I wish I could blame
Turning Mozart’s Ah! Vous
Dirais-je maman variations
Into a botch played by some
Idiot savant (all right, without
The savant) on arthritis,
Parkinson’s, or even Alzheimer’s.
You must have independence
Of hands--Grace, clarity,
Tempo legato expression--
Admit it: your internal clock
Sucks. Have you forgotten,
Mr. Humunculus inside
My skull, that I--that is, we--
Were born of poor parents in,
Of all places, Jersey City?
(Dad would have thought
Lang Lang was a panda)--
Why tell me off for not
Being (a sextogenarian!) prodigy--
There was no music in our house.
There is in mine--so why not
Join neurons (you and joy’s
Center in the amygdala)--
Let us be friends--Who knows
How much pain it took
For me to become average?
After traumas that cannot
Even be mentioned in poems,
I’m lucky to be alive.
Besides, Mozart couldn’t play
A note at my age--
Even Czerny cannot help
One in an unmarked grave.
I’ve outlived Beethoven,
Schubert, Schumann and Brahms--
And tonight I’ve made my debut
In a nursing home where
A given-up man sang along
Who hadn’t sung in years--
Mozart at Versailles? Smile; God
Also needs Dorsetts in Newark.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
LEGATO AND NARCISSISM
Today I read on the New York Times op-ed page an article by David Brooks entitled, "The Gospel of Mel Gibson." In it, citing the recent tirade of the actor as an apt illustration, Mr. Brooks laments the rise of narcissism in our society, characterized by individuals who demand attention and admiration for themselves and are unable or unwilling to consider the needs of others. Oh, the examples that each of us could give of egotists that we either know or read about in newspapers! Although discontents have been complaining about the deterioration of society for thousands of years, I fear Mr. Brooks might be right. (If you don't believe me, read any newspaper.) We Americans--understandably-- are loath to join our fellow workers every morning in a song of praise for the corporation we work for, but--unfortunately--are very willing to sing our own praises before a mirror. Neither example makes for good music. The center no longer holds, as Years predicted; a good case can be made that narcissism is indeed getting worse.
Surely a little egotism and sense of importance can be useful, especially when one is young, but a lot, not. But when a sense of self crosses the threshold into narcissism, it is always bad, both for the individual and for society. There is no need to descant on the defects of runaway egotism here; they are obvious.
The descent is not inevitable. A good way to rise above narcissism--other than through practicing wisdom and love--is to take something or some things in life very seriously. One's vocation, one's avocations, etc. When one takes such things very seriously, one automatically becomes humble. An example: one tries to write the best play possible. Even with Herculean effort and a bit of Orphic talent, however, one will have written a play that is, at best, when compared to one of Shakespeare's, merely passable. But in the process one might have enriched one's inner life; one might have produced a work of art for the delight of others; and, through selfless labor, one might have come closer to overcoming the poison of narcissism.
Trying to play an instrument with the best technique and expression possible, with the utmost faith to the composer's intention, is one of many ways to become less egotistical and more deeply content. I do not want to get too technical, but there are good lessons that anyone can obtain from music. One of them is the concept and practice of legato. It is a good metaphor for the good life and is the subject of this essay.
The Italian word legato means "connected." In a legato phrase, every note must be connected with the next, with as little silence between them as possible. In my instrument, the piano, this means lifting the pressure on the key of the previous note while pressing down on the key of the subsequent note. Believe me, this is not as easy as it sounds--it requires great muscle coordination. One is not allowed to cheat by overlapping notes; each sound must be independent but be connected to the next note without pause. Good phrasing--which will also be briefly discussed--and good legato can make even a good amateur sound great.
But this essay is not a music lesson; it's a lesson on life. Let us consider each note as an individual. Each has its own "pitch," that is, unique characteristics. But if that pitch arises unconnected from the one before it and leads to another unconnected note, the musical effect is ruined. On the other hand, legato does not vitiate the individuality of notes. Each note is important--but its importance is not only in itself but in the beauty of interconnection.
