there was no mosh pit. but you could not underestimate the thrill in the audience.
freddie mercury was not there. but you could not underestimate the support of the audience.
it was not the 70s or even the 80s. but you could not underestimate the throwback zeal amping up the audience.
we were gifted tickets to a queen tribute band concert. one vision of queen with marc martel was a blast. we were surrounded by – and i truly mean surrounded by – about 2400 people in our own age bracket. now, there may have been a few here and there, scattered throughout the theatre, who were younger (or maybe older), but – for the most part – this was a 60s-something event.
and everyone sang along. now, being a dedicated john denver/carole king/james taylor/england dan & john ford coley/loggins & messina/dan fogelberg et al fan, i have to say i did not know all the lyrics to all the songs. but there are some that are just indelible – they will forever stay in your mind, ready to be excavated at any moment – more easily than last week’s memories.
there were grousers, of course. the woman behind us kept grumbling because the guy in front of us stood up to dance along. but his joy was palpable and everyone was on their feet at some point. plus, he was a great dancer.
marc martel was phenomenal – you cannot deny his talent for lifting up the songs of queen. mostly, you cannot deny that he was having a great time. it does a heart good seeing someone having that much fun.
and my favorite moment – the encore during which – of course – they played we are the champions. everyone stood, everyone danced, everyone sang along.
and then – the words that lingered over all of us and snuck into the balcony and box seats and twirled around in fog machine fog and reverberating glee – “for we are the champions – of the world“.
it’s not a bad thing – this tribute thing.
it occurs to me that, although clearly a tribute to the original band, it is also a tribute to our earlier years, life a few decades ago. the visceral memories of time gone by brought back to the moment.
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minus the beyondness, minus the trees, one would barely know it was foggy.
but context is everything.
up close, the boulders are clear. they are like the notes on the page, the score. technically, they are vital. but context is everything and it is the artist’s job to look beyond the obvious, to seek that which tells the whole story, that which evokes more. it is the musician’s job to play that which is beyond the obvious, to play that which evokes. more.
peter spering, in an online forum that was great-debating which – of technical wizardry and feel – was more important in playing music, wrote the words “…technically great but creatively dull”.
the boulders without the foggy trees: we have all heard this music, seen this art, read these words, watched this dance. if you have listened to a computer rendering of a piece of sheet music, you are aware of neat and tidy technicality, seamless, even perfection. you are also aware of the lack – of any emotion, any expression, any air, any space. boulders will only sound like boulders. there will be no question. there is no beyond. there is no fog.
to answer the this-or-that question from the forum – technical chops or feeling – is both impossible and necessary. music is the expression of the human condition. music is love in sound. it is a marriage of both the technical and the evocative.
yet…if art is to convey questions and answers, to explore and navigate, to inform, to find meaning…if the recipient is to be moved, to be smitten by life, then music – the simple and the complex – must be played with heart. and technical wizardry will cease to matter if it falls upon souls with nary a touch, without any dents or brushmarks or trace that it had been there.
“it is enough when a single note is beautifully played.” (arvo pärt)
because a single note – played with heart – will impact you. it will bring you to a place where – even without standing on the shore – you can see the fog, the trees, the dim horizon.
and you are able to “feel the world stand still”. (arvo pärt)
mid-december. we are hiking. our favorite local trail that we know so well. carols are playing in my head as i sort through the christmas tasks yet to do, a little shopping left to finish. we round the bend and there – stretching in long shadows from a low sun across amazingly-green-green grass – is a music staff of lines.
if there is any season that is closely associated with music, it is this. the shadow-staff pushes my focus into memories as we walk.
i am deep into advent preparations back there in the recesses of thought. it’s been a bit since i have allowed myself to really think about it. in my last position as a minister of music i brought three decades of experience, the wisdom absorbed from many congregations, intuition gleaned as a stage artist and performer, and a heart full of dedication to the community. though it may not seem apparent to a churchgoer (or any religious institution attendee) the research and time that a music director will undertake for the music in that venue is immense. when it is well done, there is more to it than assigning a few songs to a few slots in a service.
