

2007-08-01T17:06:00.000-07:00

In this issue:

1) 8/11 concert

2) New web page looks back

3) My dad's book

4) Our life direction

1) 8/11 concert

I hope your Summer is going well, providing opportunities for relaxation and rejuvenation. I always try to do something new to challenge myself as a guitarist each Summer and this time it has been to work up a recital that includes Bach repertoire I have secretly wanted, but never quite prioritized learning, to play. It then occurred to me that having the talented Carol Burnham living just a few houses away was a compelling reason to add dance to this program. Fortunately, she agreed. Then my wife suggested we do the performance as a benefit for the wheelchair accessibility project underway at St. Paul's Lutheran (which where I've been giving my Summer concerts for years now). What follows is the press release, under that, the poster and then this newsletter continues.

Classical guitarist Jeffry Steele, in collaboration with dancer/choreographer Carol Burnham, will give a performance titled "Partitas" on Saturday, August 11 at 8 PM. Performed in the sanctuary of Lanesville's St. Paul Lutheran Church -- 1123 Washington St., Gloucester -- the entire proceeds will benefit the "Building the Dream" fund to make St. Paul wheelchair accessible. All the music on the program was composed by J. S. Bach.

"A Partita is like the Baroque suite, consisting of movements based on dance forms," says Steele. "The word literally means 'variation' -- and while the technique of variation is present in all of Bach's music, it seems to be implemented in very particular and meaningful ways in these, his Partitas for Solo Violin." The program begins with the last half of the Partita in B minor, continues with the complete Partita in D minor and concludes the the first half of the Partita in E major. "This last one," Steele goes on, "also had a life as Bach's Fourth Lute Suite, and I'd like to think that had there been players (or instruments) sufficiently advanced at that time he would have arranged the other partitas for plucked strings as well. Though we think of Bach playing keyboard, he was also an accomplished violinist -- so it isn't surprising he would have put so much soul into these works. The Chaconne from the Partita in Dm was way beyond its time, not only in depth of expression, but in length."

For this concert Carol Burnham has choreographed two movements each from the B minor and E major Partitas. Also participating will be dancer Nick Rapoli. "This is our first time out," adds Steele, "and we hope to see more movements choreographed down the road."

In addition to being a classical guitarist who has performed for 30 years around New England, Jeffry Steele has his Masters in Composition from New England Conservatory and has taught both guitar and chorus to all age groups.

Carol Burnham has been director of the Windhover Dance Company since 2000, and is a life-long student of Ina Hahn. Carol has a BFA in Dance from SUNY Purchase and danced professionally in New York and Boston.

Tickets for the concert are $15, $10 (students/seniors) and $5 (children). For more information about the performance call 978-282-3106 or visit jeffrysteele.com. For more information on the "Building the Dream" fund call 978-283-6550.

Some of you may have recently received a message from Carol promoting a Windhover performance with the same picture of her on the floor (I don't know who took it). . . just another variation, I guess! My photo was taken by Thomas Nola-rion.

I am also, by the way, playing a short set one week later (evening of 8/18) at the Lanesville Community Center (8 Vulcan St, Gloucester) as part of an evening with local performers. All I can say at this moment is check local listings for details.

2) New web page looks back
Not surprisingly, the amount of storage available to me from my web host has been growing over the years; I just hadn't taken notice. When I did discover a ten-fold increase in available space (over what it had been when I began the site nine years ago), I couldn't resist putting it to use. And so you will find, if curious, Compositions & Arrangements 1974-2005: An audio-visual scrapbook . While perhaps of most interest to those who figured into my musical history during that 31-year period, new acquaintances and strangers alike may also find it engaging. There are many mp3 files, accompanied by photos and commentary on the people, the instruments and the 'gear' involved in each recording.

3) My dad's book
Some months ago, my mother handed me a cardboard box with the manuscript to a 'novel' that my father, Robert R. Steele (1915-1998), had written at the age of 32. Being very busy at the time, I did not open it until earlier this month when my wife was gone for a week to the National Pastoral Musicians Conference in Indianapolis. While I always knew my father wrote well (taught me everything I know about writing), I wasn't expecting something of this calibre. After reading the first few chapters, I decided to scan (as in scanner) the whole opus for the sake of preservation and to make it accessible to all who might want to read it as well. The rusted paper clips that held each onion-skin chapter together appeared not to have been removed in 60 years. The book would fit in the category (if there be such a one) of 'autobiographical novel'. That is, the events follow very closely those my father underwent during WWII and the main character (Dudley Hamilton) has his personality pretty much intact. The supporting characters are probably from the real past also, only with different names, and with their traits possibly exaggerated in Dickensian fashion. Perhaps the reason publishers would not take it on (back in 1947) has to do with its unique mix of technical commentary and dramatic action -- though my 14-year-old step-son pointed out that The Perfect Storm is that kind of read.

To summarize the plot: Dudley bails out of a crashing small plane, determines that he is the only survivor and devises to swim for shore -- which he calculates to be as close as eight miles if he can only head in the right direction. Now this part did not happen to my father; he was indeed in that small plane heading homeward over the Red Sea, but the crash was a product of his imagination. Dudley's resolution to keep his mind occupied while swimming is the pretext for flashback to all the events leading up to his present circumstances; every chapter ends in a brief return to the struggling swimmer. We read of his civilian naval architecture job and budding romance with the secretary there; of how he cannot resist an offer to salvage sunken ships and docks in Eritrea, Africa; of his journey there and the harsh working conditions under an egocentric commander (whose real name is changed from Ellsberg, I believe, to Harmon); of his loneliness but also his resourcefulness; of his affection and admiration for the salvage tug crew he worked alongside and of his philosophy on a variety of topics interjected into correspondence with his would-be fiancee or into conversations engaged in along the way. Each character, situation and surrounding is depicted through all the freely associative metaphor and wit we loved my father for. His pedanticism also comes through -- though it's easier to take than when he was around; one, because we're reading it and, two, because it is supposed to be Dudley Hamilton, rather than Robert Steele, speaking. Likewise for his character's 'locker room' talk. Then the book has this ulterior purpose as a primer on nautical physics (excuse me if I've invented another category), in sections that he encourages the reader to skip over if not sufficiently interested. If this has piqued your interest, you may download the nearly 500 pages of The Enduring Mirage [77mb] and read for yourself. Please, however, do not use it for any further purpose without consulting me.

4) Our life direction

On every long journey what drives you to go
Is half what you know, and half what you don't...
The dream has been calling, been calling to you;
The dream is the only thing you want to do.

These are my favorite lines from the Ann Reed song (sung by Bill Staines), "Every Long Journey." While some of us manage to step unambivalently into 'the dream' that 'is the only thing you want to do' -- maybe even without thought of doing anything else -- for most of us one 'right' choice does not stand out clearly. In the former category I think of guitarist Pat Metheny, who developed his unique easy-going style at an early age and was duly recognized for it -- such that his path to fame may also have been the path of least resistance.

Then there are those effective leaders who began as humble citizens with no aspirations to notoriety -- who may not even have had the luxury of choosing a 'career' -- but who, when they saw what needed to be done, simply didn't inhibit themselves from doing it. Could have been altruism; could have been survival. I read about them in the Oxfam newsletter.

There must exist, I keep telling myself, a perfect blend between meeting essential needs around us and putting to use all the unique skills we have each developed. Virtually all of my 'jobs' have ostensibly been about teaching, leading or performing music. But in some of these situations I witnessed more immediate needs -- people from students to supervisors whose dysfunctional behavior belied deep emotional hurts. Sometimes I took the initiative to help, sometimes I got mad, sometimes I made mistakes, sometimes I kept quiet.

Imagine no possessions;
I wonder if you can...

In "Imagine", John Lennon invites us to re-think all we've accepted as 'normal' ('just the way things are') and picture ourselves (and others around us) suddenly being free of the shackles binding our imagination and initiative. How have I limited myself by maintaining the self-concept as Guitarist or even as Musician? What if I instead challenged myself to meet the needs of my human community with whichever of my skills happened to come into play? What gratifying opportunities am I passing up because I cling to the idea of music being at the core of my 'work'? I may have a gift and a love for music, but I also had to earn an advanced degree-worth of personal and spiritual growth credits to have such a successful marriage. Suppose I decided to prioritize the liberation of human individuals, even when it means over-stepping the bounds of -- or side-stepping altogether -- any music-related job description?

I can't answer these questions. Perhaps you have a related set of questions you ask yourself as well. Many North Americans are probably stymied by the number of options they appear to have (not one of which includes not having options). Sometimes I think I'd rather raise children somewhere beyond the reach of TV or the internet, the overpowering definers of culture and standard-bearers for our youth -- for the creed of this society is focused on us imagining more possessions.

Keep your hand wide open;
Let the sun shine through,
'Cause you can never lose a thing
If it belongs to you.

These lyrics by Abbey Lincoln -- along with her smokey voice singing them -- echo in my ears and resonate in my soul (as do the other examples cited). One thing I'll say for music, it can smuggle a thought or a feeling past our line of defense in a way the spoken word cannot (not always good, I suppose). I imagine Bach is happy I'm working hard again at his music, and those who attend my upcoming performance will be glad to hear it (not to mention see it expressed in movement). When that's done I have many options to consider and needs to meet -- and somewhere my father's legacy figures into that picture. Oh, and who is the guitarist backing Abbey Lincoln on the above track? Why, Pat Metheny, of course.

Peace, Jeffry

2006 Year-end

2006-12-27T17:35:00.001-08:00

1. New Year's Eve programs
2. Stories from an urban high school
3. Are we happy yet?

1. New Year's Eve Programs
As always, I will be appearing in recital at New Year's Rockport Eve, 12/31/06, at 6 & 7 PM.
This year I am performing "Guitarra Española", a program of Spanish classical guitar music from the 16th, 19th and 20th centuries composed by Milan, Narvaez, Sor, Tarrega, Turina, de Falla and Rodrigo. First Congregational Church, School & Main Streets, Rockport. Following this, I will be singing with Coro Stella Maris in a program of Renaissance and 20th century choral music, 8 and 9 PM at the same church. Entitled "Reflections", the latter is a concert of favorites from the group's ten-year history by Palestrina and Pärt, Victoria and Tavener.
For ticket information, visit:
http://www.newyearsrockporteve.com.

2. Stories from an urban high school
I am about to complete my first semester as a high school music teacher in the challenging community of Chelsea, MA. Located in the shadow of the Tobin Bridge (which connects Boston with points North), Chelsea comprises only 1.8 square miles, but is roughly fourteen times the population density of Gloucester (where I dwell). This semester, my guitar classes have ranged between 16 and 23 (the latter also being the number of functioning guitars the school owns at the moment) students representing the countries of Puerto Rico, Honduras, Guatemala, Brazil, Vietnam, Cuba, El Salvador, Chechnya and Ethiopia, to name a few. What makes this an unusual opportunity for both the students and myself is that music classes meet every day (actually 6 out of 7 days, but one of those is a double period).

At the beginning of each semester, however, we Performing Arts teachers are faced with a whole new set of students (Band and Select Chorus being the only on-going activities where skills may be acrued from one year to the next). My wife, Monica, is now in her second year as the choral director there. We are actually sharing one full-time job, at this point, for which I also work with the boys in the Mixed Chorus (She dubs this one "Computer Chorus" due to the indiscriminate assigning -- at any point in the school year -- of whichever students have no other place to be). Students frequently turn up in these classes who speak very limited English. (While the majority of these speak Spanish, I am not permitted to offer instruction in Spanish).

In my Guitar classes, I find that I have been over-estimating the ability of many students, whether through deficits in attention or language, to comprehend, let alone retain, the content I've been explaining. While some of these attention deficits may be diagnosed neurologically, others appear to be the result of stress and/or exhaustion. One young man, who works nights in a warehouse, often sleeps with his head on a music stand until I rouse him with a specific request, to which he suavely responds, "Sure, Mister, no problem." Minutes later, he's back asleep.

A young woman frequently has circles around her eyes after having to care for her ill mother and young siblings. This kind of stress puts students on a hair-trigger; some days find them suspended for being involved in a fight. It touches my heart every time I see this student setting her struggles aside to apply herself in my class.

On the upside, the duties that many students have at home or work, along with the survival of some cultural virtues, make for more than a few considerate and sweet-tempered adolescents. Eye contact is good. And while I would expect most to have more to show for the amount of time they've spent behind a guitar in class, a few have taken off and clearly made the instrument a permanent part of their lives. I got 15 of my 60 students onstage to accompany a few songs on the first choral concert less than two months after they began.

One young (Serbian) woman refuses to let blindness hinder her progress. Though it requires me taking time out to talk her through a piece of music while she scribes into her braille recorder, I can count on her passing that instruction on to another student later on -- she being perhaps the only student who only needs to be told something once.

I began the semester with all students seated in a large semi-circle while I attempted to get them all playing the same thing. Then I would ask them to work out something on their own for five minutes, pairing them up. I found after a few weeks that pairing was taking place spontaneously and that some pairs were taking initiative to begin simple pieces or songs I had printed out for them in binders. This leads to a cacophonous plucking of strings in the room -- and while I cannot visit all pairs or individuals in the course of one class meeting -- it seems the only way to get everyone working at their own level.

I have found, however, that some can only learn that which I spend one-on-one time showing them, being simply too distractible (chatting or spacing) to focus without my undivided attention. Students such as these you may as well hand a camera to (which is how I obtained the photo above). As in many public high schools (and most urban ones), there are students who simply don't expect to amount to much. I have to be on the lookout for all possible openings into the contradiction of this internalized oppression.

I have recently had some consultations with ELL (English Language Learner) teachers about my teaching method, and they have provided valuable insights as to the need and the procedure for breaking my content down into smaller steps. It's going to be a lot of extra work to design this new sequence of illustrated lessons, but it's also kind of exciting.

Hoping to inspire them to become serious guitarists, I prepared a listening assignment for every class meeting -- 75 in all. I assigned them a form to fill out for each one, noting instrumentation, style, playing technique and so on. I plugged my laptop into the TV to display song lyrics and photos of the performers. But again, you have to believe in yourself to a certain degree to begin aspiring to play like the professionals.

Near the end of the first quarter, I had them fill out an evaluation of themselves, me, the class format and the listening assignments. Reactions to the latter were surprising: the most disliked artist was Joni Mitchell (singing "Chelsea Morning" no less!) whereas students grooved to "Girl from Ipanema" (which would have made me barf when I was their age!). Some liked being spooked out by Dylan's "Man in the Long Black Coat" even though they couldn't fully understand the text. Most preferred my live performances to the recordings and especially wanted to hear more of my electric guitar (though they seemed pretty engaged for my classical playing as well). While I learned from maintaining this routine for this first time around, in second semester I will cut down the number and scope of these listenings -- tying them more closely to what students could actually handle playing. Hopefully, next year I will have a Guitar II class to subject my more esoteric guitar recordings to.

I am finishing off the semester by having them each do a brief report on and playing a recording of a song of their choosing. Many students are more attentive to their peers than to me, perhaps out of curiosity for that which is less predictable. Most of them feel pretty deeply about the music they listen to and appreciate the opportunity this format provides to share indirectly about themselves.

I have come to see one of my primary roles is facilitation of students supporting and rooting for each other as well as in working collaboratively. One white young man arrived well into the semester not knowing anyone and clearly having learning issues (though no IEP), expressing his alienation and frustration through hostility and refusal to comply with expectations. He has some chord-playing experience and I can see the solace he gets from strumming a guitar. As much as I would like to get him reading notes, my primary focus needs to be on keeping him calm and encouraging his collaboration with other students.

The boys from the Mixed Chorus are another story. I will spare you the anecdotes and simply say that I can get them more engaged when my wife takes the girls out of the room to rehearse elsewhere; then I can create (on good days) something of a barn-raising male-bonding dynamic -- with the focus on singing on pitch and learning songs appropriate to their energy. They did well performing "Guantanamera" and now I'm teaching them "Paddy Lay Back" and "The Mary Ellen Carter." I projected pictures of fishing boats, capstans, locks (as in canals), tugboats and marine salvage to give the lyrics meaning. I had some act the songs out one day, but I need to better troubleshoot the "acting out" that invariably arises before introducing this again. My own voice lessons with Rebecca Shrimpton and singing wih Coro Stella Maris help to keep my thinking fresh in this work.