Phrasing, the degree of stress on each note, is compatible with legato and just as important. It can give direction to a musical phrase by proceeding from soft to loud, for instance; it can bring out a melody. In any given piece, some notes are indeed more important than others, but all are essential. Let me give an example from Shakespeare: "To be or not to be, that is the question." To my ear, this verse is best phrased with an emphasis on "that" and a lesser emphasis on the first "be." This is open to interpretation, but I think most lovers of poetry would agree that the emphasis should not be on "question." The phrase would be rendered meaningless, however, if the word "question" was left out.
What I'm trying to demonstrate by this musical example is that narcissism is noise--as is a sense of inferiority, for that matter. The individual might be part of a beautiful Mozart melody or "merely" part of a chord in the bass. Melody and bass complement each other; each alone is a greatly diminished thing. Do you consider yourself important--in other words, have genes and environment allowed you to prosper? Can one ever claim one has accomplished great things alone? I can tell you this: if a mother-figure didn't connect with you in early life; if a father-figure didn't connect with you later in life, you would very possibly be asserting your importance to an asylum mirror. But even if we're important enough to be part of a great melody, if we are unconnected to our neighbors--even those way down in the bass--the effect is lost. Not to mention the effect that results when we leap off the page and play our one individual note over and over. This is "to tell your life the lifelong day/ to an admiring bog," as Dickinson aptly wrote. It is not the good life.
I must now present a coda to this musical essay: understanding legato is not the same as being able to do it. I, for one, find it difficult to transfer the legato of the mind to the legato of the hands. Unfortunately for the lazy among us, it is the latter by which beauty and truth are communicated to others. It takes years of practice to master the art of legato and of phrasing. Similarly, overcoming the staccato of egotism isn't easy--but for my sake, your sake, that is, for our sake, it is incumbent on us to try. We might not become great, but with sincere practice, great progress is always possible.
Listen to a Bach prelude performed by a master; then listen to the Johnny-One-Note coming from your air conditioner. In which of these two collections of sounds do you wish your little note to be found? Find your true legato voice--Connect, connect!
Surely a little egotism and sense of importance can be useful, especially when one is young, but a lot, not. But when a sense of self crosses the threshold into narcissism, it is always bad, both for the individual and for society. There is no need to descant on the defects of runaway egotism here; they are obvious.
The descent is not inevitable. A good way to rise above narcissism--other than through practicing wisdom and love--is to take something or some things in life very seriously. One's vocation, one's avocations, etc. When one takes such things very seriously, one automatically becomes humble. An example: one tries to write the best play possible. Even with Herculean effort and a bit of Orphic talent, however, one will have written a play that is, at best, when compared to one of Shakespeare's, merely passable. But in the process one might have enriched one's inner life; one might have produced a work of art for the delight of others; and, through selfless labor, one might have come closer to overcoming the poison of narcissism.
Trying to play an instrument with the best technique and expression possible, with the utmost faith to the composer's intention, is one of many ways to become less egotistical and more deeply content. I do not want to get too technical, but there are good lessons that anyone can obtain from music. One of them is the concept and practice of legato. It is a good metaphor for the good life and is the subject of this essay.
The Italian word legato means "connected." In a legato phrase, every note must be connected with the next, with as little silence between them as possible. In my instrument, the piano, this means lifting the pressure on the key of the previous note while pressing down on the key of the subsequent note. Believe me, this is not as easy as it sounds--it requires great muscle coordination. One is not allowed to cheat by overlapping notes; each sound must be independent but be connected to the next note without pause. Good phrasing--which will also be briefly discussed--and good legato can make even a good amateur sound great.