the other day we had old-fashioneds with our dear friends. we stood at their kitchen counter and jen brought out a new recipe along with a very nice bottle of bourbon and deluxe cherries and an orange, complete with pre-cut curly peels for the side of the glasses and swizzle sticks. it was lovely – an experience in itself – we celebrated our time together in this season. as we each took sips following her cocktail-making, she looked up and said, “wow. this is really bourbon-forward!”. it was too much, too strong, too bourbon-ego, too solo. yowza! to continue to sip on a bourbon-forward old-fashioned can leave you cold to old-fashioneds in the future; it may even kill your yen for an old-fashioned. it will definitely undermine your bartending je ne sais quoi and the bar you are serving may suffer from your mixology. we all laughed and added some squirt to tone it down, swizzle-sticking to perfection. and suddenly – with jen’s good instincts – an exquisite old-fashioned, all ingredients integrated!
this morning we listened to the song that i am attaching to this post. it’s called “you’re here” and i wrote it while i was rehearsing the choir for the christmas cantata i arranged in 2019. it was recorded on an iphone sans proper mics with an out-of-tune church piano, so it’s pretty raw tape (so to speak). the thing it reminded me was of my approach as a minister of music.
for me, any notes on a music staff in a church need be about resonance. how might i help the people there connect with their faith, that which cannot be seen, that which is fragile and strong, that which elicits love and joy and many questions, and that which tethers us to each other in the community? any worthy minister of music knows that is fluid and knows that each year in their work will bring more answers. this is not something you start out knowing. it is a practice and one must be humble enough to be learning from those around you, honing as you go. one must bring one’s game – professionalism, collaboration and service-oriented, stellar learned gut on-the-fly flexibility, tenderness and sensitivity in delivery, the innate ability to shape a worship service and its emotional journey, the buoying of others, joy-joy-joy of creating music and emotion together, the integration of every musical gift you have been given. and love. it’s what you put forward.
because i had never experienced it – ever- before – in any position i held, there are days i still wonder about being fired – particularly in the middle of a global pandemic – particularly after eight years tenure there. wondering, even now – three years later. especially at christmastime. because in every way i knew how – in the music programming of any church in which i was involved or employed – i was the squirt in the old-fashioned.
oh well. in the words of john o’donohue, “upheavals in life are often times when the soul has become too smothered; it needs to push through the layers of surface under which it is buried….it reminds us that we are children of the eternal and our time on earth is meant to be a pilgrimage of growth and creativity.”
i get these specific emails – practically every day. they are from some church-administrative-oriented website. the latest emails address church staff and salaries. oh my! what a can of worms that is. though i don’t usually open them, i was forced to one day – the devil made me do it. the email was called “why fair compensation matters” and the first lines in the email read, “we believe when those employed to service in the church are paid adequately and fairly, they’re free to focus on their ministry work. the result? freedom from financial burdens and a flourishing ministry.” flourishing. it makes me think of green grass on the trail – even in december – despite all odds.
yes. yes. just as in choice of bourbon – or, for that matter, bartenders – you will get what you pay for, what you value. remember – you are about your customers and their experience – the community in your seats and on your barstools. skimp at the bar and the reputation for your old-fashioneds will get you in the end. likewise, the thing you don’t want in your place of worship? the bourbon-forward director. it’s too much, too strong, too bourbon-ego, too solo. not enough squirt.
it is truly about what you put forward – in your life, in your work, in love – and how you smush it all around, integrating it, with a swizzle stick.
merry advent from my place off the bench, sans baton.
in most rehearsals, i would remind the choir that their smile could be heard. there is a major difference to the timbre of voice brought forward with or sans smile. the same is true with speaking; even when you are not seen, the difference in tone is distinguishable.
it’s the season of the christmas cantata – a major work of multiple pieces with various voicings, instrumental lines, accompaniment and narration – closer to an hour in length. i’m writing this on the sunday morning that was usually chosen as the day of performance – the second sunday in december. i can’t even begin to remember how many cantatas i’ve directed – and written and arranged – through my decades as a minister of music. just recently a facebook memory came up – it was my post thanking the choir and worship band at a church where we had just performed such a work. the creation of narrative and song is exhilarating – for both director and participants – and everything drives to the downbeat. there is a glow that emanates from such a group – these people who have diligently prepared a musical piece of larger extent – and the camaraderie that weaves its way through – it is joy.
