The Post-Party Blues

I'm sure it has become evident to all that the Beantrarian Party did not fare well in the recent presidential election.  We at Beantrarian headquarters are despondent and dismayed that our campaign was fruitless.  Despite our best efforts and a fervent belief in our cause, it appears that we did not garner a single vote for our Lully/Anonymous the Fourth ticket.  So in true political fashion, we have decided to blame our shortcomings on the other candidates and move on to a life of inspirational speeches and ghost-written memoirs.

The lessons we have learned are many.  First and foremost it appears that the people of the United States prefer living candidates.  It is not enough that they have great hair (Lully's Baroque powdered wig was above reproach) or appeal to the religious conservatives (Anonymous IV is frequently mistaken for the Pope).  Voters want a flesh and blood president that can stand before them and promise panaceas for all their ills.  And as we all know, what voters want, voters get.  So what, exactly, did we get?

We got the most expensive presidential campaign in the nation's history, somewhere north of 4.2 billion dollars.  This is a staggering amount of money.  The costliest symphony orchestra in America, the Los Angeles Philharmonic, has an annual operating budget of 97 million dollars.  For this modest fee they provide phenomenal public service in the form of concerts of Beethoven, Bach, and Brahms.  Or consider the South Dakota Symphony with an annual budget of 2 million dollars.  For just 2 million smackers countless farmers, ranchers, and cowboys get a little culture.  I like the mental image that Mozart wafting over the prairie conjures.  This is much more appealing than the ceaseless robocalls and political adds that barraged my home in the days leading to the election.  Living in a contested state brought as many as 8 robocalls a day. Enough!  Does anyone really think a pre-recorded, non-personalized message will change my mind?

Doctors Without Borders, to randomly choose a charity I think does good work, has an annual budget of 400 million dollars.  With this money they improve the quality of life in war-torn, impoverished nations.  What could they have done with 4.2 billion dollars?  Just imagine the lives they could have saved, the peace and goodwill they could have fostered.  America spent that much to encourage more bickering, arguing, name-calling, the list goes on.  I would like to propose a cap of $2.50 per candidate for the next election.  That's enough for a cheap cup of coffee and an interview on the Charlie Rose Show.  That's all any quality candidate should need.  We can then spend the rest of the 4.2 billion on things that really matter.

As the staff at Beantrarian Headquarters takes down the banners and removes the streamers, we are discouraged that a nation of such good people is so foolish with it's resources.  We will all soon go back to our lives of obscurity, 4.2 billion poorer.  Lully and Anonymous IV have returned to their assigned places in history as a musical despot and complete unknown.  And we are left singing the Post-Party Blues, touchingly rendered here by the Beantrarian composer-in-residence.

 

One Singular Sensation

I was cruising through town with Gustav a few days ago when I heard the most astounding report on NPR.  It appears that we are training too many lawyers in America.  Statistically speaking, 75,000 jobs for lawyers are expected to be available this decade.  This is bad news for the expected 300,000 law school graduates coming through the pipeline in the next 8 years.  Gustav and I snickered.  Too many lawyers?  Say it ain't so!  (Gustav really does snicker, especially in the lower gears.  I'm sure a mechanic would tell me it's time to check the transmission, but I know better.  My car snickers).

Well, what can one do with depressing news of this nature?  We must find somewhere for all these lawyers to go.  Perhaps they could learn a really useful skill, such as potato peeling, lint picking, or dust bunny hunting.  These are jobs that are always available and in demand.  Better yet, perhaps they could aspire to be something different and original.  Why follow all the other 299,999 lemmings off the cliff of unemployment?  Be brave, find your own voice, strike a new path.

A singular voice in the music world left us this week.  It is a sad, but not untimely passing.  Elliott Carter was born December 11, 1908, and died on November 5, just a few weeks shy of his 104th birthday.  He composed brilliant music all his life, refusing to dim as the years went by.  He never grew stale or became a caricature of himself.  He was constantly refining the "Carter sound."  The Stravinsky inspired neo-classicism of his youth gave way to dense, intricate counterpoint in the middle years followed by graceful transparency in the latter decades.  String Quartet No. 2 is a wonderful example of the Carter qualities I enjoy.  Complex, yet passionate, it compels me to listen in anticipation of what will happen next.  There's something surprising around every corner.  Love him or hate him (and like all true originals, he has his detractors) one must acknowledge his unique vision.  We won't have 300,000 more Elliott Carters this millennium, let alone this decade.

So this brings us back to the lawyer problem.  Inspired by Elliott Carter, I have a solution.  Each law school graduate should find a niche, a specialty that only needs one brave soul (or perhaps two, at most)   to meet the requirements, thus eliminating undue competition and provide jobs for all.  Here are a few suggestions;

Official Litigator of Cheese - In the EU only certain cheeses meeting strict requirements can have names such as "Parmigiana" and "Roquefort."  There is a desperate need for someone to sort out which cheese gets what title.  (Note, this position is not to be confused with "Official Litigator of Those Who Cut the Cheese."  That is an entirely different job).

Advocate General for Endangered Fungi - There are 265 species of endangered fungi in the world and it's time they had a voice.  The candidate for this position must be willing to speak before the UN and endure Hillary Clinton's company.