But this essay is not a music lesson; it's a lesson on life. Let us consider each note as an individual. Each has its own "pitch," that is, unique characteristics. But if that pitch arises unconnected from the one before it and leads to another unconnected note, the musical effect is ruined. On the other hand, legato does not vitiate the individuality of notes. Each note is important--but its importance is not only in itself but in the beauty of interconnection.
Phrasing, the degree of stress on each note, is compatible with legato and just as important. It can give direction to a musical phrase by proceeding from soft to loud, for instance; it can bring out a melody. In any given piece, some notes are indeed more important than others, but all are essential. Let me give an example from Shakespeare: "To be or not to be, that is the question." To my ear, this verse is best phrased with an emphasis on "that" and a lesser emphasis on the first "be." This is open to interpretation, but I think most lovers of poetry would agree that the emphasis should not be on "question." The phrase would be rendered meaningless, however, if the word "question" was left out.
What I'm trying to demonstrate by this musical example is that narcissism is noise--as is a sense of inferiority, for that matter. The individual might be part of a beautiful Mozart melody or "merely" part of a chord in the bass. Melody and bass complement each other; each alone is a greatly diminished thing. Do you consider yourself important--in other words, have genes and environment allowed you to prosper? Can one ever claim one has accomplished great things alone? I can tell you this: if a mother-figure didn't connect with you in early life; if a father-figure didn't connect with you later in life, you would very possibly be asserting your importance to an asylum mirror. But even if we're important enough to be part of a great melody, if we are unconnected to our neighbors--even those way down in the bass--the effect is lost. Not to mention the effect that results when we leap off the page and play our one individual note over and over. This is "to tell your life the lifelong day/ to an admiring bog," as Dickinson aptly wrote. It is not the good life.
I must now present a coda to this musical essay: understanding legato is not the same as being able to do it. I, for one, find it difficult to transfer the legato of the mind to the legato of the hands. Unfortunately for the lazy among us, it is the latter by which beauty and truth are communicated to others. It takes years of practice to master the art of legato and of phrasing. Similarly, overcoming the staccato of egotism isn't easy--but for my sake, your sake, that is, for our sake, it is incumbent on us to try. We might not become great, but with sincere practice, great progress is always possible.
Listen to a Bach prelude performed by a master; then listen to the Johnny-One-Note coming from your air conditioner. In which of these two collections of sounds do you wish your little note to be found? Find your true legato voice--Connect, connect!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A Brief Muscial Biography
Now that a few details of my "outer" biography have been written--no more than absolutely necessary for this blog, I would hope--I can turn to a few words of "inner" biography, in this case a sketch of how I developed an interest in music. Let me be clear: I am old, and not very interested in expressing my feelings in print--I am, however, interested in expressing Bach's feelings (and intellect) with my hands. As I wrote in the previous blog, the purpose of writing briefly about me is to demonstrate that even the (relatively) musically ungifted can derive much pleasure--and wisdom--from music, and, with practice, can reach the hearts and minds of others. The purpose is to inspire you. Music is far too wonderful to leave its practice solely to professionals.
We were, as stated previously, a very unmusical family. Although I can't remember ever hearing someone play a piano in public, I must have heard such on television. By the fifth grade, I was asking my mother to get me a piano. She didn't expect that, and did not know how to respond. We were poor, but probably could have gotten a second-hand beat-up piano if I persisted. Since this was completely beyond what was familiar to her, she purchased for me a cloth keyboard, believing that this was merely a passing fancy on my part, unworthy of any investment on hers. I tried to practice on it; even this so delighted me that I proudly showed it to my fifth-grade teacher. Nothing came of it; I returned to concentration on survival, not leisure activities. And I did indeed survive. Years later--I had already started puberty which enabled music to go more deeply--I had a phonograph that played 45s. I enjoyed some of the popular music records we had and remember playing a tune called "Lorna Dune" which affected me deeply--In fact, I remember playing it for a friend of my mother's to see if it would affect him deeply; it didn't. Now, about 13, alone and moody in my room, I came across a vinyl recording--it was rose-colored--of the Overture to William Tell. I had no idea how it got in the collection we had. I put it on. The cello introduction sent a shock down my spine. Then came that beautiful major-minor melody. I didn't know what was happening--I burst into tears. The black and white film of my life had entered a new, unknown phase of living color. (I listened to the overture again recently, and, although I still like it, the intensity was gone--It has been transferred to the works of other composers, and is as deep as ever. No, I'm not musically dead, far from it--I heard a recording by the Blind Boys of Alabama on the radio recently--they were singing, a cappella, a Gospel song entitled "This might be the last time."--I was moved, to use Yeats's words, to the deep heart's core.) Later--I was about 14--I heard excerpts from the Magic Flute. I got the records from the library and played it every night for weeks--I still have most of the score memorized, and, on sleepless nights, can play it in my head.