it’s been a few years now since i have directed a cantata. i’m guessing it’s a few years since many of the people who participated have sung or played a cantata. not every minister of music or choir director is up to it and some choose other programming. while you are preparing weekly anthems for sharing in service you are concurrently rehearsing this large work, so it takes time and energy, a compositional spirit, an innate ability to discern cantatas of value, ingenuity, the ability to rearrange on the fly, the belief in showcasing your choir – as a choir – accommodating any ability level, the recognition that simplicity is potent, much flexibility and humor, meticulous planning and true dedication. it is knowing as a conductor – in the moment after the downbeat – that you will merely guide this integrated group of singers and musicians through this visceral experience of purity. yours is a backseat to the magic – this is not your microphone. it is an undertaking not for the meek.
to say that i miss cantata-day would be understating. the gift of music is to make resonant that which is hard to see, that which is not tangible. the gift of music is to evoke powerful imagery and to open emotions tucked away. the gift of music is to bring forward beauty and the magnificence of producing something together. the gift of music is to offer just that – the gift of music. impactful, moving, music has the ability to change souls.
we pass the leaf on the trail – so very obviously lips curled in a smile. i think about all the times i have urged a singer to smile, all the times i have listened to the difference between smiling and not smiling – like the difference between the keys of d minor and e minor. vast.
and right now – as i write this – i wonder how many choirs are gathered on chancels, singing their hearts out, smiling inside and out.
it’s been a minute since i’ve sung into a microphone. for that matter, i haven’t spoken into a microphone in a while either. i haven’t run cables or tested monitors, used earpieces or balanced sound in a space. i haven’t hung condenser mics over my piano or booms in front of the keyboard. no neumanns or shures, no audix.
it’s not like you forget, though.
we walked past the meadow off-trail and nature had clearly sent in her sound engineer. the meadow hawkweed microphones stood ready and able to amplify all the ambient sounds of the woods. it made me giggle a little thinking about these tiny microphone-like clusters soaking up all the noises around them, running them through some sort of nature-equalizer and tossing them back out through an invisible speaker system.
in every good venue sound system, decisions are made for each and every performance. tiny – sometimes barely perceptible – turns of the dials, slides of the sliders, mutes and unmutes all define what the listener will hear. in the best scenario, the listener hears sound as it really is, nothing distorted. in the best scenario, sound is pure, unadulterated, unfiltered, offered as true, crisp, present, full-frequency-range. the piano sounds luxurious; the voice rides above it. exquisite.
how would nature balance it all – the call of birds, the busy peeper-frogs, the wind in the high leaves of the forest, the wings of butterflies, the tease of chipmunks and squirrels in the underbrush, the crunch of human footfall, conversation, hushed tones of worry, laughter, breath. would nature pare down all tones of negativity, choosing instead to pan to the positive? or would nature allow for all of it – a cacophony of life as it exists in the moment?
the draw of the microphone is powerful. i wonder if the butterflies nearby felt it too.
their genre is listed as: jam band, bluegrass, country music, psychedelic rock, neo-pyschedelia, progressive bluegrass, rock and they are fearless about crossing all the invisible lines.
i don’t think i have been at a concert where absolutely everyone stood up and where absolutely everyone spanned the widest-ever spectrum of age. tie-dye, flannel, jeans, bell-bottoms, patch-laden vests and jackets, leather, maxi dresses – it was an everything-goes phenomenon of fashion. mostly, people wore their love of this band and gigantic contagious zeal.
“you’re going to do so much dancing,” our daughter texted, laughing. she was right. the dancing never stopped. everyone – again, absolutely everyone – danced with everyone, absolutely everyone.
the sidewalk and lobby outside the theatre in milwaukee made me feel a little out-of-body and a little like it was 1976. security officers, metal detectors, bag searches, lots of cigarette smoke and that distinct smell of pot…yes…a little out-of-body. there were so many people. it’s been a minute since we have been in a mob. we wove our way through, ordered a wine at the bar, asked if we could bring it inside and found our way to our seats.
the adorable couple next to us were probably the ages of our kids. they had left their three year old and their one year old at home with his mom. they were at their fourth string cheese incident concert. they had hard seltzers in their hands and seemed to be in bliss. the guy on the other side of me was already a tad bit wasted. he must have decided that i was not a worthy neighbor because he and his seatmate moved somewhere in the first few minutes. i wasn’t totally unhappy about that. to reiterate, a little out-of-our-element.