Public Restroom Defenders - It is common knowledge that public restrooms are rapidly disappearing and are frequently in deplorable condition where they do exist.  We need committed candidates who are willing to dedicate their lives to saving this important U.S. institution and preserving our citizens' rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of crappiness.

Armed with my helpful advice, I'm confident that law students everywhere can now boldly step into the future fearing nothing.  And as for Elliott Carter, may he rest in peace.

Elliott Carter

Law School graduating class of 2013

To be or not to be...nice

In Stephen Sondheim's musical, Into the Woods, Little Red Riding Hood, upon being eaten by the Wolf and then rescued by the Baker, sings a charming song called "I know things now."  She enumerates all the wonderful things her experiences have taught her, such as, she should have heeded her mother's advice, and to be wary of strangers.  My favorite bit of Little Red's hard-won wisdom is the line "Nice is different than good."  People use the word nice so blithely, so easily.  "Oh, she's so nice," we say, as if bestowing a boon.

I had a close friend who said to me recently, "Nobody really likes you.  You aren't very nice."  (You may be wondering, justifiably, why a close friend would say such a thing, but that's a topic for another day.  Notice this friend is past tense.)  How could I not be nice?  I'm well-mannered, I bathe regularly, and chew my food with my mouth closed.  Surely these things are nice.  A perusal of Mr. Webster's tome reveals that nice can mean many things, including, "pleasing, agreeable, polite, socially acceptable."  Admirable qualities all, and apparently I am lacking in some of them, but how do they compare to good?

Krzysztof Penderecki is a Polish composer whose music I unabashedly admire.  He was born in Debica, Poland in 1933.  Influenced by such luminaries as Webern and Boulez, he began to experiment with large tone clusters and extended instrumental techniques.  In 1960 he composed Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima, a massive, gut-wrenching work for 52 string instruments.  To listen to the Threnody is to be assaulted by plagues, ill winds, weeping, wailing, the gnashing of teeth, sackcloth and ashes, bones popping, bodies disintegrating, and every other apocalyptic image your brain can conjure forth.  Even air raid sirens seem to make an appearance.  It is not a nice piece, not in the slightest.  But it is precisely the lack of "niceness" that makes it so very, very good.

Nice is such a slippery word.  We talk about the nice weather, a nice party, a nice song, nice people.  In each instance we mean something different.  There's even, "Nice job, buddy" which of course is not nice at all, but quite the opposite.  There is a thread that ties it all together, however.  In each instance nice refers to something ephemeral, a superficial quality that does not necessarily reveal what lies beneath.

Good, on the other hand, is a core value.  Mr. Webster lists "true, honorable, virtuous, just, commendable."  Good is something real, not a facade or a public image we must adopt on occasion in order to be "socially acceptable."  And perhaps at times it is good to be disagreeable, when the things we are expected to agree with are morally reprehensible to us.  Little Red learned her lesson well.  The Wolf was nice.  So nice.  He lured her off the path with his blandishments and suave manners.  Then he ate her.  I must thank my old friend for his left-handed compliment.  I'd rather be good.

Krzysztof Penderecki

War, what is is good for?

I played the organ for a military funeral last weekend.  A young man who attended my church was killed in action in Afghanistan.  He was 29, married, and a kind and generous person.  It gave me an opportunity to ponder a few things.  I'm a believer in the need to defend our borders from the barbarian hordes waiting to invade (the Visigoths come to mind) and I am extremely proud of my family and friends who have served their country in the military and grateful to all who serve.  But I wonder why,  after thousands of years of human existence on this planet, we haven't found a better way to solve our problems than killing each other.

My mother is the youngest of 13 children, 6 boys, 7 girls.  When her siblings would fight, her mother would set two hardback chairs facing each other a few feet apart and tie the miscreants to the seats.  Then she left the room, and the antagonists had no option but to sit and stare at each other until they worked out an amicable solution.  My mother claims this was hugely successful, often culminating with the siblings laughing together at how ridiculous they looked.  Perhaps they ought to try this at the UN.  Let's tie Israel's Benjamin Netanyahu and Iran's Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to a couple of chairs and let them stare at each other until they laugh.  It may take awhile, but how long have we tried sanctions and peace talks?

Benjamin Britten may have agreed with me (I can't be certain as I am not skilled in communicating with the dead).  Britten was born in 1913 in England and saw firsthand the devastating effects of war.  In 1961 he was commissioned to compose a work for the dedication of the Coventry Cathedral, rebuilt after being destroyed in the bombings of World War II.  He composed the War Requiem, a massive piece for choir, boys choir, orchestra, chamber orchestra, and soloists.  For the text he used the traditional Latin text interspersed with poems by Wilfred Owen.  Owen was a soldier and poet in World War I.  He was killed by a sniper one week before the war's end.  With lines such as "Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to death, sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland" Owen paints a clear picture of the tragedy of war, the cost of so much life left on the battlefield.  Britten's musical and textual choices reveal his pacifist leanings and his moral objection to war.  Listen to the Dies Irae ("this day of wrath").  The insistent, aggressive brass motives, the percussive singing, all portray a bleak picture of war's devastation.