3. Are we happy yet?
I didn't intend to write so many paragraghs about Chelsea High School. (If you're like me, you can only budget so much time to reading your e-mail). You may have noticed at the masthead of this newsletter that I subtitle myself "Guitarist & Educator" rather than the usual "Guitarist & Composer" -- reflecting the reality that between teaching and parenting, playing and singing, my compositional energies have pretty much been absorbed. I did have the opportunity at the end of August to serve as Music Minister for Summer Finale Week at Camp Calumet (Lutheran), where I led a choir singing parts of my own Missa Nova. And it is true that I have been arranging (and occasionally composing) simple pieces for the choruses and guitar classes and that my creativity is frequently being summoned in unexpected ways. I recall that Purcell wrote Dido & Aeneus for his own students at a girls' school; so it may be that an urban "opera" of some kind is down the road -- after all, there is a drama/dance program to interface with here.

With updated software and hardware, I have never been better tooled for writing new music; it's just that the external demands on my life have not been requiring it of me. My old friend and composition mentor at NEC, Malcolm Peyton (who once told me, "The NEA should pay people not to write music; then we can find out who really has the need to."), always encouraged me to build upon my specific gifts and situations I found myself in rather than try to emulate others who may have greater resources in certain areas. Some of us seek out opportunities to improve the world and others of us have them thrust upon us. At least my life is still concerned with making music (and I meet people all the time who wish they could say the same) and I am happily partnered in marriage -- which I believe was, through the first half of my life, the prize most sought by my soul.

Feliz Año Nuevo, Jeffry

2006 Year-end

2006-12-27T17:35:00.000-08:00

Op Ed: Everybody Wants to Sing

2005-12-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

Click to enlarge:

The Great Divide: Seeking to Understand Republican Values

2004-11-10T07:29:00.000-08:00

The following post-election musings do not quite constitute a coherent essay -- and in them I may stand rightly accused of judging others -- but this the best I can offer in this particular moment. . .

The Great Divide: Seeking to Understand Republican Values (November 2004)

"Never let Moral Values get in the way of doing the right thing."

-- Nathaniel Sheppard, 15 (my step-son)

Many of us who worked (or even just hoped) for a Democratic victory in the presidential election were left wondering how 51% of the electorate could demonstrate such a lack of "common sense." Considering how well our concerns had been publicized prior to the election -- in movies, books, articles and interviews -- it seemed only too obvious that the Bush administration was working against the interests of the majority of Americans. Between his policies favoring the rich, destroying the environment, wasting U.S. as well as Iraqi lives, alienating the international community, charging up a record deficit on our children's credit card, cutting social programs for the neediest and sending their jobs abroad, or his denial of scientific and sociologic facts, one might well have reasoned that only the wealthiest 1% would find cause to re-elect the President.

Whatever we may have felt about John Kerry, his record of achievement far outstripped that of a C-student who obtained all his political and business connections through his family -- whose resume, in the real world, may not have gotten him hired outside of the Service Sector. Surely by Election Day more people would start realizing that a bull-headed U.S. foreign policy was decreasing our security at home? Or that the Administration is bent on replacing our democracy with monarchy? Or that basing crucial decisions on naive gut feelings without being bothered to read even one-page staff-prepared memos is no way to run the most powerful nation on earth? How could the Democrats fail to have it in the bag?

As we have since discovered, arguments that speak to the head could not match the Republican campaign's ability to circumvent the intellect. The success of effective marketing and packaging is measured by how many consumers buy the product without reading the its "Nutritional Facts" label.

I'm left pondering if those who vote Republican hold such different 'values' from my own, or if they just prioritize them differently. Republican voters I know are doers. When your car slides into a snow drift, one of them stops by and hauls you out with his pick-up. They organize soup kitchens, they build community playgrounds, they teach you how to fix something and even loan you the tools. They want to help, they want to serve. They don't want to get bogged down debating pros and cons; they want to get things done -- simply and in short sentences. While we all may value loyalty -- to family line and attitudes, to ball teams, to church and country -- many Republican voters also seem to have taken a "my country (or my President), right or wrong" oath.

Many of us feel strongly the need to belong to something -- perhaps an instinct dating from periods when one's survival depended on membership to a clan or tribe. We long in our hearts for others accept and protect us like family, often seeking the sense of family in institutions or organizations. From time to time, we are all tested as to whether we will abandon what seems right for the sake of belonging to a particular group or institution. As children, we witnessed and were subject to disrespectful behavior that we did not challenge because we wanted someone to like us, to include us in his/her circle. Our obedience may have been rewarded with camaraderie along with promise of protection. "When you're a Jet. . . you got brothers around you're a family man." As we matured, and developed more self-esteem, we could choose better friends. This test continues through adult life every time we are expected to rally around a mutual hatred or fear of something or someone.

The clan mentality is found in the corporate world and in seminaries alike: Either you're with us or against us. Bush plays this card skillfully. When, in the debates, Kerry had just finished thoughtfully answering the question about reconciling his Catholic faith with his pro-choice position, Bush retorted dismissively, "I don't get what he just said, do you?" In other words: If you're cool enough to be in my fraternity, you won't pay any attention to someone who thinks too much and can't answer with a yes or a no. Certain Administration staff have confirmed that Bush routinely addresses his aids by belittling nicknames he has chosen for each. This style of one exerting power over another is so pervasive that -- until we develop a certain degree of self-respect -- most of us are drawn indiscriminately into this familiar dynamic.

All acknowledge that religious faith played a large role in the election -- those who attend church regularly being far more likely to vote Republican. As a Music Minister -- who naturally attends church every Sunday -- I feel understandably misrepresented by this finding. Apparently I get something very different from the Bible and my participation in worship than do the Evangelicals, Fundamentalists or even many fellow Catholics.

As a child I needed a simplified version of what I now know to be psychologically and spiritually intricate. My understandings of "good" and "evil" resulted mostly from what I saw on TV or at the movies -- the U.S. always being portrayed as "good." It was not until well into adulthood -- after significant gains in my ongoing emotional and spiritual development -- that I began to consider myself a follower of Christ and could properly be dubbed a Christian. My childhood notions of "sin" or "evil" have been updated through deeper understanding of human and divine nature. This development of my faith depended on my taking the Bible less literally rather than more. (While it is clear to me that God created Heaven and Earth, it also appears that He likely needed to create Evolution to accomplish His ends).

In his swing-state concert tour, Bruce Springsteen defined the following "American Values":

The human principles of economic justice, healing the sick, health care, feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, a living wage so folks don't have to break their backs and then come home and not be able to make ends meet, an open American government that's unburdened by unnecessary secrecy, protection of our environment, a sane and responsible foreign policy where we take our place amongst a community of nations, civil rights and the safeguarding of our precious Democracy here at home.

Working for these values requires a certain amount of altruism. I believe that it is the inherent nature of all human beings, once their spiritual and emotional needs are met, to be altruistic. The problem lies in the fact that the majority of Americans, regardless of income level, are struggling through life to get these needs met. We are hindered by addictions (substantive and behavioral), a materialistic and isolating culture, and all the other forms our unhealed hurts take -- such as obsession with what goes on in other people's bedrooms.

As psychologists have noted, the only emotional need greater than that of receiving (unconditional) love is the opportunity to give (unconditional) love. When hurts remain unhealed, however, Love takes a backseat to Fear. The New Testament tells us that Love and Fear cannot coexist. When people are fearful, they are much more likely to be persuaded by appeals to their gut rather than to their reason. When you're a Republican strategist it is in your best interests for people to remain fearful, as they will more likely be compelled by what you say rather than scrutinize what you actually do. You therefore talk primarily about below-the-belt issues like sexuality, taxes, and terrorism. Once you've grabbed the fearful voter in this manner, concerns for the environment or honest government -- or other issues mentioned above -- become secondary. Many of those who take positive action on a local level, such as mentioned earlier, may be too overwhelmed to put themselves in the place of someone in another culture, or to empathize with the painful choices facing certain women with an unintended pregnancy.

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

-- 1 Corinthians 13:1

How the Republicans get away with being Defenders of The Family, when their actual policies accelerate its decline, is a triumph of public relations. The Religious Right has kept its constituents' attention on a narrow set of issues to obscure the more essential ones. It must be cheaper to clamor for prayer in the schools than to maintain an adequate teaching force. Much of their talk of Moral Values has been to simply get votes. How is it that the man who presided over a record number of state executions in Texas is given the "pro-life" mantle to wear?

Most of us, particularly parents, are indeed upset by the "moral decline" in our society (the reason Mother Theresa refused to send her orphans to the U.S.). I don't see many politicians challenging the entertainment monopolies that promote violence, inappropriate sexuality and instant gratification; there's too much money at stake. The lack of a living wage and spiraling costs for most Americans means parents are working longer hours and having to leave their children at the mercy of these monopolies for hours a day. Extended families and neighborhoods that used to provide mutual support in raising children have been lost to a hollow striving for the individualistic American Dream. It is no wonder that many turn to the most organized option that appears to counter this trend: institutions of religious faith. And who offers the most dynamic, influential and widely available youth programs? Evangelicals and Fundamentalists, if I'm not mistaken.

These denominations also offer easy answers to Divine mysteries, a black-and-white picture that comforts the overwhelmed, over-stimulated soul. But just as for "patriots" of the right, there is a parallel oath: "My church, right or wrong." I must ask myself if those who seek to have their literal interpretation of Scripture rendered as civil law are abandoning Christ's mission for one based in their own fear. I, for example, have come to the conclusion that in order to be fully present in every waking moment, as Jesus instructs, I cannot drink alcohol or consume anything addictive. However much I believe that anyone who lives this "value" will in the long run be better off than someone who does not, I wouldn't expect others to reach the same conclusion without undergoing the steps that brought me to it. Would there be any point in me legislating that you never have another drink?

"He used to take acid and now he's found God; but he's still got that look in his eye!"

-- Utah Phillips

Addictions peel away one at a time. When alcoholics attain sobriety, they may remain addicted to nicotine or caffeine for some time to come. Likewise, I wonder if many "born-again" Christians aren't using their church and its doctrine as a more benign substitute for a previous addiction.

The next Administration will be even more united than the first, which should cause a fright both at home and abroad. Though most of us will not be directly affected -- on the short term, at least -- by the election's outcome, many of those in other nations, who of course did not get a vote, will be significantly so. Any CIA official who is not a willing co-writer of the Cheney screenplay is now getting replaced. And because gut-level tactics are as effective on Arabs as they are on Americans, our war-making is a losing tactic from most vantage points. On the international chessboard, Osama has lured Bush's queen into Iraq -- our soldiers and the Iraqi people the pawns.

Does the answer lie in reshaping the Democratic message so that it speaks more to the gut of the 51%? I, personally, have no need for my President to talk about Faith. The President I would choose for my country needs to be rational, compassionate and diplomatic. I certainly don't mind if he reads the Bible for two hours every morning -- as Bush is purported to -- but I need him to base important decisions on all the expert advice he can gather. I need to know that he is seeing reality. One reality the Democratic campaign did not acknowledge, however, is that many people do need to hear about Faith from their President. Their faith and their institutions of faith have brought many of them new hope. Apparently John Kerry could not deliver a message of hope that enough people could believe in; but it's more than one man can do. How are we offering hope to those around us? . . hope that someone could overcome an eating disorder, actualize themselves artistically, leave an abusive marriage or recommit to a floundering one, quit a job or find a job? Can we offer our assistance, one American at a time?

I recall the story told by a black teen who was being cornered by taunting whites when one of the whites said quietly to another, "You know, I don't think this is such a good idea." The whites withdrew and the teen was saved from physical harm. In the process, the boy who spoke up was saving himself and even perhaps his friends. It did not require great physical effort. Such opportunities present themselves to all of us at various times. It's going to take time and courage to change America.

Vietnam and Supporting Kerry

2004-07-10T07:32:00.000-07:00

The Importance of voting for Kerry [July 2004]
(Printed as letter to the editor in the Gloucester Daily Times)

Either through stories or direct experience, most of us know something about the problems of living with an addict. Let us consider, as an example, the father of a household addicted to alcohol or gambling. Perhaps the greatest pain and confusion for his wife and children comes in not knowing when to believe him. After all, he's the dad who deserves our loyalty and respect, who loves us, who has shown us good times, and whose integrity we aspire to. When he heads out the door one more time with the grocery money, promising that everything will be OK, we so want to believe him. But though a good man who means well, alone he cannot overcome the power of his illness -- and is therefore unable to be honest with himself or anyone else. Finally his family comes to realize that they must separate the man from his addiction and stand firm against the latter, refusing -- however painful it may be in the moment -- to accept further lies. Beyond that, they pray and hope that their loved one will accept help and one day be returned to them intact.

Now I ask you to substitute different players into this scenario. For The Addiction: Money; for The Family: the Citizenry of the United States; for The Addict: the current Administration in Washington. The grocery money is our social security, the quality of our environment, the education and wellfare of our children, and an arrogance in foreign policy which will serve as a boon to terrorist recruitment for the next generation. Even if only half the charges leveled against them in "Fahrenheit 911" were true, what these men routinely get away with makes Nixon's Watergate look like petty theft. And if you follow economist Paul Krugman's columns in the New York Times, you'll know there are further instances of 'white-collar' crime by these our leaders that the movie never even touches upon. Why is the 'mainstream media' not leading the charge in exposing the war profiteering, routine deception of the public, the nod given to fraudulent and destructive practices of any corporation that has made a large enough contribution to the Republican Party, the personal wealth accrued by the Bush family from Saudi Oil, or the apparent hijacking of the 2000 presidential election? Look at who owns Fox, for starters.

In the aforementioned movie, we see GW addressing a dinner gathering: "Here I am with the Haves and the Have-Mores," he quips. "There are those who call you The Elite, but I call you My Base." [Applause]. Regardless as to whether you are Republican or Democrat, if you don't have a seat at one of those opulent tables, President Bush has little interest in you. Whatever he may say to the contrary, you can't believe it anymore than you can believe reassurances from the father described above.

One of the comparisons made between Democratic candidate John Kerry and President Bush is that the former changes his mind while the latter holds steady. While it is true that Kerry has waffled -- probably even, at times, for the sake of political expediency -- I feel much safer with a flexible President than with one who sticks stubbornly to an uninformed course. It will take a long time to mend the damage we have wrought overseas, but I can't visualize that process even beginning until a Kerry Administration is in place.

Remembering Vietnam / A Parent's View of Violence & Old Boys [May 2004]

My current project with choreographer Carl Thomsen is in collaboration with North Shore veterans of the Vietnam War, initiated by writer and former army medic Marc Levy. Using poetry, dance and music (live as well as pre-recorded) we will interpret the experiences had by a variety of men both in and as a result of the war -- ranging from near-impossible heroics to ironic hilarity. The project moves me in variety of ways: seeing these men articulate in movement and word what was once too terrifying to speak of; imagining stories of the thousands who did not return; and realizing that I have more in common with these vets than I had previously thought. [While I drew a low number in the draft lottery of 1972, our pending withdrawal from Vietnam spared me from serving]. The performance, previously scheduled for the first weekend in August, has been postponed until we have more of it in place. Stay tuned to this site.

To familiarize my ears with the distinctive "chop" of the Huey helicopter, I've been taking another look at the Oliver Stone movie "Platoon" -- parts of which still reduce me to sobs. I think that most of us, just to get from one day to the next, unconsciously desensitize ourselves to violence. Now and then, when this protective shell is penetrated -- by imagery or whatever -- it is my hope that people reach for the tissues first. As parents [speaking for my wife, Monica, and I] we are particularly concerned when our children show lack of sensitivity towards violence, evidenced in physical aggression, mean talk and minimal remorse. Certainly some young people can separate between real-world and the virtual violence that has been found to turn a quick profit for the TV, cinema and computer gaming industries. But many, either because of emotional stresses or brain disorders (both on the rise), cannot. We do what we can to model rational behavior and pray that our children grow past the instant gratification of unhealthy foods and activities into more sustaining pursuits and altruistic lives -- as Boston's new archbishop puts it, "The difference between being happy and having fun."