SCI played non-stop for hours, only taking an intermission break. their energy ignited the happy-factor in the audience and the whole concert was one giant ovation.
we laughed as we made our way out through the crowd, found littlebabyscion in its parking garage and drove home. sometimes a little out-of-body is good for the soul.
the may apples stood on risers in the forest, singing to spring, singing to any audience who might be there, singing their glorious song. just like a choir. unified. united. elated to be in harmony. creating four-part jubilation to be alive. making music.
the singtolive choir stood on risers in the sanctuary of the beautiful church, directly in front of the organ pipes. their joy was palpable and, if i closed my eyes as they sang their program of the great american songbook, i could imagine the record albums of my parents playing and the choirs of 33rpm singing into our living room. they were cohesive and gently exploring the expanse of the songs chosen for the evening. and then, at the end of the concert – this concert dedicated to breast cancer survivorship – the singers left the risers and came out to stand among us, the audience.
to say that their last song was touching would be an understatement. a trademark of this marvelous group, why we sing was exquisitely performed. we all had eye contact with singers surrounding us. you could feel hearts swelling and tears forming. they delivered this emotional piece like no other preceding it in the program. i whispered to david, “this is the stuff.”
there is a lot of choir music ‘out there’. for the decades of my career as a minister of music, i was shipped an enormous number of catalogs, of listings, of cds with samples of songs. and then, there were charts to study, trends in music. and then, arrangements and reviewing lyrics and the range of my singers – in note as well as in degree of difficulty. i reviewed all this music always seeking that which would resonate, that which would help a person’s heart and mind connect with their faith, with the questions they had in this world, with good intentions and their community. it’s not a small responsibility to choose that which a choir – any choir, any worship band, any ukulele band, any choral ensemble – will sing in public – no matter the venue.
heidi and i stood in front of thousands of people through the time we worked together, performing “celebrate sweet life” – our breast cancer survivorship programs. with audiences of 35,000 in new york’s central park to hundreds in a medical center to a few thousand in the chicago sun with lance armstrong’s tour of hope to a more intimate group in pjs at md anderson to sharing a long island stage with hillary clinton to oncology pharmaceutical sales conference in puerto rico, it was our privilege to share messages – of hope, of healing, of making a difference for each other, of being alive – with audiences all over the country.
there is a video from one of our performances that touches me each time i see it. it is a bit blurry, not captured with the best of equipment. yet, at the end, as the audience has risen to their feet, there is a man in the foreground. as heidi speaks her last words and i sing the last lyrics of one of my songs, this man wipes at his eyes, stirred. and each time – no matter how many times i have viewed this – i am profoundly moved.
the may apples – gleeful in their rising out of the eradicated forest, now clear of invasives and plants with ill intent – stand proudly. they are furled at first and one might think they are quiet, meek, hiding. but as the sun warms them they arise. they will give their performance their all, joining together as one umbrella of green. the trillium will watch in the forest as audience members. and then, pure white flowers will form under the may apple parasols. and the trillium will turn to each other and whisper.
in the moments of performances under my choir baton or concert stages under my feet, there has been nothing quite like thinking that someone out there is whispering to the person next to them, “this is the stuff.”
though not quite as at-home as the cranes walking the edges, we know this pond. we knew it as a marsh. we knew it as dry dirt. we knew it with mulch strewn throughout as they eradicated invasive species. we watched as the rains began to fill it. we listened to the quiet wind ripple across its surface. and then, one day, we heard the first frogs. though we cannot see them, the orchestra pit is filled with frogs in chorus. the static becomes a symphony.
such is the way of a choir. for well over three decades, i conducted groups of people who chose to sing – in choir. they gathered, sitting in folding chairs cold with mid-week evening thermostat dips. they gathered, weary from their days at work or home, filled with activities of responsibility, of life. they gathered, to become a symphony.