So the question remains;  War, what is it good for?  As Edwin Starr sings it, "Absolutely nothin'!"  I think that's a little extreme.  War appears to be necessary for stopping the occasional megalomaniac, like Hitler, perhaps. However, humankind can put man on the moon and robots on Mars.  We can genetically alter crops, treat diseases that were fatal 50 years ago, save infants born 10 weeks prematurely, build skyscrapers, electric cars, ever faster and smaller computers, create symphonies, poems, and paintings, and yet we cannot stop killing each other.  There has to be a better way.  It's time to follow my Grandmother's example.  Who's got a couple of chairs?

Benjamin Britten

News from the Beantrarian campaign trail

It has been a difficult few weeks for the Beantrarian Party.  Unforeseen complications have arisen.  Our ticket of Lully/Anonymous the Fourth has faced an onslaught from every side.  We have been unable to locate Jean-Baptiste Lully's birth certificate, which is apparently an affront to many voters.  They want proof that he is American and still alive.  We have explained through numerous media outlets that despite the lack of official documentation we know he was born in Italy in the 17th century, and is therefore European and very much dead.  However, there are those who refuse to believe the obvious without hard evidence.  These same voters have questioned Lully's views on guns, birth control, and apple pie.  It has been difficult for Lully to address these concerns as his tongue rotted away three hundred years ago.  But our campaign staff has worked tirelessly to translate his garbled communications, and we are happy to announce his response;

          Guns - "Every man should own a good flintlock to deter the husbands of their paramours."

          Birth Control - "Foregoing the pleasure is advisable when children are not wanted.  Shouldn't that be called Self Control?"

          Apple Pie - "I don't like pie.  It's those English, always putting perfectly good food in a crust."

We at campaign headquarters also feel a need to comment upon the critiques of Lully's debate performance.  Many voters complained that he was lackluster on the stage, seemingly distracted, lacking enthusiasm.  Others believe he appeared wooden and lifeless, to which we reply, he is.

Lully's running mate Anonymous the Fourth has been no less problematic.  He missed the vice-presidential debate completely because we still do not know who he is or where to find him so we were unable to extend the invitation.  The spinmeisters have promulgated the idea that he is from the highly educated upper class and therefore unsympathetic to the plight of the masses, favoring heavy taxes for the middle class and tax cuts for the rich.  Believing that this is an exaggerated, warped interpretation of what may be a privileged background, we asked Anonymous for his view on taxes.  He replied, "I like it.  Great Barbecue."  We replied, "Not Texas, taxes," but his 13th c. Middle English dialect was an impediment to clear understanding.

To counter these discouraging setbacks we realized that we needed to implement two crucial strategic components that our campaign was hitherto missing.  The first is a party mascot.  The Democrats and the Republicans have their donkeys and elephants, what have the Beantrarians?  The choice is obvious.  We have selected the steer for our mascot, and have all ready ordered 1,342 T-shirts with the emblem.  Why the steer, you ask?  The steer is a castrated bull, and is therefore stupid, angry, and impotent, which perfectly describes many of our electorate.

We also created our campaign song.  It will be an important tool in promoting party enthusiasm and loyalty.  We have included it here so all may learn from this stirring rendition.

So let us continue to hold aloft the Beantrarian banner as we march toward our goals of obstinacy in the face of improvement, self-righteousness in the face of humility, and gluttony in the face of chocolate.

The Beantrarian mascot

American angst only, please

I recently learned a most interesting factoid.  It appears that during the reign of Elizabeth I of England (1558-1602) there was great concern among the powers that be that England was too dependent upon foreign salt.  Salt was a much needed commodity.  It played a strategic role in England's global ambitions;  the soldiers in the army were given salt so they could kill and preserve any game they encountered in their campaigns, the Royal Navy was supplied with food preserved in salt for their lengthy sea travels, and salt was necessary for making gunpowder.  Much of this salt came from France, with whom England has never had a very cozy relationship (no doubt owing to the fact that for centuries England felt they owned a piece of it, and the French eat their fries with mayonnaise), so a great deal of effort was expended in an attempt to produce more English salt and rely less upon salt from the perceived enemy.  Forests were denuded and coal mines established to fuel the fires necessary to refine the salt extracted from underground brine pits.  Soon the countryside was polluted and ruined, with sinkholes developing near the salt works.

The salt conundrum is closely paralleled in the hue and cry I've heard all my adult life, "America relies too much upon foreign oil!"  This has resulted in similar concerns and attempts to create more domestic energy sources.  Fracking, drilling in Alaska's pristine wilderness, wind farms, and cars that need to be plugged in 24 hours to drive 40 mph and die 8 hours later are all examples of efforts to somehow fix our energy imbalance.  We only have 44 years worth of oil left, so the time to panic is now!  But what ever happened to England?  Four hundred years after their dire salt crises, they are still here, still kicking, and no longer concerned about salt.

We have become an alarmist nation, always looking for the next boogeyman around the corner.  As I am in a philanthropic mood, I have decided to be of service to our government leaders and point out a few crucial commodities that are in perilous danger of shortfall due to their nearly exclusive dependence upon the capricious whims of foreign countries.

1.  We rely too much upon the countries of the middle east, particularly Iran, to provide our national angst.  Without their constant turmoil and machinations, we would face a serious decline in anxiety, evangelical end-time scenarios, and amateur quality videos.  Perhaps our government could shift some of the onus to Liechtenstein, whom we could then invade and ransack looking for weapons of mass destruction.