Sadly, there are many adults who never complete this transition in the maturing process -- adapting to their vocations the same empty and selfish pursuits we are trying to wean our children of. It's too late for "Sesame Street" themes about sharing, honesty and goodwill to affect their present values. Though not spiritually fulfilled in their endeavors, some of these "grown-ups" have become materially rewarded on a scale unknown in history -- with everyone else (not to mention the Earth as well as those not yet born into it) paying for it. It is not uncommon that such people rise to the highest levels of government, assuming major leadership positions while equipped with the emotional maturity of a young child. To read a startling account of the end result, I recommend economist Paul Krugman's new book, The Great Unraveling: Losing our way in the New Century. [His recent articles may be viewed at http://www.nytimes.com/top/opinion/editorialsandoped/oped/columnists/paulkrugman/ ].

It is therefore incumbent upon us to raise a forward-thinking generation, willing to shatter the denial that maintains the status quo. Just looking at my own step-sons, the task is huge.

A Great Orchestral Moment

2003-11-12T07:58:00.005-08:00

Summary of talk given 11/12/03 for Instrumentation/Orchestration class (Lee Hyla)

accompanying .pdf handout

The second statement of the first theme in Mahler’s Fifth Symphony provides an unforgettable moment that continues to reverberate in this listener’s psyche throughout the movement — and for some time thereafter as well. It is when, in mm 67-68, the solo trumpet melody is accompanied — or nearly interrupted — by a great orchestral ‘shivering’ consisting of two measure’s trilling in winds and brass and tremolandi in the strings. It is a moment of chaos in an otherwise harmonically certain environment, with C#-D#-E-F# being the pitch content of the first measure (67) and with G#-A — that is, nearly all of the natural minor scale — added to the mix in the second (68). Following are some of the details worth exploring as to how Mahler set this moment up for us.

The trumpet melody in the excerpt is, with slight changes, the first theme opening the symphony. In the beginning of the movement it is unaccompanied for its first 12 measures, at which point the orchestra (though, apart from bassoons, no winds) sounds off — with a cymbal crash splashing our faces with cold water. After the intervening second theme — which is both more graceful and resigned — theme one returns on the same solo trumpet. This time it is harmonized, initially with alternating tonic and subdominant chords — the key of the subdominant alluded to by natural signs being placed before the Ds. The lower parts then begin a descent by third (at each downbeat): C#, A, F#, bottoming out on the demonic D# of m. 67 — yielding a harmonic progression of: i, VI7, iv7 followed by the ‘bone chilling’ ‘anti-chord’ described above. Displacing the D natural of mm 62-65, this bottom D# also seeks to function as V/V — even though the upper parts don’t agree — struggling against unfavorable odds up to G# and then to C# to complete this semblance of cadential gesture. Rather than bring us to the tonic, however, we get a first inversion VI. In fact, we do not hear a tonic in root position anywhere between m. 63 and m. 89 (the reiteration of theme two) — all of the subsequent C# minor chords being in second position.

Subtle changes in orchestration enhance the crescendo going into m. 67. Two horns become four; unison doubling of divisi celli and contrabass (half pizz/half arco) become octave doubled (all arco). In m. 63, basses and timpani foreshadow the ‘big shiver’; and violins are tacet for the time being. Third and fourth trumpets are instructed to put mutes in to add bite to the ‘shivering’ timbre [“Shiver me timbers!”]. Violins are brought in at m. 67, where all strings are given the first specified bowing of the movement — a downbow to insure a strong attack on the tremolando (more effective in this context than would be a trill). One of my classmates asked about the absence of timpani at this point; a rolling timpani here would not only muddy up this precisely crafted texture, it would introduce a prevailing pitch. All the instruments are kept below the solo trumpet in register. Flute is nowhere to be seen, perhaps because its lower register would not contribute anything; it is not until m. 102, in fact, that flutes have their first entrance of the movement. Double-reed instruments in their reediest register, 6 horns trilling [“Five golden rings!”] in their mid-to-upper register, the cymbal struck with the direction to ‘let ring’ — all contribute to the sense that we just opened the wrong door and wish we could forget what we saw behind it. While the theme still completes itself after this, it has been transfigured from here on. The trills at mm 73, 78 and 83 are now experienced as post-traumatic tremors, echoes of a terrifying memory.

RECOGNITION

2003-05-22T07:40:00.000-07:00

Speech given at Rockport High School Fine Arts Awards Night 5/22/03

31 years ago this week, I was walking home, dejected and empty-handed, from the Cranbrook school Awards Night. The last chance for any official recognition of my artistic accomplishments at that school, yet my name was not called once. Why during my junior and senior years I had. . .

formed and directed a Renaissance consort that performed at school functions
co-directed and conceived an evening of Shakespeare scenes with music [from which the school literary magazine, Gallimaufry, derived the name it maintains to this day]
given a solo classical guitar recital
performed as dancer and actor
co-organized coffeehouse-style gatherings for student poets and songwriters
composed and performed a Rock Mass for Baccalaureate

. . . yet I left that ceremony feeling like a nobody.

When I arrived home, I found a visitor. Stan -- who had graduated from Cranbrook two years before and was now attending Harvard -- had come to stay with my parents for a few days because my dad, a Cranbrook English professor, had been his favorite teacher. Stan had been a high achiever when at Cranbrook, athletically, academically and theatrically. He consoled me in my disappointment by saying that he hadn't felt right about which students were recognized at the Awards Nights he had attended, and reminded me that the award categories had been created to recognize students who participated in organizations like Band or Glee Club rather than mavericks like myself.

Then he asked if I would get out my guitar. After listening with rapt attention as I played a few classical pieces, he said, "You know, I get so much more from sitting in the intimacy of your living room watching and listening to you, than I would from being part of a large audience in a concert hall. It's a real gift that you can do that for someone." I was reminded of this years later when my brother in New York City told me that pop star David Bowie was quietly booking himself into small clubs down there as member of a band called "Tin Machine." Perhaps tired of playing stadiums, Bowie must have missed the London coffeehouses where he'd gotten his start.

Perhaps some of you have seen the movie "Babette's Feast," in which one of Paris' finest chefs flees to a remote village in Denmark to start a new and simpler life as a house servant. Keeping her background a secret for years, she dutifully prepares the bland meals that her employers have always known until one day she unexpectedly wins a lottery in France. But rather than use this 10,000 francs to go off on her own, she spends it on all the food and supplies needed to put on one opulent Parisian meal for her employers and their neighbors. "All the artist wants," she says, "is the chance to do her art well." Asked why she would thus leave herself penniless, to remain in servitude, she replies, "An artist is never poor."

Now I don't mean to say that poverty is a good thing for artists, or for anybody; but rather that if we artists are to be happy, to stay vital and to genuinely move our listeners, viewers, or readers, we must remain true to our creation-joy. For once an activity stops feeling creative to us, our souls become parched. This may be what Rockport choreographer Ina Hahn meant when she told me that she feels detached from performances of her work because her creative process ended with the rehearsals.

You have perhaps three choices before you as an artist. The first is to plug yourself into the corporate culture -- which is structured to profit from the undeveloped tastes, short attention span and addictive fascinations of the average consumer. To play it safe, this public is generally fed a re-packaged, already-familiar and easily-digested product. There is nothing inherently wrong with choosing this option. You can find plenty of interesting challenges working your way into existing enterprises. But should you land that position playing in a symphony orchestra, or scoring a TV sitcom, or designing billboards, you still aren't doing anything to counteract the national decline going around you. Unless you're part of the solution, you're likely to be part of the problem. And, as with any business, you are valuable to your employers so long as you are providing a marketable commodity and are expendable once you are not. At the same time, certain famous performers have used their visibility to raise awareness on important issues, particularly the environment. But given their dependency on the corporate world, these artists are not positioned to adequately address the roots of the problem.

The second option is to focus on educating these consumers, to provide them experiences that would enable them to appreciate art at the level that your spirit longs to work at. While this requires faith and missionary zeal, you don't have to be religious to believe that art transforms souls, whether it is a child redirecting previously destructive energy into the beginnings of artistry or an adult resuming participation in the artistic process for the first time since childhood. I am proud of my friend and collaborator Carl Thomsen for what he has developed in the Legends school program

The third would be to just do whatever your muse dictates without concern for or interest in your audience. There is also nothing wrong with this option. It seems appropriate, after all, that artists have periods of withdrawing from the world. Just think of the fine work left us by the reclusive Emily Dickinson. But for others to enjoy your work they're going to have to find you somehow.

I, like many artists, have pursued all three options from time to time, though I never had much stomach for option one and could not remain within option three for long without wanting to be heard by someone. Evidently my preference has been to build from the living room outwards. Rather than compete to be one of the few heard where concert goers have already been lured, I seek to create more concert goers by bringing my music to those who happen to be in my community. I may get heard by fewer people than if I were on the BU Celebrity Series, but I am in a better position to sense what my listeners are experiencing.

A few years back I attended an alumnae weekend at Hampshire College. Film documentary-maker Ken Burns -- who graduated a year ahead of me -- showed us clips of his "Jazz" television series. He stood before us barefoot and wearing cutoffs -- appearing much as he did when a student there -- as he received our thunderous applause. With moisture in his eyes, he said that such acceptance of his work by former classmates meant more to him than all the national recognition he'd received thus far.

What does recognition mean to you and who do you think you should be getting it from? First of all you should be getting it from yourself -- for being perpetually down on yourself creates an unsatisfying experience for those who are trying to compliment you. But once you can do that, I think it's healthy to want recognition from others. But how many others? Here we come to an essential longing that I believe rich-and-famous artists have in common with the rest of us: to be appreciated by a few people who really see us for who we are. For in the end it isn't that satisfying having a lot of undescerning people saying how great you are. We want to know the truth -- not just that we have a wonderful talent, but how we may improve on it.

If we can accept this as being the kind of recognition that truly nurtures us, it follows that we can give it just as well as we can receive it. How much it would mean to those next to you to be recognized and appreciated by you for something you noticed about them! And it doesn't have to be an artistic achievement. It can be the way they said something that needed to be said, or did something considerate, or even just the colors they chose to wear.

Thanks for the opportunity to speak to you. May peace, prosperity and creation-joy be with you all.

Composer's Tools

2003-01-18T09:54:00.001-08:00

I created these two reference pages to help me be more intentional in my use of octatonic, hexatonic and other harmonic/scalar schemes -- things you may want to avoid or use as the case may be. These categorizations also assist in the analysis in the music of others. Click to enlarge. . .

Graphic representation of Pierrot #18

2002-11-18T10:13:00.000-08:00

"Der Mondfleck" from Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire (click to enlarge) . . .

Analysis of Beethoven Op 95, III

2002-04-18T10:24:00.003-07:00

Click to enlarge each of four pages. . .

Growing Up Male: The Little Boy Within

1999-12-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

Sermon given at Men's Services I organized at both Rockport & Gloucester U.U. churches:

As I was leaving a picnic at a friend's in Putney, Vermont, I noticed that my car was blocked in. A man named Robert was quickly found who cheerfully cleared my path with a wave, looking professorial in a tweed jacket and beard. A few days later, we all read in the paper how a woman named Judith had been killed by a man she had recently broken up from who pursued her to a Brattleboro gas station, jumped into her car and stabbed her 13 times with a kitchen knife. Adding to the horror of this news was the eerie discovery that the murderer was this same guest of my friends who I had encountered in the driveway. My Putney friends then spoke with Robert, who had turned himself in to the police, as he began his life prison sentence. Why, they asked him, could you not have told us that day how desperate you were? He replied that he was simply too ashamed of how he felt and couldn't bear to have them know.

Another friend of mine once related how his cousin had married a man who was so jealous and possessive as to require her to stay home until he returned from work each day. She was slowly going crazy with this and begged him to let her find a job. He refused. She did manage to get out to see a therapist, who subsequently asked her to bring this young man to a session. Surprisingly, he agreed to meet her in front of the therapist's office. On his way, the man stopped at his mother's for a hunting rifle that was kept there. Just after he left with it, his mother suddenly realized that her son was probably not going game hunting -- as he had professed -- and she raced to warn her daughter-in-law. But within minutes shots were heard from a car in front of the therapist's office. The man had killed his young wife, and then himself.

These two stories have played over many times in my mind since hearing them, partly because I knew people close to those involved, but partly because I felt an empathy with these men. They both responded to their circumstances as if their very survival were at stake; it felt like death for Robert to lose his relationship and it felt like death to her husband when this cousin of my friend's sought her freedom -- which he apparently interpreted at the first step in her leaving him. Both men felt that, without these women in their lives, they had nothing to live for. Both men were consumed by a rage so deep that they could kill. How did it get this bad? Are these extreme, aberrant personalities? Or were these men simply playing out the pain that most every man in this culture has inside him to a greater or lesser degree?

As babies, most of us were given the opportunity to cry, were nurtured and held. At some point, though, we boys began to be treated differently from girls. We could no longer cry, whenever we felt the need for the healing effects of tears, without rousing fears from the adults around us that we would grow up to be sissies. The same went for being held by our mothers, or by anyone for that matter. There was a limit to how close we could be to other boys before being labeled "gay". And our fathers, most of them, were simply not equipped to provide for us that which they themselves had also been denied.

Girls were systematically hurt in different ways -- refused many opportunities to develop their full potential -- with sexism affecting their lives in more ways than we men can even imagine. But they were permitted to at least maintain connection with each other in ways we boys were not. They also were encouraged as care-givers. I can remember being eight or nine years old on the playground, when a younger child might be crying, how girls my age would hold the child and say soothing things while we boys stood by helplessly, cut off from our ability to show tenderness.

No wonder, then, it is generally assumed that our capacity to nurture is limited. I am told there are many cases of men denied visitation rights to their children not because they lacked a significant and nurturing relationship with them but because of the influence a spiteful ex-partner can have in the court system. There is also a systematic assumption that we are readily given to violence -- evidenced by the fact that a restraining order filed by a woman can go into effect without any official consideration of the man's side of the story. It may well be that blanket policies like these do save lives -- and may be the only way the legal system can protect itself from litigation given the limits of public resources; but I simply want to bring attention to the assumptions about men on which such policies are made.

My first year in boys' prep school, seventh grade, I was waiting with my classmates in the woodshop for the instructor to arrive. But he was long delayed; and some of the boys started running wild, throwing pieces of wood, and chasing each other around the potentially dangerous power tools. Feeling strongly that something must be done, I raced back to my homeroom to report to our teacher what was going on. I'll never forget the look of concern that came over his face -- not over the antics in the woodshop, but over how I would suffer socially for having been the one to "tattle". The message came loud and clear in that look: "Young man, whenever you're in a situation like this, go numb -- or suffer the consequences"

Discoveries such as these were both confusing and traumatic for us, and were made more insidious by the fact that everyone -- rather than acknowledge and validate the outrage we would have felt within -- acted as if this were the normal state of affairs. From the first time we were told to "buck up and take it like a man", and we looked around to see all the adults present nodding in agreement, we felt deceived and abandoned. The most we could realize is that no one had attention for -- or wanted to be burdened with -- what we really felt, that we needed to somehow conjure up an exterior of toughness and to fake an air of confidence.

I can imagine a lot of you having the thought right now, "Oh, come on, Jeffry, it wasn't nearly as bad as you're making it out." But I ask you to consider the possibility that this is precisely how we've been conditioned to think.

The culture did make it safe for us to contact one another through sports; here was also a place to develop camaraderie. But too often this has been tied up in a tribal mentality, with the unifying motivation being the defeat of someone else. And while I'm sure it is true that participation in sports, has helped many men develop positive traits, particularly when it comes to sticking up for one another, there was the implication that you would not qualify for maleness if you chose a gentler path. You only needed to be called a "wimp" once before you began strategizing how to get your "male act" together. In an effort to protect themselves, some boys hurried to be the first to call another boy "wimp".

As we grow up, the little boy within keeps asking: What happened? Who is going to look after me and continue to nurture and think well about me? What I think most of us decide, if it could be called a decision, is that this void will be filled by one special female. Not a diversified network of male and female friends, each connecting with different parts of ourselves, new ones ready to be accepted when old ones fall away, no: one female. One woman who we still may not be willing to open up to -- so conditioned we have been not to open up -- unless perhaps we are having sex. Then maybe, just maybe, will we let ourselves be seen in all our vulnerability. But when we do remove the lid covering the seemingly bottomless pit of needs stored away over many years, we're anxious to secure it again. One perfect woman: who soothes and always says the right thing.

The male ego is fragile; and the one thing it fears, more than any perilous physical challenge, is humiliation. It is difficult for us to lose graciously. The two men I described earlier felt very humiliated by the women on whom they were fixated. I think we may safely assume that they were significantly abused as children, and thereby routinely experienced humiliation growing up. It is the re-triggering of this unhealed humiliation that brought them to the extremes of violence, much as has often been the case in street gangs.