By this time I was so fascinated by music I begged for a piano. An old upright was finally mine, at the age of 15. Oh, but we were such an ignorant family--I say this as a fact and without bitterness. One of my friends played the piano a bit and recommended his teacher, a Belgian immigrant, Miss Johansen.
Miss Johansen was a trip. She was unmarried; she was a large woman, who was pleasant enough but thought a bit too highly of herself. She claimed that her teacher--or perhaps one before that--had been taught by Theodore Leschetizky, who had been taught by Czerny, who had been taught by Beethoven. She considered herself to be a direct--well, indirect--link to that great composer. How could this rather silly woman, who always wore bright red lipstick a good deal of which was always on her protruding teeth, be a great teacher? Well, she wasn't and I was too ignorant to know. She had no concept of legato, etc. etc and tried to teach me things far too difficult--she never bothered with basics. It was a mess. So I never progressed far at all. (I remember her demonstrating for me the second theme of the first movement of Beethoven's Pathetique sonata; she played it as a very slow adagio, and hummed along. By that time, I had heard a recording, and told her it should be played, well, a bit faster. Without missing a beat, figuratively that is, she said that there were different ways to play it authentically. Oh, Miss Johansen, I never learned anything, or hardly anything from you about the pulse of music and its expression! If I were a George Gershwin or even a Jerry Herman, I would have broken away on my own. I didn't trust myself musically; I needed a decent teacher badly. So I gave up.
I became an avid listener to music, and amassed a huge collection of records.
When my son was born, I, who now could afford a decent piano, bought one. He would have the opportunities I lacked. His teacher was indeed very good--by this time I could tell--but my son was an indifferent student. After several years of playing--he played the Raindrop Prelude at a recital very competently--he gave it up. He hardly ever touches the piano now. Was I disappointed? You bet; but I have learned to accept things as they are and not expect one's child to fulfill one's own fantasies. I am happy to say, I let my son Phil go his own way. He has become quite a gifted industrial designer.
Suddenly I became 60! I have a friend who is a pianist and composer. I decided it's never too late and began to take lessons from her. I am nearly sixty-five now; I've been taking lessons for about four years. What a new dimension it has added to my life! No, I'll never be good, but, at sixty-five, that is not much of a concern. And I have indeed made a lot of progress. An example: at a house at which I was a dinner party guest, I played my own version of a Broadway tune. Those present--no musical sophisticates, I might add--were convinced that I was a professional pianist! It is a pleasure to reach others musically, something new for me. It's working for me, dear reader; if you are either an avid listener of music or a listener and instrumentalist, I hope it is working for you!