2.  We are too dependent upon Austria, especially Vienna, for concert music by dead white guys.  Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Bruckner, Schubert, Johann Strauss I, II, and III, Richard Strauss, Mahler, Schönberg, Webern, and Berg, and of course, the perennial favorite, Franz Lehar, all called Vienna home at some time.  If Vienna were to become a rogue state symphony orchestras across the country would be forced to play more music by living Americans, a scandalous proposition.

3.  We are too heavily invested in Jewish comedians for our comic relief.  Now I realize these are American Jewish comedians, which don't constitute a foreign entity, but if they all decided to go Zionist and immigrate to Israel, where would we be?  The list is lengthy and includes such notables as Woody Allen, Billy Crystal, Jason Alexander, Jerry Seinfeld, the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges, Bea Arthur, and Joan Rivers.  Clearly we need to diversify and encourage comics from other historically repressed societies with a pathological need to kvetch and unburden themselves for our entertainment.

There are many other possible scarcities on the horizon.  Let us each do our part to ensure that we will have the resources necessary for future generations of Americans to consume more than their share for a very long time.

Prince Liechtenstein
Our new angst

Franz Lehar,
Everyone's Favorite

Numinous, luminous, or merely voluminous?

I've begun reading The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis and have discovered an interesting word of which I had been previously unaware, numinous (I have not yet ascertained what Lewis' problem with pain is, but I do have an idea... it hurts).  Mr. Lewis employs several dense, wordy paragraphs to define and describe numinous, which is the sense of being in the presence of God.  Had I been there that day he penned this slender tome I could have explained it much more simply.  Listen to Bach, Mr. Lewis, listen to Bach.

Johann Sebastian Bach was born in Eisenach, Germany in 1685.  He garnered great acclaim as an organist during his lifetime, but today is universally hailed as one of the greatest composers.  There are over 1100 known compositions by Bach, and while I've not heard them all, I've yet to hear a clinker.  Immaculately crafted, with sublime melodies soaring above or darting through layers of texture and sound, to hear this music is to acknowledge the divine.  Consider "Gott's Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit," a cantata written for a funeral in Mülhausen.  The title means "God's time is the all-best time," a sentiment many would do well to internalize in this day of instant gratification.  Listen to the beautiful soprano aria, "Ja, komm, Herr Jesu, komm," a plea for Jesus to come now.  It is intimate and poignant in a way that can only come from experience.  Death was a too-frequent visitor in 17th century Europe. Bach lost his parents at age 9, would lose his first wife, and 10 of his 20 children.  These experiences did not unsettle his religious beliefs, however, and his faith is evident in every dot and dash on the page.  The music of Bach is the very definition of numinous.

Then I began to reflect upon the relationship between numinous and luminous, which means clear or enlightening.  I believe all numinous music is also luminous, but the opposite is not necessarily true.  Let's take a look at Alan Hovhaness.  Hovhaness was born in 1911 in Massachusetts to an Armenian father and a Scottish mother.  He traveled the world and became immersed in the art, religion, and music of many cultures, including Indian and Japanese.  His music is infused with mysticism and beauty.  Listen to the first movement of the Concerto for Two Pianos and note the lush orchestral opening sprinkled with dissonances from the two pianos. It is as if flecks of pure light and inspiration are breaking through the mundane.  I consider the music of Hovhaness to be luminous in the extreme, but I fail to find the numinous there.  I'm sure there are those who disagree, but that's one of the joys of life, that we can all find the numinous in our own time and place.

Now let's take just a moment to discuss the antithesis of all these beautiful things, voluminous.  It has been my experience that too much music relies on the voluminous to make itself felt.  It's very easy to manipulate the emotions through music, any composer worth their stubby pencil knows how (modulate up a third and cue the french horns!).  Bombast and bamboozle masquerade as spirit and soul while yet another audience member thinks they've encountered the divine because their heart is pounding (to which I reply, that was just the timpani, dear).  This permeates other aspects of our lives as well.  How often are push-up bras mistaken for beauty or news channel pundits passed off as sages?  Look to Elijah in the Old Testament, the voice of God was not in the wind, the earthquake, or the fire, but in the still, small voice.  May we all forsake the fake.  No one should aspire to be merely voluminous.

Johann Sebastian Bach

Alan Hovhaness

Beantrarians, unite!

As I ponder yet another presidential election I am once again confronted with choices that don't reflect my views or address my concerns.  I have no doubt that the candidates are all decent enough men and if I had them over for dinner and a game of Settlers of Catan we would enjoy one another's company.  Unfortunately appreciating my exquisite barbecue chicken is not sufficient to win my vote.  I want someone who will feel my pain, assuage my anguish, and save incandescent light bulbs.

To this end I have decided to start my own political party, and all are invited to join.  It is called the Beantrarian Party.  I chose this name because it is my family name, Bean (enormous ego is essential when starting one's own party) as well as a legume that causes many people considerable intestinal discomfort (another key component of any political organization) combined with the word contrarian, which perfectly describes our party platform;

WE OPPOSE

What do we oppose, you ask?  Whatever someone else wants.  It is a law of politics that if it's good for someone else, it must not be good for me, so we hereby oppose anything and everything anyone wants.  It's such a simple concept;  no talking points to discuss, no memos to distribute, no strategy to devise.  