the thing about choir rehearsals is that – with good leadership – they go from a meeting of a group of individuals to a collaboration of musicians, from quiet chatter to boisterous song, from people who possibly feel ill-at-ease to people whose voices are heard, whose hearts are seen. choir rehearsals are community events and – led with joy – become places that are generative, places that are accepting not competitive, places of great learnings and tremendous laughter, places that are spaces filled with concern for the other, lifting up of each other, a place with a mission of goodness, a mission of symphony.
i’ve missed being a choir director. it’s been over two years now and the lack of vocal choirs, ukuleles, handbells, worship bands is palpable for me. directing was always about the community – building it, reinforcing it – life-giving, loving. my resume shows seven churches along the way. seven communities in which i offered all i could give, responding to their individual needs, their particular circumstances, their strengths and their weaknesses. seven fluid rivers of music-making.
and – up close – if you choose – you will see the foreleg of a winter-dressed pony, the extra cold-weather-coat trapping hair next to the skin of the horse, keeping him warmer. he is stopped, gazing at the distant field, ready to canter into it, the exploding of freedom of movement.
and you blink and it is a cattail. one of many in the field, waiting in the marsh through autumn and winter for early spring. as many as 250,000 seeds, white fluff sailing and transported by birds and breezes. and the life cycle continues.
it is winter in my studio. the rhizomes are gathering underground, together with the cattails. maybe around the spring equinox, maybe a bit later, the shoots will rise out of the ground – like a phoenix out of ashes – and new sprouts will grow and grow. the cycle germinates and pollinates and seeds will fly again. the birds and the wind and i will play for you – seeds and notes flying.
in the meanwhile, i wear my winter coat. it is keeping the heat in. it protects me. insulation for shelter in this long and cold winter, to shield in the storms, to brace in this fallow.
but soon, soon, with the sun and fresh air, the pony will run free.
it’s 925 miles from the corner of sixth avenue and west 55th street, but it displaced me in an instant. there i was – back sometime in the 70’s, in new york city, seeing robert indiana’s love sculpture for the first time. i loved love then. i love love now. (could that be any more redundant?!)
a part of sculpture milwaukee in 2018, this sculpture has returned and was permanently installed at the milwaukee art museum in 2019. we saw it for the first time last week. life and covid interrupted our visits to mam. we were really happy to be back. seeing love out the window facing lake michigan’s lakefront was the icing on the cake.
there are nearly fifty of these sculptures around the world. people travel far and wide to have their photographs taken next to the iconic stacked word. it became a u.s. postal stamp in 1973. it has big history. its artist has big history.
the success of this giant – yet simple – sculpture begs questions for me: what musical gesture might be equivalent to this sculpture? what rhythmic or melodic motif has this kind of powerful impact? googling these questions produces a plethora of suggested lists – everything from classical to motown to the beatles and beyond. i suppose it’s a truly personal thing.
any listener of albinoni’s adagio in g minor or j.s. bach’s air on the g string or arvo pärt’s spiegel im spiegel or ennio morricone’s gabriel’s oboe or john denver’s annie song or leonard cohen’s hallelujah or carole king’s you’ve got a friend or aretha’s r-e-s-p-e-c-t or the beatles’ here comes the sun or, for that matter, eldar kedem’s you and i or any piece composed and played or sung by giant artists or tiny independent artists …. any listener of anything arrives at the place of listening – the dropped-down-out-of-the-universe of their own world – individually. we tote along with us our lives-at-the-moment, our busy schedules, our worries, our longings, color and breath and heart, a distinctively different set of ears. we hear and we listen and we are transported by music to worlds away, places and times stored up, a chorus of commentators in us telling silent stories in viewmaster snippets, our hearts grasping the filmy tails of memories. impact. giant impact.
the love sculpture means something different to everyone who poses in front of it; every person’s story has different details, a different emotional spectrum. how we connect to this emotive piece depends largely on where we are when we visit with it, what we bring to it, how open we are to its energy.
the love sculpture stands outside the museum and i know that each time we now visit, it will demand our time as well. we will stand and gaze and visit with it. and we’ll keep loving it. it’s simple. it’s that kind of piece.
reverse threading 