We were, as stated previously, a very unmusical family. Although I can't remember ever hearing someone play a piano in public, I must have heard such on television. By the fifth grade, I was asking my mother to get me a piano. She didn't expect that, and did not know how to respond. We were poor, but probably could have gotten a second-hand beat-up piano if I persisted. Since this was completely beyond what was familiar to her, she purchased for me a cloth keyboard, believing that this was merely a passing fancy on my part, unworthy of any investment on hers. I tried to practice on it; even this so delighted me that I proudly showed it to my fifth-grade teacher. Nothing came of it; I returned to concentration on survival, not leisure activities. And I did indeed survive. Years later--I had already started puberty which enabled music to go more deeply--I had a phonograph that played 45s. I enjoyed some of the popular music records we had and remember playing a tune called "Lorna Dune" which affected me deeply--In fact, I remember playing it for a friend of my mother's to see if it would affect him deeply; it didn't. Now, about 13, alone and moody in my room, I came across a vinyl recording--it was rose-colored--of the Overture to William Tell. I had no idea how it got in the collection we had. I put it on. The cello introduction sent a shock down my spine. Then came that beautiful major-minor melody. I didn't know what was happening--I burst into tears. The black and white film of my life had entered a new, unknown phase of living color. (I listened to the overture again recently, and, although I still like it, the intensity was gone--It has been transferred to the works of other composers, and is as deep as ever. No, I'm not musically dead, far from it--I heard a recording by the Blind Boys of Alabama on the radio recently--they were singing, a cappella, a Gospel song entitled "This might be the last time."--I was moved, to use Yeats's words, to the deep heart's core.) Later--I was about 14--I heard excerpts from the Magic Flute. I got the records from the library and played it every night for weeks--I still have most of the score memorized, and, on sleepless nights, can play it in my head.
By this time I was so fascinated by music I begged for a piano. An old upright was finally mine, at the age of 15. Oh, but we were such an ignorant family--I say this as a fact and without bitterness. One of my friends played the piano a bit and recommended his teacher, a Belgian immigrant, Miss Johansen.
Miss Johansen was a trip. She was unmarried; she was a large woman, who was pleasant enough but thought a bit too highly of herself. She claimed that her teacher--or perhaps one before that--had been taught by Theodore Leschetizky, who had been taught by Czerny, who had been taught by Beethoven. She considered herself to be a direct--well, indirect--link to that great composer. How could this rather silly woman, who always wore bright red lipstick a good deal of which was always on her protruding teeth, be a great teacher? Well, she wasn't and I was too ignorant to know. She had no concept of legato, etc. etc and tried to teach me things far too difficult--she never bothered with basics. It was a mess. So I never progressed far at all. (I remember her demonstrating for me the second theme of the first movement of Beethoven's Pathetique sonata; she played it as a very slow adagio, and hummed along. By that time, I had heard a recording, and told her it should be played, well, a bit faster. Without missing a beat, figuratively that is, she said that there were different ways to play it authentically. Oh, Miss Johansen, I never learned anything, or hardly anything from you about the pulse of music and its expression! If I were a George Gershwin or even a Jerry Herman, I would have broken away on my own. I didn't trust myself musically; I needed a decent teacher badly. So I gave up.
I became an avid listener to music, and amassed a huge collection of records.
When my son was born, I, who now could afford a decent piano, bought one. He would have the opportunities I lacked. His teacher was indeed very good--by this time I could tell--but my son was an indifferent student. After several years of playing--he played the Raindrop Prelude at a recital very competently--he gave it up. He hardly ever touches the piano now. Was I disappointed? You bet; but I have learned to accept things as they are and not expect one's child to fulfill one's own fantasies. I am happy to say, I let my son Phil go his own way. He has become quite a gifted industrial designer.
Suddenly I became 60! I have a friend who is a pianist and composer. I decided it's never too late and began to take lessons from her. I am nearly sixty-five now; I've been taking lessons for about four years. What a new dimension it has added to my life! No, I'll never be good, but, at sixty-five, that is not much of a concern. And I have indeed made a lot of progress. An example: at a house at which I was a dinner party guest, I played my own version of a Broadway tune. Those present--no musical sophisticates, I might add--were convinced that I was a professional pianist! It is a pleasure to reach others musically, something new for me. It's working for me, dear reader; if you are either an avid listener of music or a listener and instrumentalist, I hope it is working for you!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Music my rampart, and my only one, wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay. Life may be hard, but for most of us it is not that hard. I have some other significant consolations--family, literature, science, exercise, religion, friends--but music is a major source for me as a means of enjoyment and a way to dig deeper into the mysteries. Not a bad combination! If such a statement, however, fails to raise your curiosity, this blog is definitely not for you.