Girls and women tend to want everyone happy, and will willingly sacrifice their ego wants so that things go well for those around them. Whether it is because they are inherently more secure with themselves or because of what they have suppressed they have less need to dominate or be victorious. Just as we males attribute our value to what we can do, what we know or what we've accomplished, I think females, in many cases, attribute their value to how well they please others, both through their emotional warmth and physical appearance. So starved is the male for these female qualities, which he has been conditioned to suppress in himself, that he frequently misinterprets a girl or woman's conditioned behavior towards him. All she has to do is smile and ask him how he is, and he is ready to assume that she wants to date or perhaps become his "one and only."

I think most members of both sexes have difficulty believing they fully deserve to be loved without having to earn it in some way; and that men frequently hope to earn it through tangible accomplishments while women hope to earn it in displays of sensitivity. I love how easy it can be to finish tasks and reach decisions with a group of men, but I also appreciate the quest for consensus and taking everyone's feelings into account that often accompanies working with a group of women -- a process that some of us men find infuriatingly inefficient.

Groups of men can show a collective poetry. I've attended many jazz concerts where the men performing are totally caught up in their enjoyment of each other's playing, leaving egos behind. One may observe similarly proud and virtuosic collaborations on basketball courts, fishing vessels or construction sites.

Historically we males have often sacrificed ourselves for others in the physical realm. We may be the ones that get trained to kill, but we also will give our lives for each other. This could be seen as our lack of self worth playing itself out, but I can't deny the nobility in these lines from "To Dream the Impossible Dream" [sung]:

"And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage..."

I once read a news story about two thirteen-year-old boys crossing the street; one could see that the other was about to be run over by a speeding car and leaped to push his friend to safety, only to be struck -- though fortunately not killed -- by the car himself.

Another scene that comes to mind is watching my brother scatter our father's ashes last Spring at the ocean's edge near the cemetery. Still trying to shake the last of the ashes from the edge of the container, he stood unflinching as a wave washed over one of his shoes. No gesture spoke more clearly of his love for his father.

As men, we are expected to have answers and not to ask questions, to be depended upon without having to depend upon, to work endlessly without need for rest, to lead without collaborating. We are expected to win, and have developed minimal compassion for ourselves when we do not. "The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat." Many of us choose to have nothing to do with topics we cannot display full command of, being uncomfortable with uncertainty or with deferring to the thinking of others. Not having competence at something can cause us to feel worthless, as though lacking intrinsic value to the world.

As with many oppressions, that of males is kept in place by current economic practices. We have a pornography industry that depends on men staying isolated and not finding true connection in their lives. It is in the profit interests of pharmaceutical companies that hyperactive boys are given drugs rather than the emotional support they require. When we should be building community centers, we build prisons. Millions are generated out of addictive substances and pastimes, most of which depend on men staying isolated. We have a sports industry that depends upon. . . well, I leave it to you to decide what it depends upon. We have a corporate system that depends on men overworking themselves in a pursuit to impress, to accumulate, to reach "the top" -- while remaining aloof to how they may affect the rest of humanity or the planet.

In business, as in the military, men often focus on where they rank. Those further down the totem are enslaved to executives who are enslaved to themselves. Within this system of ranks, men learn blind obedience, whether it be to a superior officer or the profit margin. I heard ex-GIs interviewed on the 49th anniversary of a massacre they had participated in during the Korean War. Assembled at a church with Korean survivors of the massacre, they were unable to reach past the excuse that they were "just following orders". They were unable to apologize.

I'm not here to make excuses for the violent behavior of any man. In the end we must be held accountable for our actions. But I think that Jesus' message (in the opening words) is that we are all accountable for the actions of violent men -- for we all have passed by the destitute and "did not minister unto them". We all have failed to recognize the Christ dwelling within characters distasteful to us. Once I was discussing, with a Catholic nun I used to work for, the movie "Dead Man Walking" -- in which a Catholic nun "ministers unto" a murderer-rapist on death row. My employer said that while she realized Jesus would forgive this man for what he did, she herself never could. We have all seen many forms of oppression take place in front of us without having enough courage to interrupt, among these being the systematic isolation of boys.

As a Big Brother volunteer, I spent nearly two years with Chad before his family was broken up by the Department of Social Services and he was put into foster care -- at age eleven -- with a family that did not favor my continued relationship with him. [Explaining all of this is another story]. I was permitted three termination visits, though, where he would be delivered to me in the center of Northampton by a social worker who served as a mediary. My last time ever seeing him, she commented to me -- preparing to walk him to her car -- that she had never witnessed a more affectionate relationship between a Little Brother and his "Big". From her experience with these boys and knowing what they'd been through, she knew that homophobia was the last thing they needed. I stood watching them walk down the sidewalk, tears streaming down my face. Just as he was about to climb into the car, more than a block away, Chad turned and yelled in a voice brimming with confidence, "See ya later, Jeff!"

I can only pray that the healing connection we had put him on the path to subsequent healing connections. And I thank him for the love brought out in me by our time together, a love which, bit by bit, I have been able to send back to my own little boy within.

Please join me now in the spirit of prayer:

Dear God,

We ask that your love fill the hearts of all our brothers. . .
in this sanctuary,
throughout this city and state, this country and planet;
in homes and schools, in factories and offices, in shelters and prisons.

We ask your healing for those of our sisters who any of these brothers has wronged.

We pray that all who have known neglect, shame, abuse or violence find the strength to act on the love buried within them, rather than repeat these hurts towards others human beings or the planet.

Grant us each the courage to be a force for healing in the world.

Amen.

Introduction to My Father's Memorial Service

1998-08-19T19:48:00.000-07:00

Introduction to this printed edition of the Service

The many interpretations of my father’s legacy that follow do much to support his creed regarding perception process. That we each got something different from our experience with him is a testament to the scope of his being. What we each got in common was the essence of his spirit.
As I consider the life of my father, and his role in the family, I find myself pondering the true nature of “home”. Was it a place and a particular set of people, or was it simply a feeling of peace within ourselves? While certain others may have accompanied the feeling, did we not each create our own experience of “home?” Can “home” be as much on the way somewhere as it is a specific place – someplace you didn’t necessarily expect to enjoy, but where you happened to be when you experienced this peace within?. . . perhaps in the beautifully manicured garden, but just as likely in the dump you had to pass through on route to it.
In this respect, my father seemed to carry his “home” with him and perhaps this is why people readily felt “at home” in his presence. He did this so well that one could easily forget that he probably felt isolated much of the time. The man who could talk to anybody about anything – bringing bemused smiles and fresh insight – often opted for solitude. The man who showed much generosity and offered pivotal encouragement to others, could be quite ungenerous and critical with respect to himself.
His childhood probably required both that he depend heavily upon himself and that he be able to charm strangers. His experience growing up also made it difficult for him to admit to relying upon anyone. Given all this, however, he showed remarkable flexibility and willingness to evolve.
The Service gave some 35 people the opportunity to reflect, laugh and cry about their experience with Robert Steele. It was a hot and humid afternoon, but trees provided adequate shade. All of the requests that he had outlined in his “In case of death” file folder were honored: my mother and I both played our instruments and the two Richard Wilbur poems were read. My brother and Ellen Levy (one of my father’s absolute favorite students) offered cogent analysis before their readings. Some may remember it, in a way, as Mr. Steele’s Last Class. The one thing we did not provide that Dad would have liked is printed copies of the poems for listeners to study. This booklet remedies that lack – providing not only the poems, but pretty much every word spoken at the Service (and then some). It is offered not only to console those who loved Robert Steele, but to provide perspective for anyone wondering about the impact their lives have on others, or anyone questioning the eternity of their own spirit.
One other related note: While I met Richard Wilbur on two occasions, my father never did. I approached the poet, following a reading he gave in the summer of 1974 in Cummington (where I worked at a nearby camp), and told him of my father’s interest. Wilbur offered his phone number. When Dad next visited, I dialed the number and handed him the receiver, thinking that he would suggest a meeting over coffee with his favorite living poet. Instead my father, as ever, did not want to intrude – saying something to Wilbur about it being best that we not meet our idols. I was disappointed, thinking, “There he goes again, feeling unworthy.” Or was I anxious for the meeting to take place more for my sake than for Dad’s? Perhaps, in spite of self-worth issues, my father was making a valid point. The second time I approached Wilbur was exactly twenty years later after a concert in Charlemont (which I reviewed) of his works set to music. He said he remembered me from before – and I believe that he meant it.

– Jeffry Hamilton Steele, 19 August 1998

Letter to My Father

1998-08-16T19:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Dad,
This may be the first time I’ve ever written just to you. It used to be “Dear Mom & Dad” – when I was traveling in England – and most of the time since we’ve just talked on the phone. Since I don’t know where to mail this, I will read it aloud here – for I expect you’re hovering over us all right now, listening intently, not wanting to miss a gathering in your honor of family and dear friends.
I believe that since you’ve been gone you’ve tried leaving messages. Four days after you left the body, Carla and I witnessed an intense double rainbow over the sea from the Atlantic Path. We recalled how you had told Carla, a few months back, that she would be seeing “new colors”. Upon gazing at this spectacle in the sky, we could almost hear you gloat, “Not bad for someone who just got here, eh?” Then you visited my dreams. Like a child homesick the first days at sleep-away camp, perhaps you hadn’t yet made new friends or found those special places that would eventually distract you from thoughts of home.
There was another time – while you were still more or less with us – that you appeared in my dream and seemed to be asking for permission to go and for assurance that we would be OK if you did. As difficult as it was for me to say “yes”, you must have received an answer in the affirmative because you did depart soon after.
The more ill you became in the body, in recent years, the more vulnerable you became emotionally. At first your tears were hard to see: when you were recovering some years back from the knee operation and the final movement of Mahler’s Third played on the radio; when I played “Song of the Fisherman” on your catamaran (Julia was there also) in ChristChurch, England. This was also the last piece you ever requested from me, this past June from your bed.

play “Song of the Fisherman”

Music had a direct line to your feelings, making it impossible to conceal them. Watching your face when you became engaged with it, it was clear you experienced music as deeply as any man who’d ever lived.
As less of your intellect became available to you, soccer on TV became the favorite diversion. And tears came again sometimes when you could not find a game to watch. In moments such as these, I was torn between wanting to be completely present for this good man grappling with his feelings on the one hand, and wanting my dad to keep it together on the other. But by the time you were in the nursing facility, and you sobbed at the conclusion to my reading the “Clear Away” program notes, we had reached a new level: you realizing you had permission to cry without stopping yourself, and my realizing that crying along with you was indeed the only way for me to actually remain present.
On the last of these occasions, you seemed to be addressing people from the past – as though they stood just behind me. With one foot already in the Spirit World – where these apparitions perhaps resided – you repeated, “I’m sorry, I can’t do it.”
Ever since then, I have had no desire for even a sip of alcohol. Now you probably wouldn’t agree with this, but I was suddenly struck with the feeling that – even though you did not drink heavily (and never before 5 PM) – you had used alcohol to postpone making peace with the past.
Anyway, those moments, when there was nothing left for us but to cry together, were a great gift for a father a son – and I will always remember them. We both could think more clearly after a good cry. I can just imagine the combination of tears and uproarious laughter with which you would respond to everything said here today.
As Gordon Bok’s Saben made a pact between man and boat, so you seemed to make a pact between Spirit and body:

“If you will hold yourself together just a few days more, until we reach the land, I promise you that I’ll take you apart as well as I ever put you together, plank off plank and timber from timber, and you’ll never serve a man again.”

And so, during those final weeks – in spite of how difficult it was for you to focus for any length of time – you managed to remain engaged for the entire show on June 6. Just to enable that experience for you would, in and of itself, have justified all my preparation for “Clear Away”.
Then, as promised, you took the good boat apart.
Your passing brought with it a spiritual and emotional deepening of family bonds. We may have lost you, but gained a new level of connection with each other and with Spirit. Thank you for the conscious and unconscious ways you helped bring that about. An example of the former would be when you gazed out over those gathered for Nancy and Carol’s baby shower, last May, and declared, “There is so much love in this room!” Jonathan may have hinted at his spiritual side in the past – after all, he did sing in one of his songs, “There’s a reason why I’m here and why I bought this gear” – but I especially felt it coming through recently as he sat at your bedside.
Was this, perhaps, the true quest of your life: To be born into it surrounded by people’s pain and to leave it surrounded by people’s love? For those who reached out to help the young Bobby Steele, who saw his goodness and preciousness, your gratitude never lapsed. I hope that you finally figured out that you did not deserve to be neglected as a young person, and that you did deserve to be loved as you were by all of us gathered here today.
Now, while I have your attention, I’d appreciate some specific information. About two weeks before you went into the hospital (it’s strange to date back from an unplanned event) you read me a poem you had apparently only recently discovered, the one about flowers growing by the road. None of us can find this poem – which, judging from the tears you shed at the last line, clearly meant a lot to you – and we therefore cannot read it today. Now, of course, even if you were here you probably wouldn’t remember where you left it. It was not an author I recognized. Did you xerox it from the New Yorker? I wonder if we’ll ever know. Anyway, it described driving past some beautiful flowers having only the moment it takes to speed past in which to appreciate them – concluding that Heaven shares her greatest wonders with those who have the least time to take them in, that even in just driving by we may receive the flowers as deeply as anyone who may have come close enough to smell them, even as deeply as the gardener who may have planted and cared for them. Did you feel, on some level, that you had let life pass without taking the time to breathe it in fully? That there were flowers you wished you’d smelled? Places you would like to have visited? People you would like to have known more closely?
Once you cried to me, saying, “My only happy years were those at Cranbrook, not before, not since.” I pointed out some of the other good times you had spoken of, but I could see why it might be hard to look back favorably when you sense you haven’t much time ahead of you. What was it about Cranbrook anyway? It must be that you had a clear sense of purpose, appreciation from others for your many skills, a feeling of community. But there were a lot of headaches too, if we took time to recall all of it.
Not having seen Cranbrook since 1980, it seems like something out of a dream. But I can certainly recall many good times since. My 34th birthday stands out; we were in ChristChurch with Julia and feasted on a huge fish served whole in a fancy Chinese restaurant. Almost every time you and Carla were together there was a lot of laughter, even when you were bid-ridden. There were many probing and lively hours around the supper table, particularly when there were guests you resonated with. And each time the dementia, as you called it, closed off a part of your mind, another part of your heart would open in response.
You may wish to have completed some monumental work such as getting a book published or an invention marketed, to have more to “show for” your time here. But your legacy is not to be archived on a shelf or pictured in a catalog; it is in the gift you left to every person with whom you spent time. I may have envied my peers for their particular skills or material possessions, but they usually envied me for my parents and family. After a visit to Folly Cove, some friends have commented that in their own families so much energy was spent in the struggle to get along that little was left for the thoughtful exchange of ideas they experienced in my family. And speaking of your accomplishments: if the ability to get a large roomful of hushed people hanging on your every word when you have no idea what you’re going to say next isn’t a major accomplishment, I don’t know what is.
You were always determined to find the newer, better way. You were a pioneer as a parent, as a teacher and as an engineer. I got the strong message that I was not to do things in the same way anyone else had. And while this has been my knee-jerk reaction at times – rather than a carefully considered choice – I do appreciate that you modeled this non-conforming and questioning stance.
Thank you again for bringing us to Cape Ann. You must have had a gut feeling that the area would provide richness for us beyond sheer coastline beauty. But thank you also for balancing our experience here with that at Cranbrook, which provided a nurturing learning environment for all of us that we may not readily have found here at the time.
Thank you for teaching me to write well. I’m not sure how you did this. I must have been in the ninth or tenth grade, and I recall going from being totally frustrated to attaining a level of accomplishment in a matter of a few days, without being taught a single grammatical rule. I guess I was finally receptive and you must have figured out the particular information I needed. Only in studying Spanish did I realize that what I had mastered were things called “noun clause”, “adjective clause” and so forth.
Thanks for giving me an appreciation of things nautical. Although it’s been about a decade since I’ve sailed a boat – last time must have been with you in England – I take pride in the fact that I know how. You preached on the beauty of engineering, whether marine or otherwise, such that I too become engaged with the study of how something has been made and enjoy talking to people about their work with anything mechanical.
Thanks particularly for being able to relax enough about the “Dad role” to be someone to hang out with. I appreciate all the places we visited: Georgian Bay, down to Honduras on the Talamanca, standing outside the Met (after Edna’s wake) until we could procure a pair of tickets to Turandot, and that spur-of-the-moment bus trip to Montreal from where I lived in Newburyport. Although it was somewhat arduous, I appreciated our last trip together, one year ago: the Liberty Ship cruise out of New London.
It was you I first heard require of a group (or class) that no one speaks twice until everyone has spoken once. Nowadays one might think of this technique as having been learned at a personal growth training, but it just came naturally to you. You simply wanted members of a group to get the most from each other, and you respected everyone’s thinking, regardless of age or experience. As much as you liked to tell stories or pontificate, you seemed to derive the most satisfaction from enabling meaningful group process. When you would rate the success of our annual Christmas party, it was always had to do with whether the group was engaged in something together – singing in particular.
Your spirit – as Carla often pointed out – is very strong and continues to be so. Even when you could barely speak, you still chose your words carefully and creatively – as if to say, “I may be in pain, but language can still be enjoyed.” One time when you were in an otherwise disoriented state at the nursing center, you had no trouble advising me on the proper use of “who” and “whom”. Whenever you spoke to one of us on the phone – both recently as well as in the past – you would offer an amusing anecdote, often improvised on nothing more that what you could see out the kitchen window. No physical suffering could keep you from extracting a listener’s smile; in fact, you couldn’t pass up the temptation. Right up until you became unconscious, there was a strong grip in your hand for greeting a visitor and a strong gaze to match. Watching you make transition, I gained a thorough understanding of how distinct the Spirit is from the body. I could feel your spirit departing in stages; but rather than disappear, it simply relocated. Once the corpse remained, it appeared as nothing more than the vehicle you’d rented for this particular 83-year visit to the planet – a vessel now ready for the scrapyard, no longer able to carry your spirit. And I’m counting on that spirit to stick by me. Just keep feeding me those dry one-liners and I’ll know you’re there.
During the period of your last illness, I had loaned you my boombox – and would often leave music on at the conclusion of a visit. Knowing that it would be over in an hour, I would start a CD playing and hope its effect would be healing. At some point during your last two or three days of physical life, a nurse pushed the repeat button – either intentionally or inadvertently – such that the opening plainchant to the Missa Pange Lingua repeated non-stop for 30 or 40 hours. Sung in Latin by the Tallis Scholars, the text spoke of the Christ, but may as aptly apply to you:

“. . . having dwelt in the world
and scattered the seed of the Word,
he concluded in a marvelous manner
his life on earth.”

And didn’t we have fun singing together during your final weeks? I had never seen you so totally engaged in folksongs, moving with the beat and piping in with whatever words you could remember. One was the Bill Staines song, “Down the Road”, where you would echo the chorus line with abandon. Given how much you loved being around people singing together, I hope we can all do a decent job of it for you at the close of this ceremony.
Your Son,
Jeffry

Billy's Voice

1998-06-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

Although I’d never met them, I had no trouble spotting Billy’s friends and family gathered on the bridge over the tidal stream at Good Harbor beach. As I joined the group, I noticed the metal box containing Billy’s ashes that one of them grimly held. Though she’d never seen me before, Billy’s mother picked me out. “You looked like a guitar player,” she said greeting me with a hug that revealed the source of Billy’s ability despite great struggles to love unconditionally.

I asked one man about his connection to Billy. “He was the only one there for me when everyone else had turned their backs,” he said with that unmasked vulnerability people “in recovery” often exhibit. We worked to hold back tears for the moment we looked each other in the eye.

One man I recognized. “Were you related to Billy?” I opened. “Not by blood, but otherwise yes.” I told about Billy having been in a counseling class I helped teach. “Oh yeah!” he lit up, “Billy raved about that. He used to call me up each time he had another break-through.”

Billy and I had seen little of each other after he’d returned from Georgia. Then one day I was out walking with a man from church who was hailed by another, “See you at Billy’s memorial?” I felt a jolt in my gut that told me which Billy.

This was not a group easily given to ceremony. Glancing downward, I realized that the man who had held the canister was now standing in the water and with hardly a word dumping the ashes from a plastic bag. Upon hitting the stream they became a long white eel, swimming quickly out to sea. I noticed a woman holding a framed poem with Billy’s name at the bottom. “Are you going to read that?” I asked. “You mean out loud?” she replied, looking surprised. “Yes, out loud,” I said.
The poem was about having the innocence of childhood taken away from us. While in our counseling class, Billy had shared that it wouldn’t be much longer before his liver gave out the price to be paid for his years of substance abuse. Although he always tried to put on the best face, I imagine he must have longed to start over again in a child’s body. Another of his poems was read.

With the group still focused, I pulled out my guitar. “I have a song for you and Billy would like you to sing along. He may not have known this song, but I can imagine him singing it when he got into his old car and headed for the job in Georgia. I picture the wind streaming through his hair as he thought of himself making a difference in lives of troubled boys down there. “

Billy’s mother and another woman, perhaps an aunt, did their best to sing looking me straight in the eye much the way my kindergartners used to straining to form new syllables with their mouths while, at the same time, offering the song an open pathway to their hearts. Hearty applause followed, though no one smiled. Billy’s mother led the “Our Father” to close.

From somewhere, I heard Billy’s voice, “Thanks, buddy,” and felt his firm grasp on my shoulder.

The Evolution of Guitara Illuminata

1998-06-10T07:16:00.000-07:00

The Evolution of Guitara Illuminata

The Music of Josquin des Préz (1440-1521)

A 27 year chronicle (mostly on technical matters) of events leading up to the release of the CD on Centaur Records. Written for a Boston Classical Guitar Society workshop I gave in November 1997. See related article, written a year later, for their newsletter.

Fall 1970 (age 16)

Having just discovered Renaissance music, I find the New York Pro Musica recording of Missa Pange Lingua in my high school library. I then Xerox the score at the Detroit Public Library along with whatever else they have by Josquin. I later transcribe the final Agnus Dei for two guitars, but not in the most idiomatic key.

Fall 1974

I discover the Narváez arrangements of Josquin pieces and transcribe the same Agnus Dei for solo guitar, vihuela tuning allowing me to transpose and finger the music in the style of Narváez. The crossing of voices makes certain places ineffective, however.

Winter 1993

I transcribe the entire Pange Lingua Mass for two guitars, transposing it to C# phrygian (after trying other keys). I rehearse and perform it with a friend from Vermont (Richard Ullman).

1995

I make some visits to the Tufts Music Library to listen to recordings and Xerox scores of Josquin, which inspires me to transcribe the motet Magnus es tu, Domine as well as the Missa Hercules dux Ferrariae. I record them -- along with Missa Pange Lingua -- on my cassette four-track with Les Paul electric and Hasselbacher classical guitars. I choose the former for its sustain and for timbrel contrast. I play to a variable click track created on the computer.

Spring 1996

I come across the acoustic steel-string my brother built years ago and decide it would sound warmer than the electric. I try recording at an old friend's studio (on an ADAT) but decide the medium is too unwieldy and the time he can give me too limited. I purchase the Roland VS-880 Hard Disk Recorder (the first one the store receives) and record Pange Lingua on it. I also buy the Tascam DA-20 DAT Recorder for mastering. Based on previous multi-tracking experience, I program a complex tempo map, providing metronome clicks that change tempo, and correlate actual measure numbers with measures shown in the VS-880 display. [In retrospect, this wasn't worth the trouble]. Having also bought an AT4031 microphone, I use a blend of it and the bridge pick-up of each guitar (the latter going through a Baggs pre-amp), through a Rolls mixer and an Alesis compressor (the mic by itself sounding somewhat thin). I use chorusing on the steel-string guitar. I give the first "solo" live performance, using the VS-880 to play back the second guitar through a 2-speaker sound system, monitoring the clicks over a single earphone.

Summer 1996

I set up an isolation booth in a closet and record the entire Guitara Illuminata album, which now includes another chanson and motet. The noise of the hard disk makes it necessary to cover the VS-880 with a sleeping bag while tracking. A defect in the Auto-punch feature messes up many takes (this is remedied when the music store can finally procure a replacement unit). I continue to use the Les Paul for one chanson, because of its sustain, but RFI interference requires me to play it lying on my back. Mixdown is automated using a Korg M1 sequencer, which is clumsy but dependable -- each song on the M1 being limited to 250 measures. (The Powerbook I bought to replace my stolen Atari refuses to work with a MIDI interface, which I take as a divine message that I am not meant to be using MIDI anymore). All tempo and mix data is written out on paper as a back-up. I send cassette copies to a producer in Los Angeles -- who calls to encourage me but offers no specific contacts -- and to many independent record companies. I receive another encouraging call from Jon Marks, though he does not put out guitar music.

Fall 1996

Ken Selcer dubs cassettes and prints inserts for me so I can begin selling the tape at concerts. I meet Frank Wallace at the Boston Classical Guitar Society "Mini-Fest" who gives me the idea of Centaur Records and the president, Victor's, number. After receiving the tape, Victor calls to say he would put out Guitara Illuminata at a cost, to me, of $3000. I hear and read about Thomastik rope-core steel strings and get some for my Cone classical guitar. I find the sound more appealing, less twangy and more "Renaissance", than my brother's guitar. By now, I am performing the Mass without monitoring the click track.

Winter 1997

I re-record all the steel string parts (including those of the Les Paul) with the new strings, and send this tape around to three more companies. Deciding two moody pieces need an upbeat number between them, I transcribe the Fanfare, using a mute between certain strings fashioned from a rubber strip (as the music was too complex for me to damp strings with my palm, as is usually done to achieve apogado/pizzicato). I make much use of the Track Move feature to correct synchronization errors between guitar tracks. In some instances, I succeed in re-tuning certain notes -- using Compress/Expand -- as the Thomastik strings are difficult to play in tune. I have Ken re-dub the remaining cassettes.

Spring 1997

I have grown discontent again with the sound of the album. A magazine article convinces me that a cardioid mic is not the way to record guitars. They do recommend the AT4031, but only as a second mic used at a greater distance than I have been doing. They speak highly of Earthworks omni mics, so I get an OM1 drop-shipped by the NH company, via a retailer, without having even heard one. I experiment with mic placement more than before -- recording on separate tracks the OM1, the AT4031 and the bridge pick-up -- and conclude that the OM1 by itself yields the best sound. It is pointed at a spot on the soundboard just above the 15th fret, only five inches out. Now I can finally hear how much the AT4031 has colored the sound, with its boomy bass and harsh treble.

Having gotten the "VS-expanded" software, I find the "distance" parameter in the Mic Simulator yields a convincing stereo image out of a mono track (more natural than any of the delay or EQ methods for stereo simulation), and that the limiter from the same algorithm can yield a subtle sustain that only affects certain frequencies. The result is more natural and pleasing to my ears than recording in "true" stereo with the OM1 and the AT4031. Using the Aux send and bringing the return through another channel panned away from the source track causes sustained notes to "auto-pan" slightly. Interesting as this last effect is, I eventually shut off the limiter -- saving the idea for another project perhaps. To maintain the harmonic overtones from chorusing on the steel-string guitar without the artificiality, I put the Aux send feed from that channel (via the Aux A output) through a Korg AX30G with a slight pitch-shift and reverb, returning only the wet signal to another input. Thus, only the reverb of the steel-string guitar is detuned. A rich, though not muddy, environment is thereby created from two dry guitar tracks; this music being written originally for church choir, ambience is an important element.

I switch to recording in the Multi-Track 1 mode (instead of the default MT2 mode) because, even though my ears can detect no difference, my brother suggests that the added data compression could cause CD-mastering problems. The purchase of a Zip drive -- offering far more reliable and convenient storage than on a DAT -- allows me to erase whatever I don't need on the internal hard disk.

My booth is now the upstairs bathroom, which is larger than the closet. Its glass door between the shower/toilet and sink areas opens easily so I can position the HDR on the other side of it from the mic. Decibel level of street noise (measured by the peak margin meter of the DA-20) is comparable to the closet. Outside noise is minimized further by the proximity allowance of the Earthworks mic. Towels and other materials are used to absorb sound reflection.

I have dispensed with the variable metronome and simple sit down and play each guitar track until coming to a rest of four beats or more; then I switch to the other guitar, overlapping phrases in this manner until the end of each movement. Although this method introduces new challenges, timing is far more elastic and human than when using the metronome and, surprisingly, I make fewer synchronization errors because I am listening better to the recorded track. Having recorded and mixed the whole project twice previously, I can perceive timing and tuning inaccuracies more readily. The expanded software makes the VS-880 capable of its own auto-mix, so I don't have to deal with the external sequencer. This allows me to create the entire master within the VS-880. I increase the levels of Channels 2 (for the steel-string) or 7 (for the nylon string) during solo guitar passages to balance the image and increase stereo ("distance") simulation [see figure].

[While the above can be an interesting application for guitar duo, my approach to solo guitar recording has become slightly more orthodox, as you may see within my "Producing a Classical Guitar CD" article].

July 1997

I send a DAT of the newest version to Centaur, and Victor calls to say it is very good but needs the level brought up and the guitars more centered in the stereo field. I ask about hiss; he says it's tolerable. The new Track Level parameter in the VS-880 allows me to increase levels relative to auto-mix settings. I order a $700 Earthworks pre-amp but, as it's no quieter, I return it. I realize now that the OM1's self-noise of 27 db is the culprit. I order an AT4050 mic -- and compare it in a store with many other large diaphragm condensers, all with self-noise of 16-17 db -- but the high end, relative to the OM1, sounds like plastic fingerpicks in every case. So back goes the AT4050. I also order (and actually keep) a dbx 286A mic pre-amp/processor; it cost only $220 and its expander/gate minimizes the OM1 noise. By now I have my own CD burner, but Victor still wants a DAT master because the CD factory has to be more accountable for the final product.

An engineer at Centaur finds a glitch on the DAT so I master another. After much back and forth about printing corrections, finally. . .

June 1998

My initial order of CDs arrive. Centaur concurrently sends them to radio stations and record stores.

Produding Your Own Classical Guitar CDs

1998-01-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

Producing Your Own Classical Guitar CDs:
(An Ongoing Saga)

As much as I enjoy performing on classical guitar, my major focus in recent years has been on recording. This may seem a backward approach. Aren't we first supposed to make our name as concert artists and then hope major record labels will start calling us up offering contracts? I'm not waiting around. To quote a Phil Ochs song, "If I've got something to say, sir, I'm going to say it now!"

Apart from one CD which is on Centaur Records and distributed by them, I sell my CDs at concerts and on the Web. But at this time, rather than focus on how to get more people actually buying my recordings, I prefer to start the next recording project -- a process which has taught me more as a musician than any lessons I have taken.

The Decision to Buy

To go at your own pace, on your own schedule and with a thorough knowledge of the equipment at hand, one needs a recording set-up at home. For Guitara Illuminata: The Music of Josquin des Préz, I knew I would need a multi-track unit (as I would be playing each of two guitar parts). I called a music store and the salesman told me I should check out the new Roland VS-880 8-track hard-disk recorder, which he had just seen at a trade show. He described it as "wicked stupid" which, in case you don't know, is a high compliment from someone born in the mid-1970s. Selling for $2000, it was one of the first such recorders to have adequate storage (or track minutes) for a whole guitar duet album. I bought the first one he could get in, which included the internal digital effects board (another $250). This earliest version of the operating system was still a little wet behind the ears. The newest version, the VS-880EX, now sells for $1750 and includes everything I had to subsequently pay extra for (which totaled $2750!). Upgrades for the VS-880 are issued on Zip disks. This caused me to buy a Zip drive which plugs into the VS-880's SCSI port at a computer store, giving me a reliable way to store audio data from off of the hard disk. (The alternative storage method, using a DAT recorder, took forever and was not reliable). In fact, you may record directly to a Zip disk (though its 100 MB capacity doesn't buy you much time).

At this time I also charged up a DAT (Digital Audio Tape) recorder (the Tascam DA-20) for mastering. DAT recorders can work with different "sampling rates", but CDs only use one: 44.1 KHz. In addition to recording the master tape, this unit came in handy for combining tracks created in separate "songs" (the basic level of organization on the VS-880) into one continuous album, without leaving the digital domain.