The new Beantrarian Party needs candidates, and I have done ample research to find the perfect pair.  For President of the United States of America the Beatrarians would like to nominate the French composer Jean Baptiste Lully.  Born in Italy in 1632 he moved to France and became the most important composer of Parisian ballets and operas.  He has excellent credentials to recommend his candidacy.  He was ambitious and ruthless in his brazen machinations to  rise to the top of Louis XIV's court.  He was also of dubious moral repute, having numerous affairs with women and men, causing scandals that shocked even Louis.  The end of his life was equally dramatic.  He lost his temper while conducting an ensemble and stabbed himself in the foot with his long conducting stick.  Gangrene set in and he died in 1687.  Clearly here is the perfect politician, a man with no conscience to get in the way of our cause, a man who will stop at nothing to succeed.

For his running mate the Beantrarians will nominate Anonymous the Fourth.  Anonymous is precisely that, an unknown 13th century scholar who wrote an important treatise on music.  Since we don't know who he is, he can't say anything embarrassing, lose a debate, or express an inappropriate opinion.  He also can't perform any real function, which makes him the perfect vice-presidential candidate.

It has occurred to me that our Lully/Anonymous ticket may be hampered by the fact that they are dead.  The Constitution may stipulate that candidates be living at the time of their nomination, although if you study past elections it is impossible to ascertain if this is truly the case.  But never fear, intrepid voter, we have a back-up pair, Gumby and Pokey.  They will be easily manipulated into supporting our opposition stance.  Some may object that they are artificial and plastic, but there has been ample precedent set for this in previous administrations.

All you tired, you poor, you huddled masses yearning to breathe free of the miasma of election season, cast off the shackles of narrow minded vision and conventional party politics.  Rally 'round the Beantrarian banner.  Join us as we sound the clarion call, "NO PROGRESS IS GOOD PROGRESS!"

Jean Baptiste Lully

    

The Beantrarian Banner

Let There be Light!

My fourteen year old son asked me last night if he could watch a certain show on Netflix.  He told me that it was "really cool" and about the zombie apocalypse.  I am a reasonably open-minded parent, so I gave my permission and sat down to watch it with him.  Three episodes later I was depressed, with such a dim view of the future potential of humankind that I had to ransack the cupboards for dark chocolate.  How much rotting flesh, human snacking, marital strife, bickering, dishonesty, and raunchy conversation can one person absorb?  (I must find an equation for that...)  I enjoy dark, edgy shows.  I was a true X-Phile back in the day.  I love 40's and 50's film noir.  Yet those earlier forms of entertainment always had a glimmer of light, a ray of hope.  Fox Mulder was on a quest for the truth, and that was worth wading through mutant fluke worms.  Today's protagonists seem to be on a quest for more zombies to kill, more meth to make, more lying, stealing, cheating to get away with, more notches carved on the bedpost, more consumption, more lust, more greed, more, more, more.  It begs the question, what happened to the light?

Ah, but art is a reflection of its time, right?  We live in a dark, edgy world.  People are lying, cheating, stealing, making meth (not sure about killing zombies...).  Why should we expect anything else from our creative peers?  They are merely portraying their environment.  This is a popular but flawed conceit.  Let us consider Olivier Messiaen.

Messiaen was a French composer, born in 1908.  He was drafted into the French army in World War II and was captured at Verdun. He was sent to Stalag VIII-A, a prisoner of war camp in Görlitz.  Under what surely must have been dire and depressing circumstances, Messiaen did what any self-respecting composer would do, he created.  He met a violinist, a cellist, and a clarinetist among the prisoners and  composed Quartet for the End of Time, with a part for himself on the piano.  Given his surroundings, it would be understandable if the music were angry, harsh, clangorous.  It would be forgivable if it were a sonic assault upon our ears.  But Messiaen chose the light.  Inspired by the Book of Revelations in the New Testament and with movement titles such as "Praise to the Eternity of Jesus," Messiaen chose to improve his environment, not reflect it.  The premiere was performed for the prisoners and guards in a chilly barrack on inferior quality instruments, yet Stalag VIII-A must have been transfigured on that January night as the sublime, ethereal tones of Messiaen's musical vision filled the air.  It is truly transcendent music that elevates the soul.

There is always a choice.  We may not be able to choose our surroundings or control the situations in which we find ourselves, but we can choose how we reflect those surroundings.  We can choose what we absorb, internalize, and celebrate from our surroundings.  We can choose what we assimilate and integrate into our creative endeavors and our lives.  What does it say about humankind that so many of us choose to reflect moral and spiritual decay?  Perhaps this fascination with zombies and its attendant rotting flesh and corpse cannibalism is more of a comment on who we've become than we'd like to admit.  It doesn't have to be that way.  The undead need not come knocking at my door.  I will emulate Messiaen.  I choose the light.

Olivier Messiaen



If you are interested in reading more about the fascinating history of
Quartet for the End of Time, I recommend this excellent
article by Alex Ross, music critic for The New Yorker.

Zombie

The Law of Five

Gustav and I were recently zipping around town (Gustav is a zipper.  He just can't keep it under 45 mph.) when the last movement of Dmitri Shostakovich's Symphony Number 5 begin to play on Pandora.  I hadn't listened to it in years, so it was thrilling to once again hear the thundering brass, the wailing strings, the insistent percussion, and the unrelenting misery that is such a hallmark of Shostakovich's music.  While enjoying this sonic feast, I began to think, "There's something special about the number five."