In this addition, I shall discuss how my interest in music arose and how it has been, albeit, belatedly developed. I am presenting this not to foster interest in me as a person, but interest in me as a type. As Simone Weil wrote, even the more sensitive among us would be able to mull along if life did not give us a double punch to jolt us into mystery. The two punches are the twin jabs of beauty and suffering. Both of these hit me hard at a very young age. Self-satisfaction was not an option.
I was born in 1945 into a rather dysfunctional working-class family in what was then a very working-class city: Jersey City, New Jersey. My grandfather owned a little shop in New York City where he fashioned lamps from whatever vase or object a client brought in. Although I didn't think so at the time, this was what one would later call a "creative" occupation; he did fairly well by Jersey City standards--when he wasn't drunk, that is. He was strong as an ox and very reliable until he went on one of his periodic binges. He owned the house where we lived, and dwelled there with his wife on the first floor. My grandmother was a simple woman, who obeyed my grandfather without a murmur. Both grandparents dropped out of school in the seventh grade. My father was a depressive, self-destructive neurotic who found little pleasure in life. He was unable to hold a job for long. He was intelligent and an avid reader: I believe he finished high school, I'm not sure. With time, alchoholism, always a problem, was his sole relief. Towards the end when he was given a job commensurate with his talents, he fell apart. During my junior year of college abroad, he tried to commit suicide. After another attempt, he died of a heart attack in an asylum when I was twenty-two years old. My mother, who never finished high school, was simple, good, and strong. She did her best to make the best out of any situation, and mostly succeeded. She died at 87 from Alzheimer's in the arms of her third husband, a former doorman--thank God, at last, she had a happy marriage! If it hadn't been for the strengths of my mother and grandfather, I doubt if I would have survived.
In this addition, I shall discuss how my interest in music arose and how it has been, albeit, belatedly developed. I am presenting this not to foster interest in me as a person, but interest in me as a type. As Simone Weil wrote, even the more sensitive among us would be able to mull along if life did not give us a double punch to jolt us into mystery. The two punches are the twin jabs of beauty and suffering. Both of these hit me hard at a very young age. Self-satisfaction was not an option.
I was born in 1945 into a rather dysfunctional working-class family in what was then a very working-class city: Jersey City, New Jersey. My grandfather owned a little shop in New York City where he fashioned lamps from whatever vase or object a client brought in. Although I didn't think so at the time, this was what one would later call a "creative" occupation; he did fairly well by Jersey City standards--when he wasn't drunk, that is. He was strong as an ox and very reliable until he went on one of his periodic binges. He owned the house where we lived, and dwelled there with his wife on the first floor. My grandmother was a simple woman, who obeyed my grandfather without a murmur. Both grandparents dropped out of school in the seventh grade. My father was a depressive, self-destructive neurotic who found little pleasure in life. He was unable to hold a job for long. He was intelligent and an avid reader: I believe he finished high school, I'm not sure. With time, alchoholism, always a problem, was his sole relief. Towards the end when he was given a job commensurate with his talents, he fell apart. During my junior year of college abroad, he tried to commit suicide. After another attempt, he died of a heart attack in an asylum when I was twenty-two years old. My mother, who never finished high school, was simple, good, and strong. She did her best to make the best out of any situation, and mostly succeeded. She died at 87 from Alzheimer's in the arms of her third husband, a former doorman--thank God, at last, she had a happy marriage! If it hadn't been for the strengths of my mother and grandfather, I doubt if I would have survived.
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