The more I made use of the VS-880's digital editing capability, the more I depended on it. It allowed me to record much as Glenn Gould is said to have, seamlessly splicing together the best of sometimes many takes. Some may say this is cheating, but the process did much to shape my concept for each piece which enhanced my live performance in a way that hours of simply practicing could not. I also found myself taking more risks as a player, my performance not becoming too "careful" out of fear of making mistakes.

There are now many other stand-alone hard-disk units to choose from. I would not recommend the Mini-Disc recorders for CD-quality classical music. There are also many hard-disk systems based around your computer, that function in more or less the same way but often without the dedicated hardware interface. If you hope to release CDs of your live unedited performance, however, you may be able to get by with a simple stereo DAT recorder like the portable Tascam unit that has mic inputs and one or two good microphones. But be advised that even a note-perfect live performance will require digital editing for professional results.

The Recording Environment

Unless you're going to do extensive soundproofing, you need to record in a space without exterior walls. I use the upstairs bathroom, adding ambience digitally (via the above mentioned internal effects) .It's easier to make clean edits when the ambience is not recorded with the guitar so you're not editing out the reverb "tail" of any note that you are grafting onto another.

Another advantage to digital reverb is that you can put off deciding how much of it to use until final mixdown. The president of Stedman (whose mic is described below) complemented me on the natural ambience heard on my "Clear Away" CD; he was surprised to learn that most of it was digital reverb. Eric of Earthworks (another microphone company) scoffed at digital reverb as being nothing more than a series of echoes, unable to match the complexity of the real thing. But if you listen carefully to the sound of a space that you like, you can emulate many of its characteristics with the digital reverb's parameters. In particular, I found it effective to cut the low end of the reverb's "wet" signal quite a bit. My ambition is to someday fool even Eric. Some engineers have captured natural reverb by playing the final mix over speakers in a space of their choice (at, say, 6 AM, before traffic begins), recording the reflections along with the original track. Of course, if you're the kind of guitarist who can walk into that same space and play a note-perfect performance before a plane passes or the garbage trucks make their rounds all the better.

In addition to a quality pair of headphones, one needs a pair of near-field (you're meant to sit close to them) "reference monitor" speakers. I bought the Alesis Point Sevens, being the least expensive option; I also figured I didn't need the "low end" of larger speakers for mixing a guitar CD. In retrospect, I would say this is almost true as I do hear more of my recorded guitar since adding a powered subwoofer.
To get the signal from any quality microphone into the recorder one needs a mic pre-amp with phantom power. This is not a good place to scrimp, as the first one I ordered ended up being too noisy though it took my ears a few months to fully perceive it.

II. Microphones

I started out with an Audio-Technica 4031 small-diaphragm condenser mic. Though "recommended" for guitar I would say in retrospect that purchasing this $300 mic for recording was a mistake. After a period of time I noticed it was boomy in the bass, harsh in the treble and put out too much of its own hiss. It has redeemed itself as a live mic, however. [When I need amplification in concert, by the way, I use a combination of a saddle pick-up and external mic. Internal mics don't cut it to my ears].

My next microphone was an Earthworks. Advertised as the only mic for under $1000 that doesn't "smear time", the Earthworks OM-1 uses a very small diaphragm that comes to rest for more quickly than many more expensive mics, making its reproduction far more accurate particularly noticeable to me in the upper range. It being omnidirectional (Hears in All Directions) means that it doesn't get boomy when placed close to the guitar (our ears are also omnidirectional, by the way). I got mine drop-shipped direct via a retailer in Wellesley for a total of $400. Although it meant re-recording the whole project, I've never regretted in the long run having to do this (even when I lost most of a subsequent project through a system error), as many improvements will suggest themselves.

While the Earthworks mic made a significant improvement in the sound, after a while I began to realize that its self-noise was just as bad as that of the AT4031. I sought advice from Centaur's president and concluded that the least I could spend on a quieter mic that sounded as true as the OM-1 would be $1200. My testing of a number of well-known studio mics (costing between $350 and $950) confirmed this assessment; they all (including the famous AKG-414) made my fingernails sound like plastic picks. Feeling I couldn't afford the $1200 (it's somewhat inconsistent the role that "feelings" play here), I tried other pre-amps that might minimize the OM-1's noise settling on the dbx 286A single-channel preamp/processor for $220. Its Expander/Gate feature cut the noise in gradations such that it became far less noticeable. I also found its built-in Compressor and De-esser useful the latter attenuating shift squeaks somewhat. It is easy as well, on the VS-880, to edit out any noise between pieces with precision. I used this set-up to record the Voice of Creation CD. To simulate stereo miking, I used the "distance" effect available on the VS-880, panning its "return" away from the original signal. [See diagram in "Evolution" article]. Another method for simulating stereo miking of guitar has been described by author/musician Craig Anderton, involving high and low cut EQ and two 5 ms (millisecond) delay lines.

I sent a copy of the CD (how it became a CD so quickly, I'll get to later) to Earthworks. They called to say they were impressed with the playing and asked if I would do some test recordings for them in return for one of their new mics, the QTC-1 "quiet omni". So I drove up to their southern NH factory to pick up the fancy equipment they wanted used in the recordings.

In the meantime I was contacted by a local recording engineer who wanted experience recording classical guitar; he was happy with a copy of each CD as payment for recording my next local performance. From his arsenal of high-end mics we settled on a pair of Neumann 130s. They sounded very good but I still couldn't see going into debt over them. At a subsequent session, however, he pulled out a pair of Stedman C-15s. My head told me they shouldn't have been good for guitar: large diaphragm (which are most commonly used for vocals) and cardioid (Hears in One Direction generally too boomy for close miking of guitar). But my ears told me otherwise; and I was floored to learn that these mics went for only $400 each. He loaned me the pair to compare with the pair of QTC-1s Earthworks had loaned me. While I would recommend either of these pairs of mics to a classical guitarist (the Earthworks particularly when you want to capture all the ambience of your recording space), I concluded that the Stedmans sounded warmer. The QTC-1 costing twice as much (as either the Stedman or Earthwork's earlier OM-1) made the C-15, which is also a bit quieter, a better value. I ordered a matched pair of the Stedmans from the same Wellesley retailer. (After all, I had a free QTC-1 coming anyway). My engineer friend has since informed me that a new mic by Shure (KSM32) sounds comparable to the Stedman (to his ears).

One problem with a sensitive large-diaphragm condenser mic is its vulnerability to moisture; and a spell of hot humid summer days soon caused one of the Stedmans to malfunction. The president of that company was very responsive. At first he replaced the electronics of the mic, which probably wasn't necessary. He explained to me that excessive humidity would cause problems not just for his microphones, but eventually for disk drives and potentiometers (the knobs and sliders on your stereo) as well. Large diaphragm condensers are just "the canary in the coal mine", as it were. A few weeks after I had brought down my humidity (alternating between a dehumidifier and an air conditioner) the mic returned to normal functioning. The lower humidity also enhanced my ability to concentrate.

Mic position (mono)

I decided the best position for the mic was pointing at the soundboard two inches north of the fifteenth fret, about six inches out. When you record up close with sensitive equipment, you often find out for the first time about extra-musical noises you make: squeaks from chair or footstool, breathing, subtle tongue/saliva swishes, even the cracking of joints.

At the same time, every nuance you give the music will also be rendered with detail; and you can count on better sustain of voices than when recording from a greater distance. Of course, this method is not about capturing the audience's perspective, which is quite a bit further from the instrument. But the further back you go, the more you must increase the gain, and your pianissimo will be competing with mic hiss and environment noise. Most classical recordings try to capture the feeling of Being There, but let's face it: they're not "there" and neither are you.

If you record with a lot of ambience (natural or digital), those listening in ambient spaces are hearing the effect compounded. I'm reminded of that whenever I see my music is being choreographed in the dance studio. Artur Rubinstein wrote, on the back of his album "The Brahms I Love", that he preferred hearing the pieces through a stereo at home -- a more intimate place in listeners' lives -- over attending a performance in a concert hall. You're trying to convey the depth of your art through someone's car stereo, clock radio, living room speakers or Walkman headphones. I feel it's our choice what works best to that end even though many well-qualified people would argue against close-miking.

You may need to re-finger certain passages to minimize squeaks on the wound strings. I discovered "back buzz" on one guitar, requiring the insertion of a thin plastic shim under the sixth string at the nut, and a third string buzz on another guitar requiring a similar solution.

One also must focus in on whether a cut in EQ is required at any frequency. After determining that the mic's position is not the problem (you're generally asking for trouble if you point a mic at the soundhole, for example), listen for any notes that may pop out and calculate their frequency in cycles-per-second (a.k.a. Hz). In standard tuning, the open strings have the following frequencies: 1 - 330 Hz, 2 - 248 Hz, 3 - 202 Hz, 4 - 146 Hz, 5 - 110 Hz, 6 - 83 Hz. The VS-880 has a pretty capable EQ section that can be applied either before or after recording a track. You also may want to record through a Compressor/Limiter, so you can keep the signal pretty hot without distorting on a big chord but some purists prefer to simply keep the overall level set lower.

III. Mixdown

Even for just a solo guitar recording, levels between pieces, and often within pieces, will need to be evened out. Hard as you might try, there will always be takes when you sat in a slightly different position relative to the mic(s) -- for which you will need to compensate. The VS-880 offers automated mixing, either within itself or via MIDI from a computer sequencer. I use the latter approach -- since I have the interface and the software -- as it allows me to basically replicate the VS-880 internal mixer on the computer screen and program fades, level changes or effects parameters. Should you record the audio itself onto a computer-based system, mixdown and editing are even easier -- as every parameter may be varied from one screen rather than from two units operating in synch. In the big leagues, specialized Mastering Engineers are utilized at this point to optimize the recording so that it sounds its best on the various playback devices it will be heard through.

"Burning" a CD

The next upgrade available for the VS-880 was the capability to physically manifest CDs, via new software and compatibly designed CD-R recorder. I remastered two earlier albums of mine (from DAT), thrilled to finally hear them reproduced through CD players with the clarity they had lost in their previous life as cassettes.
We call it "burning" a CD because -- unlike tape that has its magnetic particles temporarily aligned in accordance with the audio signal it records -- a CD is etched permanently with tiny indentations that are read by a laser beam on playback -- an irreversible process. Having the ability to burn CDs directly from the VS-880 obviates the need for a DAT recorder -- as most CD replicators prefer a CD master to a DAT and will charge you less when you can provide it. Digital Audio Tape is a somewhat fallible medium, one glitch in the tape and you’ve got to remaster on a fresh one.

The great thing about burning your own is how you can make changes -- after listening to the CD in a variety of settings or after getting feedback from others -- before shelling out for a package of 1000 from one of the many companies offering this service. The disadvantage is in the time it takes. For an hour CD, the VS-880 spends two hours writing an "image file" and then half an hour on each CD (so long as you’re present to keep feeding CD-R blanks into the CD recorder). Occasionally, you get a defective disc, or accidentally jostle the sensitive unit, which requires you to start the whole process again. Add to that the time its takes to print and cut the inserts and stick on the donut-shapes labels. Ironically, you don’t save any money doing it yourself when compared with the per-CD rate available when you commit to a factory run of 1000. But this also depends on the price you can get the CD-R blanks for.

Even without a professional sound card for your computer, you can take advantage of a computer-based system by importing tracks from a CD you’ve burned on the VS-880, mastering them there with digital audio software (saving them as WAV or AIF files), and burning the finished CD directly from the computer. This last process is much faster on a computer than with the VS-880 as you don’t have to wait for an image file to be created. You can also use audio editing software, once your sound files are in the computer, to even out levels, reorder tracks, etc. I use Peak LE, which I purchased for only $50.

Stereo Miking & A Bargain
Now, with the larger drive, I had plenty of track-minutes to record a true stereo guitar album. Needing at least two quiet pre-amps, I ended up purchasing a small Mackie mixer, which -- in addition to other important features -- offered four. In fact, now I had what would be needed to record a CD of Modern Dance drama "Clear Away: A Fisherman’s Farewell", which I had scored for 11 musicians.

In recent months I came across a microphone bargain that you should all know about: the Oktava 012 small-diaphragm condenser from Russia. I found them new for only $150 each (rubles, anyone?) and they sound indistinguishable from the Neumann 130s [$1200 each — referred to in Part 2]! Humidity doesn’t bother them in the least; and they are quiet.

In stereo miking, one runs the risk of phase cancellation -- making you sound brittle and sometimes even out of tune. My understanding is that so long as you keep the two mics panned hard right and left, you’re OK. But when you bring the image toward the center of the stereo field -- or make it monaural, as will happen on a mono unit such as a TV -- frequencies common to the left and right can cancel each other out. One can avoid phase cancellation by placing the diaphragms directly over one another, at an angle between 90° and 120°. Doing this with clunky large-diaphragm mics requires the top mic to be positioned upside-down. [See further discussion of stereo miking in the 8/98 issue of Recording]. Unlike the mono omni mic position I referred to in Part 2, I place my pair of cardioids at least a foot away from the instrument, making sure that neither points directly at the soundhole. Many professionals go further back, to pick up room ambience.

I hope you’ve found most of the above useful in some way. I intend to continue experimenting with many of the possibilities I have referred to -- including the note-perfect first take in an ambient space at 6 AM. May your own projects be blessed.

Honesty in Music

1998-01-10T06:53:00.000-08:00

I believe that our relationship to music, as with our relationship to anything or anyone, needs to be examined periodically to determine if our present needs are still being met by it. When we stay with things because they are "comfortable" or provide a sense of "security", we may discover down the road that this very comfort was keeping us from growing. Just as our relationship with a person can grow dysfunctional if it is not freshly re-examined from time to time, so too can our romance with music. Both often begin in a state of infatuation. I recall how exciting it was to first hear and see the Beatles. There began my own, and an entire generation's, infatuation.

Most of us musicians can recall a moment, or series of moments, as a young person when we vowed to make music a large part of our lives. So moved were we with the power of a performance, or the encouragement of a teacher, that we committed ourselves to the purchase of an instrument, daily practice and perhaps weekly lessons. In essence we began a relationship which like a romantic relationship would have many stages to undergo before maturing (infatuation, conflict, compromise, growth of the individual). For some of us it may have been an arranged marriage, dragged to lessons as a child and developing our proficiency in the spirit of obedience.

A lot of us may have taken up the guitar, for example, because we fantasized becoming rock stars. We may have felt a lack of love in our environment and concluded subconsciously that the best way to get love was to get good on guitar. After all, we idolized our guitar-heroes; didn't it follow that we would in turn be idolized if we made it big? Though a misguided endeavor, it was our best thinking at the time. It got us going. Simultaneously, we were moved by the power of the music we heard on guitar, and so were also drawn to learn to play out of our God-given instinct to express ourselves.

But until we fully transform the ego-driven portion of our musical psyche into a selfless desire to give to the world, or until we heal whatever other hurts went into our decision to become musicians, it will be reflected in how we play.

The sign of a mature, self-actualized musician is effortless playing of great expression. Anything beyond that usually signals unresolved childhood hurts that somehow got attached to music making. Exaggerated gestures, unrequired tightening of muscles (in face as well as hands/arms) appear to result from a lingering need to "prove" oneself perhaps to a chronically dissatisfied parent. Similarly, messages received about somehow not "being enough" for just being you, manifest in musical performance through major alterations of a piece, special effects, etc. all for the sake of being distinctive.

Whether it be creating our own music or interpreting that of others, we need to constantly be listening. Is the inflection I'm giving here what the notes are truly asking for? Am I slowing the tempo here for the sake of the music or because I heard so-and-so do it like this?

These are my opening thoughts on the subject. WHAT DO YOU THINK IT MEANS TO BE HONEST AS A MUSICIAN?

Thoughts About Orpheus

1997-05-10T07:21:00.000-07:00

As I view adults around me, I see two roads being traveled. One involves pursuit of the true self, while the other involves avoidance of true self through addictive behaviors, relationships and substances. Nearly everyone seems to have both, in varying proportion.

It is indeed terrifying to face the splendor of what we can become, for it involves letting go much of what we thought of as our security. What distinguishes us humans from other creatures is that we have the ability to tell the difference between these two roads and can, in fact, choosewhich one to go down.