Let's examine the musical examples.  Shostakovich wrote 13 symphonies, and yet which one is the most popular, has the most recordings, and is most loved by the general public?  Number 5, hands down.  There are those of us who prefer others, number 13 is widely admired, and my personal favorite is number 11, but neither of these come close to the mass appeal of number 5.  Sergei Prokofiev composed 7 symphonies.  The first, the Classical Symphony, is performed frequently due to its ease and accessibility, but once again, it is number 5 that is the most popular and most frequently recorded.  And of course I would be remiss if I didn't mention the most famous number 5 of all, Beethoven's.  It is not my favorite Beethoven symphony, I prefer the 7th with it's glorious opening oboe solo (which I have played a few times).  Yet it's opening motive is arguably the most well known 4 notes in all of classical music.  I am old enough that I remember a time when it was used to advertise Alka-Selzter on TV.  I could put in a plug here for the Tchaikovsky 5th and the Sibelius 5th, but I believe the trend is clear.

Lest anyone should scoff, consider these other examples that indicate the supremacy of the number 5;

Star Wars V - The Empire Strikes Back is easily the best of the bunch.  How can you argue with the movie that gave the world the immortal misquote, "Luke, I am your father."

X-Files Season 5 - The best of the X-Files seasons for many reasons.  It was the last to be filmed in Vancouver, it's the season that leads into the movie "Fight the Future," and it contained one of my favorite episodes...

Episode 5 of season 5 of The X-Files - "Post Modern Prometheus" is a black and white film-noir beauty with mob scenes, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cross-species genetic manipulation and a Cher impersonator lip-synching "Walking in Memphis."  What's not to love?

Henry V - The most beloved of the King Henrys of England (he defeated the French at Agincourt, after all!) and the most popular of Shakespeare's "King" plays.

Five Golden Rings - The best Christmas gift.  Does anyone really want four calling birds or seven maids a milking?

So where does this compelling evidence lead us?  To my new theorem, "The Law of Five."  Simply stated, it is this, that the fifth in a sequence of any creative medium is the best.  I urge all artists everywhere to consider the implications of this new law.  If you are a poet and are having writer's block, just start writing Sonnet V and your woes are over.  If you are a screenwriter, begin with the 5th movie in your franchise and your career is made.  All you choreographers out there, skip to the 5th pas de deux for instant success.

As for me, although I have yet to compose symphonies 1-4, there is a new sign on my studio door;

DO NOT DISTURB

SYMPHONY NO. 5 IN PROGRESS

Dimitri Shostakovich

Ludwig van Beethoven

Sergei Prokofiev

Wickedness Never Was Happiness

 "No one mourns the wicked."  This is according to Stephen Schwartz in his hit musical "Wicked" (which is a tremendous amount of fun and quite entertaining, for you 17 people in America who haven't seen it yet). At first blush this would appear to be true.  How many people shed a tear at the demise of Pol Pot, Vlad the Impaler, Usama bin Laden?  Perhaps a few family members or faithful adherents were moved to mourn, but I think it's safe to say that the public at large skipped their funerals.  These men, however, are extreme examples of wickedness, the kind most of us never encounter on a daily basis.  We face a more garden-variety type of "bad;" people who simply make wrong choices.

I have a good friend who is running down the wrong path as fast as his skinny legs can carry him.  It is like watching a B horror movie in which you scream at the teenage girl, "Why on Earth are you going into the unlit basement to open the door with the bloodstains on it?"  My friend is bound and determined to open that door, despite my screams.  To further compound matters, I am the only person in his immediate circle that clearly sees the danger.  His other associates are cheering from the stands.  I am the lone voice crying in the wilderness, and I mourn.

It is not unlike the day I learned about Ralph Vaughn Williams.  He is a British composer of beautiful orchestral, choral, and vocal music.  If you are feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders, try listening to "The Lark Ascending" or "Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis" and your day will be lightened.  He is also the arranger of beautiful hymn melodies that are in Christian hymnals everywhere,  Kingsfold, Laßt Uns Erfreuen, and Sine Nomine, to name a few.  With such inspiring music in his portfolio, I naturally assumed he led an equally inspiring life.  It was with great disappointment that I read about his long term affair with the already married Ursula Wood that lasted 15 years before he married her.  I mourned.  Ralph is by no means alone, of course.  Debussy had a string of affairs, beginning at age 18 with Blanche Vasnier, the wife of a Parisian lawyer.  Let's not forget every musician's favorite infant terrible, the composer Richard Wagner, who not only had deplorably racist political views, but ran off with Mrs. von Bülow as well.

"So what?" you may well ask.  "This is how the world is.  What people do in their private lives is private."  Perhaps.  But I believe we all need heroes, someone to admire, look up to, believe in.  It can be the rich and famous or more "ordinary" people, like an uncle, grandmother, or friend.  And every time they make a less than noble choice, even in "private," we are all diminished.  A little more light has left the world, a little more ignominy has crept in.

I can't change the rich and famous.  Hugh Heffner won't listen to me any more than Debussy would have.  But we should all be the lone voice within our sphere of influence, speaking with boldness when people we admire and care about head in the wrong direction.  We can all yell, "Turn on the light!  It's over here!"  It is the hope of humanity.  Mr. Schwartz, talented though he is,  got it wrong.  We all mourn the wicked.