To further illustrate the concept of these two roads, I recall the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice:

When Orpheus plays his lyre, nature listens. Eurydice, while gathering flowers by the river her wedding to Orpheus, is bit on the foot by a snake. She quickly dies. That night, Orpheus -- playing his lyre, pouring all his grief into the music -- enters the cave to the underworld in hope of finding his bride. Charming the ferryman and 3-headed guard dog, he reaches Hades the cold-hearted King of the Underworld -- who is uncharacteristically affected. Hades pronounces to Orpheus, "Go back to the light of day. Go quickly while my monsters are stilled by your song. Climb up the steep road to daylight, and never once turn back. The spirit of Eurydice shall follow. But if you look around at her, she will return to me."
And so Orpheus begins the return journey, but fails to hear any sign of her spirit following him upwards. Wondering if he has been tricked and doubting that he could succeed in returning down a second time, with the mouth of the cave in sight, he turns to look behind. For a brief moment he can make out her form and he attempts to embrace it. She says only "goodbye" and vanishes. Other versions of the story have her nagging him as they walk, saying he must not love her if he won't turn and look.

To not look feels like death; to look is death. I ask each one of you: In what ways do you give in to looking back and what act of faith will it take for you to proceed forward? To facilitate this discussion I have prepared a list of how, to me, these two parts of our self appear to operate:

Ego Self - Personality - Victim	Higher Self
PROVIDES FOUNDATION, THE BODY	CONNECTED TO THE DIVINE and our spirit purpose
KNOWS HOW TO DO THINGS, NOT WHY rows the boat but doesn't know the first thing about navigation	KNOWS WHY makes informed decisions for the Ego Self to act on can navigate the boat when Rosa Parks sat in the front of the bus when Paul Revere made his ride
ACTS OUT OF ANIMAL INSTINCT sex drive, territorialism perceives competitively; only victims and victors believes in a certain autonomy; "every man for himself" yet also feels the need to be taken care of by someone	ACTS OUT OF WISDOM views each individual as part of the whole; "All for one and one for all", "No one is free until all are free" decides when to have sexual feelings
HOARDS obsessed with holding on to the past through photos, etc. having no divine faith, always preparing for the worst preoccupied with security	KNOWS TO LET GO leave behind what is not needed
CLINGS TO THE FAMILY, CLAN, TRIBE believes loyalty is key to survival acts out of obligation expects paybacks seeks a dominating patriarchical God loyal to religious orders and institutions	HAS "CUT THE CORD" does not require family, clan or tribe connection seeks the God within has no need for religious or institutional affiliation seeks to deepen relationships naturally with all present values all relationships does not require one special exclusive relationship
SEEKS MATERIAL SOLUTIONS TO SPIRITUAL AND EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS power sex retribution wealth	KNOWS THE THINGS WE TRULY DESIRE transcendence true closeness ability to forgive the genuine abundance of giving and receiving in quantity without attachment to wealth
HAS NO IDEA WHAT LOVE IS objectifies others seeks to be objectified insatiable need for attention unable to listen to another or imagine the feelings of another needs to always be "right" seeks personal fulfillment through relationships	CAPABLE OF GENUINE LOVE able to listen to another with loving detachment offers nurturance without seeking fulfillment through it
CONSTANT NEED TO BE DOING SOMETHING cannot receive lack of creativity or imagination (can't see any point in funding the arts)	RECEPTIVE, REFLECTIVE requires no activity to be fully engaged; appreciative of every nuance source of unbound creativity and imagination
IMPATIENT believes only in instant gratification only interest is: "what's in it for me"	PATIENT content waiting completely present in each moment
DOES NOT CHOOSE FREELY basis of tyranny, dependence and addiction military training/obedience	CHOOSES FREELY IN EVERY MOMENT basis of liberation and independence; makes free choices

See related article within this site: Sermon given 5/97

In Praise of Paper Music

1997-05-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

Recently, while listening to the new anthologies of previously unreleased recordings by the Beatles, I was struck with a new concept placing all creators of music into one of two categories: composers and improvisers. Certainly most musicians have some of both, but it occurred to me that when viewed in terms of soul purpose, we each identify more strongly with one than with the other. For example, of my two strongest 60's influences The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix the former were clearly composers and the latter an improviser.

Listening to the takes that led up the the final versions of their songs, it strikes me that The Beatles were nearly always heading toward a final version for each. The song's earlier incarnation was not simply an alternative version, of equal merit to the final mix, but a developing sculpture on its way to completion. The melodies were superior in their final form, and therefore difficult to improve upon. It wasn't just because their audiences got too big or screamed too loudly that The Beatles needed to end their performing career together; for all they could hope to do live was repeat the best ideas they had already recorded. Their primary creative act, the evolution of masterful song arrangements, is what took place in the studio . Little variation was present in their live recordings; and when alternative ideas were tried out as in Paul McCartney's performance of Beatle hits with Wings they were not in keeping with or empathetic to the musical essence of the originals.

Jimi Hendrix, in his short life of 27 years, left a legacy of recorded performances, some of which were conceived as final studio versions but most of which were recorded in concert or jam sessions. As with improvisations of the jazz greats, many of the ideas he tried out in these alternative performances were equally musical. One is left with the sense, in listening to a song, of hearing only one of many ways he could have played it; of a new musical concept being tried and proved (except for the times he was too stoned or exhausted) in that moment. There could not be a definitive recording of a given song because it wasn't in his creative nature to make hard-and-fast decisions; rather, it was rooted in change.

Improvisation

The quality of improvisation is essential in all our lives. Even those of us who are not musicians delight in our own improvisatory abilities, as well as those of others. All of our interactions are improvisatory, as we have no way of predicting each thing coming our way. Some of us go after it on the basketball court. We enjoy banter, Like Beatrice and Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing. In jazz, such a musical conversation is called "trading fours". It is the essence of life. Listening to the radio, notice how much more attentive we are to improvised speech as opposed to that which is recited. Perhaps a better way to express it is that we use our right, intuitive, brain to follow improvised speech and our left, analytical, one to follow recitations. Herein lies the popularity of talk shows, the unpredictability affirms our inherent desire to live each moment well, encouraging our very blood to flow.

This inner process is much the same in conversation as it is in playing music: creating something new, by selectively dipping into our own unique files of memorized material while making way for Spirit to do the rest. Eric Clapton once spoke of how deluded people were to scribble "Clapton is God" graffiti on the walls because, from his point of view, all he was doing was stringing together memorized riffs; but whether he acknowledged it or not, he did it in such a way as to allow God to come through him.

Composition

However much spontaneity affirms life, our beings also strive for perfection. While an improviser may find what it perfect for that moment , a composer strives to create what is perfect for all time. When it all comes together, the end result is a "masterpiece". The question is: What would cause someone in the present day to devote most of his or her creative energy to the performance of music committed to paper by another, intended for an audience of a past century?

Most would agree that J.S. Bach was, through his music, as direct a channel of God as anyone. Yet, Bach didn't even intend his music to last beyond his generation. He, after all, would discard the scores left by his predecessor when assuming a new post and assumed that whoever followed him would do the same with his scores. If he could let go in such a way, why do so many of us persist in holding on?

In my practising on classical guitar, there continues to be a handful of pieces that are so infused with life that they keep on giving it back, no matter how much you play them. A fine line seems to separate them from other, often very similar, works. These pieces bring the performer to a state of transcendence -- a moment where the spirit of the player and that of the composer are joined in the common purpose, where egos step aside and God streams through. The audience members, once they also set their egos aside, will become the recipients of this bountiful stream which may also be a force for physical and spiritual healing.

How we choose to develop our channel whether it be as improviser, composer or performer matters less than does our commitment to this combined artistic and spiritual mission as communicators. What we choose to bring through matters less than how we choose to do it.

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Angels, Victims & Love Songs

1997-05-10T07:08:00.000-07:00

Sermon given at Gloucester U.U. Church

I thank you for this time to speak to you. I would like to use it as an opportunity to share, primarily through personal anecdotes, some important insights I have gained over the years. This probably should be three sermons, but by the time get up here next I may already have three more written.

I see each step in my life as another up a mountain path from my Ego Self at the base to my Higher Self at the summit -- the first characterized by victimization and the second by acceptance. Each time I've made the conscious choice to leave behind another aspect of the victim role -- that is, "lay my burden down" [from opening hymn] -- the added lightness to my knapsack permits me to rise further up the slope.

We've all seen -- and perhaps even have been -- that child in kindergarten who is unusually preoccupied with the behavior of the other children: "Melissa's squishing me! . . . Jimmy said something mean to me!" Whether or not anyone is intentionally hurting the child, being a victim is the best way she or he can figure out to get attention. When we're outside of it, we can see it for the manipulative pattern that it is -- fulfilling itself by drawing hurtful behavior from the other children. But many of us adults continue to do some version of the same thing, the difference being that we have figured out how to do so while maintaining the appearance of being an adult. Ever noticed how long people can go on exchanging anecdotes about health problems and hospital visits? Membership in the victim club gives us something "in common". When we get out of victim mode we begin truly listening to each other.

We are a global society of victims. If everyone were to unilaterally give up the victim role, strife would end in many flash points of the world -- whether it be Northern Ireland, the Middle East, within families or within ourselves. It preys upon us like an addiction, keeping us oppressed and unhappy, from moving forward, fulfilling our potential, or from attaining what would be our natural state of joy and bliss -- like the two-year-old of the Opening Words.

To me, a story well-told is one in which I find myself able to identify with every character. Watching a video about domestic violence, I was moved by how much the batterers reminded me of myself. Many of their feelings seemed true for men across the board, not just a psychotic fringe. They perceived themselves as victims of the partners they had physically abused, in fact they were so deeply sunk into the victim identity, so desperate and so hopeless, as to completely lose it, to go berserk.

However much I would like to think of the victim state as having been thrust upon me, the fact is that I have chosen it. Why?... because it is familiar, it has usually gotten me attention of some sort, and it's mostly all I've seen modeled. In today's reading, Jesus draws attention to the fact that we choose to be victims when he tells the paralyzed man simply to take up his bed and walk.

What has helped me to leave behind the victim role has been a new understanding of how everything that happens to me is for my eventual highest good. I have opened to a Divine Presence, having it's own Divine Order -- which allows me to look back on my life and say, "I wouldn't change a thing!"

I acquired this spiritual perspective after working hard at healing my early hurts at an emotional level -- expressing anger or grief over past upsets -- mostly through Re-evaluation Counseling. This was an important process of separating people from their patterns and realizing I've always done the best I could in every given moment.

Along with the concept of Divine Order has come the concept of guardian angels. I think I've figured out how my angel operates. He's up there somewhere saying, "Are you going to see clear and do the right thing or am I going to have to do it for you?" He arranges for certain things to happen at prescribed times and prevents things from happening at other times. My angel speaks to me through intuitive, gut feelings. Many of us, men in particular, have difficulty even recognizing when we're having intuitive feelings, let alone rely on them for anything.

Whatever negative thoughts I harbor towards others tend to be thoughts I am also harboring towards myself. A victim-free perspective means not only forgiving, but perhaps even blessing "those who trespass against us". While we should not deny our anger, we should realize that self-righteous anger is to be worked through and left behind -- and that holding on to it is a decision to remain the victim. In fact, we only have two choices: running laps around the victim track or seeking the divine light shining through. We know we've passed the test when we can climb out of the smouldering wreckage and remark without urgency: "My, my, today didn't turn out at all the way I'd planned!" Likewise, however I am feeling about myself tends to get reflected back at me by the universe. Days I'm feeling impatient tend to be days someone cuts me off at a rotary. Bless yourself, on the other hand, and strangers join in -- such as one guy standing in front of a liquor store who greeted me with, "Say, aren't you the Music Man? Good luck to you!" Other people simply reflect either the love we have for or the love we withhold from ourselves.

Our angels come through in the least likely form: the person whose affair with your partner brings that relationship to its needed termination; the child who greets you with a hug; from the police officer that decides not to issue you a ticket to the one who does. They all are, unconsciously, carrying out Divine Orders.

Stepping out of the victim mentality means seeking the positive lesson in every occurrence. Everything becomes a gift: good weather, bad weather; close friends, no friends. Nothing is coincidental. "Thy will be done" means that we accept the presence of Divine Wisdom rather than fight it.

It is never God's will that we should suffer needlessly; the God that I know wants the best for every one of us and does not punish. It is not the jealous, wrathful God of the Old Testament -- could that one have perhaps been the best concept of the divine that the society of the time could come up with?

Getting us in the position to move forward often requires the dismantling of the very structures we thought our lives depended on. I once heard someone express it this way: "Yes, the truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off." God is trying to position us to be not only the most effective in healing ourselves, but in healing the world at large as well. Christ, the teacher and messenger, is in all of us.

Each of us has our own unique piece of the truth to share, something that no one else can bring through in quite the same way. I may have a particular ear for musical truth, but others will have developed different sensitivities. They may not get a word I say or a note I play but notice that my sweater's on backwards or that I avert my eyes when I speak to them -- the "truths" they may read.

Between all of us we have the complete picture, just like when three people together can remember all the words to a song that none of them individually could totally recall. Like the main character in "Mission Impossible", we all at one time listened to a recording that destroyed itself at the conclusion of playback. Although the voice in the TV show said "Your mission, should you choose to accept it . . ." I think we all indeed chose to accept it; it's just that most of us continue struggling to remember what it was we heard on that tape.

This connects to some thoughts I'd like to share with you about prayer. Prayer is something most of us have been told to do, at some point, but (like parenting or relationships) for which we received little instruction. Many see prayer as a time to ask for things: please heal me from this disease, please find me a mate, etc. But this strikes me as praying from within the victim role. In fact, prayer time may be better used to ask questions, such as: What am I meant to learn from this disease? How am I meant to use this freedom from a primary relationship I am presently enjoying? "Give us this day our daily bread" has as much to do with insight as it does with bodily sustenance -- as some scholars have rendered the Aramaic original of the Lord's Prayer.

God and the angels don't do requests. They do see to it, however, that I am periodically brought "to my knees" -- down to the level of vulnerability required to bring about significant change. Forced to feel the underlying pain that I have been pretending wasn't there, I have been subjected to many a "dark night of the soul". The more I've given up addictive behaviors that kept me from feeling it, the deeper down this tunnel I have been brought. This is the core, where we bump against all the old wounds, where we build a foundation, the essence of our being. From down there we had those tantrums that we thought we had since outgrown the need for. If we cannot fortify the core, whatever we build will eventually topple.

Concurrent with this movement from my Ego Self to Higher Self, has come a whole new sense of what "love" is. I mostly heard about love from the radio. "I'll love you forever"... "I'll always be true"... no matter when you grew up, the lyrics all have something in common. It has been a great disappointment to discover that the fantasies described in popular love songs did not depict what happens between actual people. Almost all of them promote emotional over-dependence and addictive love. To quote these lines from Lionel Richie:

I wonder where you are, and I wonder what you do.
Are you somewhere feeling lonely, or is someone loving you?
Tell me how to win your heart, 'cause I haven't got a clue.
But let me start by saying... I love you.

If someone isn't "loving you" then you must be "somewhere feeling lonely", right? Music flows into the right, intuitive, side of the brain, with the lyrics floating on top -- lyrics penned by someone who admits he hasn't "got a clue". How can one grow up immune to indoctrination delivered by means such as these?

What has made me less cynical about all these songs is the realization that they are actually written, unconsciously, to God. Who else can be the giver or the object of such consuming love? Try recasting your favorite love song in this manner. It's not that such a love doesn't exist, it's simply not the kind that we mortals, however well-meaning, can handle. People are like reflections of God in the water -- water that is easily disturbed, light that is changeable. We would be much gentler to one another if we stopped expecting people to live up to expectations and fantasies that only God can fulfill.

There is a lovely song by Karla Bonoff about manifesting this. She starts off, in her typical fashion, lamenting the end of a romance; but she concludes it like few other songs that I know:

Now as I move on to a place that's strong
I'll think of you and wonder where you are
And when someday you see me on a crowded street
I think you'll see in my eyes
My life is complete
'Cause I learned from you as you were passing through
That Love would never find my heart a home
'Cause in the end we all walk alone

Walk alone or walk with God, however you'd like to think of it, it means giving up a long-held expectation.

For it may actually be that no profound moment can truly be shared. My joy is my own. No one else has ever been responsible for it and no one can ever be the source of it in the future. I need no one to complete me; nor is anyone capable of doing so. No experience I have enjoyed alone would have been improved or deepened by the presence of another. I deserve, and always have deserved, to thoroughly receive each moment -- having another to share it with was never a requirement. While I don't believe we can grow to our fullest without experiencing intimate relationships, we often can't grow to our fullest within them. Primary relationships can keep us in a perpetual childhood. Just as the child must grow up and eventually leave home -- and just as the parent should then step aside and bless their beloved children on their own journey -- we must free ourselves periodically from what no longer serves us. There has been much talk about our Inner Child; let us also be conscious of our Inner Parent who is not letting go of that child.

We cannot love anyone any better than we love ourselves, at least not without issuing false promises. Anyone who we feel withheld love from us was simply short on self-love. Let's not waste any more energy pining for the love we never got. Let's stop blaming our parents -- even if some of them were attempting to complete themselves through us -- and appreciate how well they did with what little they had. Stepping out of the victim role means abandoning the search for love from others -- whether from the past or the present -- for the simple reason that we are looking in the wrong place. Rev. Carlos Anderson, of Hope Church, had an actual ceremony in which he married himself -- which may be what it takes to get us to the Christ-like place of loving unconditionally.

When Orpheus was escorting his beloved Eurydice out of the underworld, his Higher Self knew he must not look back at her. But his Ego Self insisted on doing so. To not look feels like death, but to look is death. We all get presented with choices like this. Something, or someone, so beautiful that we seek ownership; a habit so familiar that we stay addicted. Telling that Ego Self "No" is painful; if it isn't we're probably not doing it for real. God doesn't cut us deals; "If you can assure my security, show me who will catch me, then I'll take this leap"... or "Bring me another partner (or job) and I'll leave this one." No; we have to be ready to go all the way -- no tether to the space capsule. Orpheus had almost made it out the mouth of the cave before he turned; it is the challenge presented to each one of us to make it to the light of day. Some days I feel those rays warming my face, and others I've got a bag over my head.

I chose a hymn and reading related to children because they have been some of the most honest, if not always the most articulate, teachers I have had on this topic. They've helped me resolve issues left from my own childhood. In addition to teaching in the classroom, I was a Big Brother volunteer and played a lot with with neighborhood children while in Western Mass. When I first began working with children in groups, it was important for me to be liked by them -- so much so that I was not a good ally to some of the so-called "behaviorally involved" children who needed someone to stand up against their patterns at the risk of not being liked. I had to feel more loved by the child within me, before I could respond effectively to problem situations with certain children I've worked with; in other words, I've had to give to myself more of what I'd been seeking from them.

Giving to myself means doing enjoyable things that have no particular neccessity. At the same time, it has meant opening to the idea that fulfilling my highest potential as a musician is quite possibly also what is best for the world. It means blessing myself whenever I make mistakes, bearing in mind that when I get home from giving a concert it will have made no difference to my cat how many notes I missed. It means taking myself on beautiful walks, intoning gently (reminiscent of Dorothy's "There's no place like home"): "There is no place I'd rather be, and no one I'd rather be with."

Join with me now in the spirit of prayer:

Dear God,
Please grant me the knowledge and the insight to become an open channel for Your eternal wisdom.
Let me see the ways I have held myself back by dwelling on images of myself as a victim.
Let my love be as pure as the flowers opening around me.
Let my growth be as certain as the most magnificent of trees.
Let me have abundance, whether it be in relationships or material things, in accordance with Your will and with what is best for our universe.
Thank you for the gift of my life in this time of great possibility. Amen.

[Thanks to Harvey Jackins, Carolyn Myss and Marriane Williamson for some of the insights paraphrased above].

Recording Solo Guitar on the Roland VS-880

1997-05-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

This was originally prepared for Recording Magazine. While it did not appear there, Roland ran a summary of it in "Track Notes" the VS-880 Roland Users Group publication.

Letting the VS-880 Do It All

No sooner did I get my VS-880 home, one year ago, I begin working it into my solo guitar concerts. It occurred to me that insights I've gained on how to control its parameters in solo performance may be applied to the recording/mixdown process as well. My goal has been to have the VS-880 fulfill as many tasks as it is capable without the addition of other pieces of gear narrowing down set-up time, whether you are a performer, a sound support person or an engineer making an on-site demo. Even when you've had ample time for a sound check in a particular venue, you know how much the presence of an audience can change the acoustic response of a space. You need to be able to vary certain things "on the fly".Those accustomed to standard mixers may assume that one cannot have adequate physical access to essential parameters on the VS-880. There is, however, always at least one elegant solution to every problem.
When I use the Roland to provide my pre-recorded accompaniments and effects in my guitar concerts, all that is needed to complete the rig is an acoustic guitar amp, a mic, a footswitch and a volume pedal. Here I offer some scenarios that offer a good degree of real-time control.
First we set the Master Channel parameters:

Master Mode = MIX
MasterLevel = 100
Master Bal = 0
Aux Level = 100
AUX Bal = 0
EFF1 RTN to = MIX
EFF1 RTN Lev = 100
EFF1 RTN Bal = 0
EFF2 RTN to = AUX
EFF2 RTN Lev = 100
EFF2 RTN Bal = 0

The Master Out is patched to the amp's Effects Return, while the Effects Send from my amp goes into channel 1 on the VS-880.

Playing over pre-recorded accompaniment
In one scenario, when we want to play live guitar over a second guitar part recorded on Channel 5 the latter going through a chorus effect and both receiving reverb we activate four channels as indicated here:

Ch 1 (Source) Ch 5 (Play) Ch 6 (Source) Ch 7 (Source)
Input=INPUT-1 Input=INPUT-1 Input=AUX-A Input=AUX-B
MIX Sw=Off MIX Sw=PstFade MIX Sw=PstFade MIX Sw=Off
MIX Level=(fader 5) MIX Level=(fader 6)
MIX Pan=0 MIX Pan=0
V. Track=1 V. Track=1 V. Track=1 V. Track=1
EQ Switch=(to taste) EQ Switch=(to taste) EQ Switch=Off EQ Switch=Off
AUX Sw=Off AUX Sw=Off AUX Sw=Off AUX Sw=Off
Channel Link=Off Channel Link=Off Channel Link=Off Channel Link=Off
EFFECT1=PstFade EFFECT1=Off EFFECT1=Off EFFECT1=PstFade
EFFECT1 Send=100 EFFECT1 Send=100
EFFECT1 Pan=0 EFFECT1 Pan=0
EFFECT2=Off EFFECT2=PreFade EFFECT2=Off EFFECT2=Off
EFFECT2 Send=100
EFFECT2 Pan=0

REVERB LEVEL OUTPUT LEVEL CHORUS LEVEL REVERB LEVEL
(for live guitar) (for recorded track) (for recorded track) (for recorded track)

The bottom row indicates the function for each fader. On the VSF-8 internal effects board, we use Effect1 for reverb and Effect 2 for chorus. A scenario such as this can be adapted to the stereo mixdown of recorded tracks, either to the VS-880 putting two channels into record mode with their inputs set to MIX-L and MIX-R or to a separate mastering deck.
I start and stop the accompaniment with a momentary footswitch plugged into the VS-880 back panel. I have found I can acheive substantial rhythmic freedom by cutting out any time between phrases in the accompaniment (using Track Cut), placing a Mark Point at each juncture and setting SYS Marker Stop (System Menu) to On. Each succesive phrase is automatically cued to begin with each press of the footswitch almost like having a live duet partner following your every nod.

More for the foot
In a second scenario we would like to use Effect 2 instead to provide delay for the live guitar signal (no accompaniment this time) while controlling the amount of delay with a pedal . This involves the following addition to Ch1:

EFFECT2 = PreFade
EFFECT2 Send = 100
EFFECT2 Pan = 0

Fader 1 controls the wet/dry mix of reverb for the live guitar sending reverb only back into the amp. By running a cable from AUX A OUT to a standard volume pedal, and bringing it back into Ch 2 of the VS-880, I can vary the level of Effect 2 with my foot. Ch 2 settings are (Source mode):

Input = Input2
MIX Sw = PreFade
MIX Level = (fader 2)
MIX Pan = 0
V. Track = 1
EQ Switch= (to taste)
Aux Sw = Off
Channel Link = Off
EFFECT1 = PstFade
EFFECT1 Send = 100
EFFECT1 Pan = 0
EFFECT2 = Off

Since the pedal controls the Effect2 return level (delay, in this case having routed the delayed signal to the AUX OUT), we can now use the fader of this channel to adjust the Reverb (Effect1) send for the delayed signal. This is a more flexible method for sending the delayed signal through the reverb than the alternative of designating the delay as an insert effect.

By another route
The mixer's flexible routing scheme, in fact, allows us to vary almost whatever we like with this pedal, as in this third scenario where I want it to control the level of an accompaniment recorded on Track 7. I am still using a delay effect on the live guitar. This "scene" (we are saving each of these configurations as Scenes) has roles for five channels. Ch1 remains as above its fader still controlling reverb level for the straight live guitar signal while the remaining four are as follows:

Ch 2 (Source) Ch 3 (Source) Ch 7 (Play) Ch 8 (Source)
Input=AUX-B Input=AUX-B Input=INPUT-1 Input=INPUT-3
MIX Sw=PstFade MIX Sw=Off MIX Sw=Off MIX Sw=PreFade
MIX Level=(fader 2) MIX Level=0*
MIX Pan=0 MIX Pan=0
V. Track=1 V. Track=1 V. Track=1 V. Track=1
EQ Switch=Off EQ Switch=Off EQ Switch=Off EQ Switch=Off
AUX Sw=PreFade AUX Sw=Off AUX Sw=PreFade AUX Sw=Off
AUX Level=100 AUX Level=100
AUX Pan=L63 AUX Pan=L63
Channel Link=Off Channel Link=Off Channel Link=Off Channel Link=Off
EFFECT1=Off EFFECT1=PstFade EFFECT1=PstFade EFFECT1=Off
EFFECT1 Send=100 EFFECT1 Send=100
EFFECT1 Pan=0 EFFECT1 Pan=0
EFFECT2=Off EFFECT2=Off EFFECT2=Off EFFECT2=Off

DELAY LEVEL REVERB LEVEL REVERB LEVEL RECORDED TRACK LEVEL
(for live guitar) (for delayed signal) (for recorded track) *(via pedal; fader inactive)

Assuming you can remember the function of each fader you now have many significant adjustments at your fingertips. I've worked it out, in the above cases, so that this one set of fader labels remains true for every piece in the concert:

REVERB 2) DELAY 3) REVERBED DLY 5) GUITAR 6) CHORUS 7)REVERB 8)SYNTHS

Live Guitar Recorded Tracks

One can use the Scene memory to save effect settings for a number of pieces, calling them up at the touch of a Scene (LOC) button. In fact, you could even change to other pieces with accompaniments (putting them on unused tracks or virtual tracks, muting or enabling those required) and have each be accessible as a scene . This takes much less time than it does to load a new song (via the Song Select menu). It's best to set the Scene Mode (accessed via the SYSTEM menu) to 'KeepF' (faders), by the way, if you want levels to be where they faders say they are.

Alternative for the VX-panded
Effect settings can also be varied from the same footswitch one is doing the stop/starting with by setting up a New Song with Auto Mix on and the footswitch set (in the System menu) to "Next". While in this menu also set Auto Mix Snapshot mode to "MaskF" (once again so the that faders still reflect reality). Unfortunately, you can't save new System menu setting as a Scene; it has to be a new Song. By saving different Channel (or Master) Effect Send settings as "snapshots" allied to consecutive Marker points (they need to be at least four frames apart), you can then step through them with the footswitch. It would be preferable not to use the transport for recording or playback in this configuration.

Creating a live loop
Since the VS-880 is, after all, a digital recorder. It would be a shame not to have its recording capabilities utilized in performance as well. We've come a long way since the days when Robert Fripp had to position two reel-to-reel decks in line and run an actual loop of tape between them. To set up an eight measure loop for improvised soloing on the VS-880 which is re-recordable whenever you choose first create a new song (in the SONG menu) and then set the channel parameters to either the second or third scenario above (the second if you don't require foot pedal control over any of the levels). The difference is that you change the mode of the PLAY channel to RECORD (that is, from green to blinking red) and change its input to INPUT-1. In the SYSTEM menu, change the footswitch function to REC. (The changes saved with this particular song will not affect counterpart settings for the other songs, by the way). Also in this menu, set MetroOut to INT and MetroMd to Rec Only (also, check that RecordMon is set to the default of AUTO). Lower MetroLevel to about 24.
Let us say our improv will have a tempo of 60 bpm in common time. Set TMap 1 (found in the Sync/Tempo menu) to 60 therefore. For an eight measure loop, I have found a Loop Start (LpSt) setting of 3s28f (2 frames before the downbeat of measure 2) and a Loop End (LpEd) setting of 35s24f (6 frames before the end of measure 9) compensate adequately for the time it takes the loop to begin itself again. Now, when you start the machine recording (in the usual manner with the transport buttons) you'll have a one measure count-in, followed by eight measures that loop. The metronome will sound only when you're recording, after which time you can immediately begin soloing over the loop you've just laid down. Don't play on the last eighth note in recording the loop, by the way, to avoid getting a note choked off. Whenever you'd like to change the progression or texture you're improvising over, hit the footswitch at the beginning of a loop and play the new accompaniment once through; the metronome will automatically return for those 8 bars. The guitar will increase in volume while a new recording is being made as it is going through two channels but this does not pose a major distraction.
I hope these ideas might inspire readers to get the most out of the VS-880 or whatever gear they may have, and to further ply their creative spirits.

Op Ed: Toward a Rational Economy

1996-10-09T18:23:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge:

Review: Music to Richard Wilbur

1994-07-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge:

Review: Sweet Honey in the Rock

1993-12-21T18:52:00.000-08:00

Click to enlarge:

Letter to the Editor: Be a Big Brother

1993-12-20T18:59:00.000-08:00

Click to enlarge:

Review: The London Baroque Quartet

1993-11-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

Click to enlarge:

Review: Apple Hill Chamber Players

1993-10-12T03:33:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge:

Review: Rolf Schulte & Andrew Rangell

1993-08-04T18:54:00.000-07:00

Letter to the Editor: Cuba

1991-08-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

(The heading given by the editor is a bit misleading).
Click to enlarge:

Letter to the Editor: The Gulf War

1991-05-31T18:17:00.000-07:00

A Song for Nicaragua

1984-11-01T18:48:00.000-08:00

Click each page to enlarge:

Changing Winds

Christmas verse for Mom

Autumn 2011 Reflection

Thanksgiving Break

Changing Winds - Summer 2010

WHERE IS HOME?

MUSIC TEACHING

MY I-POD

THE CURSE OF THE MIDDLE CLASS?

Birthday poem for my wife

Tacoma at 6 months

Tacoma at 4 months

Tacoma at 2 months

Birthday poem for my mother

Summer 2009

To my wife on her birthday

2008 Year-end

Program Notes: "The Heart of Fugue"

To My Wife (Making Cursillo)

To my Mother-In-Law on her 90th Birthday

To my Niece on her 10th Birthday

To my Mother on her Birthday

2008 Summer

To my Mother on Mother's Day

2007 Year-end

2007 Summer

2006 Year-end

2006 Year-end

Op Ed: Everybody Wants to Sing

The Great Divide: Seeking to Understand Republican Values

Vietnam and Supporting Kerry

A Great Orchestral Moment

RECOGNITION

Composer's Tools

Graphic representation of Pierrot #18

Analysis of Beethoven Op 95, III

Growing Up Male: The Little Boy Within

Introduction to My Father's Memorial Service

Letter to My Father

Billy's Voice

The Evolution of Guitara Illuminata

The Evolution of Guitara Illuminata

Produding Your Own Classical Guitar CDs

Producing Your Own Classical Guitar CDs:(An Ongoing Saga)

Honesty in Music

Thoughts About Orpheus

Ego Self - Personality - Victim

Higher Self

In Praise of Paper Music

Angels, Victims & Love Songs

Recording Solo Guitar on the Roland VS-880

Letting the VS-880 Do It All

Op Ed: Toward a Rational Economy

Review: Music to Richard Wilbur

Review: Sweet Honey in the Rock

Letter to the Editor: Be a Big Brother

Review: The London Baroque Quartet

Review: Apple Hill Chamber Players

Review: Rolf Schulte & Andrew Rangell

Letter to the Editor: Cuba

Letter to the Editor: The Gulf War

A Song for Nicaragua

Producing Your Own Classical Guitar CDs:
(An Ongoing Saga)