Ralph Vaughn Williams

Richard Wagner

Claude Debussy

To Boldly Go...

I first met Spock via my parent's black and white television when I was 8 years old.  It was instant infatuation.  Star Trek was shown in reruns every afternoon at 5:00, and I was there, glued to the TV.  I'd never known a man like him, so cool, so intelligent, so impressive in a Starfleet uniform.  After an hour of traveling to distant galaxies and saving yet another alien race, I would run into my backyard and make up my own adventures.  On my own worlds I was Spock's little sister, just as smart, but cuter.  I had a fruitful imagination and loved contemplating life, the universe, and everything.

Then I attended middle school and high school, and Spock's little sister disappeared under all the mind-numbing banality of a compulsory education combined with the societal pressures to not be "too weird."  I pursued music and drama with passion and performed well in my school classes, but there was no denying a certain lack of zest for life.  I had lost some of that joie de vivre that had been my nature on board the Starship Enterprise.

Then I dutifully trundled off to college to study music.  Life was quite terrestrial until a fateful day in composition class when my professor played "Ancient Voices of Children" by someone of whom I was only vaguely aware, George Crumb.  I couldn't believe what I was hearing;  hypnotic percussion rhythms, sultry oboe melodies, a clangorous toy piano sounding Bach, and above it all the ethereal soprano of Jan de Gaetani singing texts by Lorca.  Heady stuff, and definitely off the planet.  In fact, I was certain I was once again exploring strange new worlds.

George Crumb is my favorite living composer (he was born in 1929.  Hang in there, George!).  After that first exposure to his music, I eagerly sought for more.  I gave a presentation on his string quartet "Black Angels" for my composition final one semester, and performed "Makrokosmos Volume II" for my junior piano recital.  I eventually performed Volumes I and IV as well.  I loved his adventures in timbre.  His piano music demands that the pianist sing, hum, whistle, play on the strings, rap on the soundboard, etc.  Suddenly Beethoven seemed so...pedantic.  None of these effects feel contrived or superficial.  Au contraire, a deep sense of spirituality and enlightenment pervades his music.  Every gesture, each plucked string or delicately intoned harmonic is perfectly placed as if they are part of an organic whole and can exist no other way.

His scores are a delight for the eyes as well.  In this day of computer notation programs, Mr. Crumb does it the old fashioned way with a pen, paper and a straight edge.  His titles are as beautiful as his manuscripts.  Who wouldn't enjoy performing "Ghost Nocturne:  for the Druids of Stonehenge," or "Spiral Galaxy?"  I could at last answer, there is intelligent life in the composition universe.

Twin Suns
by George Crumb

Tutored as I was by Mr. Spock, it is only logical that I continue on my quest for new life and new civilizations, and I hope to find them in the music yet to be created by living composers everywhere.  Live long and prosper, Mr. Crumb!

Mr. Spock

George Crumb

Physics for the Artistically Inclined

I've been reading a mind-expanding book titled, "The Black Hole War; My Battle with Stephen Hawking to Make the World Safe for Quantum Mechanics," by Leonard Susskind.  I estimate that I comprehend about 60% of what I'm reading, but no matter.  That's 60% more than I knew before I plunged into the mire of elementary particle theoretical physics.

Something that has amused me of which I was previously unaware is the existence of numbers known as "constants" that are used to solve all kinds of difficult equations.  Many of these constants are named for the physicists or mathematicians who first discovered them.  For example, there is Planck's constant, discovered by Max Planck, represented by the letter h in an equation. It's value is 6.626068 times 10 to the negative 34th power.  You can understand why I might find this amusing.  Why take the time to calculate a number like that when you could be listening to Bach instead?  There is a lenghty list of such numbers, including Avogadro's number, Newton's constant, the speed of light, and so forth.  These numbers are plugged into equations such as:

T=  1    X    hc3                            or the perennial favorite   E= mc2
      16π2      GMk
T represents the temperature of a black hole.                        E represents energy.

I thought to myself there are constants in the artistic realm as well.  And these constants, if plugged into the right equation would go a long way in explaining some interesting artistic phenomena.  Let me share with you my discoveries.

Charis' List of Creative Constants

Wagner's Constant (w) - Talent trumps politics

Beethoven's Constant (b) - Hairstyle is no indicator of success 

Andy Warhol's Constant (a) - A soup can is just a soup can

Tom Cruise's Constant (c) -Talent is not required

J-Lo's Constant (j) - A great booty hides a multitude of sins

Danielle Steel's Constant (s)- Trash sells

Martha Stewart's Constant (m) - Warm muffins make everything better

Vivaldi's Constant (v) - You've heard it all before

Shakespeare's Constant (h) - It is always better to be

Phillip Glass' Constant (g) - Change is difficult and very slow

The Bagel Constant (l) - Jewish is good

Now here are some equations using those constants.  You will need to plug in the correct value.  For example;

 j X s  = Britney Spears

 c + a   

Multiply j (A great booty hides a multitude of sins) by s (Trash sells) and divide by c (Talent is not required) plus a (A soup can is just a soup can) and it equals Britney Spears.  Brilliant, yes?  Suddenly the universe makes much more sense.  Here are more equations for your deciphering.

m + g = Barack Obama                                               a X m = Thomas Kinkade

    v                                                                                             c

10(h X l) + w = Barbra Streisand                                 b2(a + c) = Justin Bieber
                                                                                                         v

s2(c + v)1 l + b = Roseanne Barr                               100(b2) = Donald Trump
                  2

48v + m  = The Pachelbel Canon
         g

Broadway Baby!

Like most musicians I can wear many hats.  I'm a pianist, accompanist, oboist, conductor, music theater coach, and can even sing a church solo when called upon to do so.  My favorite hat, the one that fits the best and is a joy to wear, is composer.  I started making up my own little piano songs at age 6 and I've never stopped.  I was born to create.

"So, what are you working on now?" is the question all composers are asked on a regular basis.  I'm working on a musical.  Pudding Lane is the working title.  It's the street in London where the great fire started in 1666.  When I share plot details with other creative souls, they often comment, "Sounds a little like Sondheim!"

I was raised on a steady diet of Rogers and Hammerstein, Lerner and Lowe, Verdi and Puccini.  My father believed if someone wasn't wailing away at the top of their lungs, it wasn't worth listening to.  My parents had a turntable and a small but adequate collection of vinyl.  I listened to our well-worn original cast recording of "The Sound of Music" so many times that to this day I still sing it with all the skips, "Mi, myself, Fa- So, a needle pulling thread."  It was pure magic.  Soon I was auditioning for local shows, joining a children's theater company, and playing the piano for high school productions.

None of this prepared me for "the Demon Barber of Fleet Street."  When I was 17 I went to a local production of "Sweeney Todd."  I really thought I was quite the theater connoisseur, but I had not yet met the creative genius of Stephen Sondheim.  When I left the theater that evening, I didn't even have the vocabulary to discuss what I had just seen and heard.  What was "Sweeney?" Theater?  Opera?  A nightmare?  I found the piece disturbing.  I couldn't sleep.  I sat in my bed all night, feverish and discombobulated.  How could I plug "Sweeney" into my tidy, ordered universe?  Five years later, after years of music study, I was the third keyboard player for a "Sweeney" production staged in an abandoned factory, and I left that production able to tell the world that a masterpiece had been bestowed upon mankind.

Now as I tackle my own musical I ask myself daily "Is this as good as Sondheim?"  Unfortunately, the answer is always '"No," but it is a worthy measuring stick.  Stephen Sondheim doesn't cut corners or take the easy path.  He works hard to find just the right word, the right tone, the best music for a particular phrase.  How can I do any less?  When I'm confronted with a difficult artistic decision and am tempted to sell myself a little short, cut and paste a refrain or two, use a trite or hackneyed vocal line just because it's easy,  I remember Sweeney and his very sharp razor.

Three important rules I have learned from my forays into the theater;  Great art should be disturbing, don't eat the meat pies, and when in doubt, ask yourself, "What would Sondheim do?"

The Mahler in us all

My name is Charis.  I have a husband, three children, a son-in-law, a cat, a house, and a VW Golf GTI named Gustav.  Gustav is a recent acquisition.  I found him in a town 60 miles away, took him for a spin on the freeway, and it's been true love ever since.  My husband was bemused when I announced my car's name.  "Is that after Holst or Mahler?" he asked.

Mahler - of course!

"That seems an incongruous choice for a such a small car," he replied, "to share a name with the titan of symphonic composers.  To listen to just one of Mahler's symphonies requires a lunch break and a nap halfway through.  Don't you think Webern would be better?"

No.  My car, diminutive in body though it may be, is a giant at heart.  It dreams of road rallies, drag racing, grand touring.  I can sense this when I sit behind the wheel.  My little GTI has a Mahlerian soul.

Gustav Mahler was born an Austrian Jew in Bohemia during a time in which it was difficult to be an Austrian in Bohemia or a Jew in Austria.  He too, was diminutive in body, topping out around 5'2".  Despite his small physical stature and status as an outsider where ever he went, he had a giant spirit, a soul of Goliath proportions that revealed itself in his extravagant, voluptuous symphonies and songs that tackled themes no less monumental than the meaning of life, the humanity of man, and eternity.  He was born with a heart defect that would cause a much-too-early death at age 50, yet he didn't hesitate to wrestle in his music with the eschatological questions that perplex many a creative mind.  To listen to his music is to experience change.  You cannot be the same person after hearing a Mahler symphony.  He was a true colossus, regardless of body size.

I have friends with Mahlerian souls.  One in particular, who is about Mahler's size, is "just" a teacher.  And yet she believes music can change the world.  She'll take 100 children from disadvantaged backgrounds who only know "Macarena" and the "Cha Cha Slide," teach them a 90 minute children's opera, put them in costume, place them on stage, and produce a show worthy of acclaim.  The children are changed.  They are not the same after one of her productions.  She's a giant in the lives of those children.

I believe most people aspire to greatness, not greatness of fame or stature, but greatness of humanity.  However humble our station in life, we each want to be a spark, a light, the one who will make a difference.  We all have enormous symphonies in our hearts that want to be heard.  We all want to touch someone, even if it's only one.  So here's a cheer for all the people in the world who are "just" teachers, "just" garbage collectors, "just" real estate agents, or "just" secretaries, for all the people who go about their everyday lives hoping that they can influence change for the better.  Deep inside they have a great spirit, a Mahlerian soul.  I salute you.

Gustav the composer

Gustav the car